The temptation had been huge. I'd stared at my hand, two pair, aces and eights. The Deadman's hand, it was called, since Wild Bill died with that when he got shot in the back. I'd folded instead of calling Early.
The son of a bitch had an ace high diamond flush.
The horses were stumbling tired when we got into sight of the ranch house. I was in hardly better shape than Monte, but I made certain he got put up in a warm stall with plenty of hay and some water. Currying him and getting my gear cleaned up had to wait 'til I told Mr. Phillips what we'd found up in the hills. By the time I mounted the final front porch step, I was three-quarters past dead, and Rusty was even farther gone. Horace and two other hands fussed over him where he had passed out in the sitting room.
Mr. Phillips looked up at me, his eyes flooded with anger and compassion. I'd never seen such a mix and wondered how it could be captured in a drawing. I muttered something that caused the rancher to take a step closer.
"Didn't hear what you said, Russell. You say you can do a map to show me where the rustlers are holed up?"
That hadn't been what I said, but him mistaking the words suited me just fine. I nodded. He put his arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the kitchen. Only then did I realize how bad I stunk. No self respecting skunk would have put up with me. Wallowing about in the mud and snow, danged near riding a horse into the ground, getting shot at and emptying my own six-shooter in clouds of pungent gun smoke, it all added to my general miasma.
"Have some brandy." Mr. Phillips poured two fingers in a glass, stopped, took my measure, then added another. I had it downed before he recorked the bottle.
The heat all the way down my gullet caused a minor skirmish in my belly. I belched but felt stronger. Even a bite or two of Texas Pete's chuck would put me in better fettle.
"I studied the hills as we followed 'em into a mountain meadow. They've got cows from the OH and Triangle K that I saw. Might be a few head from other ranches."
"It's bad enough losing cattle to those scoundrels," he said, "but with all us ranchers losing valuable head to the same gang makes it worth going to the Cattle Growers Association. A decent reward will smoke out the rustlers."
"I found the place," I said.
"And you'll draw the map showing how to get there, Russell." He put a pencil and paper in front of me.
That hadn't been my intent raising the matter. If the Cattle Growers coughed up a reward, I ought to be in line for some of it. Without me doggedly following that trail, even if Rusty goaded me into it, the owlhoots would still be hidden and working the herds to their own benefit.
As I worked, I related my adventure. Mr. Phillips half listened, thinking what I said amounted to nothing more than a new story to spin around a campfire. Only when Rusty came in and told the same story, but without all my embellishments, did Mr. Phillips warm to me. Until then, I had been a cheaply hired cowboy willing to ride night herd and nothing more. That's a valuable skill, but not as important as a ramrod for a cattle drive or a foreman or even a top hand who's good at breaking broncos.
"You shot it out with the rustlers?"
"Me and Rusty did, indeed," I said, not taking my eyes off the map I worked on. Keeping down the urge to draw in some fancy mountains all detailed and prettified or even decorating the meadow with a cow or two, I pushed it across the table. "There's where you can find 'em."
"Any idea how many?"
Rusty answered the question. "Charlie there, he stampeded the stolen beeves. One rustler got his clock cleaned. No idea how many more there were. We didn't see no campfires."
"They might have been movin' some of the herd south to a railhead," I said. It made sense to leave a couple men to watch over the remaining cows and to gun down anybody chancing on the meadow.
"I'll spread the word to every rancher in the Judith Basin so they can be on the lookout. That direction means the rustlers are selling the cows in White Sulphur Springs. I don't know folks in those parts, but Cheshire might. You said you saw cattle carrying his Triangle K brand?"
I tried to speak but the words refused to come out of my mouth again. Mr. Phillips poured me more of the brandy. After I swallowed it and adjusted to all the burning, tussling and churning it caused inside me, my throat agreed for a few more words.
"Quarter of the fifty head we saw had his brand. Half with the OH. Couldn't see the rest."
