by John Shirley
Mase worked the rifle from his left to his right hand, tucked it against his shoulder, and aimed at the rocks just behind the men. He fired a warning shot, the bullet ricocheting as the rustlers looked around for the source of the gunfire.
“Fletcher!” Mase shouted. “Get out of those rocks and run! You can still leave here alive!”
Fletcher and the other men snapped their heads around to look up at him—and the two nearest opened fire with their revolvers. Bullets slashed over Mase’s head. He picked a target and fired, and the man arched his back and then twisted away, scrambling behind a rock. Mase was sure he’d hit him.
Then came shots and shouts from the drovers, and the drumming of thousands of hooves. The herd thundered forward, driven by gunshots fired over their heads. The bullets cracked into the walls of the pass, ricocheting, kicking out rock dust.
Mase cocked and fired again, but the second of the two closest men was already clambering back.
Then the herd was stampeding through the pass, raising a cloud of red dust like powdered blood blotting out Mase’s view of the pass.
The herd was stampeding out of the canyon, and he knew there’d be the devil to pay getting them all back in line. Still, the rustlers had one man down, they might not even be able to get to their horses in the chaos of the stampede, and Mase figured they’d get few if any of his cattle. The drovers were still sporadically firing over the herd.
Carrying his rifle, Mase quickly climbed down the rocks. He was glad to see his horse hadn’t run off, though its eyes rolled in fear at the stampede and the gunfire. Mase mounted up, holstered his rifle, and waved his hat at the men to get their attention, his left hand signaling with a slashing motion as he shouted, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
Pug understood him and took up the call. The gunfire shortly broke off. Coughing in the rising dust, Mase tugged his bandanna up over his mouth, drew his sidearm, and rode with the rear of the herd, squinting against the dust and sometimes shifting his horse to chase one of the beeves back to the herd.
It took time to get through to the open ground beyond the pillars, and it was a nervous passage for Mase and the cowboys, as they half expected to be fired on from the rocks to either side. But the stampede and gunfire had done its work—the rustlers were nowhere to be seen as the drovers emerged into the open range. . . .
* * *
* * *
Katie and Jim waited anxiously on the wooden walkway in front of the Butterfield stage office. It was a windy morning in May, and Jim had to keep a hand on his hat to prevent it from blowing off.
“Is it late, Ma?” he asked.
“Perhaps a little.” It was a long way back to the ranch, and Katie hoped he was on this stage, as his letter said he would be. But she would come every day if necessary till he arrived.
Two ranch hands clopped by on their mules with the pleased looks of men heading to the cantina. Then Jim burst out, “There it is!”
The stagecoach was coming in from the west, streaming dust behind it, not in any real hurry, but its four horses rattling it along at a fair pace, and before long the stage had arrived. The driver called “Whoa!” and pulled the reins with one hand and the brake lever with the other. As the stagecoach squealed to a stop, its dust cloud caught up with it.
“Is he there?” Jim asked breathlessly, waving dust away from his face.
Forrest Malley stepped off the stage then, frowning down at himself, slapping dust from his coat. He was a middle-aged man in a three-piece dun sack suit and a homburg, a man with a small mustache just starting to go gray and a belly beginning to strain at his belt. Pince-nez hung from his lapel on a ribbon, the lenses catching the light.
“Uncle Forrest!” Katie called, stepping off the walk.
He looked up, his thick eyebrows bobbing, blue eyes widening, and a broad smile wiped his frown away. “Katherine!” he boomed in his deep voice.
He stepped over and clasped her outstretched hand in both of his. “Still the lovely young lady!” He looked down at Jim. “Who’s this young fellow with you? A cowhand?”
“I am that, too,” said Jim, raising his chin proudly.
Forrest laughed and stuck out a hand. “I guessed it was you! You’ve grown so! Why, you were no bigger than a jackrabbit last time I saw you!”
Jim took Forrest’s hand, and they had a solemn, manly shake.
“Have you had your breakfast?” Forrest asked, turning to Katie. “I have had none. The food at those stations is execrable.”
