The Trouble Man
Eugene Manlove Rhodes
Billy Beebe did not understand. There was no disguising the unpalatable fact: Rainbow treated him kindly. It galled him. Ballinger, his junior in Rainbow, was theme for ridicule and biting jest, target for contumely and abuse; while his own best efforts were met with grave, unfailing courtesy.
Yet the boys liked him; Billy was sure of that. And so far as the actual work was concerned, he was at least as good a roper and brand reader as Ballinger, quicker in action, a much better rider.
In irrelevant and extraneous matters—brains, principle, training, acquirements—Billy was conscious of unchallenged advantage. He was from Ohio, eligible to the presidency, of family, rich, a college man; yet he had abandoned laudable moss-gathering, to become a rolling bounding, riotous stone. He could not help feeling that it was rather noble of him. And then to be indulgently sheltered as an honored guest, how beloved soever! It hurt.
Not for himself alone was Billy grieved. Men paired on Rainbow. “One stick makes a poor fire”—so their word went. Billy sat at the feet of John Wesley Pringle—wrinkled, wind-brown Gamaliel. Ballinger was the disciple of Jeff Bransford, gay, willful, questionable man. Billy did not like him. His light banter, lapsing unexpectedly from Broad Doric to irreproachable New English, carried in solution audacious, glancing disrespect of convention, established institutions, authorities, axioms, “accepted theories of irregular verbs”—too elusive for disproof, too intolerably subversive to be ignored. That Ballinger, his shadow, was accepted man of action, while Billy was still an outsider, was, in some sense, a reflection on Pringle. Vicarious jealousy was added to the pangs of wounded self-love.
Billy was having ample time for reflection now, riding with Pringle up the Long Range to the Block roundup. Through the slow, dreamy days they threaded the mazed ridges and canyons falling eastward to the Pecos from Guadalupe, Sacramento, and White Mountain. They drove their string of thirteen horses each; rough circlers, wise cutting horses, sedate night horses and patient old Steamboat, who, in the performance of pack duty, dropped his proper designation to be injuriously known as “the Wagon.”
Their way lay through the heart of the Lincoln County War country—on winding trails, by glade and pine-clad mesa; by clear streams, bell-tinkling, beginning, with youth’s eager haste, their journey to the far-off sea; by Seven Rivers, Bluewater, the Feliz, Penasco, and Silver Spring.
Leisurely they rode, with shady halt at midday—leisurely, for an empire was to be worked. It would be months before they crossed the divide at Nogal, “threw in” with Bransford and Ballinger, now representing Rainbow with the Bar W, and drove home together down the west side.
While Billy pondered his problem Pringle sang or whistled tirelessly—old tunes of amazing variety, ranging from Nancy Lee and Auld Robin Gray to La Paloma Azul or the Nogal Waltz. But ever, by ranch house or brook or pass, he paused to tell of deeds there befallen in the years of old war, deeds violent and bloody, yet half redeemed by hardihood and unflinching courage.
Pringle’s voice was low and unemphatic; his eyes were ever on the long horizon. Trojan nor Tyrian he favored, but as he told the Homeric tale of Buckshot Roberts, while they splashed through the broken waters of Ruidoso and held their winding way through the cutoff of Cedar Creek, Billy began dimly to understand.
Between him and Rainbow the difference was in kind, not in degree. The shadow of old names lay heavy on the land; these resolute ghosts yet shaped the acts of men. For Rainbow the Roman virtus was still the one virtue. Whenever these old names had been spoken, Billy remembered, men had listened. Horseshoers had listened at their shoeing; card-players had listened while the game went on; by campfires other speakers had ceased their talk to listen without comment. Not ill-doers, these listeners, but quiet men, kindly, generous; yet the tales to which they gave this tribute were too often of ill deeds. As if they asked not “Was this well done?” but rather “Was this done indeed—so that no man could have done more?” Were the deed good or evil, so it were done utterly it commanded admiration—therefore imitation.
Something of all this he got into words. Pringle nodded gravely. “You’ve got it sized up, my son,” he said. “Rainbow ain’t strictly up-to-date and still holds to them elder ethics, like Norval on the Grampian Hills, William Dhu Tell, and the rest of them neck-or-nothing boys. This Mr. Rolando, that Eusebio sings about, give our sentiment to a T-Y-ty. He was some scrappy and always blowin’ his own horn, but, by jings, he delivered the goods as per invoice and could take a major league lickin’ with no whimperin’. This Rolando he don’t hold forth about gate money or individual percentages. ‘Get results for your team,’ he says. ‘Don’t flinch, don’t foul, hit the line hard, here goes nothing!’