"I've lost more than twenty-five cattle this week alone. That's got to stop." He slapped me on the back. "You're earning your salary this month, Russell. Good work. Now get your gear ready for a week or two in the saddle. I'm sure your map's accurate. From what I've seen, you ought to be working for the US Government drawing maps."
"Going after all the rustlers?" My voice came stronger now, but the rest of my body had turned to lead. Too much riding and too little food had done me in. "I don't think I can sit upright."
"Get some grub. I'll scare up a bottle of whiskey for you and the boys. Set out at first light. I want them rustlers either strung up or in Marshal Toms' hoosegow in a week."
"Mighty big chore." I stood. The effort almost sent me in dizzy circles the way Rusty had gone out in the parlor. We weren't made out of iron the way Mr. Phillips expected.
The idea of quitting never entered my head, though. If I died in the saddle, that would be the best I could expect. A job has to be finished. That had been ingrained in my head by my pa, even if I hadn't paid much attention to the lesson 'til I got to Montana and was on my own. School, chores, going to Sunday school, none of those had been done to anyone's satisfaction back home, 'cept to mine. Drawing and hunting and listening to my great uncle's stories of Bent's Fort and Indian hunting and even the night a star fell out of the Colorado sky. The Indians took it as a sign. He wasn't sure what to make of it, other than it lit up the countryside like a gas lamp for more than ten minutes. My great uncle took it as a message from God, but he never told me what that message was.
I've seen shooting stars. One even exploded all green like Fourth of July fireworks, but it lasted for seconds, not minutes. What they are never interested me as much as things on the earth. There's no Indian, Paygan, Sioux or even Blackfoot who's not more interesting relating all he's seen and done. That palaver occupied me, not some sign from above, though a shooting star lasting for ten minutes would be passing interesting.
Rusty and I held each other up as we made our way to the bunkhouse. Pete brought us plates of beans and some sourdough bread that was so stale I could have used it to drive nails. Sopping up the bean juice on the plate kept me from busting a tooth. The entire meal slipped past in a daze. Mr. Phillips was as good as his word and sent over a bottle of Billy Taylor's Finest bourbon. The others passed the bottle around, but I don't remember getting so much as a taste. I fell into a heavy sleep.
Horace shook me awake at dawn and shouted in my face, "Let's go string up some rustlers!"
How could I refuse such a polite invite?
Chapter Eight
Horace Brewster halted at the spot where the dead steer still plugged up the trail. He leaned over, sniffed, then motioned for me to ride forward. That took some jockeying since most of the other OH wranglers showed more gumption about shooting it out with the rustlers and had gotten in front of me on the narrow trail. Rusty and I brought up the rear of the eight cowboys sent out by Mr. Phillips. That suited both of us just fine, but the foreman's insistence that I join him caused some grumbling.
"Damned fine shooting, Charlie," he said. "Didn't think you was a marksman."
Telling him luck had more to do with it than skill wasn't in the cards. If Horace wanted to believe this, I saw no reason to contradict him, though it might put me in danger again. He was the sort to send his best men charging forward into the outlaws' guns. Crossing that bridge when I got to suited me just fine at the moment. I was so tuckered out I almost fell asleep talking with him.
"The rustlers are keepin' the beeves about a half mile beyond."
"So rope this dead s
teer and drag it out of the gap so we can get through." The way Horace looked at me made me feel good and put upon, in equal proportions.
This was a chore he'd assign to a real cowboy, one able to rope and ride and do all the rest rather than a simple night herder. Accepting me as an equal to all the others puffed me up, but he was also expecting a whale of a lot from me not being asked of any other wrangler. I'd been chased and shot at and almost upped and died in the foul weather getting back to tell Mr. Phillips where a small herd of his cattle had been taken. Beyond this bovine plug in the pass lay more shooting and possible death. I had bummed a half box of cartridges, three or four at a time, from the other wranglers so I wasn't riding into a fight with an empty six-shooter.
