Rancher's Law

by Dusty Richards

  Tillie thought, Thirty-two is hardly a boy, but Luther, I don’t know about your choice.

  There were no trees at this place either. None for hundreds of miles. Maybe thousands, she had no way to know how long her butt had been on that hard bench as she stared out the dirty windows at nothing. She almost cheered at the sight of some cows grazing in the distance when they looked up at her or at the train’s whistle. No mind. They looked at her.

  In her only experiences with cows, she learned they gave milk and at the expense of a swishing tail of fresh manure or burrs or feet that kicked forward could spill all the hardpressed effort. Mr. Rodiabaker had a cow named Gladdis like that when Tillie was a girl of nine and her family lived on his place. She hated Gladdis then for all the mean things she did to her, but in this land of nothing but rocks and brown grass, even that damn brown cow would be a welcome friend.

  On the platform, she looked about. No sign of Luther. Perhaps he had not gotten her letter yet. She’d mailed it the day before she left Fort Smith. A knot formed in her throat. If he had gotten her letter, he surely would have been there. Then the worst imaginable thought struck her. He had been killed. Her knees threatened to buckle, and she hurried to a bench on the platform. Seated there, she clasped her hands together, wrung them in her lap, and fought to recover her presence.

  No. He couldn’t be dead. She’d come all this horrible way to marry him. Not to be a sissy, nor have any more daydreams of all the bad things their union would bring to her life. In Arizona or wherever they lived, she would be happy. Why, when she left Fort Smith in that train car and waved her last good-byes to her “sisters” crowded on the platform, some were crying, others laughing and shouting rather obscene things for her to do with her new husband. Oh, well, they meant her well. Though no doubt, some onlookers within hearing distance didn’t like them being there in public. She’d heard some grumble how they should never have allowed that lot of sluts out of their cribs.

  She’d hung out of the window, waved her kerchief, and fought back tears until she could no longer see their faces. Oh, to hell with those snooty church sisters in the train car. The ones who sat there like cigar store Indians in their seats staring at her. Determined to make herself a life outside the whorehouse, she took her seat as ladylike as she knew how, sweeping her dress beneath her.

  A tomboy for most her life and the rest of the time a woman of the night, she would have to mirror the ways of these fine ladies with their unsoiled reputations. Seated in the bright sunshine at Winslow, Arizona Territory, the cool wind sweeping her face, she realized she had more important things than pleasing fussy folks; she needed to find Luther.

  With effort, she took her two bags inside the depot and left them with the train agent who agreed to keep them safe until she could come back for them. With her shoulders thrown back and the small box hat set and pinned on her head, she looked over the traffic. Then as deliberately as she could, she took her skirt in hand and went down the stairs to the street. She felt eyes on her as she prepared to cross the street, waiting for the passage of a freight wagon. A teenage boy on top of the load shouted to the driver.

  “See her! Wow, she’s sure purty.”

  Mouth set, she dared not break into a warm smile for him, but stared ahead at the storefront across the way. Whores did such things as grin at foolish men’s words to egg on their business. That was last week. This week, she belonged to a good man and he would expect her to be true. Her heartbeat drumming under her ribs, she hoped she had the willpower to do it all right.

  The first man she asked in the store had not heard of Luther Haskell. She thanked him and with her shoulders back, went out on the boardwalk. After almost colliding with her, that same silly boy from the wagon jerked off his hat.

  “Aw, ma’am, I’m sure sorry I got in your way.”

  “You’re excused,” she said, in a voice so cold, she hardly believed it came from her throat. Then with her chin up, she swept past the green-eyed youth with his mop of red hair.

  A fear crept in her stomach as she went down the rough boardwalk. What if she couldn’t find him in Winslow? No way she’d ever locate him out there on the treeless steppes. Perhaps she should check at the stables next? She went down the steps and the sour smell of horse manure swept her face as she entered the stables.

  Skirt clutched in her hand, she peered around for anyone in attendance. It came to her that she had forgotten how strong horses really smelled. The aroma clung to men who visited her at Molly’s, but it was so strong in the alleyway of the barn, it burned the linings of her nose.

