Rancher's Law

by Dusty Richards

  He made certain his gear would be secure inside the depot while he went to find Bill Allen, the man the major had written him about. With Ben on his heels, he started up the hard-packed dirt street. Small curls of dust on the wind crossed it like waves on water. He noticed some darkeyed doves standing in their open doorways, plying their trade in the daytime from narrow side-by-side adobe cribs.

  The Chicago, Kansas City, and Ashland Livestock Company wasn’t hard for him to find. Luther made Ben stay in the reception area with the young clerk named Chip. In his private office, Bill Allen, a man in his fifties, introduced himself, extended a hand to Luther, and showed him a chair. Then he walked over and closed the door.

  “Guess the major told you about the job?”

  “Told me in his letter that I was to report to you as a cattle buyer.”

  “Yes. Well, I’ve been hired to gather T. G. Burtle’s cattle. Your job is to round them up and to look for me some good three-year-old steers to ship this fall. Don’t need any longhorns or lots of it showing. There ain’t a market left for them anymore. I want half or better Hereford or Durham.”

  “Fine. What about this Burtle’s stock?”

  “I guess it’s mavericks mostly. B Bar is the brand, on the right side, a notch lower left ear and a blunt end. And that’s probably what they hung him over. The state brand inspector, Ira Strand, will work with you. Good man. He lives down there at Fortune. When you get them gathered, let me know and I’ll tell you what to do with them.”

  “Hire some help?”

  “Yes. You’ll need it. That’s timber country. Hire you some brush poppers and a cook. Should be enough who want work to pick men from around that area. I’ll send a couple pack mules with you, and when you get the men hired, you can rent a remuda this time of year from one of the ranchers down there.”

  “How much you do want to spend on this roundup?”

  Allen nodded as if pleased by his words. “I told his sister she could foot the bill for gathering them. She gets what’s left after that. Let’s see, cowboys cost thirty, plus thirty a month to feed them, then add on horse rent. Five, or six hands, and you. Six weeks, but first you go look over the country, find where most of the cattle are. You might do it in less time than that.”

  “No idea about the tally?”

  Allen shook his head. “He had some cattle. His sister, I am certain, thinks there are lots more head than you’ll fine.”

  “You say you have two mules?”

  “Yes. You can get the supplies you need in Fortune. But those two mules will be handier than a chuck wagon in Christopher Basin. It’s rough country.”

  “How far away?”

  “Eighty miles south.”

  “What are the main ranchers’ names?” he asked, taking out his pencil and small book.

  “Dan Charboneau, Louie Crain. Oh, Matthew McKean, he’s a big one and may bite your head off over a summer roundup. McKean ain’t easy to get along with unless the cards are going toward him and Reed Porter—he has the best Hereford cattle. Those are the big four. But you have the authority to go and get them.”

  Luther rubbed his palm over his whisker stubble. “You know why I’m here?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have any idea who hung Burtle and those others?”

  “It would be speculation.”

  “And?” Luther looked at the man, feeling awed by the vastness of this new land. So much country here and all so foreign to him. He felt like a leaf afloat in an ocean.

  “You might have their names right there.” Allen indicated his notebook, then he walked to the window and looked out on the shipping pens beyond. “Who else had enough cattle you could easily steal from down there?”

  “Makes sense, but proving it … well, that may be a different story. I’ll go get a feel for the country, locate the B Bar branded stock and let you know about hands.”

  “Can’t find them down there. Plenty of them on the free lunch up here.”

  “Good.” They shook hands, and Luther, with Ben at his heels, left the office.

  At the livery, squatting in the sunshine with their backs to the corral fence, Luther and the owner, Winston, discussed a trade. The animal in mind was a stout red roan gelding with an X7F brand on his neck.

  “He’s a mountain horse. Sure-footed,” Winston bragged, aiming brown spit in the dust between his dusty boots. “You’ll like him down in that Christopher Basin where you’re headed. Got a good running walk. Broke to death. Ground tie. Mount him left or right. I’m telling you, he’s a real pony. A bulldog just like yours.” He motioned toward Ben.

