Contention and Other Frontier Stories

by Hazel Rumney

  It also never hurt to make the man wait.

  “I’ll ask you again, Colonel. What’s this about?”

  Before the colonel provided an answer, Ben Jeffers rode from the barn and toward the group. When he saw Wiley, he looked down at the man and asked, “You been stealin’ any water lately, Wiley?”

  The colonel smiled. The summer before, Alex Wiley had been caught diverting water from a no-name trickle that fed into the La Prele. The La Prele was a creek that Jeffers took much of his water from, and Jeffers’s water-right preceded Wiley’s by fifteen years. When Jeffers noticed the La Prele’s flow was lower than normal, he and a couple of his boys followed it upstream and discovered a dike on Wiley’s creek. They destroyed the dike and beat the hell out of Wiley. As far as most folks were concerned, Wiley was lucky a beating was all he got, and that was the end of it. But Ben Jeffers wouldn’t let it go. Every time Jeffers’s path crossed Wiley’s, Jeffers would ask Wiley if he’d been stealing any water lately.

  The colonel found it amusing.

  When Jeffers asked his question this time, as usual, Wiley provided no response.

  “Did you fellows run across anything in the barn?” asked the colonel.

  Jeffers shook his head. “The boys’re still lookin’.”

  “Do I understand correct,” asked Wiley, “that you got men rummaging around inside my barn?”

  The colonel nodded. “Yes, sir, you are correct.”

  “What gives you the right to trespass on my property?”

  “Well, Mr. Wiley, I’d say that right gives me the right.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  Rick, the foreman, aimed a finger at Wiley’s bare chest. “Watch your tone when you speak to the colonel.”

  The riders behind them moved in closer and lined up before the small man.

  “It’s okay, boys,” said the colonel. “I understand why Mr. Wiley wouldn’t want folks digging around in his possessions.”

  “’Specially,” added Jeffers, “if he’s got somethin’ to hide.”

  “I’m missing some cattle, Mr. Wiley, that’ve been grazing down along the river. Do you know anything about that, perchance?”

  Wiley’s protruding Adam’s apple bobbed a couple of times when he tried to swallow. “No,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The colonel noticed that staring up into the stony faces of a dozen armed cowboys made Wiley’s eyeballs bulge.

  The door to the house opened, and a boy of about twelve ran onto the porch. “Pa, what’s happening? What’re these men doing here?”

  Wiley called back over his shoulder, “Sheila, get the boy inside. Now.”

  Wylie’s wife, a woman in her late twenties, rushed through the door and grabbed her son. “Billy, get in here this second.” She dragged him into the house.

  “And no matter what, both of you stay put,” shouted Wiley. “It’ll be all right.”

  “Maybe not,” said Jeffers with a smile. A few of the men chuckled.

  “Mr. Wiley,” said the colonel, “I had some men ride about your place the last day or so and do some counting. It seems your small herd has grown.”

  “I’d say that’s none of your business.” Wiley’s words were strong, but below the surface, they held a tremor.

  “You could be right.”

  “If you’re saying I stole some of your cattle, you’re mistaken. Check ’em. They all carry my brand.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’ll be dark soon, but, if you like, come back tomorrow. I’ll ride out with you and you can see for yourself.”

  “Well, sir, I might do that.”

  “You’re more than welcome to, Colonel. All of them cows is wearing the Circle W.”

  “That’s your brand, the Circle W?”

  “It is. Always has been.”

  “The W standing for ‘Wiley,’ I suppose.”

  “What else?” said Wiley.

  “Could be,” offered Jeffers, “it stands for ‘Water.’ ”

  Everyone, except for Wiley, had a good laugh.

  As the colonel and his men enjoyed the joke, Hughes and the other two riders Jeffers had checking the barn came out leading their horses. Hughes carried something in his right hand.

  “Looky what we found.” He lifted a metal rod and handed it to Jeffers.

  “Well, my word,” said Jeffers. “Ain’t this interestin’.” He handed what he held to the colonel.

  The straight steel rod had a narrow end that curved into a semicircle. “Looks to be a running iron,” said the colonel. “What do you think, Mr. Jeffers?”

  Jeffers nodded. “Yes, sir. That’d be my guess.” Jeffers looked at the shirtless man. “What’d be your guess, Wiley?”

  “I ain’t never seen that thing before.” Now the tremor in his voice had risen to the surface.

