“That decision makes me out to be a genius.” Compass Jack picked up his glass and swirled the amber fluid around, watching the light play off it before downing it in a single gulp. “I won’t do it.”
“What?”
“I won’t tell Reedy any such thing. Or the marshal.”
“But—”
“I won’t do it unless I get paid.” Compass Jack grinned wolfishly.
“How much? How many head of cattle?” Mac fought to hold his anger in check. This was outright thievery. He wondered if Compass Jack was in cahoots with Northrup.
“You don’t have enough cattle to pay me.” Compass Jack dropped his feet to the floor, put his hands on his knees, and leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what I do want.”
Dewey Mackenzie stared at the H Bar H trail boss in amazement when he heard the price.
CHAPTER 30
“This better be good. I’ve got an important meeting.” The judge puffed himself up and fingered the gavel lying on the desk in front of him.
“She can wait, Benjamin. This is important.” Ready Reedy stood in the middle of the small group gathered before the beefy, ruddy-faced judge.
“You’ll address me as Judge Francis, sir. This is an official, if somewhat informal, legal proceeding. And I resent your innuendo.”
“No innuendo, Judge,” Reedy said. “Ursula will wait for you. But,” he went on hurriedly when the judge reached for the gavel, preparing to give it a solid rap on the desk, “we got the parties to the dispute gathered to give evidence.”
“Not all the parties. Where’s this Northrup fellow?” Judge Francis peered down his nose at a paper in front of him.
“We can take care of that varmint later, Judge,” said the marshal. “You ought to hear what Mr. Mackenzie has to say.”
“So let me hear it and be quick about it. I know the dispute.” The judge shook the paper. “What’s your evidence that you’re the rightful owner of the herd? Rather, the rightful agent acting for Rolling J ranch owner Sidney Jefferson?”
“Northrup claimed I ran him off and stole the herd. I’ve got a witness to what happened. Compass Jack Bennett is—”
“I know who he is.” The judge cast a baleful glance toward Bennett. “Jack’s been a regular in this court for years.”
“I always bail my men out, Judge,” Compass Jack said. “You have to admit that they’ve never done more than put a few bullet holes in saloon ceilings.”
“One bullet came tearing through the floor right next to the bed where Ursula and me was—” The judge cleared his throat. “This court knows you to be an honest man. What do you have to say?”
“It’s like Mac says. Northrup tried to take the Rolling J herd when their original trail boss died. Northrup was run off by Patrick Flagg, who became the new trail boss.” He glanced in Mac’s direction. “I think he was also run off by Mac, though that’s a supposition on my part.”
“Sup-po-sition,” the judge said, savoring the word. “Where’s this Flagg who took over when the prior trail boss was killed?”
“He’s laid up with a gunshot wound. I took over and am acting trail boss and agent for Mr. Jefferson, Your Honor.”
“It sounds as if your trail drive was particularly dangerous, young man, what with two trail bosses dying or getting shot. So, Jack, you contradict what Deke Northrup said to both Reedy and the marshal? This young fellow is the rightful agent for the herd? You’d swear to that in an affidavit?”
“I would and have already done so, Your Honor.” Compass Jack handed a notarized statement to the marshal, who passed it along to the judge.
“I got to ask. Is this youngster paying you anything?”
“Sir, no money’s changed hands. And I’m not accepting any of the cattle in his herd to say any of those things.” He pointed to the affidavit.
Mac smiled, just a little, at the way Compass Jack skirted the real question, but he decided this answered the judge’s concerns without muddying the water.
“Ready, Jack, Marshal, hear my verdict.” The judge harrumphed and continued. “I find that Dewey Mackenzie is the only rightful agent for the Rolling J herd and that this lying sack of buffalo chips, Deke Northrup, is to be arrested on sight for attempted rustling. Now get out of here. I have an appointment to keep.” He rapped the gavel smartly and stood.
“Tell Ursula howdy for me, Judge,” Compass Jack said with a grin.
“Get out of here, Jack, before I find you in contempt of court.”