  “I’d give you twenty bucks with new plates on him.”

  “Can’t take that. Cost me four to get him shod.”

  “Bottom dollar?” Luther asked.

  “Thirty, no shoes.”

  “I’d give that for him shod.”

  “Them shoes ain’t bad that he’s got on.”

  “His feet’s grown out. Got him sitting back on his heels.” Luther rose and, hands on hips, straightened his stiff back. All that train riding had made him a cripple. “Thirty-two and you have him shod.”

  “Damn, you drive a tough deal. I can’t get him shod till … have him ready in the morning.”

  “Daybreak, I’ll be after him,” he said, counting the money into the man’s hand.

  “You’re a hard man to deal with,” Winston complained. “I’d go broke doing business with you every day. Bill Allen must’ve known you were a tough trader to hire you for a buyer.”

  “You sold a ten-dollar bronc for three times the value.” Luther shook his head at the man, but he felt proud of his buy. “What do they call him?”

  “Cochise.”

  “Any reason?”

  Winston shook his head. “Hell, they name horses after everything else, why not some dead blanket-ass Indian?”

  “Just curious.”

  “You sell that bulldog?”

  “Nope. I wouldn’t wish that much trouble on anyone,” Luther said, and laughed as he pushed out the gate. Ben didn’t lose the opportunity to slip out of the pen with him, as if he didn’t want to be sold either.

  “I’d trade you that horse straight across for him.”

  “Not for sale.” Luther had a lot on his mind. His gear, rifle, and saddle needed to be transported to the livery. He had to check on Allen’s mules—how to get them and where they were stabled. The man had also promised him checks for his supplies, wages, and cattle buying.

  Perhaps before he left, he would write Tillie a letter. Tell her how he had become a respectable cattle buyer on his way to a town called Fortune in the Christopher Basin. Sounded like some place in never-never land from a wild dime novel. The notion they hung three men there brought him back to reality. It wouldn’t be a Garden of Eden. The Biblical story of Cain and Abel came to mind. Jealousy caused many problems and misdirected many individuals. Grateful for the cattle buyer cover, maybe in time he could find the answers that Major Bowen expected. Who were those vigilantes?

  He hurried toward the depot. Lots to do before then.

  The bay mules proved to be as good as Allen claimed they were. They bonded with Cochise the first day, and after that, Luther didn’t need a lead on them. When he rode into Fortune on the second day, he studied the small houses and little farms that surrounded the village. He caught a doctor’s sign out in front of a white house with lots of flowers growing inside the white picket fenced yard.

  The village covered two blocks, all clustered around a second-story hotel. A few rigs were parked outside Issac’s, the largest mercantile. At the hitch racks, hip-shot horses switched pesky flies. Several more sleepy cow ponies stood in front of the saloons. One such dispenser of booze was called the Texan, the other and smaller bar was the Longhorn. Spindly pines were scattered about, though he had seen lots of good pine timber coming over the rim. The vast holding pens looked in good condition, and that was a relief, unless they were privately owned and barred other folks fr
om using them. Highly unusual for anyone to deny the use of corrals, especially when they weren’t needed this time of year.

  He stabled the horse and mules at the livery. Then he and Ben went into the Texas, which looked the most prosperous. Saloons were the main gathering place for information and news. In such an isolated place, he considered they would also be the point of most of the commerce in a town this size.

  He stopped inside the wing doors and looked for the bartender. When the man raised his head in question, Luther said, “Got my dog with me.”

  The man peered over at Ben and laughed. “He’s fine. Come on inside.”

  Luther crossed to the polished bar, ordered a beer, and went to a corner table. Ben crouched underneath it. Having already been involved in three minor altercations with the town curs, he acted ready to rest.

  “You in town on business or pleasure?” the bartender asked, delivering the foam-topped mug.

  “Business, I’m a cattle buyer. Anyone around here I could hire to guide me? Need to look for some that we’ve already bought.”

