Rancher's Law

by Dusty Richards

  At last with the horse and buggy parked at the livery, he strode over to the Siebring and registered at the desk. A porter took his bags to the room and Matt ordered a bath and water brought up immediately. The hesitant clerk agreed and told him it would be there in ten minutes.

  Matt stepped into the barroom and ordered a double. Looking about, he didn’t recognize anyone he knew. With a sigh, he turned back to his drink. Somehow, he needed all the information on this John O’Malley and his Flat Iron Cattle Company. He’d have to work through some other sources. His banker, Arch Collins, might know, but he couldn’t afford to upset him with news of more pending competition for the range up there.

  The bartender came back and Matt motioned him over. “You know a John O’Malley?”

  “Yes, sir, he comes in here often.”

  “You seen him today?” Matt asked, looking around, then went back to resting his elbows on the polished bar. Damn, he was tired from the hard two-day drive.

  “No, sir.”

  “Guess he’s a big cattle man.”

  The bartender gave a “maybe” face. “Looks more like a banker to me. He dresses more businesslike than most ranchers.”

  “He does own a large cattle company?”

  “They say he’s got pens and stuff over at Hayden’s Mill.”

  Matt wished he had stopped there and checked the large flour and grist mill on the Salt; it would be a good place to learn things. Especially since O’Malley was located there. Didn’t sound like he was the kind to push in someone else’s range; he’d expected a wiry Texas rancher with some gun hands to back him. Better reserve judgment until he learned more about him. Satisfied, he thanked the man and went to see about his bath.

  The room’s sweltering air gagged him despite the fact the windows were open. Coming to Phoenix at this time of year was absurd, and he would’t be there, except for the threat of the invasion by more stock. Undressed, he slipped into the tin tub. Thank heavens, the water wasn’t too hot. His mind still dazed by the day’s heat and hours of it still left, he soaked away for a while.

  He ate supper in the hotel dining room. The oysters were fresh, anyway. If they ever got a railroad into this valley, those ocean gems wouldn’t be so high-priced. After his meal, he went back in the bar and joined two stockmen from near the Yavapia county seat. Dick Woolard and Josh Hancock ranched north of Prescott.

  The three men sat at a side table. Matt wanted to know what they might have heard about the hangings around Prescott. Across from him, Hancock rolled a cigarette in his fingers, then licked it shut.

  “How’s the rustling up in the basin?” Hancock asked. Then he stuck the cigarette in his mouth and struck a pearlheaded parlor match under the table. It flared up and ignited the twisted end of the cylinder. Hancock drew it from his mouth in a puff of smoke. “Or did you boys cure it?”

  “Someone did.”

  “Ha. Come on, you boys did what the rest of us needed to do. String them jaspers up.”

  Not to be pulled into the trap of admission, Matt nodded. “I owe them, I guess.”

  “Rupp sent up a pair of deputies, didn’t he?” Woolard asked, looking over his tented fingers.

  “Been up there a month or more. Ain’t caught a damn rustler yet.”

  Everyone laughed and ordered another round of good whiskey. Matt didn’t want the liquor loosening his tongue, so he sipped his slowly. The price of cattle was bantered around, and Matt brought the conversation back to this new buyer of Allen’s that he was curious about.

  “You ever meet his new man, Luther Haskell?” he asked them.

  “Nope. Must be brand-new.”

  “I know Jasper Dalton, but never met this Haskell.”

  “Must have some drover experience. Allen sent him up there to gather T. G. Burtle’s stock.”

  “Wonder why he didn’t wait till roundup this fall?” Hancock said, busy rolling another smoke with his finger.

  “I wondered the same thing,” Matt said. Then he dropped back in the chair and reflected on all he knew about the new man. Obviously, Haskell had hired Hirk to help him. Worthless trash, but the man probably didn’t know any better. He’d be a lot smarter after he started that roundup.

  O’Malley never showed up. Matt had asked the bartender to alert him if he came in. Perhaps the man was out of town.