“That’s a purty fair code. And it’s all the one we got. Pioneerin’ is troublesome—pioneer is all the same word as pawn, and you thrown away a pawn to gain a point. When we drive in a wild bunch, when we top off the boundin’ bronco, it may look easy, but it’s always a close thing. Even when we win we nearly lose; when we lose we nearly win. And that forms the stay-with-it-Bill-you’re-doin’-well habit. See?
“So, we mostly size a fellow up by his abilities as a trouble man. Any kind of trouble—not necessarily the fightin’ kind. If he goes the route, if he sets no limit, if he’s enlisted for the war—why, you naturally depend on him.
“Now, take you and Jeff. Most ways you’ve got the edge on him. But you hold by rules and formulas and laws. There’s things you must do or mustn’t do—because somebody told you so. You go into a project with a mental reservation not to do anything indecorous or improper; also, to stop when you’ve taken a decent lickin’. But Jeff don’t aim to stop while he can wiggle; and he makes up new rules as he goes along, to fit the situation. Naturally, when you get in a tight place you waste time rememberin’ what the authorities prescribe as the neat thing. Now, Jeff consults only his own self, and he’s mostly unanimous. Mebbe so you both do the same thing, mebbe not. But Jeff does it first. You’re a good boy, Billy, but there’s only one way to find out if you’re a square peg or a round one.”
“How’s that?” demanded Billy, laughing, but half vexed.
“Get in the hole,” said Pringle.
“Aw, stay all night! What’s the matter with you fellows? I haven’t seen a soul for a week. Everybody’s gone to the roundup.”
Wes’ shook his head. “Can’t do it, Jimmy. Got to go out to good grass. You’re all eat out here.”
“I’ll side you,” said Jimmy decisively. “I got a lot of stored-up talk I’ve got to get out of my system. I know a bully place to make camp. Box canyon to hobble your horses in, good grass, and a little tank of water in the rocks for cookin’. Bring along your little old wagon, and I’ll tie on a hunk o’ venison to feed your faces with. Get there by dark.”
“How come you didn’t go to the work your black self?” asked Wes’ as Beebe tossed his rope on the wagon and let him up.
Jimmy’s twinkling eyes lit up his beardless face. “They left me here to play shinny-on-your-own-side,” he explained.
“Shinny?” echoed Billy.
“With the Three Rivers sheep,” said Jimmy. “I’m to keep them from crossing the mountain.”
“Oh, I see. You’ve got an agreement that the east side is for cattle and the west side for sheep.”
Jimmy’s face puckered. “Agreement? H’m, yes, least ways, I’m agreed I didn’t ask them, but they’ve got the general idea. When I ketch ’em over here I drive them back. As I don’t ever follow ’em beyond the summit they ought to savvy my the’ries by this time.”
Pringle opened the gate. “Let’s mosey along—they’ve got enough water. Which way, kid?”
“Left-hand trail,” said Jimmy, falling in behind.
“But why don’t you come to an understanding with them and fix on a dividing line?” insisted Beebe.
Jimmy lolled sidewise in his saddle, cocking an impish eye at his inquisitor.
“Reckon ye don’t have no sheep down Rainbow way? Thought not. Right there’s the point exactly. They have a dividing line. They carry it with ’em wherever they go. For the cattle won’t graze where sheep have been. Sheep pertects their own range, but we’ve got to look after ours or they’d drive us out. But the understanding’s all right, all right. They don’t speak no English, and I don’t know no paisano talk, but I’ve fixed up a signal code they savvy as well’s if they was all college aluminums.”
“Oh, yes—sign talk,” said Billy. “I’ve heard of that.” Wes’ turned his head aside.
“We-ell, not exactly. Sound talk’d be nearer. One shot means ‘Git!’ two means ‘Hurry up!’ and three—”
“But you’ve no right to do that,” protested Billy, warmly. “They’ve got just as much right here as your cattle, haven’t they?”
