by Max O'Hara
All of the horseback riders had turned toward him now. A few had turned their horses so they could face him full on, hands sliding toward holstered pistols.
A hasty count of the men told Wolf there were twelve. They’d all been facing a man on the ground. Now that man had turned toward Stockburn, as well. They all regarded the newcomer warily, some even pugnaciously, but none appeared ready to grab a riata and play cat’s cradle with his head. Or even to take him for a Dutch ride over rough rocks.
That, Wolf figured, was a plus in his column.
He kept his hands away from his own holstered Peacemakers as he gigged Smoke forward, the other horses following in rough single file, whickering, one shaking its head and rattling the bridle bit in its teeth.
“Halloo the ranch,” Stockburn called.
All of the men sitting horses before Stockburn had turned their mounts to face him now. The man on the ground shoved one horse aside with both hands—no, with only one hand, Wolf quickly amended, seeing that the man had only one hand and one arm. His left arm was missing.
The horseback riders seemed to defer to this man, who was maybe thirty, possibly a few years older, as he stepped away from the close-clumped horsebackers and walked a little unsteadily toward Wolf. He appeared to have a problem with his legs, which moved stiffly, apparently not wanting to bend at the knee.
He was a good-looking man with a thick mane of dark-brown hair parted on one side and hanging over his collar in back. Clean-shaven, suntanned, he was slender, of average height, and clad in a red silk shirt with Mexican embroidering on the breast, collar, and sleeves.
The cuffs of his black denim trousers were shoved down into high-topped black boots. He wore no gun, only a wide, black leather belt with a hammered silver concho for a buckle.
He held a notebook and pencil in his lone hand. He wore a scowl as he scrutinized the horses over which the dead men rode.
“Can I . . . help you?” he asked, glancing skeptically between Stockburn and the dead men.
Stockburn dropped the lead horse’s reins and canted his head toward it. “These your men?”
The one-armed, handsome man studied Stockburn, frowning. He glanced behind him as two of the riders peeled away from the pack and rode up near the one-armed man, flanking him and regarding Stockburn truculently.
One was big and rawboned, with a blond soup-strainer mustache and a brooding bulldog face with heavy-lidded eyes. His face was shaded by a big cream sombrero. “What do we have here, brother?”
“Not sure yet, Carlton,” said the one-armed man, Daniel. “Not sure what we have here.”
He looked at Stockburn again then stepped forward in his painful way though his face did not betray any such pain. He walked over to the ground-reined horse and crouched to study the face of its dead rider, who was Lester Bohannon.
Daniel walked around to the other dead men. After inspecting the fourth man he limped back up and stopped near Stockburn. His face betrayed no emotion.
“Nope,” he said. “Can’t say as they are. Good thing, too, since all four are looking a little worse for the wear. If they were Tin Cup riders, you’d be in a whole heap of trouble, mister.”
The big, rawboned rider named Carlton cursed and gigged his horse forward. Dust lifted from his horse’s hooves to churn thickly in the sunlit air as he rode around the horses carrying the dead men, leaning out from his saddle to inspect each dead man in turn.
When he’d given them each a cursory appraisal, he galloped back up and stopped near Daniel, scowling balefully at Stockburn and saying in his thick, throaty voice that was half snarl, “What the hell is the meaning of this—ridin’ in here like you’re king for the day, toting dead men?”
“Did you kill these men?” Daniel asked.
“Yes,” Wolf said.
“Why?” asked both Daniel and Carlton at the same time.
“They tried to kill me.” Stockburn looked from Carlton to Daniel. “Did you send ’em?”
He’d always believed in getting to the point, even when he might possibly be in enemy territory. It was just his way.
The second near horseback rider rode his own mount up beside Carlton. He was tall and lean with a broad face with a few old acne scars and wide-set blue eyes. Stockburn could see a family resemblance in him and Carlton and the one-armed man, Daniel, who was maybe a few years younger than the lean one who’d ridden up, a smile on his lips but challenge in his eyes.
“What kinda trouble we got now, brothers?” he asked, his fiery gaze on Stockburn. “What kinda fool rides onto the Tin Cup toting dead men and sits there like he’s cock of the walk, spewing accusations? If you’re from Triangle . . .”