“What’s execrable mean?” Jim asked.
“It means very bad to the point of being nigh unholy, Jim!” Forrest said, taking his bag from the driver.
“There’s a good café across the street,” Katie said. “The food is not unholy. Right this way . . .”
They found a table by the café’s window where Forrest ate a hearty breakfast of ham, eggs, and flapjacks. Jim had a second breakfast of flapjacks, and Katie drank tea. At last Forrest put down his fork, wiped his lips with the checkered napkin, and said, “Katie, we’re going to have to go to Fort Worth to make our plea.”
“Forth Worth! That’s a long way, Forrest!”
“Your judge here, from what I can ascertain, isn’t going to be any help to us. Now, there’s Judge Holloway in Forth Worth. I was before him once, and he’s got jurisdiction over the whole county—way down at this end, too. He’s a hard man, but he’s fair. Just now I’ve got to go over to the bank, introduce myself as your lawyer, and have a word with the manager. But I doubt I’ll get him to budge if he’s already started proceedings.”
“He has.” Katie took the paper out of her purse and handed it over. “It’s right there.”
He nodded, perched his pince-nez on the bridge of his nose, and peered at the document as Jim noisily applied himself to his flapjacks.
“Jim,” she said, “I wonder if you could be persuaded to eat like a civilized person.”
“I’m eatin’ with a fork, ain’t I?”
“Aren’t I, Jim.”
“Aren’t you what?” he asked innocently.
Forrest looked up from the document. “It does seem they’re within their rights to call in the loan. But if I can establish precedent locally . . . and take that to Judge Holloway, maybe we can get a delay till Mason returns with the money from the sale of his herd. But, Katherine—I can offer no guarantees.”
* * *
* * *
Dusk. Fifty-seven days into the drive to Wichita.
Mase, Denver Jimson, and Lorenzo Vasquez came upon the appointed lawmen of Leadton waiting for them at the water hole. It was a muddy spot where the creek had widened into a kind of pond.
The sheriff and three other men, all with tin badges, were standing around near their horses, waiting, as Mase and the drovers rode up to them. Wearing a black suit and a derby, the sheriff was a man with a wide face, a cigar clamped in his big yellow teeth. He had a shotgun held in the crook of an arm and a Smith & Wesson revolver on his hip. The others wore six-guns—and the short, stout man with the bushy beard had his drawn. A man in a dirty yellow Stetson was standing with his arms crossed and a smug sneer on his face. He had long blond hair, his big ears sticking wildly out of it.
Mase recognized one of the other men; he had been with the rustlers—the man with knee-high riding boots, slicked-back hair, and pitted skin. He had one hand on the butt of his holstered gun, and he was giving Mase a look of undiluted hate.
“He’s their boss,” said the rustler, waving a hand at Mase.
“That a sheriff’s badge I see?” Mase asked, looking at the man with the cigar.
“I’m Sheriff Greer,” the man said, nodding. He glanced at Denver nervously, seeming to recognize him. “I’m the law in Leadton. And this here is part of Leadton.”
“I don’t see a town,” Mase pointed out.
“Oh, we st
aked out the town bigger than the buildings and streets, mister. I heard your name was Durst?”
“Mase Durst. I’m bringing my herd through. Coming up from Texas.” He pointed at the man with the high boots. “You know you’ve deputized a rustler?”
Greer shrugged. “I deputized Rod Kelso, is what I know. He told me him and his brother found those cows of yours. Said they were driven off from your herd by Indians.”
“There were no Indians. Kelso and his friends are crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Yesterday they tried to take half the herd by force, at Devil’s Head. I warned them to get out of our way, and they opened fire on me.”
“You shot my brother!” Kelso spat. “Doc says he ain’t going to walk again. He’s crippled up!”
“His own fault,” Mase said. “He fired at me. Every drover on the drive will testify to it.”
Lorenzo nodded. “We all see it. Mase, he fired a warning shot. Then Kelso, Fletcher, and those others, they try to kill him.”
