Roamer looked him hard in the eyes. “I still wasn’t opposed to the answer you gave those killers over on Rye Wash.”
“These breeds ain’t worth the cost of a rope. Besides, they didn’t rape an innocent woman and murder two good men in cold blood, plus steal a bunch of horses.”
“I agree those men were real worthless. And rotting in prison wouldn’t have helped them or their ambitions in the future.”
“Under all circumstances other than those I’ve been more mindful of the law. I try to obey it.”
“It damn sure took lots of guts to do it by yourself. I’ve always regretted I wasn’t there to back you.” Roamer shook his head as if in disgust.
“The Preskitt Valley foreman, Raphael, does, too. He tells me about it all the time.”
“That desk deputy wouldn’t let him go and help you. It wasn’t his fault,” Roamer said.
“I know. He knows. Just how it turned out.”
“There isn’t a man I know in this county does more for law and order than you. That’s why you’re a US Deputy Marshal. They want you on their side.”
After the meal, they gave the prisoners a blanket apiece so they didn’t freeze to death. The next morning, Jesus served everyone an oatmeal breakfast, then they mounted up and headed north for the crossing. Their horses were slow, so when they got about halfway, Chet sent Jesus to Hampt’s to get three fresh ones. He planned to leave those three weary animals at the breed camp, and maybe they’d find some forage and get rested.
They made the exchange at the ford and Rump thanked him for the horses’ return. They pushed on to Hampt’s where May fed the posse and offered them a place to spend the night. Chet and Roamer decided they should push on to Preskitt Valley.
They made it there about midnight and put the prisoners to sleep on the bunkhouse floor. With the horses put up, Chet breathed steam and headed for the dark house. It had been a long day.
When he went inside, Marge had come downstairs and lit a lamp.
“How did it go?”
“We caught them. Been all night getting here.”
“Didn’t they put up a fight?”
“No, they were starving, too. Horses worn out. They’ll be in jail tomorrow.”
“I’m glad you weren’t hurt and are back with me.” She hugged him.
“I smell like a horse and campfire.”
“You smell good to me anywhere, anytime, anyplace, Chet Byrnes.”
They went off to bed.
CHAPTER 8
In the morning, Jesus went with Roamer to deliver the prisoners and bring Hampt’s horses back to them. Cole helped the vaqueros. Chet took a bath, shaved, and sat in the living room reading the Miner newspaper editions that he’d missed.
“Well, world traveler, what are your plans?” Marge asked.
“I need to check with Sarge to be certain everything is fine in Gallup. That’s a very important part of this operation. Our sales over there will keep us expanding.”
“Are you concerned about it?”
“Not concerned, but the potential is there. They’re pleased we delivered on time and good well-fleshed cattle. But I worry people might try to underbid us. They say their experience with us has been what they expected, but it could be fragile.”
“Do you need to go over there?”
“Maybe later on.”
“Maybe it will be less pressing on you in the future.”
“All I care about is you and the baby first. Family, ranches, and my people next.”
“Oh, I can’t complain. I miss my horses. I miss being more active, but I have you and the baby warms my heart.”
After supper, they went to bed and he slept hard.
Come dawn, he was up, ate breakfast and told his men they were riding for the Verde. Sarge should be there with his wife, plus he might have any news on the state of their contract with the Indian Bureau. It would make him more settled to know everything was all right.
The day was sharp, but warming, like so many winter days did. They dropped off the mountain into the Verde Valley and it heated more. Midday at the ranch, Sarge and his wife, Susie, came out on the porch to greet them.
Chet gave Jesus his horse’s reins, hugged his sister, and shook Sarge’s hand. “How did it go?”
“No problems.” Sarge led the way into the house. “I spoke to all the agents we delivered to. They liked the cattle’s condition for this time of the year. I think we’re secure.”
“Good. Tom has the next herd scheduled to take up to you at the Windmill.”
“Yes, he told me.”