He let his words trail off as he leaned forward in his saddle and closed his hand around the butt of the old Schofield revolver jutting up from the holster on his right hip.
“Keep it holstered, Reed,” Daniel said. He hadn’t looked at the man, but he obviously knew him well enough to know he was ready to slap leather. Keeping his eyes on Stockburn, he said, “Who are you?” He frowned and canted his head to one side, curious. “Law?”
“Wells Fargo. Stockburn. Wolf Stockburn. I’m investigating the massacre of the Hell’s Jaw Railroad Line’s rail crew.”
“You think we did it?” Carlton asked. Snapped, rather. Glaring coldly and with no little threat at Stockburn. It had been more of an accusation than a question.
Angry mutters rose from the other men sitting their horses a good ways behind the nearest three. By twos and threes, those men closed hands over their own holstered six-shooters, angry scowls on their faces, and came forward.
Here we go, Stockburn thought, feeling the devil’s cold fingers reach up from hell’s bowels to tickle his toes.
CHAPTER 19
“Stand down, fellas,” Daniel said, holding up his lone hand in which he held the notebook and pencil. “Easy, now. Easy, now. I think there’s just been a little misunderstanding, is all.”
“You know how I don’t like bein’ misunderstood, Daniel,” growled Carlton.
“Me neither!” added Reed, still leaning forward in his worn stockman’s saddle, his gloved right hand still on his holstered Schofield. He was grinning, but his grin nowhere nearly reached his eyes.
“I tell you what,” Daniel said, smiling amicably up at his two brothers, one on each side of him. “Why don’t you two go ahead with the day’s work? Head on up to Table Rock, bring the herd on down to the South Fork of Dutch Joe, and cut out the two-year-olds. Stop by the Borger place, and make sure old Ephraim and his boys will start hauling hay down here tomorrow, as planned. Long, cold winter ahead. I’ll see you back here for supper.”
“I don’t know, Daniel.” Carlton kept his truculent gaze on Stockburn. “I think we need to stretch some hemp.”
“Nah, nah,” Daniel said, good-naturedly. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. We don’t need trouble with Wells Fargo. Go on, now, brothers. Take the men and get to it. Days keep getting shorter all the damn time, which means we got to pack more work into each and every one. Go on, now. Off with ya. Git!”
Chuckling, he hazed them all off with his notebook and pencil.
Grudgingly, Carlton and Reed and the other ten men rode across the yard and out through the portal, each and every one casting belligerent gazes back behind him, one glaring at Stockburn as he leaned out from his saddle to spit distastefully into the dirt.
As their dust sifted and their hoof thuds dwindled, Stockburn looked at Daniel, impressed. “You’re in good command here, I see. Daniel Stoleberg, I take it?”
Young Stoleberg nodded then narrowed one eye and crooked a mouth corner. “Someone’s gotta be in command. Out in the field, leastways.” He swatted his empty left sleeve with his notebook. “Not much else I can do but spew orders.”
Stockburn nodded grimly.
“Snakebite,” Stoleberg said. “Horse threw me on my twentieth birthday. A half-wild mustang my father gave me. I took ol’ Lightning out for a wild ride
and he threw me into a rattlesnake nest along Dutch Joe. A neighbor who’d been an army surgeon, and still good with a bone saw, cut my arm off or I would have died of gangrene.”
While the young rancher had been talking, he’d been limping around the horses carrying the dead men, giving them each another brief, casual study. “I still wasn’t expected to pull through. The pain was so bad I howled and howled for days . . . till my old man and brothers wanted to shoot me to give ’em some peace and quiet!”
He chuckled, swatted his right leg with the notebook, and grinned wryly up at Stockburn. “Nerve damage gave me this limp. Keeps me off the cutting horses. Oh, I can ride, but mostly I just limp around here . . . giving orders. That’s what I do now. I limp around and give orders. Or relay orders from Pa, I should say. He’s still ramrod—officially, leastways.”
Young Stoleberg continued to smile ironically up at Stockburn, squinting an eye against the sun, as though the misfortune that had befallen him was a favorite joke of his.
