“Why do you want all of the Three Barbs but only a strip of Wes Laughton’s land? Why not just a strip of the Three Barbs, too?”
Upjohn pushed his hat back on his head. “I know that’s what Ned is all fired up about. If he had had enough sense to ask, I would have explained it quick enough. When you analyze your land and Wes’ you’ll see that yours adjoins two passes that go through the lower chain of mountains. Wes’ land touches on passes, too, but the mountains there are a lot more rugged. Someday we may want to build a feeder line to the west. We don’t know for sure if we ever will, or even where we’ll put it if we decided to do so, but we have to prepare for it.”
Paul ran his hand through his hair, thinking. He was on the horns of a dilemma, for both Ned and Upjohn seemed so sure of their positions and had explained the situation so convincingly that he could be hard put to decide who was right. Half an hour ago he was fully determined to keep this land which had won his heart and to gamble on another herd to rebuild the ranch. Then little by little he began to realize that forces were pushing and pulling at him, taking him a bit too much for granted, that he was being drawn into a situation not of his making nor of his liking. He had got on the boat at Liverpool to seek out a buyer for some land and cattle five thousand miles away so he could hurry back to the dark eyes waiting behind fans in Madrid, and the long, delightfully mouth-watering women twirling parasols on the Riviera, and the heavy-breasted, svelte--flanked blondes sitting in the cafés at Baden Baden. Then suddenly, a piece of desolate land had affected him like a drug. What should he do with it? Hold it, caress it, empty himself into it? And to add to this midsummer madness, he was about to adopt - no, not adopt, marry, a thousand head of stunted, scraggy Mexican cattle that he didn’t know the first thing about and which had interested him in the past as being merely the source of two-inch-thick steaks broiled to a red bordering on pink.
“I will think over what you have said, Mr. Upjohn,” he found himself saying, “and have a better idea of what I intend to do in two or three weeks.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Sanderson. When you’re in town, drop in to my office, anytime.” He gave a. quick wave of his hand and climbed on the back of that utterly wonderful horse. Responding to a soft touch on the reins, the horse spun round on its rear legs and dropped immediately into a smooth, rocking-chair-type canter, the mounts of the other three men directly behind.
Paul and Ned resumed their seats on the wagon and continued driving along the road.
“He’s lying, you know,” Ned finally said.
“I know,” said Paul.
Paul’s first sight of his former ranchhouse and out- buildings shocked him profoundly. The house had been a beautiful one, that he could see from the skeleton still standing. It had been constructed of the strange-looking adobe brick he had seen used so frequently throughout the southwest, a large dwelling of ten or eleven rooms, built in a square, similar to the Moorish-style houses he had seen during a trip to the south of Spain. The roof must have been made of red tiles, for he saw hundreds of them scattered about, broken, burnt, a reminder of how intense the flames must have been. Although most of the walls of the house still stood, the building was too badly gutted to repair. Around the ruins was an adobe wall, chest high, with an arched entrance bearing a white board which read: Las Tres Pứas.
“What does it mean, the Three Barbs?” he asked Ned.
“All the land hereabouts belonged to a Spanish nobleman. He had this ranch and Wes Laughton’s and everything down to Rijos and east for a hundred miles or so. This was his main house, and I hear tell that he said there were three barbs to cut up anybody who tried to bother him - the mountains to the west, the river to the east, and the men on his hacienda.”
Paul nodded, for he could understand what the old days must have been like. Three hundred yards away from the main house were the skeletons of twenty smaller houses built for the married workers and four long buildings for the single hands. Nearby were stables, barns, a blacksmith shop, poultry coops - all gutted ruins.
Ned led him to two men standing in front of a small, roughly built wooden bunkhouse.
“This here’s Walt,” he motioned to a red-haired, freckle-faced youth about nineteen years old. “He helps me with the chores.” Walt twisted his worn, high-crown hat in his hands and stuttered out a welcome.