“That’s right, Mike,” said Denver. “That’s how it was.”
“You know this sheriff, Denver?” Lorenzo asked.
“Mike Greer? He was watching in Fort Griffin when Chester Kass and Fat Jack tried to kill me. He was a deputy there. Just stood around watching.”
“You took care of them,” Greer said. “I figured you would.” He squinted at Mase. “You look like someone I know. You related to a Hiram Durst?”
Mase tensed at the name. He wanted to know what had become of Hiram, but he was afraid to find out, too. “I am. You know him?”
“He’s done a little work for me. He’s around.”
Mase was going to ask for particulars—then he noticed Rod Kelso whispering to the squat, bearded “deputy.” The man nodded and swung his pistol toward Mase—
Denver’s gun was suddenly in his hand and pointed at the man with the bushy beard. “I dislike having a stranger pull a gun when I ride up. Makes me jumpy.”
The man licked his lips and looked questioningly at Greer.
“Put the gun away, Cox,” Greer said, sighing. “I never told you to pull no iron.”
Cox holstered his pistol. Denver pointed his revolver upward—but didn’t holster it.
“I’d kill you right now, mister,” said Rod Kelso, staring at Mase. “But you got your gunman and your vaquero. You give me a chance, I’ll gun you.”
“Doesn’t seem wise to give you the chance, then, does it?” Mase said dryly. “I’ll try not to turn my back on you.”
Denver laughed softly at that. Lorenzo grinned.
Mase looked at the sheriff. “You going to try an arrest?”
Greer rubbed his chin. “Thought about it. Figured I ought to hear your side. Not figuring on it now. But there’s something else.”
“What’s that?”
“We charge a usage toll for the water and grass here for any farmer or rancher brings a herd through.”
“How much would that ‘toll’ be?”
“That’d be four hundred dollars—in your case.”
Mase snorted. “That’s all the money I have—half of it’s at the chuck wagon. I need that for supplies. And I’m not giving you any of my beeves. But I’ll meet you in the middle. I’ll give you two hundred dollars. Crane Williams told me something about this, and I brought that much along.”
He reached into his coat, pulled out a roll of bills tied with string, and tossed it to Greer.
The sheriff caught it, untied the string, and flipped through the money. Then he nodded and stuck the money in his pants pocket with the air of a man planning to keep it. “Good enough this time. You’ve got twenty-four hours in town at that rate. Water and graze your beeves, get your supplies, and move on.”
Kelso was staring at the sheriff in fury. “Mike, he needs to go down! Right here!”
“You going to do it?” Greer asked archly.
Kelso looked at the drovers—as Mase and Lorenzo pulled their guns. Mase just smiled at him.
“Don’t make me shoot you,” Mase said. “Be a shame to cripple up both brothers.”
Kelso spun on his heel, stalked to his horse, mounted, and stabbed a finger at Mase. “Twenty-four hours is just long enough, mister.”
Then he spurred his horse and galloped off toward Leadton.
Mase looked at the other two men with Greer. “These two aren’t your full-time deputies, are they?”
Greer chuckled. “No. Just deputize ’em when I need to collect some money. Donkey there—” He nodded at the blond man. “He’s half deef despite the ears. And old Cox—not much use. I do need to find me some good men.” He gazed speculatively at Denver. “You ever want a job, Denver—come and see me. I’ll pay you good.” The sheriff turned away and mounted his horse. “Come on, boys.”
“What you mean, I ain’t much good?” Cox complained, pouting, as he climbed on his swaybacked horse.
Greer ignored him and rode off. Donkey looked confused, gaping first at the departing sheriff, then at Mase. Finally, he mounted his horse and rode off after the others.
“I probably should have killed Kelso,” Denver said. “He’ll be a problem.”
Mase shook his head. “Then we’d have to pay the sheriff a whole lot more. Come on, let’s move the herd up.”
* * *
* * *
I told you,” said Fletcher. “You can’t roll over that man, Rod. Durst has got to be taken care of sly-like.”
“I’ll take care of him, one way or t’other,” Kelso muttered.
