Chaw Stevens had been detailed as the brander. “Which outfit?” he asked.
“Diamond T,” Rawley answered.
Chaw grabbed the correct brand and hurried over to the struggling calf, applying the instrument with a vicious shove. Burning hair and flesh stunk up the immediate vicinity.
“It’s a male,” Duane Wheeler said.
Jim Pauley chuckled. “He won’t be for long.”
Chaw pulled his knife from his scabbard and quickly cut off the unfortunate animal’s testicles. After an application of creosote, the calf was allowed to scramble back into the herd and look for his mother, bewildered and bawling in a great deal of pain.
Rawley rode back into the herd, looking for another. A couple of more ropers dragged their struggling victims over for Chaw’s less-than-tender treatment. It was the start of a sweating, straining routine as the air was filled with oaths, shouts, bleats of calves, and bad smells.
The work was hard and the men strained their muscles to the limit as the roping, wrestling, and branding continued throughout the morning under a sun that grew hotter with each passing hour.
The high point of the whole affair was the chuck wagon. Nancy Hawkins had agreed to fill in for the Diamond T’s cook, who’d been dispatched to pick up grub in town. She was as adept at cooking over an open fire as she was an iron stove. The young woman baked bread and concocted a stew of beef, vegetables, chili peppers, and potatoes that produced an odor so pleasing that stomachs began growling for the food hours before mealtime.
Finally, when the sun was at its zenith, Nancy banged on the gong hanging from the chuck wagon’s roof. The lucky cowboys able to eat first wasted no time in rushing for the food. Others, less fortunate, who had been detailed to act as lookouts, had to wait on the edge of the roundup area and keep their eyes peeled for any hooded raiders that might make an appearance.
Rawley and Chaw were among the first to be fed. Grabbing tin plates and spoons, they lined up with the others and walked past the wagon as Nancy served the thick stew with a biscuit on top.
“How’re you doing, Miss Nancy?” Rawley inquired as he got his grub.
“I’m fine, thank you, Mr Pierson,” she answered with a bright smile. “I’ve been watching you work. You’re a good roper.”
Chaw, standing behind Rawley, chimed in. “He was practical borned with a rope in his hands, miss. He’s a Texas cowboy tried and true!”
Nancy nodded. “I believe that.”
The pair of friends walked off a ways and sat down on the ground to consume the feast. Chaw took a mouthful and chewed thoughtfully before he spoke. “She’s sweet on you.”
“Who?”
“Who?” Chaw sputtered. “The Queen of the May!” He shook his head. “I’m a-talking about Miss Nancy, o’ course.”
“She ain’t sweet on me,” Rawley said.
“Oh, yeah? Look at the differ’nce in the amount of food you got and what the others—and me—is getting.”
“She admired ropers,” Rawley said, grinning. But he had noted that she’d given him a whopping helping of the stew.
Chaw eyed him suspiciously. “You ain’t finding her on the perty side, are you?”
“Sure,” Rawley said. “Any damn fool can see she’s a perty woman. You think I’m blind?”
“No,” Chaw said. “But I think you could be got into a woman’s trap real careful.”
“Pshaw!”
“You ain’t real bright when it comes to women,” Chaw insisted. He was thoughtful. “O’ course you ain’t real bright about a lotta things. But women is gonna be your downfall, mark my words.”
“I suppose you’re a real expert on women, huh?” Rawley said. “You ain’t ever been married before, so how come you know so much about ’em?”
“That,” Chaw said leaning forward, “is because I’m just like you said—a expert on females and have avoided their tricks. How do you think I managed to keep my freedom all these long years?”
Zeb Hawkins’s voice thundered over the scene, interrupting them. “Goddamn it! Let’s eat up, boys! There’s lots o’ work and the lookouts is got to be fed!”
Although the food was gone and deserved to be savored, Zeb and the other four ranch owners had no patience with any gourmets in the crowd. Continuing to cuss and complain, Hawkins and his colleagues made the men eat as fast as possible. The first who finished their platefuls were immediately sent out to relieve the sentries. Within thirty-five minutes of the gong’s first sounding, the work resumed with as much noise and ruckus as before.