“And this here’s Li Chang. In case you ain’t noticed, he’s a Chinaman. He does the cooking and swabbing, and he’s just about the worst cook in the whole world.”
Li Chang bobbed his head up and down, muttering a jumble of unintelligible words.
Ned kicked open the door of the bunkhouse. Inside were six bunks resting against the walls, a small room at the rear for Ned, and another room next to his used as kitchen and dining area. In the centre of the building stood a pump. “We built the bunkhouse around the water supply,” he explained. “The Birmans tried to burn us out a time or two, but having water saved our skins.” Paul then realized why bales of hay were stacked along the windows - as protection during gun battles.
“Why didn’t you leave, Ned?” he asked in wonder, “There was nothing left here to fight for.”
“Oh yes, there was. As long as we were here, there was a Three Barbs Ranch.”
Paul nodded in understanding. “We’ll stay in town,” he said to Ned. “Is there anything you need?”
“No, we’re pretty well stocked here. Walt and I located about forty head of cows and steers scattered out towards the mountain. I thought of stringing some wire around a draw a short piece away and corralling them there. I’ll need some money for the wire and pickets unless you want to set up some credit for me in Rijos.”
“We’ll speak of that in a few days. I want to look over the ranch first. Have you any riding horses?”
“We have only mine and Walt’s and the two draft horses. You can rent some from the livery stable in town. I'll drive you back.”
“Do you need the wagon?” asked Paul
“No.”
“We’ll drive in ourselves and save you having to make a return journey.”
“Do you know how to handle a rifle?"
“I’ve used one,”
“Take the one in the wagon. You never know when you need a weapon in this country.”
“Well, Your Grace,” said Mr. Blatherbell from beside him on the seat as they were driving back to Rijos. “What do you make of all this?”
Paul shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know what to think. It’s a real blow to learn all the cattle are gone. How much did we value the ranch and its contents?”
“Your uncle paid more than a quarter of a million American dollars for it, and he must have sensed some great potential in it to pay that sum of money.”
“Fifteen thousand dollars,” mused Paul. “That’s barely worth the time and expense of coming here.”
“Twenty-four thousand dollars, Your Grace,” spoke up Mr. Snoddergas. “Mr. Fenton has nine thousand dollars in a bank in Denver.”
“Can you imagine all this land?” said Paul, making a sweeping gesture with the whip. “Over half a million acres. Why, my uncle’s entire estate in England totals less than forty thousand acres.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Blatherbell. “But it had a high market value. Here it appears our only prospect is Mr. Upjohn.”
“Not if I restock the ranch and build it up.”
Mr. Blatherbell looked closely at him. “You want very much to do that, do you not, Your Grace?”
Paul eyed the small round solicitor, surprised at his insight and suddenly aware of the soft, almost yearning tone in his voice that implied far more than the question he asked. He nearly placed his arm about the shoulders of the roly-poly man.
“If I did, there would not be enough money - not after I paid what I promised you.”
Mr. Blatherbell took a long breath. “Your Grace, would you be kind enough to stop this vehicle for a moment or two so I may have a few words with my associates?”
Paul
drew the team to a halt. “Excuse us, Your Grace, if we remove ourselves a few yards,” continued Mr. Blatherbell. Paul nodded and the little man motioned to his partners as he climbed awkwardly down from the seat. The three solicitors walked a short distance away, the afternoon sun, low in the sky, bathing the outlines of their silhouettes in a golden glow. Paul chuckled at the outlandish appearance they presented in their stovepipe hats and long, black cloaks over dark waistcoats and striped pants, their soft-buttoned boots set solidly against the raw earth, three tiny humans lost in the vastness of an empty world.