  “Ma’am?” A short man with three days’ beard stubble stood before her holding his hat and a pitchfork.

  “I am looking for Luther Haskell. Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, ma‘am. He—you all right, ma’am?”

  Head in a swirl, she gulped in a deep breath. Her hand flew to her chest to contain the jolt to her heart. “Yes,” she gasped. “Where is he?”

  “Off buying cattle for Mr. Allen. I reckon he’s over in the Christopher Basin, ma’am.”

  “What train goes there?” She tried hard to fathom how far away it could be to this basin he spoke about.

  A worried expression spread over his gray whiskered face and with his lips peeled back, it exposed his yellow teeth. “There ain’t none. There’s a mail wagon goes there. You might hitch a ride on it.”

  “Where does it leave from?” she asked.

  “Oh, here. But you better go find Jinxs, Jinxs Carter. He drives it.”

  “Where do I find Mr. Carter?”

  He put the pitchfork against the wall. “I’ll go get him for you. He’s up in the Bucket Blood and they won’t let the likes of you in there.”

  “Thanks. I will wait.” She stepped back out of the barn’s alleyway as the man hurried off to find Carter. Then she became aware she needed to act composed standing there and feeling everyone must be staring at her in the blue dress. Like it was not unusual for her to be before the open double doors of a livery and act unfazed by all this business about a mail wagon and a man called Jinx. She wanted to go squat on her heels and chew on a straw.

  “Well, howdy, ma’am!” Before her stood a man as big as bear with a flowing beard that circled his face and the most prominent thing about him was a bright red bulb of a nose that stuck out of it. Dressed in a smoke-stained buckskin coat, he bowed clear over to sweep the ground with his great floppy brimed hat.

  “Mr. Carter?”

  “Yes. What can I do for you, darling?”

  “I need to a ride to wherever you go.”

  “Fortune.”

  “Fortune?” She glanced for reassurance at the liveryman, who quickly nodded.

  “Fortune,” she repeated for him.

  “You have any luggage?”

  “Yes. I will go get it.”

  “No need in you wearing out your pretty shoes. Where is it at?”

  “The depot.”

  “We’ll swing by there and get it. You ready to go?”

  “Now?” Strange, he wanted to leave in midday and wasn’t ready to go a few minutes ago. She nodded. The quicker she reached this place, the sooner she could join Luther. Before she did another thing, she needed some immediate relief from the pressures inside her.

  She held the back of her hand to her forehead. “Pardon me, but I need to …”

  Both men looked at each other, and the lost look on their faces was enough to make her want to laugh aloud. Then Carter raised his index finger and pointed to the rear. “It is out there, ma’am.”

  “Thanks.” With determination, she went past the switching tails of the many horses tied in the barn. The door to the outhouse hung on leather hinges and creaked in protest when she threw it open. Been a while since she had used such a crude place, complete with cobwebs and spiders.

  Luther, I am coming if that big galoot out in front can drive a buckboard. A shiver ran up her spine standing behind the closed door. Lord, please don’t let a creep
y crawly bug get under my dress.

  16

  Miss Hmm tore open her purse and quickly handed him a short barrel small-caliber Colt. The major smiled in the darkness of the upturned coach. The feel of the revolver in his grasp gave him newfound confidence. He looked up at the stars. No way out but to climb through the door above their heads.

  Nearby, a discussion began in Spanish, no doubt over their refusal to come out in the night.

  “ … vamoose, Pablo!” Then came the sounds of someone running across the ground.

  The major held his finger to her mouth for her to be silent. She nodded and remained frozen. The Colt cocked, he hunkered down, so the man had to get well up on top of the coach to see them.

  Next there were sounds of a bandit climbing up, then the door opened to the sky, with the outline of his large sombrero against the starlit sky. The major sprung up, grasped him by the shirt, and jerked him down amongst them. A swift blow of the gun barrel silenced his shouting, and all was quiet. Miss Hmm made stifling sounds to suppress her terror.

