by J. T. Edson
In Blantyre County the Taggerts found men who would not willingly sit back even for small losses. While the brothers had never figured in the Texas Rangers’ “Bible Two”—that yearly list of fugitives from justice which the wearers of the star in the circle read more than the original book of the same name —they were not without fame. Less than a month after the Taggerts settled in Blantyre County, John Slaughter received word from a Ranger friend, warning him of how the brothers were suspected of making their living. Armed with the knowledge, Slaughter visited the Taggert place and warned the brothers of the fate awaiting anybody foolish enough to steal cattle or make big antelopes on his range.
While not being unduly worried by threats, it was a significant fact that the Taggerts stayed clear of Slaughter’s land until ready to make their jump out of Blantyre County.
On making up their minds to leave the barren ground, the brothers decided they needed travelling money. Scar had taken a scout on Slaughter’s range, knowing the ranch crew to be busy with their round up, and found the hundred head. Even at stolen cattle rates, a hundred head would give them sufficient money to put miles between them and Slaughter’s wrath; and leave enough to set them up in another small spread in some more hospitable, or less suspicious area.
So the brothers gathered up the hundred head, using their considerable skill in such matters to drive the cattle out of the valley and across the range to the south line. However, at that point Scar Taggert started to make mistakes. Give him his due. They were honest mistakes such as any man might make.
Firstly, instead of delivering the cattle on the hoof to a man who had taken their loot before—for the brothers had raided on a small scale—Scar came up with a brilliant idea. Why take ten bucks a head, which was the best rate their dealer ever offered, when there was a trail herd in the area. A herd commanded by a man not noted for honesty and fair dealing. Such a man would certainly pay fifteen dollars a head and might be persuaded to go as high as twenty.
Which only went to prove one thing. Scar Taggert had made a mighty poor guess at Chisum’s character.
Sure, Chisum bought the cattle. Only his price was a measly three dollars a head. If he had been a free agent, Taggert would have said to hell with that and gone off to take the despised ten dollars a head from his regular dealer. He found himself no longer a free agent from the moment Chisum heard of the cattle. Chisum was no fool and knew men did not ride in out of the dark to sell legitimate stock. In fact, these days only a green dude fresh on the range, or possibly a newborn baby would offer stock to the Cattle King under the circumstances. So Chisum told Taggert he knew the cattle were stolen. He then gave Taggert the choice of accepting his price, or being shot on the spot as a self-confessed cow thief. In a blind hope of bluffing his way out, Taggert warned Chisum of who owned the cattle. For a moment it seemed the bluff would work, but Chisum knew tricks that Scar Taggert had never heard of. Producing pencil and paper, Chisum insisted that Taggert made out a bill-of-sale, pointing out the advisability of taking three hundred dollars and his life as opposed to being handed over, along with the stolen herd, to Slaughter’s tender mercies.
Taggert took the money. Which was when he made his second mistake.
Thinking that the loss might not be discovered for days, or if it was, that Slaughter would blame Chisum for the theft, Scar Taggert decided to stay until daylight before pulling out of Blantyre County. One way or another he and his brothers stood a good chance of getting clear. When Slaughter discovered the loss of his cattle he would take after them. Only Chisum, backed up by the “bill-of-sale” would not hand over the stock without a fight.
Back at their spread, after discussing Chisum in their most choice profanity, the brothers settled down to debate what could be best for them to do. Following their usual pattern, Bill and Zeke left it to Scar to make the actual decision. After due deliberation, he announced they would lie low for a spell. Happen Chisum and Slaughter locked horns, there would be some handy pickings for the Taggert brothers. Both sides would be too busy shooting each other to notice their cattle, or at least some of their cattle, being spirited away.