Mr. Blatherbell stood between his junior partners, stabbing the short, fat forefinger of one hand into the palm of the other, not looking up at them but keeping his eyes glued to the palm being struck, as if the words he was saying were written there for him to recite. Mr. Poopendal was bent over at nearly a ninety-degree angle to hear his senior partner, a long, bony finger anxiously rubbing his long, bony nose. Mr. Snoddergas stood motionless, his hands dangling at his sides, his eyes narrowed to mere slits, his ears seeming to flutter in the autumn breeze. Mr. Blatherbell finished speaking, then placed his arms akimbo and looked up with an almost fierce glare at his. partners.
Mr. Snoddergas did not hesitate; he nodded his head instantly. Mr. Poopendal worried his nose with his long, bony finger for a few more seconds, then nodded mournfully. Without further ado, the three solicitors returned to the wagon, the two junior partners climbing on the rear and sitting down on their trunks and Mr. Blatherbell resuming his seat next to Paul.
“Your Grace,” said Mr. Blatherbell. “It is the unanimous decision of the firm of Blatherbell, Poopendal and Snoddergas, Solicitors, to request permission to invest the commission due to them for the transfer of your uncle’s estate to Your Grace in any projected plans for rebuilding the Three Barbs Ranch.” He cleared his throat and became less formal. “Prior to coming here, Your Grace, we took the precaution of reorganizing our company to enable its activities to be continued for as long as a year, in the event our return was delayed. And as none of us has any dependents, we would also like to participate actively in the venture.”
A slow smile crossed Paul’s lips as he held out his hands to clasp those of the solicitors. “Thank you, gentlemen. Not only do I accept, but I will be honored to have you as partners.”
He raised his whip and flicked it at the rumps of the horses, starting them off at a trot.
“Have you a plan in mind?” asked Mr. Blatherbell.
“No, .not yet. Ned’s idea of buying cattle in Mexico sounds quite good, but there are a number of considerations that are equally important - such as protecting the herd when it is brought up, guarding it from the Birmans, if they are the thieves, and rebuilding the house and barn. I suggest we study it for a week or two before we try to formulate a plan.”
“An excellent idea,” said Mr. Blatherbell.
The sun was well down when they came to Rijos. Paul stopped in front of the hotel, a two-storied, wooden-frame, weather-beaten building. Mr. Blatherbell accompanied him as he went inside and approached the reception clerk, a grey-haired, morose man seated on a chair tilted back against a wall.
“My associates and I can sleep in a single room if there is a wide enough bed and a couch,” said Mr. Blatherbell to Paul.
Paul nodded and rapped on the counter to gain the attention of the clerk. “A room for one and a second room with a large bed and. a couch.”
“Ain’t got no couches,” said the clerk without rising from his chair. “Got a camp cot I could set up, though.”
“That will be quite acceptable,” said Mr. Blatherbell. “What are the charges for the rooms?”
“You the new owner of the Three Barbs?”
“No, His Gr..." A glance from Paul stopped him. "I mean,” he said quickly, “Mr. Sanderson, this gentleman beside me, is the owner.”
The clerk deferred to Paul’s position by letting down his chair. “Reckon on staying a while?” he asked.
“A few weeks, perhaps,” said Paul, understanding quite well that the clerk was soliciting information as to whether he intended to sell the ranch. A shorter stay would have signified a decision to sell and a longer period of time would have indicated the possibility of rebuilding his herd. He almost laughed aloud when the clerk’s brow furrowed as he tried to figure out his meaning.
“The charge for the rooms?” demanded Mr. Blatherbell again.
“Six bits for Mr. Sanderson’s, and a dollar and a half for yours. Plus ten cents for moving up the cot.”
Mr. Blatherbell opened his ever-present black book. “Six bits,” he explained to Paul, “is seventy-five cents.” He snapped his book shut. “I believe the price is satisfactory, do you not agree, Mr. Sanderson?”
Paul nodded and turned back to the clerk, who rose wearily from his chair and pointed to the staircase. “Number five and six. Five’ll be for Mr. Sanderson.”
When Paul and the solicitors had carried their luggage to their rooms they assembled in the lobby. “Is there a good restaurant nearby?” asked Paul.