  The bartender cradled his elbow in his hand. “Maybe Hirk would suit you.”

  “Hirk?”

  “Yeah, short for Hirkermere Silver, but no one calls him by that.”

  “I guess not. How do I find him?”

  “He’ll be in here any time now.”

  “He have a place around here?”

  The bartender made a wry face. “Ain’t much of one, but he’s a good guy. Knows the country real well.”

  Hirk showed up half an hour later, sprouting a week’s whiskers, and his clothes looked like they’d been slept in and rolled in the dirt. Luther guessed his age as close to forty. He stopped at the bar, ordered a beer, and conversed with the barkeep, then turned and gazed hard at Luther.

  “Howdy. Hirk Silver’s my name.” He gave a head toss toward the bar. “Earl over there said you needed some help?”

  “Mine’s Luther Haskell. Have a chair,” he offered, and frowned at Ben’s growl. “Get over, Ben, and let him sit down.”

  “Who’s Ben?” Hirk bent over and peered beneath the table at him. “Why, howdy, pard. You look like you could double bite a fellar. Hope you never get mad at me.”

  “He’s fairly civilized,” Luther assured him.

  “What’re you needing, mister?” Hirk dropped into the chair and slouched down, like his spine would hurt to sit upright.

  “My boss is helping T. G. Burtle’s heirs, and I’m supposed to round up his cattle for them.”

  “Looking for T. G.’s stock, huh?”

  “We find enough, I’ll hire a crew and we’ll round them up.”

  “You’re looking for a guide, then?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know this country.”

  “We going to stay out a few days?” Hirk asked as the bartender delivered two fresh beers.

  Luther paid for them. “We need to.”

  “You got a horse of your own to ride?”

  “I’ll get my gear ready. When we leaving?”

  “I planned to leave in the morning, early. How much a day?”

  “Buck a day and grub.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s meet at sunup over at the livery. I’ve got two mules to pack our stuff on.”

  “Here’s to cow hunting.” Hirk raised his mug with the foam spilling over the rim. “May it all go smooth as glass.”

  Luther returned the toast and hoped so, too. He studied the older man’s stained floppy hat, once a high-priced white one. A leather thong under his chin held it on. An expensive red silk kerchief was wrapped around his neck and he wore a tattered wool vest. His faded brown canvas pants were wash-worn and filthy, tucked in run over boots with a cap and ball pistol in his holster that completed his dress. He had to trust that this cowboy knew the territory. He sure wasn’t hiring him for his sharp looks.

  A big man in a suit came in the swinging doors, went to the bar, and ordered a drink. Luther figured from his appearance that he must be a businessman or rancher.

  “Who’s that?” he asked his new man.

  “That’s Matt McKean. He’s a big rancher in the basin.”

  As if the man heard him, he came across and introduced himself to Luther, who stood and shook his hand

  “Nice to met you, Haskell. Earl says you’re a cattle buyer?”

  In an instant, Luther saw the toughness in this man’s dark eyes. He knew McKean didn’t come over to talk to someone like Hirk. He came with a purpose, and that was to learn something.

  “I work for Bill Allen in Winslow.”

  “He paying the top prices this fall?”

  “Yes, for the right cattle. He wants mostly Hereford and Durham crosses. You have several three-year-olds?”

  “Yes. What’s the market, Mr. Haskell?”

  “Luther,” he said softly. “We’re offering ten cents a pound this fall at the railhead.”

  “Needs to be higher.”

  “Always needs to be higher. While I want to look at some cattle, the main purpose I’m over here for is to gather T. G. Burtle’s stock for his estate.”

  “Oh, well.”

  “I’ll be talking to you and the other ranchers about reps after I decide how best to gather them.”

  “I can send a rep. Right now I’m headed for Phoenix. Be back in a week. Been trying to get there for three weeks. When will you need one?” He looked hard at Luther like he expected his intentions explained.

  “Soon as I see how best to do the job.”