“Good. Any ideas how we can do it better?”
“We’re getting along well, I think. I listen to everyone’s comments up there, but I think we’re solid.”
“I’m glad you two get to have a little time together.”
“So am I,” said Susie, who’d lingered to listen. “I’ll fix some lunch.”
Over lunch, Chet told them about the breeds and their pitiful condition, along with the arrests they helped Roamer with. Susie said they’d be on the lookout for things the Indians could use or needed.
“Mostly food. They’re too damned starved and poor to even think.”
“Reg sounds busy,” Sarge said.
“He must be. He’s building a ranch out of the mavericks that come in for feed.”
“Did you see that many when you were up there looking at it?”
“No, but there were signs of cattle being there. We really had a lot to look at. But even Lucie said in her letter to Marge that they ranched way west of here and never realized that many mavericks were loose up in that part of the country.”
“Well, it hasn’t hurt us.”
“No, it’s made a big difference in developing that ranch. Reg and Lucie may have a money-making operation up there. Is JD still here?”
“No, he went up there to see them. The weather was holding so we told him to go,” Susie said.
Sarge nodded. “He wanted to see things up there, and see his brother, plus Lucie.”
“I don’t blame him. Lucie is a treasure.”
“May is, too, and it took Hampt to bring it out of her. I was around her for years and she never showed a sign. Then she marries Hampt and overnight she’s an opera star.”
Susie laughed. “Good men help.” She clapped Sarge on the shoulder.
“I better get back to home. Good to see you two. Sarge, the construction crew is coming your way. Barring weather setbacks they should be done up there at Reg’s.”
“We have a lot of lumber already there. Robert sent us several of the loads you ordered.”
“Glad it arrived.”
“I’m ready to move now,” Susie said.
“I know you must be.”
He reached for his hat. “I’m ready to go home. Sarge, keep your mind on those folks up there at Gallup. We sure need to hold on to that beef contract.”
“Do the best I can.”
“I know you’ve really tried, but it’s important.”
“See you,” Susie said.
“You two have a nice visit.”
“Get out of here,” she said, blushing.
He found his two men at the blacksmith shop watching them twist three-strand barb wire.
“Either of you want this job?” he asked.
Cole spoke up first. “Hell, no, but it makes impressive fencing.”
“After we saw it strung up at Hampt’s, I wondered how they made it,” Jesus said. “They’ll have those fields cowproof, won’t they?”
“It’s supposed to work that way. We need to get back to the Preskitt Valley ranch.”
“We’re ready,” Cole said.
Chet congratulated John on making the wire operation work and told him how much it meant to the ranch. John beamed and bragged on his two helpers.
They made it home after supper, but Monica fed them. About eight o’clock, someone knocked on the back door and Chet went to see who was there.
“Mr. B
yrnes?”
“Yes.”
“My father said to get you to come help us. They shot him and took four of our horses.”
“What’s your name, young man?”
“Raft Boone. My paw’s Henry Boone.”
“How bad is your dad shot?”
“He said not for me to worry. He said get Chet Byrnes and he’ll get them boogers stole our horses.”
“You tell the sheriff?”
“Naw. Paw said come here and if’n you weren’t home to send the word for you to come at once.”
“Where do you live?”
“Below the Rankin place. My paw knows you.”
Cole and Jesus materialized out of the darkness, probably after hearing the ruckus.
“You heard of a Boone down there?” Chet asked Cole.
“Yeah, but I don’t know him.”
“Okay, Raft. We’ll saddle up and ride back with you. Should we get a doctor for your paw?”
“He just said get you.”
“Come in and eat something. Is your horse done in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll saddle another for you.” He turned to Marge.
“Are the panniers packed and ready?”
“Yes,” she said. “I make sure they’re ready anytime you need them. We usually don’t get too much warning.” She smiled at him.
“Jesus, bring a packhorse. We may have to go after them from down there.”