The day’s heat increased even more in the afternoon, leaving the drovers soaked in sweat with physical fatigue rapidly growing. The roping became sloppier, and it took more time for the riders to cut the unbranded calves loose from the herd. But everyone pressed on, knowing that time was their biggest enemy. The herd had to be carefully guarded while fattening up on the lush prairie grass. Then there was that long drive up into Kansas still awaiting them after all this backbreaking, butt-busting labor.
The first shot blasted over the noise of the bustling activities when the afternoon’s shadows were lengthening steadily toward evening.
“Raiders!” came a cry from the edge of the workplace.
Everyone knew what to do. Five of the men turned their full attention to the cattle to avoid a stampede if possible. Rawley Pierson led the others on an impromptu all-out attack against the marauders.
The hooded bushwhackers, numbering at least two dozen, were in a tight formation as they pounded in toward the herd. Their firing, while aimed at the cowboys, was as much for disturbing the herd as it was for killing anybody.
But the five cowboys, following the preconceived plan, drove the cattle toward Rattlesnake Arroyo, to use its confining walls of earth to keep the excited animals under control.
Rawley and the others cut in between the big gully and the attackers, adding to the distance between them and the herd. Now shooting regularly toward the masked men, ten guns blasted slugs among the raiders, the reports blending in with the thundering of hooves on the prairie ground.
One spoiler rolled over his horse’s rump and bounced heavily to the dirt as the cattlemen’s bullets swarmed into the crowd. His pals, surprised by the organized defense, were game to keep the fight going, however. They turned inward, closing in with the men they outnumbered.
Both groups, firing wildly, galloped head on toward each other. Now caught up in the excitement, all the battle’s participants whooped and hollered as their rage built. The air was split with flying bullets, and the horses sensed the combination of anger and fear from their riders and their own spirits turned vicious.
The cowboys enjoyed a distinct advantage in the opening volleys that continued as both groups grew closer. The intruders, more numerous and riding close together, made a composite target that could be easily fired into without careful aiming. The drovers, on the other hand, were scattered and loose, with large areas of empty space between each horseman.
Three of the invaders simultaneously pitched from their saddle, then two more went down. The sight of five of their number suddenly shot from their horses unnerved the rest of the gang. Although there was no communication between them, each cut loose with a final fusillade before turning away and making a beeline for the safety of the open range.
But those final shots cut down two cattlemen.
Rawley, with instincts and attitudes built up during his service as a lawman, wanted to chase after the invaders. But his horse, like the others, had been worked hard all that day, and couldn’t keep up with the fresher ones the invaders rode. Reluctantly he turned back.
Rawley noted the men dismounted and gathered in a small group. He rode over to see what was the matter. He rightly figured they were gathered around the casualties, and he was relieved to see that Chaw Stevens was unhurt among the drovers as he reined up.
A cowboy off the Flying Heart was getting his lightly wounded arm wrapped up by his bunkies. Rawley urged his mount pas
t the crude doctoring to join the group which included all the Circle H Bar men. He dismounted and pushed his way in.
Tim Hawkins knelt beside his father. Old Zeb, his chest a bloody mess, stared sightlessly up into the Texas sky. That long, long trip he’d taken out from Kentucky with a new bride and high hopes had finally come to an end.
The other ranch owners joined the crowd. Each man respectfully removed his hat and looked down on the corpse of a rancher they admired and respected.
It was Doak Timmons off the Diamond T who spoke aloud what everybody was thinking. “Now we got an even better reason than pertecting our ranches to kill them sonofabitches.”
Tim tried to exhibit self-control, but was having a hard time. He started to say something, but choked up.
Rawley knew what to do. He went to Zeb’s horse and untied the bedroll from the back of the saddle. He unrolled the blankets, spreading them out. Several of the men gently picked up Zeb and laid him down on the covers. They were closed over him and tied at both ends. Then the old man’s body was lifted up and laid across the saddle, the ends of the blankets lashed to the stirrup straps to keep the corpse from slipping off.
