“He’s holed up in one of them whore shacks down at the hogpens. Nobody wants to get near him. You heard the story goin’ around, didn’t you ... what Billy did to that squatter girl that killed Tuck?”
“I heard. So what? Everybody knows Billy’s crazy. But right now I need him. So you round him up. Make sure he’s sober and tell him to stand by. If any of them squatters try to come in, you all know what to do.”
“Billy won’t listen to me.” Casper shrugged.
“Well, he’ll listen to me!” Asa snapped. “And he’ll listen to money. You tell him it’s comin’ on payday. If that doesn’t work, tell him he’ll either take orders or he’ll answer to me, face-to-face.”
“What are we gonna do, Asa?”
“Well, we sure aren’t goin’ raidin’ again. That takes too long. O’Brien’s got land titles here in Paradise,and Sypher’s got the buyers here. We’ll get our deal, all right. And once it’s signed, those squatters won’t own a thing.”
“They’ll know what’s goin’ on here,” Casper said, glancing around at the shabby little town. “They got plenty of spies right here to tell ’em.”
“Do you know who the spies are?”
“Not rightly,” Casper admitted. His hooded eyes roved the crowds nearby, pausing momentarily at a well-dressed, dark-haired young man standing alone, pretending not to watch what was going on. “I got some ideas, though. We got one jasper around here that makes me right itchy.”
“Why?”
“Hell, he’s always around, listenin’ and pryin’. Puttin’ ideas into folks’ heads.”
“What kind of ideas?”
“Ideas like goin’ out an’ settlin’ claims of their own. Like joinin’ up with the squatters.”
Parker nodded. “Tend to him, then. Just don’t make a fuss.”
“I’ll do that,” Casper muttered. Through hooded eyes, he watched as the young slicker wandered off toward the stable, carrying a leather valise. “Word’s still gonna get out, though.”
“Good!” Parker said. “Let ’em try to come in and stop us. We’re on our own ground here. We’ll bury them in it. Spread the word—there’s a bonus of fifty dollars per man if no more squatters get into town alive. ”
TWENTY-THREE
Brett Archer was one of a dozen or so tenants evicted from the ramshackle Paradise Hotel to make room for O’Brien’s visiting dignitaries. Because the Virginian had become known around town, and becausemost of the vigilantes were more than a little timid about the quiet quick-eyed young dandy with the low-slung gun, they were polite about it. But it was an eviction. Two yellow-flagged hard cases met him at the hotel door, handed him his valise, and told him he didn’t live there any more.
Brett wasn’t surprised. He had seen the stages coming in, and been close enough to hear some of what passed when the passengers landed.
He had known for some time who had robbed and killed the Blanchard family, way out there in Colorado. He knew all but two of them by sight. For days at a time, in the past few weeks, he had watched them. First there was Asa Parker, the deadly giant who headed up the gang and now went by the name of Colonel Amos DeWitt. Parker was big and mean, and smart. He held himself a cut above the outlaws around him, in his carriage and his manner of dress, but he didn’t hesitate to use his big fists and boots on any man who got in his way.
He led by cunning and by fear. They were all afraid of him, and it showed. Beyond being a bully, Parker was as treacherous as a big spider, with that hidden .44 up his sleeve. But all of that, Brett knew, was just the style of the man. When it came down to it, Parker was lightning quick with the big iron at his hip. Some around there, who knew of him from the past, said that Asa Parker was the fastest man with a .45 that anybody had ever seen.
Then there was that scowling scarecrow, Casper Wilkerson. Wilkerson always reminded Brett of a hunch-shouldered buzzard. He always wore a long filthy coat that covered him from scrawny neck to below the knees and fit him like a tent would fit a turtle. The coat looked way too big for his spare frame, but it bulged oddly around the chest.
And Wilkerson always carried that big sawed-off shotgun. Like a part of him, it was never out of his hand. Of them all he was the quietest, and in some ways the most ominous.
There had been another big hulking man in the gang—Kurt Obermire. But Obermire was gone now, like the ugly flap-eared Folly Downs was gone—riddledto painful death with placed shots from a small rifle.