“Down the street to your left,” said the clerk, now settled back on his chair. “It’s called the Palace.”
They stepped outside onto the planked sidewalk, and then two by two turned to the left towards the restaurant. The sun had gone down and lights were springing up in the buildings on the main street and in the houses on the side roads. They passed a saloon and a number of shops. Several people eyed them curiously as they went by, seemingly aware of their identity and smiling openly at their strange apparel. Most of the inhabitants were townspeople, the men dressed in woolen pants and jackets, cotton shirts and ties, with bowler hats or the wide-brimmed western headgear. The women wore ankle-length gingham dresses covered by capes just a few inches shorter. On their heads, most of them had draped shawls to ward off the chill evening air.
Cowboys were there, too, a good number of them, their leather chaps flapping over their trousers and their high-heeled boots bearing dangling spurs that clattered and rang with each slow, shoulder-swinging step across the boards. The upper part of their bodies were clad in short jackets, and all of them wore the wide-brimmed, high-crown hat that Paul mentally called ‘the cowboy hat’. Most of them carried revolvers belted high on their waists.
He noticed men dressed in similar fashion to the cowboys but wearing laceup boots and smaller brimmed hats that had lower crowns, and decided they were prospectors or miners when he came upon two of them leading mules carrying picks and shovels. As a group they seemed older than the cowboys, more down at the heels, so to speak, and hard-bitten by years of toil.
He saw a sprinkling of slim, dark men wearing sombreros and short leather vests over heavy long-sleeved shirts, with flapping leather chaps covering cotton pants tucked into knee-high boots. They carried revolvers with their butts tilted forward, and when Paul thought this over, he came to the conclusion that they must bend far over their horses when they rode or that they used shorter stirrups. He identified them as Mexican cow herders, probably visiting the town after driving some cattle up from their own country.
The Palace Restaurant was slightly less than a palace but rather a large, square, noisy room containing long wooden tables and benches at which were seated sixty or more townsmen and cowboys. They found a vacant table and sat down, Paul on one side and the three solicitors opposite him. Two harassed men and a stout, middle-aged woman were bustling about serving the diners.
The woman finally came over, whisked off a few dirty tin plates, and made a sweep at the table with a dank, over-worked dish-cloth.
“What’ll it be, boys?” she asked, more cheerfully than they expected. “Beef stew tonight, take it or leave it.” Paul chuckled. “What’s it like?” he asked.
The fat woman’s chin dimpled as she smiled. “For a pretty one like you, it’s terrible. But being’s we’re the best restaurant in town, I guess you’d consider it right passable.”
“Four portions, then, of the best food in town.” He looke
d about. “Do you serve beer?”
Nope,” said the woman. “That’s for the saloons. Coffee only. It helps dissolve the food.” She and Paul laughed together. “You that English Lord - a Duke or something?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Sorry about that ranch of yours. It was a right fine place in its day.” Then she was speeding to the kitchen. Within minutes she returned with plates of stew and jugs of coffee, moved a platter of thick slices of bread from the other end of the table over to them, then rushed off to other customers.
The stew was quite good, but the coffee was another matter. Paul had taken just a mouthful of each when suddenly the door opened. At the moment he didn’t know why, but his eyes were drawn to the man dressed as a cowboy who walked in. He was tall, grizzled, grey-haired, his dark face etched with deep lines, lips tight and hard, his jaw jutting menacingly. Paul looked straight into his eyes and saw the fires of hell burning there. There was a ruthlessness written over every feature of his face and in the set of his body - and in the tied-down sixgun he carried low on his hip. He started towards a table to one side, and when he cleared the door, another man entered directly behind him, the spitting image of the first, only a lot younger, about forty years old, with the same fires of hell in his eyes and ruthlessness written over every feature. Behind him came another of almost the same appearance, two or three years younger. Then another and another, each one younger than the one in front of him, until eight men had entered the now absolutely silent room.
The Cossack Cowboy Page 9