Rawley gently took Tim’s arm and eased him up to his feet. “Well take your pa back to the ranch. Go over to the chuck wagon and tell Miss Nancy. You can’t take her home.”
Tim took a deep breath, then nodded. “I know what I gotta do, Pierson. I ain’t a wailing kid.”
Rawley’s jaw tightened, but under the circumstances he made no reply to the arrogant remark.
After Tim rode off toward Rattlesnake Arroyo, Jim Pauley and Duane Wheeler mounted up to begin the slow trek back to the Circle H Bar with the dead man.
Rawley and Chaw went with the others to the outlaws’ bodies that lay scattered across the range. Each was dead, and the hoods they wore were ripped roughly from off their heads. The features, cold and dead, were unrecognizable to any of the ranchers and cowboys. But Rawley and Chaw recognized one of them.
“That’s Jack Freeman!” Chaw exclaimed when the mask was removed.
“Sure is,” Rawley agreed. “We ain’t seen him in more’n two years.”
Ted Lawson, owner of the Flying Heart, was curious. “Where’d you fellers know him from?”
“We had a run-in with him while we was star-packers down in Benton,” Rawley explained. “He’s a bad ’un that hires out his gun when he ain’t getting into mischief on his own.”
“I reckon if he’s a professional pistolero so are these others,” surmised Fred Blevins of the Double Box.
“Somebody’s got enough money to pay for more’n two dozen hardcases,” Rawley said. “And that’s not for a single job, that’s to keep ’em around for a long period of time.”
“You suppose this is a gang?” Slim Watkins asked.
Rawley shook his head. “There ain’t no bandit chief that can keep his men inter’sted in a long job that don’t produce cash money.”
“Yeah,” Chaw agreed. “Especially when they can’t go to town and let off steam now and then.”
Chaw Stevens looked over at the ranchers. “You gents has got some powerful enemies.”
“What we got is a range war,” Slim Watkins of the Lazy S said.
“And it’s gonna get worser,” sadly commented the Diamond T’s Doak Timmons.
Eight
Zeb Hawkins had to be buried quick. Between the bloody, flesh-tearing mortal wound he’d received in his chest and the rapidly warming weather, there was no way his corpse could be kept long without a proper undertaker’s care. And no such services were available in the nearby town of Duncan. The only thing that could be done for the dead man was to slip his Sunday-go-to-meeting suit on to cover the massive injury and make him as presentable as possible for the funeral.
Young Tim Hawkins, wanting to spare his sister as much as possible, took on that job himself. After dressing his father for the burial, he took the blood-soaked clothes the old man had died in and burned them behind the bunkhouse.
The cowhand Jim Pauley was a fair carpenter, and he wasted no time in putting together a coffin from lumber in the Circle H Bar ranch barn. It was padded with a quilt from Zeb’s bed. His first wife, the young girl from his native state of Kentucky, had laboriously made the cover over a five-year period. The last touch was the dead man’s pillow, on which he would now rest his head for all eternity.
While the funeral preparations went on, the combined herd was kept together out at Rattlesnake Arroyo under the care and guard of the drovers from the other ranches. All the Circle H Bar cowboys and the other members of the Diablos Range Cattlemen’s Association were scheduled to attend Zeb’s funeral. The situation at the site of the roundup was still precarious, but at least under control. But things were not so calm that those attending the final services strayed far from their shooting irons. Carbines and revolvers had been left handy in the wagons in case they might be needed in a hurry.
Rawley Pierson, on the other hand, had more than either Zeb’s funeral or the trouble with the raiders on his mind. A different situation occupied his thoughts most of the time.
No matter how deep and hidden, all the tenderness and affection Rawley felt for Nancy Hawkins was brought to the surface when he observed her grief at the death of her father.
He could hardly keep himself from going to her side to embrace and hold her as seeing her overwhelming sadness and loss tore at his heart. Rawley experienced no lust for the pretty young woman at that time. Only the deepest caring and sympathy dominated his feelings where Nancy Hawkins was concerned.