A small rifle like the one carried by that Indian kid Falcon MacCallister had found.
And there were Tuck Kelly and Billy Challis. Brett had never seen them, but he had heard the whispers.Womanizers and hell-raisers, both of them. Of the pair, Billy Challis was worst, they said. Kelly was known as a rapist, but they said Billy Challis just went crazy at the sight of a good-looking female.
What he liked to do to women ... Brett’s eyes went flat and cold each time he heard the rumors. It was what had been done to Dorothy. And now Billy Challis had been at it again. Even the outlaws of Paradise—the lowest dregs of mankind—shied away from Challis now.
The stories that filtered in from the settler camps were explicit. And there was hardly a man in this land who wasn’t disgusted. Only a crazy man would do things like that ... to a dead woman.
Tuck Kelly was dead now, they said. That made three of the six who had slaughtered Owen Blanchard’s family. Owen’s big overland wagon stood tall in the center of the dirty little town, like a monument to evil, and Asa Parker guarded it like gold. Casper Wilkerson was always around, dark and ominous, always watching.
Billy Challis had been just a name passed around. But now he was here, and Brett knew where he was.
He strolled to the dismal pole barn that served as a livery. The place was bustling now with the activity of preparing space for three big Concord stages, and feed for their teams. He left his valise there in the same roped-off corner with his saddle and gear. Then he went back out on the street and looked southward. Out on the flats, just at the edge of town, was a squalid little settlement of dugouts, sod-roof sheds and stained tents—the hogpens, some called it. Others referred to it as Boys’ Town.
Once, in times past, when the great southern herd was being systematically wiped out, it might have been a buffalo camp. Then some squatter had tried to raise hogs there, giving the place its name. Now it was something else—a squalid little nest of gambling,drinking, and whoring that not even Colonel DeWitt’s crude Paradise would claim.
Like a separate settlement it lay out there, less than a mile away. The men who kept it going weren’t Parker men, and the only law was primeval law—He who is meanest prevails. Still, it thrived. In the months since Paradise had grown, and with it customers,more enterprisers had drifted in from the Territories, bringing their whores and their whiskey. There wasn’t a thing out at the hogpens that wasn’t for sale.
Billy Challis was out there.
In the alleyway behind the stables, Brett brushed back his coattail, crouched and drew his gun—draw—ing, cocking, and pointing in a single fluid motion. Fast and sure. But was he good enough?
Several more times he drew the pistol, each time imagining that Dorothy’s killer was standing there, facing him. The gun whispered from its leather and aligned, and each time its point was dead-steady.
With a sigh, Brett checked the loads in the revolver, then dropped it back into its holster and let his coat fall over it. “For you, Dorothy,” he whispered. “I’ll see that maniac in hell, or I’ll see you in heaven, pretty soon now.
Easing back into the pole barn, he gentled his horse and tossed a saddle on him. He waited until the livery teams were being unhitched, then led the animal out and rode away, trying to attract no attention.
Even in the noise and confusion, though, there were eyes on him as he left.
From a crude porch across the street, Casper Wilkerson watched thoughtfully. He didn’t care one way or another about the quiet young dude from Virginia. He was only watching him
because it kept him in town. Asa had pretty well cleared the streets of vigilantes since the spenders arrived. A few were holed up here and there, but most were out on the roads, to keep the Barlows at bay. Casper didn’t want to leave. Of the six who knew of the railroad money in the big wagon, only three were left, and Casper had a notion that Asa Parker didn’t intend to share.
But now, watching the dude head for the hogpens, a quick intuition told Casper what he was up to. Brett Archer was looking for Billy Challis.
If there had been any humor in Casper Wilkerson,it would have struck him funny. Casper had seen Billy Challis in action. Crazy he might be, but Billy was hell on wheels with a handgun. Asa Parker might be his equal, but no one else ever would.
The idea that some squirt dude from back east was out to get Billy ... Casper’s eyes narrowed as the intuition became an idea. Maybe no gunslick could kill Billy, but Billy could be killed.