The H Bar H trail boss shook hands with the judge and let him hurry from the courtroom without another word.
“We’ve got a deal to complete, Mr. Mackenzie,” said Ready Reedy. “The sooner the papers are signed, the sooner those Rolling J beeves can be shipped.”
“And the sooner I can pay the men.”
“We all have our priorities,” Reedy said.
As Compass Jack and Mac started out, the marshal called out to them.
“You really want me to arrest Northrup?”
“He tried to steal the longhorns. Of course I do, Marshal.” Mac heard something in the lawman’s words that made him curious enough to ask.
“Well, it’s like this, son. I got it on good authority that Northrup and his gang lit out when they heard that Compass Jack was going to tell the judge what went on.”
“Get a posse. Chase him down.” Mac frowned when he realized that wasn’t going to happen.
“I need all my deputies patrolling the streets. You and Compass Jack are among the first herds to get to town. When the rush starts, I’ll have upward of five hundred drunk, horny cowboys shooting up Abilene. I can wait until the last of the herds gets shipped out, but that’ll be another month. Might be less, but likely won’t be.”
“You’re telling me Northrup will have a month’s head start?”
“By then he could be in Montana or God knows where else. Even if I took out after him this very minute, I don’t know which direction he went.”
“Only that he left Abilene,” Mac finished.
“That’s about it.” The marshal looked contrite, but he was the kind of man who could look that way without much effort. Mac doubted he felt the least bit regretful about letting Northrup go.
Mac looked at Compass Jack. The H Bar H trail boss took out his pocket watch and made a point of examining it. He snapped the lid shut and looked for all the world like a dog on a leash wanting to be set loose.
“Thanks for your honesty, Marshal.” Mac shook hands. “I’ve got to pay a debt.”
The marshal started to say something, then left abruptly, not wanting to know if Compass Jack and Mac had lied to the judge about a payoff.
The truth was, they had.
“It’s been close to an hour, Mac. Come on. You owe me.”
“Hold your horses. I’m coming.” Mac fell in beside Compass Jack as they hurried to the back of a nearby bakery.
Mac went straight in and exchanged greetings with a man wearing a flour-streaked apron and a floppy chef’s hat.
“It’s about ready to come out,” the baker said. “Smells real good, too.”
“He’s one fine cook.” Compass Jack pulled up a chair at a table. “Now serve me. I only got a tiny taste of that custard pie, but it was about the best I ever had. My men gobbled it up as a reward for their work.”
Mac pulled the pie he had fixed from the oven, using a towel to keep from burning his hands. He placed it on the table in front of Compass Jack.
“There it is, Jack. An entire custard pie, just for you.”
“Who says you didn’t bribe me?” Bennett took a knife and fork, cut through the pastry, and scooped some of the still-liquid filling onto a plate. A quick taste put a look of delight on his face. “I wasn’t joking, Mac. You want a job cooking, come to work for the H Bar H. The men will love you.”
“It’s hard baking a pie out on the trail.” Mac had to laugh. “It’s hard getting biscuits baked. Enjoy your pie, and thanks for seeing the judge.”
&nbs
p; “I’d have stood up for you, pie or not. But this makes the drive all the better.” He began eating the still-hot pie, blowing on every forkful.
Mac had work to do and left for Ready Reedy’s office. Dickering with the man proved harder than he expected. Reedy knew his business and made a good profit driving a hard bargain, but after all Mac had been through, he wasn’t going to roll over and play dead. He fought for every dime and even got a day’s feedlot fee taken off, adding close to a hundred dollars to Mr. Jefferson’s profit.
“You come back next year, Mac. I’ll know you then and give you an even better deal.”
Mac shook hands and left with Reedy’s check in hand, the ink still wet. He headed directly for the bank used by the Rolling J and deposited it. The bank president assured him cash money for salaries could be withdrawn the next day. Mac tucked the deposit slip in his pocket. He touched the wanted poster with the map on the back and vowed to get rid of it and the other one from Waco right away.
He stepped outside into the cool autumn and took a deep breath. With some time to waste, he headed back to the rail yards. The more he learned, the better he would be as a trail boss.