“I’ll get our bedrolls, too,” Jesus said, and left at a run.
“I better help him,” Cole said, and hurried after his partner.
“Shall we notify the sheriff?” Marge asked.
Chet nodded. “Someone can do that.”
“Or should we send the news to Roamer, instead?”
“That would be better,” Chet said.
“I’ll send the news to him in the morning. You know it’s cold out there,” she reminded him.
“I know it’s January and the coldest month of the year.”
He looked up to see Monica come in from the kitchen where she’d fixed the boy a plate. “What’s happened now?” she asked.
“Some rustlers shot a rancher and stole his horses. We’re going to see what we can do for them.”
“Does this sheriff do anything?” Monica made a pained face.
“So far, we’re waiting,” Marge said to her.
In a short while, Chet and his crew headed out behind the boy. Chet was proud of how his men worked as a team. Jesus handled the packhorse unless they needed to track someone. He had tracker duties and cooked. Cole led the pack string. No one was a glory hog, and they were all sensible enough when in a tight spot, like the stagecoach robbery in New Mexico. After that shootout, they all wore the new .44 center fire cartridge Colt pistols. Chet felt they were much more dependable and powerful than the older cap and ball.
The stars were out in the sky’s ceiling when they rode past the Rankin place road. With no time to spare, they rode on and it was well past midnight when Chet saw lights of a ranch house flickering in the distance. He’d never been there before, but the boy confirmed they’d arrived.
“That’s our place,” he said. He’d been quiet most of the way, no doubt concerned about his wounded father. When he reached the yard fence, he bailed off his borrowed horse and headed for the tall woman in the doorway.
“How’s paw?”
“Not good, son. You bring Mr. Byrnes?”
“That’s him, maw.”
“How’s your man?” Chet asked, taking in the rawboned woman dressed in a wash-worn dress covered with a shawl for warmth. Red faced, her nose looked redder, perhaps from crying, and her graying hair hung to her stooped shoulders. Her lips were chapped and cracked.
“He’s not good.” She dabbed at her nose with a frayed handkerchief. “I’m Irma Boone.”
“My name is Chet; Jesus and Cole are with me.”
“I sure hate to impose on you, sir. I don’t consider my man’s doing very good.”
“Should we get a doctor?” Chet asked, concerned.
“He don’t believe in ’em. They cut off his brother’s leg in the war, and he says he would of lived if they’d left him alone.”
“Where is his wound?”
“His shoulder. Me and the boy got him in the bed by the stove. Come look at him.”
A tall thin-bearded man lay sleeping in the light of a candle, his face drawn and white. The torn sheet bandages showed fresh blood, so he was still bleeding.
“How deep is the bullet?” asked Chet.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“If we can get it out, that bullet needs to come out. That’s the only way I know to stop the bleeding. I fear if we don’t, he’ll run out of blood.”
Cole, standing beside him, nodded. “We don’t have a forceps to get it, either. We can take a thin-bladed knife and try to locate it.” He shed his jacket and hung it over a chair.
With a grim face, Cole agreed. “We still have some black powder that we used in our old pistols. Is there some hot water, Irma?”
“Yes, on the stove and I can make some more. I’ve run out of coffee, sorry.”
When Chet looked up, Jesus came in the doorway unbuttoning his coat. “Jesus, get us some coffee for this lady. We’ll need that bottle of whiskey, too.”
“I’ll help you carry it,” the boy offered.
“Cole, how long is your jackknife blade?”
“It’s longer than yours.” He fished it out of his vest.
After Chet opened it, he shaved the hair off the back of his hand. “Sharp enough. You can sharpen mine next time. I’m not as good at sharpening as you.”
“Better get Jesus to do it. I can’t, either, but he can.”
“I learn more about you two every trip.” Chet shook his head in amazement.
The woman put more wood in the iron stove and clanged the door shut.
“I need to wash my hands and anyone else touches that area needs to wash theirs as well.” Chet looked at the woman hovering nearby. “I guess I should have asked you, Irma. Do you want us to do this?”