He looked around, slowly. The town looked almostdeserted. Parker and O’Brien were over at the hotel, with the land buyers. Here and there a few drifters moseyed around, and there were men tendingstock at the livery. But for once the main street stood empty, with the big overland wagon standing out there unattended.
Besides himself, only Asa and Billy remained of the six. Making up his mind, Casper strode across to the livery. “Saddle that big dun for me,” he told a swamper. Then he went on through, to the little locked shed beyond—his private quarters by right of possession.
He was back in a minute or two, still covered from neck to boots by that long dark coat of his, now looking more bulky than before. Without a word to anyone he climbed aboard the big horse and headed south at a slow trot, following the distant figure of the Virginian.
In the back of the barn a shaggy sweating man was raking fouled hay. He saw Brett ride away and saw Wilkerson follow. It might have been simple curiositythat prompted Cass Jolly to follow along, or it might have been something more.
Cass had wandered away from Paradise for a while, after getting crossways with a few of Obermire’svigilantes. He had even thought about stakinga claim of his own and trying his hand at the plow.
Hunger had brought him back—that and a naturalaversion to the lonely hard work of farming.
But he was off the payroll now. Just a little too old to bluster his way back into Asa Parker’s crowd, and just a little too slow to think seriously about robbing them, he had settled for what he could get—a crap-wage job in town. Like a lot of men these days, Cass Jolly was in No Man’s Land because he had no other place to go. It was just as Iverson said—if a man had a rope waiting for him in Texas and federal marshals in Kansas, the only choices left were hell and No Man’s Land.
In its own way, Paradise was booming. There was work to be had, if a man didn’t care what he did. Through the cold days of this peculiar spring, several corpses had accumulated over by the bluff, and now there were holes to dig and remains to plant. Men with skills were working on some of the buildings, men without were carrying slops and swamping out the few places that had floors.
Cass had signed on to work with the remuda, which meant in his case cleaning out the stables every few days.
Just lately, Cass had been giving some more serious thought to what Brett Archer said about starting fresh there in a place where the rules hadn’t been made yet.
Rules, he reasoned, ought to start with a simple judgment of what’s right. What he saw now—the dark-eyed young Virginian heading out toward the hogpens with his pistol fresh-slicked in its leather, and Casper Wilkerson watching him leave like that—well, that wasn’t just right.
Cass set the hay rake aside, doused his face and hands from the water bucket, and dug out his possibles from the dingy loft. Then he slapped his old saddle onto a peaceable little roan that had outlived at least two owners and slipped off southward. Out ahead of him, Brett Archer was still in sight. And behind Archer—like a buzzard on a big horse keepingto the cuts and washes—rode Casper Wilkerson.
Like a spread out little parade, they all headed for the hogpens south of Paradise. Slanting sunlight cast long shadows as they passed, and none looked back.
If they had, they might have seen—from the rising prairie beyond the creek—something that no one in Paradise saw. Up on the higher flats, behind the bluff just north of the creek and beyond the chalky caprock that stood over fresh graves there, men moved toward the little town. Here a head and shoulders were skylined against the northern hills, there a glimpse of hats and rifle barrels. Elsewhere for a brief moment a rider was silhouetted in passing,with other riders behind.
Asa Parker had the town sealed. Dozens of yellow-bandswere out on the eastbound road and in the breaks southeast of Paradise. There was even a sniper post, and several riders were out on the west trail where Wolf Creek curled down from the table lands. But from the little settlement called Paradise, there was one blind direction—north, past the caliche bluff. And there, out of sight, dozens and more dozens of riders made their way toward the town.
Vince Colby might have gone straight for the horse herd at Haymeadows if it hadn’t been for Tad Sands finding that calf in the gully.
It was a wobbly legged calf, barely weaned and no more than coyote bait out there in the breaks north of Rabbit Creek. It had become separated from its mother and wandered into a gully too narrow to follow and too deep to climb. Tad found the critter there, and he shot it.