But I was riding into a shooting gallery. The rustlers weren't going to drop their guns when Horace asked them "pretty please" to surrender, not when their necks were going to be stretched if they got caught. More than one of the men I rode with had a spare lariat looped on their saddle. Those ropes weren't intended to be returned. If they had their way, there'd be one limb after another filled with feebly kicking outlaws waiting to die of a broke neck or just choking to death.
Nope, no way were the rustlers going to give up. They dared the sheriff with their bald-faced thieving, and one of them had shot down Marshal Toms. Killing lawmen suited them just fine. Probably the sharpshooter who had cut down the marshal bragged on his prowess to his partners. The leader of the gang wouldn't give out a reward for murdering a marshal, but the rest would slap him on the back and josh him about missing the other galoot with him.
Me.
I rode back into the muzzles of their rifles, and Horace wanted me to also drag away the carcass blocking our way.
"You toss your rope around the horns," Early said. "I'll help you pull it away."
"Much obliged," I said, meaning it. "But it won't do any good tryin' to pull the carcass this way. It's got to be pulled back from the other side."
"Ain't a problem." Early settled his horse, patted its neck, then set it to running flat out. He jumped the dead steer with plenty of room to spare. From the other side he called, "You come on. Monte's a jumper. I see it in the way he trots along, eyein' all the logs in the forest. You're holdin' him back, Charlie."
"For good reason." I sucked in a deep breath that sent cold so powerful into my lungs I felt like I was drowning in ice. I rode with the best of them, but jumping a horse scared me more than it did Monte.
Closing my eyes, I put my heels to heaving flanks, felt Monte rocket off and then we were sailing through the air. I opened my eyes in time to get scared as the ground came rushing up at me. Monte hit on his front legs, kicked back against the dead steer and found his footing, almost unseating me. I clung to his neck until he came to a stop. Only then did I open my eyes again and look around. I hadn't died, even if the sweat on my forehead froze to my skin.
"Come on, you two. We ain't got all day. By now them varmints'll have heard us comin'."
"Horace is right. If they have sentries posted, they know we're on the way and will be waitin' for us."
"Ambush," I muttered, remembering how accurate the shot had been taking down the marshal. That lone rifleman up in the rocks could hold off the lot of us.
I unfastened my lariat and draped it over the steer's horns. No need for fancy twirling or roping like Early. Fact was, I'd miss a time or two and get Horace and the others mad at me for dawdling. When the rope tightened around the horns, Monte started acting like he'd been trained to draw back from a roped calf. Together with Early tugging, we dragged the steer away so Horace and the rest could come pouring through.
Horace had given the others a stern talking to about the rustlers expecting us and how surprise was our best weapon against them. They galloped away while Early and I untangled our ropes, coiled them up and tied them down with leather thongs.
"We better not let them have all the fun." Early laughed but tension turned what ought to have been cheering to something closer to gallows humor.
Or maybe that was just me. I trotted after him, wanting to spare Monte from exhaustion. The way the others had galloped off they would arrive in the meadow on tuckered out mounts. My resolve to spare Monte faded when gunshots echoed back down the trail.
"Giddyup!"
I passed the spot where the rustler had tried to cut down me and Rusty and rode farther out into the middle of the meadow. The snow was all chopped up from grazing cattle and what must have been a thousand horses riding around in circles. It came to me how the rustlers had been doing that very thing to cut through the icy crust and expose the grass beneath for the cattle. This was what Rusty and I had talked about. Horses pawing down gave plenty of fodder. The cattle had to depend on what grass poked up through the snow unless the horses cut up the ground for them.
Rusty and I had come up with that on our own. Facing equal cleverness in the outlaws bothered me a mite. Then I stopped being bothered and started getting scared all over again. A bullet ripped through the crown of my hat. Snatching it from my head, I saw where the slug had drilled a hole just an inch above where the top of my head rested. I jammed the hat back down and worried my six-shooter out of its holster.
The rest of the OH crew had rifles and were returning fire. It took me a couple seconds to realize the rustlers had taken cover in trees almost a quarter mile away. My six-gun wouldn't do more than add to the racket at this range. Hunkering down low, I spotted where at least two rustlers stuck out their rifles and fired at us.