“Like you said,” Wolf said, “someone’s gotta do it.”
“That’s right.”
Stockburn turned to the dead men again. “These aren’t your men, then? Your father didn’t hire them?”
“No, sir, he did not. Sorry to disappoint you, Mister Stockburn. Where’d you run into ’em?”
“On your range maybe six, seven miles back up the valley.”
“Back up the valley, eh?” Daniel stared in that direction, rubbing his jaw. “Triangle range up that way.” He glanced at Stockburn. “Could be McCrae’s men. He might be rustling our beef again. He does that every once in a while. Just to needle us.”
“That’s what he told me you do—to him.”
Daniel Stoleberg smiled. “He would say that. It’s hard for the old fellas to bury their hatchets.” He paused a moment then frowned and said, “Pardon my manners. For Heaven’s sake—you’ve had a long ride. No matter where you came from, it’s a long ride to the Tin Cup. Light and stay a spell, Mister Stockburn. I was about to head in for a cup of coffee.”
“I’ll take you up on that.” Stockburn swung down from Smoke’s back.
“What shall we do with the fresh beef, Stockburn? These men don’t belong here.”
Wolf grinned at the young man. “I shot ’em, Daniel. You can’t expect me to bury ’em, too.” He was not, however, convinced the four dead men had not come from the Tin Cup. It would take the word of more than one interested and likely prejudiced party, even if young Stoleberg’s word had been backed by his brothers.
Stockburn wanted to hear what the elder Stoleberg had to say on the topic.
Daniel sighed and rubbed his jaw again, thoughtful. “Well . . . I reckon I can have the stable boys bury ’em out on the range. I’ll have them lay them out in the icehouse for a few days, in case someone comes around for ’em.”
“That might be a good idea. No telling who they belong to. I know one is Lester Bohannon, a regulator for cattlemen back in Oklahoma. I have no idea about the other three. Probably of the same ilk.”
As Stockburn and Daniel began walking toward the house, Stockburn leading Smoke by his reins, Daniel said, “I assure you, Mister Stockburn, my father did not hire those men.”
“I’d like to believe that, Daniel. Perhaps I could have a word with him?”
“Sure, sure, for all the good it’ll do.”
“How’s that?”
“You’ll see.”
As they approached the house, Stockburn glanced at Daniel and said, “What about the younger fellas?”
“What?”
“Have the younger fellas buried their hatchets? In regard to the old trouble between you folks and the McCraes, I mean.”
Daniel shrugged. “I’ve buried mine. I’ve convinced my brothers to do the same. Clinging to the past is no way to move ahead. We have a dry range here, Mister Stockburn. Most of the moisture gets dropped on the other side of the divide.
“That means we have to move our herds around often. It also means we have to work extra hard for water. That means digging wells. Deep ones. We have two more to dig before next summer. We’re going to get started right after roundup.”
“That is a lot of work.”
“A helluva lot of work. It leaves little time for fighting outdated wars.” Daniel stopped as Stockburn tied Smoke to one of the two hitchracks fronting the house. “Old men’s wars.”
“All right,” Stockburn said, with a noncommittal nod.
Just then a guttural cry rose from behind the house’s heavy oak door, which was propped open with a rock. The cry was so loud and startling that Stockburn found himself automatically reaching for the Peacemaker holstered on his left hip.
He removed his hand from the big piece when a young boy, just a toddler of maybe three, scampered out of the house’s inner shadows and onto the porch.
Clad in knickers and a black jacket, he was trailing a frayed, pale blue blanket and pressing an index finger to the corner of his wet mouth, yelling and chortling incoherently. The boy’s big grin and large, sparkling brown eyes accompanied his impassioned cries.
The boy stopped just outside the door, saw Stockburn then pointed his finger straight out from his shoulder, rose up onto the toes of his black patent shoes, and wailed, “Dodo-hoh! Dodo-hoh! Kweeh! Kweeh!”
“Say, there young man,” Wolf said, planting one boot on a porch step then leaning forward on his knee. “I’ve been called a might worse by taller gents than you!”
That seemed to delight the boy no end. He stomped both feet, a maneuver that nearly sent him sprawling, then bent his knees and rose up, straightening them quickly, and howling skyward.