Colby and the rest didn’t mind. It was late in the day, and they had traveled hard to make barely four miles since morning, skirting around first one squattercamp and then another to keep out of sight.
Colby had in mind to come up on the capstone flats northeast of Paradise, then scout out that outfit that called itself A&M Land and Cattle Company. That was where some joker claimed all the lost horses had gone, and Vince wanted them. They were all broke from the last visit to the hogpens, and needed a grubstake.
So when Tad killed the calf they were out in the breaks with evening coming on, and all of them were tired and hungry.
They made a fire and butchered the calf, and settledin to rest a while. And it was then that they found the cow tracks, heading north.
“I make it maybe fifty head,” Jimmy Stone reckoned.“Three, four, riders pushin’ ’em. They’ve come a piece, from the way the cows keep to a herd, but this ain’t no trail crew. You can tell these boys ain’t drove cows afore.”
“Rustlers,” Vince decided. “The Supply trail’s fifty miles southeast of here. I guess these fellers cut a herd down there and helped themselves to what they could get.” He turned north, peering at where little herd had gone. “What’s up there that a man would drive cows to?”
“Kansas,” John Moline offered. “If it was me, I’d be takin’ ’em up toward Hardwoodville.”
“That’s across the line, ain’t it?”
“Yeah. But not far. Me and Cabot know our way around up there, Vince. Not much law ’til Dodge. Some rawhiders got a place up there most everybody knows about. They’ll buy cows, then sell the beef at Dodge. They don’t ask questions.”
“Fifty head of beef make a nice grubstake,” Stone suggested. “Them rustlers ain’t all that far ahead of us, Vince.”
Print Olive had been labeled “the meanest man alive” in Texas, for his treatment of rustlers. Olive and his whole family hated rustlers, and Print found ways to express that hatred. When he moved to Nebraska he took his methods with him, and expanded his attentions to homestead farmers and rawhiders.
One of the trademarks of Olive’s style of justice was the “horizontal hanging”—involving a stump, a noose, and a team of horses. There was a story in Texas of a rustler caught by Print himself and several of his black cowboys. Having no trees handy, Print used a stump as anchor, and a wagon.
Unfortunately, the wagon’s team spooked and ran.
After being strung out, they said, the rustler was solemnly buried in two counties.
The Olives were also noted for the burning of corpses, and for shal
low burials with an arm or leg sticking up out of the ground to mark the grave.
Print Olive left Nebraska the same way he left Texas—ushered out because of public outrage at his excessive methods. He had settled finally at Dodge City, Kansas.
In Kansas, the Olive bunch modified its behavior. Old Print was tired of being run out of places by his neighbors. But his attitude toward rustlers and herd-cutters didn’t change. He didn’t tolerate them, and used whatever means he had to put an end to their activities.
The difference was that by the early eighties Print had begun to work with the law—if there was any—instead of around it.
Print Olive was well on his way to becoming respectablewhen Joe Sparrow shot him down over a ten-dollar debt.
Print had been dead for a couple of years now, but the Sawlog and Smokey Hill ranches he founded near Dodge City still maintained his philosophies. So it was that, as the cattle drives began showing up this season, Marshal Sam Stroud was involved in the investigation of rawhiding operations over west of the sand hills, around Hardwoodville.
The dressed beef that came in from there almost weekly, in the form of butchered carcasses hanging from the slats of high-rack wagons, was stolen beef. Everybody knew it, but everybody bought it anyway, and the commerce cut deep into the profits of Sawlog and Smokey Hill.
The big ranches swung some weight with the merchantsof Dodge, and merchants ran the city. They brought so much pressure to bear on Stroud that he sent Ben Wheaton over to Hardwoodville to see if he could dig up some evidence. And because Sawlog held a seat on the Western Kansas Stockman’sAssociation board of directors, orders came out of Topeka to provide the deputy with a military escort.
Wheaton and the soldiers had been digging—lit—erally—for most of a day before they found what they were looking for. Behind Wendell Murray’s place, they uncovered dozens of buried cowhides still fresh enough to read the trail brands. Most of them were Texas stock.
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