Nobody in the gang on either side of the tree had much military experience. A frontal assault would confuse the rustlers something fierce. It was also suicidal for any damned fool trying it. Charging across the open meadow made the rider an easy target. That was especially bad since the outlaws were such good shots. From the corner of my eye I saw Early grab his neck and twist away, blood spurting from a wound. If the slug had nicked an artery he'd be dead before he fell from the saddle.
Either he had more sand in his gizzard than any ten men or he knew he was a dead man. Early Wilson let out a war whoop that'd be the pride of any Sioux, clung to his reins with one hand and his rifle with the other. He galloped straight toward the woods, blood spraying out in a banner behind him.
Horace and the others took this as a sign they were to follow. And they did. Good sense told me to hang back. Somehow the next thing I knew I was halfway to the woods and firing my six-shooter.
Monte again had to make a jump. This time it was over Early's body. He lay trapped under his horse, but from the way he stared up at the clean blue Montana sky, not blinking, not moving a muscle, I knew he was a goner. Then I forgot all about him as I rushed past the first of the trees and into the dark, damp forest.
The undergrowth had turned sparse and snapped like thunder as my horse charged through. I spun from side to side to see the men who had been firing at me. The quickest of flashes from the corner of my eye caused me to whirl and fire. For a split second I saw a drawn face I recognized.
"It's him!" I kept firing until my pistol came up empty. And then I went flying. Monte had run under a low limb. Turning to watch the rustler, I took my eyes off the route and caught the limb smack in the middle of my chest. The impact knocked the wind out of me. I hit the ground so hard that this would have left me stunned if there had been any air left in my lungs. Groaning, I kicked feebly and finally sat up.
For a moment I wondered if I had died. No sounds came to me, and the world had blurred. Then I realized the forest had fallen silent because of the gunfire, and that had ceased. In the distance I heard a bird. Then a wolf howling out displeasure at its hunting territory being invaded. These normal sounds faded as horses clomped up from behind. Swinging around I thrust out my empty gun.
"Put that hogleg down, boy," Horace called. "We got 'em on the run. You don't want to go gunnin' us down."
"I saw him." The words might have been gusted out with a blacksmith's bellows. My chest heaved as air slowly filled my lungs. "I s
aw him!"
"Who's that?"
"Josiah Hanks. The outlaw on Marshal Toms' wanted poster."
"That there's the one he saw when they was rustlin' our cattle that first time we ran afoul of 'em," Rusty said. "Him and the marshal went out to the Triangle K."
"Where Marshal Toms got shot." My ribs ached, but the words sounded stronger in my ears. I rolled over onto hands and knees, then forced myself up though I had to use a pine tree to support myself. Sticky sap got on my hands. Wiping it on my jeans only smeared it, but that mattered less than seeing Josiah Hanks. "The man who shot the marshal is out there."
I waved my six-shooter around wildly, making Horace edge away to keep from getting shot by accident.
"It's empty. I have to reload." The explanation sounded lame.
"You want we should go after them?" Rusty looked apprehensive as he asked Horace what to do. He licked his lips and looked around as if the rustlers would jump out from behind every tree. Then he said what I had feared. "They killed Early. You want us to take him back to the ranch or bury him here?"
This gave Horace pause.
"I've lost men on a drive. Even a couple what got shot in fights. This is the first time any man workin' for me's been killed by rustlers." He sagged a little, then his resolve firmed. "Bury him where he fell. How many head of cattle are out there grazin' in the meadow?"
"We counted close to a hunnerd head," came a loud shout.
"Get to buryin' Early. Two of you drive the herd back to the ranch and let Mr. Phillips know what's become of us."
"What're we supposed to do?" The question put my nerves on edge since I guessed the answer before Horace spoke.
"We're goin' after them. You, Rusty, me" — he looked over his shoulder to see which of the wranglers was closest — "and Blue. We'll track those bastards down for what they done to Early."
West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels Page 26