  Jeffers seemed to be enjoying himself. “What was it you said your brand was?” he asked.

  “I believe he said the Circle W,” answered the colonel.

  “By golly, that’s right. I believe he did. And refresh my recollection. What is your brand, Colonel?”

  “I have a couple of them. But the animals that’ve gone missing are carrying a Rocking C.”

  “Rocking C. That was the brand you registered when you first came into this country. Am I right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You know, sir, I’m not sure I ever heard what the C stands for. Is it Charles or Cooper or Colonel?”

  “Well,” said the colonel with a shrug, “I’m not sure myself. Could be any of the three, I suppose.”

  “I wonder,” said Jeffers, pointing to the running brand in the colonel’s hand, “how hard it’d be to use that thing to turn a Rocking C into a Circle W. What are your thoughts on that, Hughes? I know you to be a fella handy with a branding iron.”

  Hughes and the other two who had searched the barn were again in their saddles. Hughes took off his hat and brushed a hand through his thin blond hair. “Well, Mr. Jeffers,” he said, biting the edge of his lip as though trying to contain a smile, “I’d say it’d be an easy task. You could use the curve there on the end to bring the Rocker at the bottom of the Rocking C around into a half-circle and connect it with the curve at the top of the C. Then you could use the edge of the curve on the brand to burn a W into the circle’s center.”

  “By gosh,” said Jeffers. “That does sound easy.” He turned to face the group. “Don’t it, boys?”

  To a man they voiced their agreement.

  It seemed Ben Jeffers was having too much fun with what the colonel considered to be a serious matter.

  “Mr. Wiley,” said the colonel, “this looks bad. As you know, men get hanged for such activity.”

  “I know it, sir. I know they do.” The man’s sweating from chopping wood had not lessened. He used a forearm to blot his brow.

  “What do you have to say about it? I’m glad to listen.”

  “I don’t know what to say. ’Cept I swear to you, Colonel. I have never seen that iron.” The tremor in his voice was joined by a tremor in his legs. “Never. If my small herd looks bigger to your boys, it’s only ’cause we’ve been lucky this year. The calving went well, and we’re doing fine.” He looked at the ground. “I do admit to branding a couple of mavericks down by the Box Elder. Them critters was unmarked and motherless. And, like I say, that was way down at the Box Elder, miles from your place. So, yes, sir, I’ve done me a little maverickin’, but I have no reason to steal, sir. And even if I did, Colonel, I’d never be fool enough to rustle from you. I swear it.”

  “Could I toss in my two cents?” asked Jeffers.

  The colonel nodded.

  “The way I see it, this situation is not complex. We have you, Colonel, who, in the last month or so has come to possess fewer animals than you did before. And we have this fella who, in that same time, has come to possess more than before. I’m not saying that’s proof that what he’s now got once was yours, but we
know this highbinder. He ain’t cow savvy. We also know he’s a stealer of water, which, to my thinking—in this dry country—is a crime as bad as rustling. Now, I’m not trying to make cattle thievery less than what it is. It’s a harsh crime, deserving of a harsh punishment.” He pointed to the running iron. “On top of it all, we now have that.” To Hughes, he asked, “Where did you find that exactly?”

  “Hid behind a sack of oats. He has a couple of Circle W brands hanging on the wall, but that there iron was hid.”

  Jeffers looked again to the colonel. “I hear out on the Sweetwater, the mere possession of a running iron’s a crime—a crime that often warrants the severest penalty. Now, sure, them fellas in Sweetwater country are a rough bunch, quick to sling a rope over a sturdy branch, but when it comes to brand changers, I believe they’ve got ’er right.”

  He jerked a thumb at Alexander Wiley. “This man is a known thief. It is my belief he is also a liar. And I ain’t the only one to think it. He steals water, and to my eyes, it appears he steals cattle. Who’s to say what else such a man might do?”

  With Jeffers’s every word, Alex Wiley seemed to shrink. He now stood with his head down and his hands clasped in front. His body shook as though the warm day had magically turned to December.