“Estella! Estella!” Daniel called, limping up the porch steps and intercepting the toddler before he could gain the edge.
“Coming!” came a woman’s breathless voice from inside the house. Footsteps followed and then a round Mexican woman in a black maid’s dress, gray hair betraying her middle age, appeared in the doorway.
“Please, Estella—take the kid back inside. I have a guest here, and the kid’s liable to fall down the porch steps. What on earth is the door doing open, anyway?”
“For Grace,” the maid said, glancing at Stockburn. She appeared flushed from work. “She said she needed fresh air. For her headaches.” She waved her hand in the air beside her head.
“Another headache?”
“Si, si.” The maid threw up both hands then crouched to pick up the boy, who was chortling more quietly now, as though realizing his presence here was not approved of. He absently fingered the lace on the maid’s dress collar but kept his interested eyes on Stockburn.
Wolf grinned at the boy then reached out to give the small, doughy nose a squeeze between his thumb and index finger.
The boy jerked back to life, laughing hysterically.
“Please, take the boy away,” Daniel urged the woman. “Keep an eye on him until Grace can manage him.”
“I am not as young as I used to be, Daniel,” the maid crisply retorted, giving young Stoleberg a piqued look before carrying the child inside.
“Oh, and please have Oscar fetch the horses yonder—oh, there he is.” As a Mexican man roughly Estella’s age appeared in the shadowy hall—a trim, balding man wearing a white shirt and broadcloth trousers—Daniel said, “Oscar, please lead the four horses in the yard to the stables. Have the stable boys lay the bodies tied to the saddles in the icehouse until further notice.”
“Bodies?” Oscar said, glancing from Daniel to Stockburn then, brushing between the two men as he stepped up to the door, he peered into the yard.
He glanced back at Daniel, then crossed himself, and went out.
Daniel looked at Stockburn and gave a wry smile. “Superstitious Mexicano. Good folks, though, Estella and Oscar Ramirez. They’ve worked for my father since my mother died.”
“I see,” Stockburn said, holding his hat in his hands. “And the toddler?”
He could no longer see the boy, but he could he
ar him yammering away while the maid spoke to him in Spanish.
Daniel’s handsome face acquired a funny look, one that Stockburn couldn’t define. He covered it with another of his boyish smiles and said, “That’s Buster. My brother and sister-in-law’s boy. Carlton’s the father. Buster came as quite a surprise because the doctor in Wild Horse said she couldn’t have children. Oh, well.”
Daniel threw his hands out and sighed and grinned once more. “Oh, well—we’ll make do until Carlton and Grace can get their own place.”
He turned, brushing the wall for support, then headed down the short hall to a narrow staircase, the treads and risers constructed from split pine logs, the rail merely a single, long pine pole, bowed and warped in places but otherwise solid. “Follow me. I’ll introduce you to Pa. He doesn’t get many visitors. He’ll enjoy the company . . . if he’s in the right frame of mind.”
“Right frame of mind?”
“You’ll see.”
Daniel placed his right hand on the rail and mounted the stairs. He rose slowly, clumsily, neither foot, it seemed, really wanting to make the climb.
Stockburn had heard about rattlesnake bites leaving nerve damage though he’d never witnessed the actual thing himself until now. He found himself feeling deeply sorry for the young man. An accident had taken his youth right at the crest of his virulence, just when most young men were thinking about settling down with a young lady and raising a family.
Daniel grunted, breathing heavily, as he climbed. Obviously frustrated.
“I’m sorry, Mister Stockburn,” he said when he stopped halfway up the stairs for a breather. “This is why I sleep on the first story. I rarely come up here, though Pa’s office is up here. We usually discuss business at the kitchen table, over breakfast and supper.”
“Not a problem, Daniel. Take your time.”
“You’re too kind,” Daniel said, staring straight ahead and laughing.
It was a weird laugh. Sorrow mixed with rage and humiliation.
Stockburn wanted to place his hand on the young man’s shoulder, to show some sympathy and affection for Daniel’s travails, but he sensed the gesture would only further embarrass him. He wanted to suggest that he make the trip to Rufus Stoleberg’s upstairs office alone.