  “Pablo! Pablo?” Then there was the shuffle of horses being reined around and low talking from the others reached the major’s ears. He crouched beside her and said to himself, “Don’t shoot you fools, you might hit him!”

  He drew the bandit’s pistol out of his holster. Then he raised with the man’s Navy in his fist. Once standing with his shoulders above the side, he fired the cap and ball at the shadowy outlines. One man pitched off his saddle. His horse shied sideways spoiling another’s aim. The major sighted a silhouette in the starlight, took a snap shot. He thumbed the Colt into action again. Black powder smoke burned his nose. Must be homemade, he decided. At last the Navy hammer struck on empty and he fired her Colt at the elusive riders. The robbers clattered off into the night, shouting and beating their horses.

  The outlaw moaned. The major looked back and could make out the small derringer that Miss Hmm held in his face.

  “I didn’t want him talking,” she said.

  “Good idea,” he said, sticking the two revolvers in his waistband. “Come here,” he said to her. “I’ll hoist you up so you can get out.”

  “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

  He wasn’t sure what she dreaded the most, him having to hold her or leaving the sanctuary of the coach. No time for concern. Under his feet, he felt his own pistol that he’d dropped earlier. Sweeping it up, he jammed it in his holster, then took her by the narrow waist and lifted her onto the side of the coach. He let her pull her legs out and scoot to the edge. Nothing the bandit could do, so he boosted himself from the coach and dropped off the side. Then he caught her again and set her down.

  “We need to see if we can help the driver,” he said, looking about in the dim light. As he started up the road to look for him, she crowded close by, clutching her dress in both hands.

  They soon discovered the man’s still body beside the road. In the darkness, the major knelt beside him and felt for his pulse. Nothing. He rose to his feet and shook his head.

  “We can’t help him,” he said.

  “What now?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “Catch a loose horse,” he said. “If they haven’t run off. There should be two of them, but one will get us out of here.”

  She hurried along beside him as he searched in the starlit night for the silhouette of an animal. Most western horses ground tied. Which meant they shouldn’t go far dragging their reins.

  “Over there,” he pointed and headed across the road.

  “Will they come back?” she asked, carrying her dress and purse. She twisted around to look back at the coach, as if she expected the outlaw to emerge.

  “Whoa, whoa,” he urged the pony, too busy to answer her questions. Acting anxious, it moved away, snorted and side-stepped from his grasp.

  “Oh, horse, be still,” she said with impatience, and the pony did. It drew a smile on the major’s face. What he couldn’t get done with coaxing, Miss Hmm did by command. He reached out and caught the rope reins on the bosal and contained the horse. A check of the cinch and he swung in the old Mexican saddle. Ready for her to get on, he bent over to offer her the crook of his arm.

  “Astride?” she asked.

  “We don’t have time to find a side saddle,” he said, impatient for her to swing aboard behind him.

  “But I don’t have a divided skirt.”

  He shook his head, checked the impatient horse, and lowered his arm for her. She might not have on any dress at all if those outlaws caught them. Without a doubt, he felt certain they would do some violent things to her.

  “Come on. We don’t have time for niceties. We need to get out of here right now.”

  “Oh, all right. But don’t stare at my bare legs.”

  “The furthest thing from my mind,” he said, and hoisted her up until she sat astride on the saddle behind him.

  “Hang on,” he said, feeling the mustang arch his back and fight the bosal, ready to go to bucking. Acting broncy, he danced around beneath them. Her arms rushed around the major’s abdomen and she clasped herself tightly to his back. Satisfied she was in place, he dug his heels in the pony’s ribs and they headed west in a half run, half buck. At least for the major’s satisfaction, they were headed in the opposite direction from where the outlaws went, and also toward Yuma in the star-sparkled darkness.

  Somewhere out across the silver-lit desert, a coyote moaned. He felt her shudder in revulsion at the sound and squeeze him tighter.

  “My name is Gerald,” he said.

  “You told me.”