  The next morning, Matt rose early. His head hurt, and coffee didn’t clear it. At last, he went in the empty barroom and tried a double whiskey. No better, no worse, he planned to set out with his horse and rig during the morning letup in heat. Not cool, but nowhere near the oppressive daytime highs.

  “Where’s this Flat Iron Cattle Company?” he asked the old man at the livery.

  “They’ve got pens south of Hayden’s Mill a mile or so and some hay ground over there.”

  “New outfit?”

  “Yeah,” the swamper said, tossing the harness on his horse. “They’ve already got hands hired. I heard they were buying she-stock and steers.”

  “Paying a premium?”

  “I don’t know. Just talk I hear. You got some to sell?”

  “Could have if the price was strong enough.”

  The grizzly-faced old swamper, who looked to be dying for a drink, spat in the dust and nodded. “Hell, it’s all for sale for the right price.”

  Mid-morning Matt drove through the open gate. The black and white Flat Iron Cattle Company sign looked brand-new. He reined the horse up before the house under rustling cottonwoods. Hell’s breath had begun to stir, and Matt knew it would be a furnace’s blast in his face going back to Phoenix. He regretted not bringing his bags so he could head for home after he learned this outfit’s purpose.

  A lanky cowboy sauntered down to the yard gate, hushing the barking border collies. His red silk shirt and silk kerchief set him off as something besides a ranch hand. The tall crowned Stetson like new and a cross draw holster with an oily Colt that gleamed in the sun, told Matt lots about him. He wore his trousers tucked in high-top boots. He looked Matt over with suspicion in his narrowed eyes.

  “John O’Malley?”

  The man shook his head. “He’s not here today.”

  “This is his place?” He searched around. Cattle in the pens. But he couldn’t tell what kind or how many. He could see their dust as they milled and heard their bawling. Several head, he guessed.

  “Yes. You an investor?” the cowboy asked.

  “Could be. My name’s McKean.”

  “Toot Burns.”

  “Well, Toot, you and I know you can’t run many cattle on this farm.”

  “Shipping point. There’s more than ten million acres good grazing out there waiting for our stock and free for the taking.” He made a wave with his left arm meaning all around, but that included the basin in his toss.

  “I understand O’Malley is considering Christopher Basin.”

  Burns folded his arms and nodded. “Plenty of grass up there.”

  “Tell O’Malley I dropped by.” Matt lifted the reins. He suppressed the swelling of anger washing over him.

  “I will.”

  “Then you tell him I said to keep his gawdamn cattle out of the basin if he wants to see them again!”

  “You threatening—why, you sumbitch …” Burns’s hand went for his gun butt.

  “I don’t need to threaten. He’ll learn fast enough what’ll happen if he makes a drive in that country.”

  “You sum—”

  “Save your words for the damn funeral and don’t come ‘less you have your life insurance paid.” Matt clucked to the horse and slapped him with the lines. Another minute, he’d jump out and pistol whip that Texas gunny with his own Colt. O’Malley would need tougher men than him. Hell, even Jakes could turn Burns inside out and hang his hide on the corral fence.

  Matt swung the horse in a dust swirling circle and, as he completed it, saw a flash of the red silk shirt. On the run to stop him, Burns raced alongside as hard as he could, then he lunged for him. Matt raised hi
s boot in time and planted it in the flushed man’s chest. It propelled the hired gunsel backwards into the cloud of dust. Satisfied that Burns was down, Matt galloped the horse for the gate. Bent over the dash, he halfway expected any moment to hear Burns pop a cap or two after him.

  No bullets this far. On the road at last, he slid the rig around and headed the horse wide open for Hayden’s Mill. The gauntlet was laid. He could only hope his threat would dissuade O’Malley from his plans, but he didn’t feel his effort went far enough … yet.

  In deep thought about what he should do next, he spent the afternoon in Hayden Mill’s Silver Bell Cantina, a thickwalled adobe building on Main Street that reeked of cigar smoke, cheap perfume and the sourness of booze. He drank beer that was not as cold as the small cocky Hispanic bartender said it would be.