They were drinking Old Overholt rye at the bar of the Jack of Hearts, about an hour past sunset. The place was starting to fill up, and the new piano player, a pretty lady with a stack of butter yellow hair atop her head, was playing a Stephen Foster song.
“Greer should’ve let us cut down on them when they come riding up,” Kelso growled.
“Way I heard it,” Fletcher said, leaning close to be heard over the piano without raising his voice, “is the sheriff doesn’t want to cross Hiram Durst unless he has to. And he figured out that this Mase Durst and Hiram were kin.”
Fletcher glanced over at Hiram Durst, who was in his usual seat, cuddling that damn ten-gauge. Hiram was talking to that tart he liked, Queenie. She was standing close in front of him, frowning, her hands on her hips. She seemed to be trying to convince him of something, and he was shaking his head. She probably wanted him to come and work at her place.
“The right moment comes,” Fletcher said, “we can get Hiram, too, Rod. I’ve been interfered with twice by Mase Durst.” He winked at Kelso. “That’ll cost two Dursts. Anyway, we can still get hold of that herd. The whole thing next time.”
“The whole herd? How you figure?”
“The trail will take him through Chuckwalla Wash. I know a spot—”
“He’s got all those men.”
“They’ll run if we get Greer on our side.”
“He wasn’t no help today.”
“I told you he wouldn’t be. I said you were wasting your time going with him. He wants the sure money. But with the right enticement . . .”
“I don’t want to wait. I want to kill that trail boss. You been to see my brother?”
“I saw him.”
“All he does is swill that laudanum. When he runs out of it, he’s crying like a woman. He’s not going to walk without a crutch and probably won’t be able to ride. What good is he? He’s a ruined man, is what he is. And it’s Mase Durst that done it.”
“You think you’re going to face Durst down?”
Kelso gave Fletcher a dark look. “You figure I can’t?”
“I figure you oughtn’t try. He’s got too much backup. You just be patient. And stick with me. You’ll see. Third time’s the charm. . . .”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Halfway through the afternoon and fifty-eight days
into the drive to Wichita.
Dollager was driving the chuck wagon, Mase sitting beside him, as they bumped along into Leadton. Denver, Karl Dorge, Duff, and Lorenzo were riding along behind them. The wagon bounced over the rutted dried mud of the main street. It was a sunny day, but a cold wind sliced between the wooden buildings.
“There’s the general store, coosie,” Mase said.
They pulled up in front of the white-painted building; Leadton General Store was painted on its false front in ornate dark green lettering. Mase glanced around, noticing a dance hall and two sizable saloons on the street. The dance hall had a big sign with a painting of a poker jack and the words The Jack of Hearts. Even from here he could hear the sound of a piano tinkling faintly from it. Farther down were the livery; a stock pen; a closed, boarded-over shop with a sign reading Fancies; and a disused-looking building marked Mining Assay & Equipage. Across the street from the general store were a blacksmith, a feed store, and a large redbrick building with the sign Winger’s Slaughterhouse and Butcher Shop.
“Look at that—a slaughterhouse and butcher shop both in one building!” said Denver, smirking.
“Can’t imagine my old ma shopping at a place like that,” Dorge said.
“At least the meat in that place will be fresh,” Dollager said, climbing down from the wagon. “I wonder if they have lamb.”
“We can afford nothing so pricey,” Mase told him, stepping down beside him. “Gave half my money to the town sheriff. We’re going to be eating mostly whatever game we can shoot.” He handed Dollager a small leather poke of money. “But you can get a side of ham if it’s not too costly, and what supplies you can’t do without: flour, kerosene, lard, and the like. Cornmeal, dried beans, and dried peas if they have them. I’ll be at the blacksmith.”
Mase turned to Dorge and Lorenzo. Mase had announced two men would be able to have a look at the town and a drink or two, and they’d drawn the winning lots. “Go ahead and get a drink if you can afford one. If you’ve got any money, keep a hand on it. This burg’ll be alive with pickpockets.”