  “Well, then what is yours?”

  “Anastacia Brown.”

  “I’ll call you Ann.”

  “Fine,” she said, easing her hold. “How far will we have to ride?”

  “The next stage stop, I hope.” He felt her twist in the saddle and decided she must be looking back.

  “Will they return?”

  “Chances are good they might.”

  “Make this horse go faster.”

  “He’s only a small pony. I want him to make it there.”

  “How far is that next stage stop?”

  “Ten to twenty miles, I figure.”

  “What if we lose the road in the darkness?”

  “Ann, this horse will stay on it. He’s desert smart and hates cactus spines worse than we do.”

  “I hope so, Gerald. I sure hope so.” She scooted up to the back of the sorry saddle and against him. Another coyote warbled at the moon and she gasped. He shut his eyes. Some mess.

  17

  Luther squatted on his boot heels. His new crew stood around, mostly younger boys in their teens who could be spared from their own families’ ranch operations. The buck a day and found that Luther promised made them grin. Each boy brought three horses to ride, and while some of their ponies were not the greatest-looking, it saved Luther renting a remuda. For ten bucks Hirk rented six ranch horses for extra mounts. So the four boys and Bones, the whiskered old man hired as the camp cook along with Hirk, made his crew.

  Bones had hobbled across the street to the mercantile to get his order of food stuff they would load on the mules.

  “You boys savvy? I don’t put up with drinking or tomfoolery on the job. All I ask is that you try. We need to gather these cattle as quickly as possible, and with the least hollering, yelling, and foolishness. I’m sending word to the outfits. We intend to start day after tomorrow on the far end of the basin, bring as many B Bar branded cattle this way as we can find. I have a meadow rented we can put them in if we need to double back.”

  Their heads bobbed in agreement to the terms. Slickfaced boys who didn’t even need to shave yet. Blondes, brunettes, and one redhead named Ute. Luther watched the cocky one, the smallest, Pyle, size up the deal.

  “Suits me. I’m ready.”

  “Me too,” the bucktoothed Jason said, with his hat off and scratching his tousle of straw-like hair.

  “I’m ready, boss,” the freckled-faced Ute sa
id.

  Tag merely nodded. A thin-faced boy who was the poorest dressed of the four, he’d brought the sorriest string of ponies.

  “Hirk’s the boss when I’m not here.” He tossed his head toward the man beside the corral. “Now I need to go see the brand inspector.”

  He made Ben stay there, left his crew, and crossed the deserted street. In the Texas Saloon, he found Stran, the inspector, nursing a glass of beer. This made his second meeting with the big-gutted man.

  “You got some good boys hired. They’ll sure work,” Strand said, and nodded in approval.

  “Yeah, I think so. That Tag must come from poor folks.” He signaled to the bartender to bring him a schooner of beer and took the chair that Stran indicated.

  “Widow woman raised him. They’ve never had much. He caught them mustangs himself and broke them. Don’t worry. He’ll make you a hand.”

  “I wasn’t worried. I’m starting east and driving this way.”

  “Sounds great. Less work for me. You coming to the pens with them, I’ll check them here.” Stran raised his mug and toasted him. “You must have ran cattle yourself?”

  “I made a few trips up the trail to Abilene and Dodge. Most of the cattle I’ve seen here are tame compared to them brush-eating longhorns I went after.”

  “Crossing them on the British breeds has helped.”

  “Give me a double!” someone slurred, staggering inside and leaning on the bar.

  “Mr. Reed. You all right?” the bartender, Earl, asked, sounding concerned as Luther and Stran turned to see who it was.

  “Reed Porter,” Stran said under his breath, with a scowl of disapproval in his hard-set eyes. “Boy’s sure fell in the bottle these past few weeks. He never used to drink like that.”

  “I need to talk to him. His place is on this side of McKean’s, isn’t it?”

  Stran shook his head in warning. “Better wait till he’s sober.”

  “He won’t recall much today anyway,” Luther said as the man at the bar downed a double and gave a great gasp.