For brothers, the Taggerts were a remarkably unalike bunch. Scar, the oldest, was a small, slim dandy with quick wits and a nimble tongue; his right cheek bore the mark of an argument one night in San Antone which gave him his name. Zeke stood maybe six foot, had the build of a poorly nourished beanpole and was second in age. Rumor had it that Zeke was color blind, due to his always wearing bright colored shirts and clashing bandanas that made even cowhands—who were not noted as being quiet, sober dressers—blink in surprise. Youngest of the bunch was Bill, a big, shambling, unwashed man with the strength of an ox and about half one’s intelligence. While they all admittedly came from the same mother, there was some doubt, even in her mind, if the same man sired all three.
It was shortly after noon and the three brothers had not long been out of their beds. Zeke left the house and walked to the pump-fed horse trough for his morning wash, which he performed without the aid of soap and using as little water as possible. Just as he stood toweling his eyes, he caught sight of a movement in the distance. He did not need to use field glasses to recognize the movement as coming from two approaching riders. Nor did he look for long before making out the riders as being John Slaughter and his foreman, Washita Trace. Having good eyesight, Zeke recognized the approaching men at a distance where most folks could have seen no more than a couple of blobs on the skyline.
Turning on his heel, Zeke dropped the towel and was about to run to the house with his news. Then he remembered that Slaughter and Trace could most likely see just as well as himself. So Zeke showed commendable good sense by walking nonchalantly from the horse trough to the house and entering without a backwards glance at the unwelcome visitors.
His calm did not last once he entered the cabin and slammed the door. His two brothers sat at the table stuffing food down their throats and looked up as he entered. To ordinary eyes, little or nothing would have showed as being unusual in the way Zeke entered the cabin. Scar and Bill knew their brother, and one glance told them something was bad wrong.
“Scar!” Zeke yelped. “It’s Slaughter and Trace. They’re coming!”
The news brought a reaction from both Scar and Bill. Throwing a glance at his unkempt, unmade bunk, and the gunbelt which lay on it, Scar thrust back his chair and came to his feet. Bill spat out a mouthful of half-chewed beef and looked at his eldest brother in a worried manner.
“You reckoned they wouldn’t find out about the herd,” he said. “Didn’t he say that, Zeke?”
“Maybe they aren’t coming here about the cattle,” Scar put in before Zeke could confirm Bill’s statement.
“And maybe razorback hawgs could fly,” Zeke spat out, “only they ain’t got wings. You reckon Slaughter and Trace’d come over here in the middle of their round-up just to take tea ’n’ fancy cake with us?”
While Bill, in his slow-witted way, never thought of arguing any of Scar’s decisions, and regarded his small brother as being brilliant and infallible in all matters, Zeke was a mite smarter and had doubts about Scar’s ability to boss the outfit.
“So they found out about the cattle,” Scar growled. “What’s that prove? It went into Chisum’s herd, there’s nothing to connect us with that.”
“Unless Slaughter saw Chisum and learned where the cattle came from.”
“You got a great head, Zeke,” Scar sneered, “it’s a pity you never use it.”
“Yeah?” Zeke answered. “Well, it warn’t me as said we should sell that herd to Chisum and make more than we would from that feller down Battle Creek way.”
“All right, so I made a mistake there,” Scar replied, crossing to his bunk and taking up his gunbelt. “Look, if Slaughter knew the cattle went into Chisum’s herd, he’d go right after ’em and get ’em back, ’cause that’s Slaughter’s way. Only Chisum won’t give ’em back that easy. If Slaughter’d knowed about the herd, him and C
hisum’s likely still be fighting over it.”
“Unless Slaughter done got Chisum pinned down someplace where he couldn’t risk making a fight of it; and that’d be Slaughter’s way, too,” Zeke objected, thinking of what he had seen on the J.S.’s south line while making furtive scouting missions. An unnerving fact sprang to mind almost immediately. “Hell! If Slaughter’s men covered that ford—”
“Yeah!” Scar agreed, suddenly and shockingly seeing what might have happened. Possibly Slaughter had recovered the stock under circumstances which gave the Cattle King no choice but to surrender. In which case Chisum would tell how he came to be in possession of the cattle, if only to have his revenge on the man who sold them. Once Scar decided that Slaughter might be after him, he started to think fast and give his orders. “Bill, stop filling your guts and strap your gun on, you’re coming with me. Zeke, you get your rifle and go out the back way. Injun off through the scrub and don’t let ’em see you get into the barn. Then come through. I’ll keep Slaughter and Trace talking down there by the corral and if he’s come about the hundred head, we’ll have him whipsawed between us.”