“Surest thing they have—if they can make it stick,” agreed Jimmy cordially. “And we’ve got just as much right to keep ’em off if we can. There ain’t really no right to it. It’s Uncle Sam’s land we both graze on, and Unkie is some busy with conversation on natural resources, and keepin’ republics up in South America and down in Asia, and selectin’ texts for coins and infernal revenue stamps, and upbuildin’ Pittsburgh, and keepin’ up the price of wool and fightin’ all the time to keep the laws from bein’ better ’n the Constitution, like a Bawston puncher trimmin’ a growin’ colt’s foot down to fit last year’s shoes. Shucks! He ain’t got no time to look after us. We just got to do our own regulatin’ or git out.”
“How would you like it yourself?” demanded Billy.
Jimmy’s eyes flashed. “If my brain was to leak out and I subsequent took to sheep herdin’, I’d like to see any dern puncher drive me out,” he declared belligerently.
“Then you can’t complain if—”
“He don’t,” interrupted Pringle. “None of us complain—nary a murmur. If the sheep men want to go they go, an’ a little shootin’ up the contagious vicinity don’t hurt ’em none. It’s all over oncet the noise stops. Besides, I think they mostly sorter enjoy it. Sheep herdin’ is mighty dull business, and a little excitement is mighty welcome. It gives ’em something to look forward to. But if they feel hostile they always get the first shot for keeps. That’s a mighty big percentage in their favor, and the reports on file with the War Department shows that they generally get the best of it. Don’t you worry none, my son. This ain’t no new thing. It’s been goin’ on ever since Abraham’s outfit and the LOT boys got to scrappin’ on the Jordan range, and then some before that. After Abraham took to the hill country, I remember, somebody jumped one of his wells and two of Isaac’s. It’s been like that, in the short-grass countries ever since. Human nature’s not changed much. By Jings! There they be now!”
Through the twilight the winding trail climbed the side of a long ridge. To their left was a deep, impassable canyon; beyond that a parallel ridge; and from beyond that ridge came the throbbing, drumming clamor of a sheep herd.
“The son of a gun!” said Jimmy. “He means to camp in our box canyon. I’ll show him!” He spurred by the grazing horses and clattered on in the cad, striking fire from the stony trail.
On the shoulder of the further ridge heaved a gray fog, spreading, rolling slowly down the hillside. The bleating, the sound of myriad trampling feet, the multiplication of bewildering echoes, swelled to a steady, unchanging, ubiquitous tumult. A dog suddenly topped the ridge; another; then a Mexican herder bearing a long rifle. With one glance at Jimmy beyond the blackshadowed gulf he began turning the herd back, shouting to the dogs. They ran in obedient haste to aid, sending the stragglers scurrying after the main bunch.
Jimmy reined up, black and gigantic against the skyline. He drew his gun. Once, twice, thrice, he shot. The fire streamed out against the growing dark. The bullets, striking the rocks, whined spitefully. The echoes took up the sound and sent it crashing to and fro. The sheep rushed huddling together, panic-stricken. Herder and dogs urged them on. The herder threw up a hand and shouted.
“That boy’s shootin’ might close to that paisano,” muttered Pringle. “He orter quit now. Reckon he’s showin’ off a leetle.” He raised his voice in warning. “Hi! You Jimmy!” he called. “He’s agoin’! Let him be!”
“Vamos! Hi-i!” shrilled Jimmy gaily. He fired again. The Mexican clapped hand to his leg with an angry scream. With the one movement he sank to his knees, his long rifle fell to a level, cuddled to his shoulder, spitting fire. Jimmy’s hand flew up. His gun dropped; he clutched at the saddle horn, missed it, fell heavily to the ground. The Mexican dropped out of sight behind the ridge. It had been but a scant minute since he first appeared. The dogs followed with the remaining sheep. The ridge was bare. The dark fell fast.
Jimmy lay on his face. Pringle turned him over and opened his shirt.
He was quite dead.
FROM MALAGRA TO Willow Spring, the next available water, is the longest jump on the Bar W range. Working the “Long Lane” fenced by Malpais and White Mountain is easy enough. But after cutting out and branding there was the long wait for the slow day herd, the tedious holding to water from insufficient troughs. It was late when the day’s “cut” was thrown in with the herd, sunset when the bobtail had caught their night horses and relieved the weary day herders.