“Of course. I didn’t know what to do. He’s so contrary about doctors, he wouldn’t hear to me getting one.”
She brought a wash pan and a bar of home-made lye soap to the table. Then she filled the chipped enameled pan with hot water from the kettle on the stove.
“Should we take him off the bed to do this?”
She shook her head. “No, the mattress is already ruined. If you can do it with him on the bed, that’s fine.”
“Tell us more about the men that shot him.”
“Those three rustlers rode in late afternoon. Their horses were worn out. They called Henry out to talk. I knew they was outlaws when they come in the yard out there. I told him—I’ll get you a clean towel.” She rushed over to the crate box cabinets to get one for him to dry his hands on before she continued.
“The one they called Curly wore a big black hat. The old man had white whiskers, and he was short. The young guy looked only half here in the head to me.”
“Tell me more about this Curly.” Sleeves rolled up, Chet removed the bandages. Jesus and Cole, shirt sleeves rolled up, too, had washed their hands and stood by to help.
The heat from the large stove was intense, but Chet decided the room wasn’t that warm at his back. At last, he got down to the site of weeping blood. About four inches below the collarbone, a black hole disfigured the man’s stark white skin. Chet thought it might be a .45 slug, but only time would tell. Minutes earlier, he’d sterilized the blade in the stove’s fire. Drawing in his breath, he probed gently in the wound. Henry, still asleep, moaned.
With a nod of his head, Chet drew the knife out. “If I knew more, I’d cut the bullet out, but I figure I’d cut more blood vessels and muscles that don’t need to be cut. Unless you three complain at me, he can wear that slug.”
Grim faced, they all agreed. Cole brought the gunpowder in a hollow cow horn over and
took off the cap. He poured some in the wound on the man’s shoulder. Using a matchstick, Chet poked the powder into the wound against the blood flow. No easy job.
“Put a towel over his face,” he told Irma. “And when I strike a match, close your eyes. There’ll be a blinding flash and he’ll jerk in pain, but, Jesus, you and Cole hold his shoulders down.” He pointed to her and the boy. “You two hold his feet down hard now.”
The match struck, he touched the powder, and the blinding explosion showed through his eyelids. A bitter smell of burnt flesh and spent gunpowder filled his nose. The blinding smoke was bitter to breathe in and Irma rushed over to open the door for air. They were all coughing, but Chet saw one thing about their handy work that relieved him. The black hole the size of his thumb pad no longer flowed blood.
Irma, fists squeezed in front of her, looked relieved, too. “Oh, thanks, dear Lord. Make my husband live. Please, dear God, we need him so much.”
“Amen,” Chet said. Still no blood flow, so he stepped back. “You can’t let him roll around a lot for three days, or he’ll bust it open.”
“If I have to, I’ll tie him down. Thank you. There’s coffee made. We all need a cup.”
Cole hugged her shoulders because she was shaking so hard. “Irma, he’ll be okay. I’ve helped do this three times in my life. Every man lived.”
“If I can keep him from opening that, he should make it.”
Jesus poured the coffee in every kind of chipped cup he could find.
They seated her at the table and the boy stood behind arms wrapped around her thin shoulders.
Chet sat across from her. “Now tell me more about these outlaws.”
“He had curly black hair, bigger chested than you. Bossy as all get out. On his right cheek—no—on his left one he had an ugly scar from the corner of his eye to his mouth. He wore a gold ring and rode a Mexican saddle. If his gun hadn’t misfired after his first shot he’d of shot Henry again and might have killed him.”
“How old was he?”
“Thirty to forty. I ain’t sure. I don’t age many folks.”
“The old man?”
“He was fifty, sixty years old, maybe fifty-five. He only had three fingers on his right hand. I noticed that when they got a drink from our well. The last two fingers were gone. He had one eye that I don’t think he could see out of.”
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