By nature, Rawley was an easygoing fellow who took in stride whatever life offered him, be it good luck, danger, or a run of misfortune. Remaining unattached and traveling around with Chaw Stevens was an existence he enjoyed. Something was always happening, even if it was a dreary sheriff’s job with occasional outbursts of gunplay, or drudgery on a ranch like the Circle H Bar.
But Rawley felt confusion and worry about his feelings toward Nancy. He’d never felt that way toward a woman before. His limits had been open admiration of a certain female’s looks, fleeting affection for a dance-hall girl, or a subtle rejection of a woman he simply didn’t like. Women were puzzling things that simply flitted in and out of a fellow’s life like bottles of good and bad whiskey. It had all been so simple for him, as uncomplicated as his own life and attitudes.
But now he was as jittery about himself as a puma with a pack of hounds on his tail.
Rawley tried to deny any affection toward Nancy other than as a casual friend, but her distress triggered the deep fondness and caring he truly felt for her. His emotions were so strong that he could not deny even to himself that whatever feelings he had for the young woman ran as broad and deep as the Brazos River. And he was bound and determined to hide those feelings from his best friend.
But old Chaw Stevens, on the other hand, was completely aware of Rawley’s true sentiments. The whiskered, bandy-legged codger may have been crude and unlettered, but Chaw was wise far beyond his education. He had a natural, native intelligence that served him well. The Johnny Reb could perceive people in a deep, penetrating manner which had saved his life on several occasions when he’d drawn and fired at some jasper who was shaming a back off during a showdown or arrest. He knew well that Rawley was much taken with Nancy Hawkins. The only thing he wondered about the situation was what those affections might lead to.
The Circle H Bar crew—Rawley, Chaw, Jim Pauley, and Duane Wheeler—dressed in their best clothes on the morning of Zeb Hawkins’s funeral. Chaw waited until Jim and Duane had gone outside before he brought up the subject of Nancy Hawkins to Rawley in his usual direct manner.
“Have you gone silly over Miss Nancy?” he asked. Then he added, “Maybe I should ask how silly have you gone over Miss Nancy.”
“What?” Rawley asked, looking away from the mirror he was using while brushing back his hair.
“I asked if you’d started liking Miss Nancy a whole lot,” Chaw said. He
sat on his bunk and struggled into his best boots. They were a nonworking pair he used for special events.
Rawley finished brushing. “Sure I like her. Don’t you?”
“Maybe not as much as you,” Chaw said.
“Well, that ain’t no great surprise. You’re a woman-hater,” Rawley said with a weak grin. “Ever’body knows that.”
“I don’t hate ’em exactly,” Chaw said. “But I am leery of ’em.”
Rawley put on a clean shirt. He eyed his old friend closely. “Now you ain’t just jawing up to pass the time before the funeral. Just what’re you leading up to?”
“You and me is partners,” Chaw said. “So if you’re of a mind to settle down, let me know and I can plan on heading out alone after our work here is done.”
“Settle down?” Rawley asked.
“Yeah. With Miss Nancy,” Chaw said.
Rawley didn’t like that particular concern being discussed. “You’re loco, Chaw. Sometimes you’re as confused as a lost dogie.”
“I ain’t confused,” Chaw said. “But I got no hankering to stay in one place too long. I think maybe you do.”
Rowley’s thoughts turned to Nancy. Hearing what had been deep in his heart brought out in the open by somebody else made him hesitate before speaking again.
“Well? Are you thinking on staying here or not?” Chaw demanded to know.
“Can you leave a feller alone?” Rawley snapped at him. “You’re worser than a nagging old grandma!”
Chaw shook his head. “You’re thinking on settling down, all right!”
While the two talked in the bunkhouse, Big Ed MacWilliams rolled into the Circle H Bar ranch yard in the livery stable buckboard he’d rented. The big saloon owner drove the vehicle over to one side of the group of horses tied up at the front of the house. After a quick survey of the scene, he stepped out of the small wagon and hobbled the horse.
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