“How about the rest of his crew?” Bill asked, shambling over to where his gunbelt lay, taking it up and slinging it around his waist.
“Knowing Slaughter’s way, him ’n’ Trace’ll’ve come alone, left his men to work his cattle,” Scar explained. “Come on. Let’s get moving.”
Neither of the younger brothers could think of a better plan for dealing with the situation. If the horses had been saddled ready, they might have been able to make a run for their freedom; but it was too late to think of running out, catching and saddling horses. Zeke saw that for once his brother had formulated a good plan; while Bill thought only by filling his belly with food or liquor and left the making of plans to Scar.
The two thinking brothers knew the futility of trying to make a stand in the house. Slaughter and Trace were not fools, and knew better than come riding right up to the front porch when visiting a bunch of cow thieves. Unless the two men saw at least some of the Taggert family, they would stay back at long rifle range and do their talking from there. Should the brothers then make a fight of it, Slaughter was in a position to hold them pinned down in the house while Trace rode like the devil after a yearling to fetch the rest of the J.S. crew. The tumbledown cabin would not be a good place to be using as a fort in a fight to save one’s life, especially when opposed by battle wise men like the J.S. crew.
If two of them went outside, the Taggerts ought to be able to lure Slaughter and Trace down to the corrals, bringing them within the jaws of the gun-trap. Should Slaughter prove to have come looking for the men who stole his cattle, the brothers had a good chance of cutting both him and his foreman down. With Slaughter dead, the brothers could gather their belongings, be on their horses and have put a lot of miles between themselves and Blantyre County before the J.S. cowhands came to look for their missing boss.
Taking his Winchester from its place by his bed, Zeke left by the rear door of the cabin, slipping into the scrub behind the house like a weasel hunting down cottontail rabbits in a briar patch. Taking good care to avoid being seen by the approaching men, he reached the barn and climbed in through a rear window. Already his two brothers were walking from the house to meet Slaughter and Trace.
While riding slowly to the Taggert place, Slaughter and Trace kept their eyes open. They had seen Zeke’s return to the house and his nonchalant manner did not fool them. Likely he had both seen and recognized them, which meant he took words to his brothers of their approach.
“Scar ’n’ Bill,” Trace remarked as he watched the two shapes leave the house. “Do we stand out here?”
“Keep riding in until they make a move,” Slaughter replied. “I’ll do the talking, you watch for Zeke.”
“He’s watched for.”
Way Scar saw it, his plan was working; not that he ever doubted it would come off. Slaughter and Trace rode closer, passing the edge of the corral and coming to a halt right where he hoped they would. Now given only a little luck, and Zeke having reached the barn, they ought to be able to whipsaw the two Texans. It would fall on Zeke to take care of Slaughter, for the rancher sat on the side nearest to the open barn door.
“What’re you after here, Slaughter?” Scar asked, stopping about thirty feet in front of his visitors, Bill halting by his side.
“You Taggerts.”
“Wanting help with your round-up? Me ’n’ the boys’ll be tolerable pleased to come on over and lend a hand if you do.”
“I figured you’d already started helping us,” Slaughter replied, lounging easily in his saddle and watching the two brothers before him. “Only you took that hundred head to Chisum’s herd instead of my petalta—”
“If that’s a joke—!”
“You don’t see Wash or me laughing, do you?”
While he spoke, Slaughter concentrated on the men in front of him, leaving the locating and handling of the missing Zeke to his foreman. Neither he nor Trace trusted the Taggert brothers under the best of conditions. When they could see only two, they trusted the Taggerts even less.