  In a side booth, so he could watch the door in case that red-shirted gunsel decided to trail him, he toyed with a puta named Minnie. In her teens, with wide innocent eyes and pouty lips, she wore a low-cut blouse and skirt. In anticipation of gaining his attention, she squirmed against him in the most heated, provocative ways. Sent his hands to her especially private places for him to discover that she only wore a blouse and skirt.

  Entertained by her efforts and nimble fingers, he wondered about O’Malley and his plans. How he needed to establish a spy in his outfit to be certain they didn’t one day simply show up there with ten thousand head. Her fingers soon undid his pants in her boldest exploration of the afternoon. She smiled up at him with a look-at-what-I’m-doing grin. Of course, in the dimlit barroom, with their probing hidden in the booth and beneath the table, who cared?

  Yes, he needed a spy down there. Who could he send? Her activities distracted his thoughts. Sweeney O’Brien, a real loner. He would do it for enough money. Say double wages for him. Matt tousled the girl’s limp black hair and grinned at her efforts. He’d have to do that—when he got home.

  “Where is your place?” he whispered, his heart pounding and his hips aching with need for her.

  She tossed her head toward the back door. He downed his beer, looked around, and then slid out of the booth. He left some change for the beers. They went outside the back door into the oven hot alley that swept his face like a prairie fire. She dragged him into a filthy crib off the alley that stunk of a full night jar.

  Inside the dark, stifling room, he saw a shrine to the Virgin Mary in the corner. Ribbons and bows were pinned up around it. Black beads of a rosary were draped on top of the statue. Even whores need their God. She began to undress him. The heat of the room or the beers made him dizzy—or was it his eagerness for her body? He paid her fifty cents.

  Naked as Eve, she coaxed him onto a sunken rope cot. They rubbed their sweaty bellies together until he reached a conclusion. Afterward, he fell asleep, to awaken later alone in the sweltering crib in a sea of his own perspiration, with his guts and bladder complaining for relief. Clothes pulled on hard, they stuck to his wet skin. Out of his numbness, he realized to check for his money. As he suspected, some of the bills in his pants were gone. Close to fifteen dollars stolen, he decided after counting what was left. He jammed the remaining bills back in his pants. Damn her thieving ass!

  At last, seated in the fly droning outhouse, he repeatedly went over the theft. Served him right for falling asleep. If he ever caught her ass, she’d regret it! Hell, he would never see her again. The others would hide her. Disclaim her. What did a man expect from a fifty-cent whore? Done at last, he hitched his pants and blinded by the light when he opened the door, fought his way outside into the airless alley.

  One thing for certain, O’Malley would do more than that to him if he let him. Better get home and tell the others what was coming. Wilted by the oppressive temperature, he headed for where his horse and buggy were hitched in the shade. It had been a bad trip. When he passed the back door of the cantina, he considered going inside and raising hell about her thieving ways. Wouldn’t do a bit of good. The bitch probably slept with the town marshal too.

  He forced back the urge to gag. Better get back to the cool mountains before this damn heat killed him.

  13

  Nothing here. That was Lather’s first thought looking around the unkept one-room cabin. If T. G. Burtle had anything, it had been stolen or never existed. The bed was a raw tick mattress that showed several stains. Straw poked out of some of the mouse holes. One torn, work-worn shirt hung on the wall. A few dirty dishes sat on the table, old crates for chairs, and some splintery boards nailed together for a table.

  His enamel wash pan was chipped like it had been beaten with a hammer, and a wooden water bucket sat on the dry sink with a spliced rope for a handle. The lone window was curtained in cobwebs.

  “Ain’t much, is it?” Hirk asked, looking around with a scowl.

  “For a man with as many cattle as we’ve counted, it sure ain’t no place.”

  “Maybe saving his money. Got a fortune buried in here.”

  “You look for it. I’d as soon camp outside tonight as stay in this den,” Luther said.

  “Hold on. I ain’t that all fired anxious to stay in here either. Money or no money.”

  Luther looked around the shack for the last time, disappointed there was nothing for him. Another blind canyon was all he could think about and that answered nothing about the man or his demise.