Only he didn’t want to be a trail boss. He saw the way Compass Jack Bennett had dug into the freshly baked pie with such gusto. The men in the Rolling J outfit never stopped telling him how good his biscuits were. Figuring out ways to stretch the sparse supplies had been a challenge, but an exciting one. He felt real accomplishment when he served up supper or dinner made from only a paltry few items left in the larder.
Fixing beefsteaks and stew was easy enough. He had a herd to choose from for prime cuts of meat, but giving the men something more than the same fare day after day made him feel good. Cooking wasn’t something he had ever expected to like, but he did.
If he came back to Abilene, with the Rolling J or H Bar H or some other outfit, he’d come as a cook.
“Hey, you,” came a call from the corral. “You’re with the Rolling J, aren’t you?”
“I am.” Mac went to the corral fence, where the cowboy hung like a scarecrow, counting the cattle as they went into a car. “What’s the problem?”
“You ain’t got all your herd in one place, that’s what. See?” The man pointed.
Mac caught his breath. As sure as the sun rose every morning, a longhorn with the Rolling J brand trotted past on its way to being loaded. Then he saw a different brand and another. Finally, the answer came when a half dozen carrying Lazy B brands followed up the chute.
“Where’s the trail boss for the Lazy B?”
“They just got in and rushed their cows through. I heard that Reedy took ’em for a bundle, underpayin’ by half or more.”
That meant most of the Lazy B herd had been stolen, and they wanted the evidence of rustling moved out as fast as possible.
“Cut out any Rolling J cows. I’ll give you one for every five you put into another corral.”
“Them’s stolen? The ones bein’ loaded now?”
“Where’s the Lazy B trail boss?”
The cowboy pointed across the yard and asked, “You want me to fetch the marshal?”
“Tell Reedy. That’ll be good enough. I can handle this myself.”
He slipped the leather keeper off his hammer and checked to be sure the gun slipped out easily. Willie “Jimson” Weed was supposed to be dead, but the shenanigans of letting the Rolling J outfit cut out a few of their own cattle while the main herd moved to Abilene warned him that Weed might be responsible.
Mac wished the stampede had smashed the ugly trail boss to a bloody pulp. Weed had shot Flagg. Taking care of him had been more important than anything else, even being certain part of the Rolling J herd wasn’t being stolen. While he didn’t know for certain, Mac suspected Weed and his gang made the trip up the Shawnee Trail, stealing cattle as they came. There might not even be a Lazy B ranch. He hadn’t checked to see if the brand had been run, starting as something else and then being changed to the B on its side.
Before he reached the Lazy B camp, he heard a voice ringing out that he recognized immediately. Good sense told him to get the marshal. Let the law take care of Jimson Weed. Let Ready Reedy get his money back. He should have known any drover selling so cheaply had to be suspect. Or maybe he did know and thought to make a big profit from the rustled stock.
The only thought in Mac’s brain was that Weed had gut-shot Flagg. He had gotten away with severely injuring a man Mac thought highly of. Whether he counted Flagg as a friend or not didn’t matter. He was a trail companion, and that bond was strong. They had looked after each other as well as the other cowboys and the Rolling J herd.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Mac said as he walked past a pair of Lazy B drovers and stopped ten feet from Jimson Weed.
“Lookee here. The young snot from out on the prairie.” Weed turned and pushed his duster back so he could reach his gun.
“You know what’s another name for Jimson weed? Loco weed. A horse eats it and he goes plumb crazy. Have you been eating some jimson weed?”
“Why’d you say a thing like that?” Weed’s eyes darted around.
Mac heard Weed’s partners moving away to stay clear of stray lead. The fight was inevitable. He felt a calm settle on him. He had killed a man before. The reaction came afterward, when he realized what he had done.
“We’re going to the marshal’s office, where you can turn yourself in. I’ve got men cutting my cows from the others you stole. Then we can discuss how you shot Flagg, though that might count as a fair fight.”
“Flagg? That ugly galoot? He’s still alive? I’m slipping. I meant to kill him.”