Washita Trace gave his attention to spotting the missing brother, concentrating on his search as if his life depended on it—and it did. After one look, he dismissed the house as a possible hiding place. Scar and Bill stood in the line of fire of anybody inside the cabin. That scrub to the right had possibilities, yet there were open patches through which a man would have been compelled to move as he went to take up a satisfactory firing position; and Trace had seen no such movement on his way in. Which same left the barn to the left beyond Texas John. Now there was a place which had real possibilities. Happen a man slipped out of the rear door of the house, he could sneak unseen through the bushes behind the cabin and stay hidden clear until he reached the back of the barn. Even if the barn had no rear door, there would be windows or, judging from the general condition of the building, loose planks a man might pull aside so as to gain admittance.
Even as he reached his decision, Trace saw a flicker of something red show through the crack between two of the barn side’s sun-warped planks. Only for an instant was the color there, it moved from left to right across the two-inch wide gap and the barn’s door stood to the right of the space.
While he did not set himself up as one of the world’s great thinkers, Washita Trace figured he could add one and one to bring up the right answer. Point one being that the color in the barn had been a bright red, was not a quick growing and walking flower, but part of a man’s shirt. Adding point one to point two, which was that Zeke Taggert—who had been wearing a bright red shirt when they saw him earlier—did not stand alongside his brothers, Trace made the answer come up to a count of three and a deduction that he had located Zeke’s presence.
“We ain’t in the mood for funning, Slaughter,” Scar warned, speaking while Trace made his study of the situation.
“Nor am I,” Slaughter replied, “when somebody steals from me.”
“Are you calling me a thief?” Scar snarled, wishing he had arranged a signal for Zeke to give when he reached the door of the barn and was ready to cut in.
“That just what I’m say—”
“The barn, John!” Trace yelled. “Down!”
On the last word, both pitched sideways from their saddles. Slaughter did not go over on the side away from the barn, which he might have been expected to do. Instead he left his saddle and fell so he faced the barn’s door and as he fell, he drew his Colt.
Springing from the barn, Zeke lined his rifle at where he had seen the two men as he passed the sun-warped planks which betrayed his presence to Trace. Only he aimed in the expectation of shooting a man seated on a horse. Even as he tried to correct his mistake, he saw flame rip from the barrel of Slaughter’s Colt and felt the sledgehammer blow of a bullet tearing into him. The gangling thief went backwards into the side of the barn. Even hit badly, he tried to line his rifle at the man who shot him. Slaug
hter had been a lawman, and he acted as such. A second shot thundered from his Colt, this time he aimed it at Zeke’s head. The Winchester cracked an instant after Slaughter fired, but a dead hand squeezed its trigger and its bullet flew harmlessly off into the scrub. Ready to shoot again if his man kept his feet and retained his hold on the gun, Slaughter saw Zeke let the rifle fall and slide down the wall. Only then did the rancher take time out to help deal with the other brothers.
Scar and Bill both grabbed at their guns an instant after Trace’s yell started the J.S. men moving. The brothers were taken by surprise by the speed with which Slaughter and Trace reacted, and delayed too long in starting to make their moves.
For all his bulk and slow wits, Bill could move with surprising speed at such times, and he acted fast enough to make him the more dangerous of the remaining brothers. Yet he was too slow. Even as Bill clawed out his gun, Washita Trace’s long-barreled Colt bellowed. Trace shot to kill and for an instant kill, the only way he dare shoot under the circumstances. His Colt’s bullet struck under Bill’s out-thrust jaw, ripped up through the roof of the mouth, and shattered out of the top of the head in a spray of grayish brains, blood and splinters of bone.
Before Slaughter could roll over and face Scar after dealing with Zeke; or Trace found himself free to divert his attention from Bill; Scar was backing away. Bill’s body jerked under the impact of lead and went down in the boned-out manner of a headshot man, crumpling between Scar and Trace, but the small man hardly gave it a glance. He aimed to try to reach the house where possibly he could hold off the two men until dark and make his escape during the night.