  Hirk chuckled about alluding to Burtle’s money in there and still laughed as they went outside.

  With a gourd dipper, they each drank from the cool spring above the cabin. Luther noted how the mossy wooden trough ran the water into a large rock and mortar stock tank. The excess flow eased over the lip in a green slimy streak and went into the large circle of muddy ground in front of it.

  “Well, we’ve seen Burtle’s home ranch.”

  “And Dikes,” Hirk said. He headed for the mules and turned back to tell him, “we can see the third one’s place tomorrow, then I think that we’ll have seen most of the country we need to ride over for the B Bar stock.”

  “Yeah,” Luther agreed. That might salve his curiosity some about the dead men. Burtle looked to him like a hard case from the condition of his cabin. A man who would grunt if he didn’t want to talk to you. Someone hiding a past as well, though the major never mentioned it. Burtle might not even be his real name.

  Through with his own investigation, and marking critical places, Ben found the mud. He bellied down like a fat hog in the wet spot, and lay there panting with his large red tongue out.

  “Bet you don’t have any trouble sleeping tonight,” Luther said to him, and headed to help Hirk unload. His bulldog received a good workout keeping up with their horses each day, but Ben never wanted to be left behind.

  “Tell me about Luke Stearn,” Luther said, tossing down their bedrolls from the pannier on the second mule.

  “Another one who drifted in a couple of years ago. He was a cowboy, never heard him say where he came from. Rode roundup two years ago for the stockman, then that summer he drove in some dairy cross stock, along with a few head of rough desert steers with his S brand blotched on them. Had it recorded. Must have bought them culls down in the Valley. You get a brand, they don’t pay you any more to work at roundup.”

  “Even if you only have a few head?”

  “Right. You got a brand, then you’re a rancher and you’ve got to be represented on the roundups.”

  “Kinda keeps poor cowboys out of the business.”

  “Yeah, if you ever want any work.”

  “You reckon he used a long lope?”

  Hirk looked up from where he was squatted on the ground, starting a fire. “That’s a matter of opinion. See, if you own a brand, then legally you can capture and mark unbranded yearling or older unmarked cattle with your own brand. That is, on the same range where you have stock.”

  “So a few head allows you to maverick?”

  Busy with his fire start, Hirk nodded. “And that’s rustling to the big boys. They figure them yearlings are theirs and t
hey just were missed. I don’t think any of them boys was dumb enough to brand a calf sucking a cow. That’s rustling.”

  Hirk shared a look with Luther. Then the man continued. “I’ve probably said too much. But not a one of them four big outfits had a case of calf branding to show Sheriff Rupp’s deputies. But they are still up here looking for the lynchers.”

  “If those three weren’t guilty of rustling, then those who hung them are guilty of murder?”

  “Hard to ever prove.”

  “Hard to prove,” Luther agreed, looking through the pine boughs at the towering peaks. Slate-blue slopes shown on the steeper side. Nice country, and so far he was yet to find a tick on his body—something he recalled as being a plague in the Indian Nation. Being a spy was slow work, but the major promised he had other cases if this job ever hit a dead end.

  In a few days, he would be gathering Burtle’s cattle. That should spice up his life. He hadn’t done that kind of work in a few years. Hands on hips, he stretched his back. What the hell was Ben raising Cain about?

  He hurried around the shed. “Ben! Ben, get back here!”

  Past the corner, he looked uphill. A large black bear was facing the raging bulldog, who was stopped thirty feet in front of her, challenging her with his ferocious barking.

  “Ben! Ben McCollough! You crazy fool. She’ll make ground meat out of you. Get back here.”

  The loud report of a rifle reverberated over the hill and back. Bark flew all over the bear, who decided the tree must have exploded. She shied and took off across the slope.

  “Ben!” Luther shouted through his cupped hands, realizing Hirk’s shot was to scare off the bruin and not kill it. The cowboy made another shot in the pine boughs over the black scrambler to speed her retreat. Ben came loping back like he had run off the intruder.

  “Gritty little devil, ain’t he?” Hirk said in admiration.