  Looking again at the iron he held, the colonel said, “This instrument is of no use whatever except to alter brands.” He tossed it to Jeffers and turned his gaze to the prairie grass that stretched all the way to the distant sky. “You know, Mr. Wiley,” he said, “we are all struggling in this rough country. You, me, and every man among us. We must fight the elements—” He looked down at Wiley. “Lift your head and look at me, sir.” Wiley’s head popped up. “We fight freezing winters and scorching summers. There’s blizzards and tornadoes. Blowing winds that never seem to stop. We have coyotes, bobcats, and cougars killing our livestock. We gotta grow our crops in topsoil no deeper than the end of a man’s thumb. Until recently we had to worry about savages not only stealing our cattle and horses, but stealing our very scalps. Ours is a difficult life, Mr. Wiley, and in addition to everything else, what we do not need, sir, is some avaricious man of low character diminishing our chance of survival.”

  The colonel exhaled a long, slow breath, as though the chore of talk was an arduous one.

  “But, Colonel, I swear I never rustled nothin’. I took some water. And I branded a couple of mavericks, but them animals wasn’t yours. I swear.”

  “They belonged to someone,” said the colonel. “And it wasn’t you.”

  The colonel and Wiley’s eyes held for a long moment, and still holding the gaze, the colonel said to Jeffers, “Have someone make a loop.”

  When the colonel said that, Wiley fell to his knees. “No,” he pleaded. “This is wrong, sir. Wrong. Even if I did do what you say, a man deserves a trial. This ain’t legal. It ain’t right.”

  Ignoring Wiley’s pleas, Jeffers said, “We can do better than a loop, Colonel. Mr. Hughes is capable of making a proper noose.” He nodded to Hughes, who pulled the slip knot on his horn string and took down his rope.

  When Jeffers said the part about the noose, Wiley began to wail. “No, please, please. I have a wife. I have a son. Don’t do this. Don’t.”

  Jeffers turned back to the colonel and asked, “Should we allow this sniveler a moment with his family?”

  Wiley, still on his knees, rocked back and forth, beating his fists against his thighs. “Please, Colonel, I beg you, do not do this.”

  “No,” said the colonel in answer to Jeffers’s question, “I think not.” From the corner of his eye, he could see the faces of Wiley’s wife and son in the window. “It would be a mawkish thing, making the episode more trying on all concerned.”

  “Whatever you say, Colonel.”

  The colonel turned his horse and looked out past the barn. “Have the men bind his hands and take him to the trees. Those cottonwoods look to be a likely spot.”

  When the bullet knocked the colonel from his saddle, he hit the ground hard. Red geysered from his chest. But that was all right. As the blood flowed out, so did the fog.

  He watched as a lone rider approached. The man shoved a saddle gun into a scabbard and reined in a half-dozen yards from where the colonel lay.

  The man was Wiley’s son.

  He dismounted and came forward carrying a coiled rope. Bending down, he lifted the colonel to a sitting position and slipped a loop over the colonel’s shoulders and underneath his arms.

  “I told you what I’d do if I saw you on my place again.” He snugged the loop tight around the colonel’s upper chest. “Truth is, I shoulda killed you many years ago.”

  Wiley’s son stood and returned to his horse. He climbed aboard and made two quick wraps of the rope around his saddle horn. “I feared the shot would kill ya. It would yet, if I left you lay. But that’d be too easy. I’m gonna drag you ’til you’re nothing but a bloody piece of gristle.” He gave a toothy grin. “When I’m done, it’ll be like you never was. Are you hearing me, old man?” Just as on that day a couple of weeks earlier, it seemed important that the colonel was listening.

  This time, the colonel acknowledged the question with a nod. And with that, what remained of the fog drifted away.

  The colonel looked from the man toward the swaying cottonwoods. When he did, Wiley’s son gave his horse the spur.

  Robert D. McKee is an award-winning author of four novels and numerous short stories. His stories have appeared nationally in both commercial and literary publications. He and his wife reside in the Rocky Mountain West along Colorado’s Front Range.

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Hazel Rumney has lived most of her life in Maine, although she also spent a number of years in Spain and California while her husband was in the military. She has worked in the publishing business for almost thirty years. Retiring in 2011, she and her husband traveled throughout the United States visiting many famous and not-so-famous western sites before returning to Thorndike, Maine, where they now live. In 2012, Hazel reentered the publishing world as an editor for Five Star Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning. During her tenure with Five Star, she has developed and delivered titles that have won Western Fictioneers Peacemaker Awards, Will Rogers Medallion Awards, and Western Writers of America Spur Awards, including the double Spur Award–winning novel Wild Ran the Riversby James D. Crownover. Western fiction is Hazel’s favorite genre to enjoy. She has been reading the genre for more than five decades.

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