As Weed made his boast, he clawed at his gun. The rustler was trying to distract him, Mac knew, make him mad or make him think about anything other than the fight.
But instead, Mac’s draw was swift, and his aim was sure. His S&W barked once. He fanned a second shot into Weed’s chest as the rustler fell backward, then he spun and went into an even deeper crouch. The other Lazy B cowboys had yanked iron, too. Mac fanned off two more shots at a man standing to his right. Tumbling forward, he avoided a shot from the left.
Mac kicked up a cloud of dust, rolled to his knees, and fanned off the last two rounds in his gun. One missed. The other hit the cowboy in the forehead and went upward through the crown of his hat. He let out a tiny gasp and toppled onto his back, feet kicking feebly.
“Who else?” Mac swung his empty gun around, pointing it at three others from the Lazy B who came running up when the shooting started.
He bluffed them. They threw up their hands and backed away. When they got a safe distance, they turned and ran like jackrabbits with a coyote after them.
Mac stood and took his time reloading. Someone brought the marshal. By the time the lawman came huffing and puffing up, his gun out, Mac was ready with his story. He had to repeat it twice before the marshal agreed it was self-defense, three against one.
It took longer arguing with Reedy over who got the money from the Rolling J cattle that had been among those in the Lazy B herd. It took longer, but Mac finally convinced the cattle broker to pay up.
Then he set out to report to his boss what had happened.
CHAPTER 31
“I don’t recommend trying to talk to him,” the doctor said. “He’s too weak.”
“Will he make it?” Mac studied the doctor’s face. The small twitches under the man’s eyes and at the corners of his mouth told the real story. “Then there’s no reason for me not to see him.”
“You might be the last.”
“There’s nothing to lose. I’m about all he’s got in the way of a friend.” Mac pushed past the doctor and went into a small room off the main office.
Flagg lay propped up on a bed, sunlight filtering through blinds. The warmth must have kept him going because Mac had never seen a man who looked more like a corpse. Flagg was as white as bleached muslin and was more skeletal than human. Even so, he turned his head when Mac came in. The
eyelids flickered up, and a hint of a smile came to the man’s chapped lips. His eyes were sunken in deep, dark pits, and his face was gaunt with yellowed skin pulled tight over his cheekbones.
“Good of you to come, Mac. Thanks.” Flagg’s voice was just a whispered rasp.
“No need to talk.” Mac pulled up a chair and sat close enough so he could hear Flagg’s hoarse words. “The herd’s sold for good money. I’ll pay the men tomorrow.”
“Good. Use mine to pay the doc. Any left over . . . is yours, Mac. You . . . earned it doing my job.”
“You’ll need it to get back to Waco. Carson’s job is waiting for you there.”
They both knew he was lying. Mac couldn’t help trying to cheer Flagg up, and Flagg had to know by how he felt inside that he didn’t have much time left.
“I killed him, Flagg. I put two bullets in him. Then I killed two more of the Lazy B gang for good measure.”
“Weed?”
“I pulled him, and now they’ll plant him—in a cemetery,” Mac said, but the feeble joke fell on deaf ears. Flagg reached out and laid a bony hand on his arm and squeezed.
“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
Every time Flagg spoke, his voice got weaker.
“You rest up. I wanted you to know the herd’s taken care of. Mr. Jefferson will have made about eight thousand in profit. That’ll keep the Rolling J running for another year.”
“Wait.” Flagg squeezed down with impressive strength and pulled him closer to hear what he had to say. “You’re a damned good man, Mac.”
“I wish that were true.”
“My coat pocket. Get it.”
Mac picked up the tattered, filthy coat and reached into a pocket. He froze when his fingers brushed across paper that had become all too familiar. The wanted poster was faded and almost impossible to read, but it carried his likeness.
He reached into his own pocket and took out the poster he had used to draw the Shawnee’s map.
“You knew. How long?”
“Waco. General store.”
“You could have fired me—or turned me in for the reward. This is almost as much as you were making as a cowboy.”
The Chuckwagon Trail Page 27