  “Let me or my foreman, Jakes, know.” McKean never once even acknowledged Hirk or addressed the man. The rancher downed his whiskey and with a sharp nod to Luther, turned on his heel to leave. He parted the doors and was gone.

  “Big man, ain’t he?” Luther asked, hoisting up his mug for a sip.

  “Hmm,” Hirk snorted. “Like to sell that sumbitch for what he thinks he’s worth.”

  “He got a big spread?”

  “You’ll get gawdamn tired of seeing his brand up here.”

  Luther set the mug down and dropped back in the chair. He had met one of the four biggest ranchers in the basin. What were the others like? All that tough? McKean would be a hard nut to crack. Besides, he no doubt kept a fancytalking lawyer on his payroll. Another tough Scotsman to deal with. It reminded him of what he learned before he left Arkansas. That prosecutor in Fort Smith had dropped the counterfeiting case against McCantle. If he’d brought the man in in irons, he’d never heard the end of it. No, he’d handled that situation well. Christopher Basin might be a different story. He’d wondered and worried enough about it until his belly began to complain.

  “Let’s go find some food,” he said to Hirk.

  “You bet. You buying?”

  “I guess,” Luther said, still trying to sort out what he knew about McKean. Not enough, except that he was tough as granite. He glanced back. “Come on, Ben.”

  “That dog go wherever you go?” Hirk asked, watching Ben stretch his back and then fall in.

  “Most places. Why?”

  Hirk rubbed his whiskered mouth and nodded. “Looks like he had a bad wreck and smashed his face in.”

  “Yeah,” Luther said, amused. He pushed open the swinging doors. “A bad one.” He saw McKean bring his buggy around and with a nod of his head, the big man drove off. Lots of unanswered questions about him. He and Hirk headed for the cafe across the empty street. Plenty to learn, plenty to find out.

  10

  The major opened the letter. It bore the Winslow cattle buying company’s name on it.

  Dear Gerald,

  Your man, Luther Haskell, was here and left for Christopher Basin to gather T. G. Burtle’s cattle. I was impressed, but it may be a wonder if he doesn’t get his self killed up there. I’ll keep you informed of any developments.

  Bill Allen

  “Doesn’t get his self killed.” Those words made him drum his fingertips on the table. Nothing he could do but hope for the best for Haskell. T
he man certainly had plenty of experience dealing with tough criminals in Fort Smith. He had other things on his mind. Mid-morning, and he was headed for the Harrington House. He wondered if Ellen Devereau had learned anything new about the Christopher Basin lynching or the Yuma deal. The matter of corruption in the new prison construction bothered him. It might be the thing that sent poor John Sterling over the hill.

  “Come in,” a young girl in a flowing white cotton shift said, opening the front door for him.

  Hat in hand, he stepped inside the vestibule. “I would like to speak to Miss Devereau, if she isn’t indisposed.”

  The girl’s face went blank, then like a light went on, it cleared, and she said, “Oh, I’m sure she’s got clothes on. She don’t never run around naked in the house. What did you call it?”

  “I meant was she busy.”

  “Oh.” The girl threw her hands to her face and covered the red blush fast turning bright crimson.

  “Jollie Ann, who is it?” Ellen asked from the top of the stairs. “Oh, Major, I’ll be right down.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He waved his hat at her. “No rush.”

  The next few moments, the girl stood before him, wetting her lips and looking around as if for a place to hide. “I better go see about … ah, something.” She indicated the parlor.

  “I’ll be fine,” he assured her.

  “Oh, yeah.” At that she fled through the empty parlor and was gone.

  “Land sakes, what did you say to that girl?” Ellen asked, looking perturbed as she came down the stairs. The silky yellow dress made a swishing sound and her perfume soon filled his nose. She led him by the arm into the drawing room and shut the doors.

  “Glad you weren’t indisposed,” he said as she poured whiskey into two glasses.

  “Oh, no. I wasn’t.”

  “Your employee misunderstood me.”

  With a frown, she turned, extending a glass for him. “I don’t understand.”