The bobtail moves the herd to the bed ground—some distance from camp, to avoid mutual annoyance and alarm—and holds it while night horses are caught and supper eaten. A thankless job, missing the nightly joking and banter over the day’s work. Then the first guard comes on and the bobtail goes, famished, to supper. It breakfasts by starlight, relieves the last guard, and holds cattle while breakfast is eaten, beds rolled and horses caught, turning them over to the day herders at sunup.
Bransford and Ballinger were two of the five bobtailers, hungry, tired, dusty, and cross. With persuasive, soothing song they trotted around the restless cattle, with hasty, envious glances for the merry groups around the chuck wagon. The horse herd was coming in; four of the boys were butchering a yearling; beds were being dragged out and unrolled. Shouts of laughter arose; they were baiting the victim of some mishap by making public an exaggerated version of his discomfiture.
Turning his back on the camp, Jeff Bransford became aware of a man riding a big white horse down the old military road from Nogal way. The horse was trotting, but wearily; passing the herd he whinnied greeting, again wearily.
The cattle were slow to settle down. Jeff made several circlings before he had time for another campward glance. The horse herd was grazing off, and the boys were saddling and staking their night horses; but the stranger’s horse, still saddled, was tied to a soapweed.
Jeff sniffed. “Oh, Solomon was sapient and Solomon was wise!” he crooned, keeping time with old Summersault’s steady fox trot. “And Solomon was marvelously wide between the eyes!” He sniffed again, his nose wrinkled, one eyebrow arched one corner of his mouth pulled down; he twisted his mustache and looked sharply down his nose for consultation, pursing his lips. “H’m! That’s funny!” he said aloud. “That horse is some tired. Why don’t he turn him loose? Bransford, you old fool, sit up and take notice! ‘Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.’”
He had been a tired and a hungry man. He put his weariness by as a garment, keyed up the slackened strings, and rode on with every faculty on the alert. It is to be feared that Jeff’s conscience was not altogether void of offense toward his fellows.
A yearling pushed tentatively from the herd. Jeff let her go, fell in after her, and circled her back to the bunch behind Clay Cooper. Not by chance. Clay was from beyond the divide.
“Know the new man, Clay?” Jeff asked casually, as he fell back to preserve the proper interval.
Clay turned his head. “Sure. Clem Littlefield, Bonita man.”
When the first guard came at last Jeff was on the farther side and so the last to go in. A dim horseman overtook him and waved a sweeping arm in dismissal.
“We’ve got
’em! Light a rag, you hungry man!”
Jeff turned back slowly, so meeting all the relieving guard and noting that Squatty Robinson, of the V V, was not of them, Ollie Jackson taking his place.
He rode thoughtfully into camp. Staking his horse in the starlight he observed a significant fact. Squatty had not staked his regular night horse, but Alizan, his favorite. He made a swift investigation and found that not a man from the east side had caught his usual night horse. Clay Cooper’s horse was not staked, but tied short to a mesquite, with the bridle still on.
Pete Johnson, the foreman, was just leaving the fire for bed. Beyond the fire the east-side men were gathered, speaking in subdued voices. Ballinger, with loaded plate, sat down near them. The talking ceased. It started again at once. This time their voices rose clear and distinct in customary bandiage.
“Why, this is face up,” thought Jeff. “Trouble. Trouble from beyond the divide. They’re going to hike shortly. They’ve told Pete that much, anyhow. Serious trouble—for they’ve kept it from the rest of them. Is it to my address? Likely. Old Wes’ and Beebe are over there somewhere. If I had three guesses the first two’d be that them Rainbow chasers was in a tight.”
He stumbled into the firelight, carrying his bridle, which he dropped by the wagon wheel. “This day’s sure flown by like a week,” he grumbled, fumbling around for cup and plate. “My stomach was just askin’ was my throat cut.”
As he bent over to spear a steak the tail of his eye took in the group beyond and intercepted a warning glance from Squatty to the stranger. There was an almost imperceptible thrusting motion of Squatty’s chin and lips; a motion which included Jeff and the unconscious Ballinger. It was enough. Surmise, suspicion flamed to certainty. “My third guess,” reflected Jeff sagely, “is just like the other two. Mr. John Wesley Pringle has been doing a running high jump or some such stunt, and has plumb neglected to come down.”
A Century of Great Western Stories Page 24