There was still no sign of the boy when Martin got them mounted again and struck back into the valley. The roundup during the afternoon went better than Hardcastle had expected. They were lucky in the north-east pasture, where they found most of the cattle in one place and didn’t have to waste too much time combing the heavy mesquite thickets of the draws. He found two small bunches of cattle and drove them back down towards the campsite. It was growing colder now. The old cows walked slowly, drawing up now and again so the calves could take a drink before he prodded them on.
Hardcastle was a gentle man with the stock, only using the rope when he had to. He had the same way with men, and sometimes new hands mistook his quiet ways for weakness. Invariably such men came to learn they’d made a mistake in judgment, for Martin Hardcastle was easy-going up to a point. He was a slow man to anger, but let a man cross him or try to do him dirt and the fur would fly for fair. With fists or gun, Hardcastle was a formidable opponent, and nobody had ever known him to back off once he’d made a stand.
As he brought the camp into sight, a slim rider left the bunch around the corrals and rode towards him. Even at a quarter of a mile, Hardcastle could see that his brother was in a foul temper. Barlow was lashing his horse with his quirt and using his spurs. The swift approach of the rider caused the little herd to slew aside, but Barlow paid them no heed. He dragged his horse to a tail-sitting stop before his frowning brother, and before Martin could speak, he blurted out:
“Well, they done it—just like I reckoned they would!”
“Who did what?”
“That pair of gun hawks—Benedict and Brazos—they’ve signed on with the Golden Hoof!”
Martin’s scowl went deeper. “You sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure. I bumped into Natty Bumpo up in the hills. He was on his way over here. Kilraine sent him across to tell us that he’d signed them two up, but that we weren’t to take it that he meant to step up the war by it.”
Barlow turned his head and spat. “Not goddamn much!”
“All right, simmer down,” Martin said. “It’s not gonna do us any good gettin’ into a twist about it.”
“Who’s in a twist?” Barlow came back with heavy irony. “Me, I’m happy to sit around and wait until those bastards show up through the tall grass and try to blow our heads off. A man would be six kinds of a fool to get into a twist about somethin’ like that!”
Martin Hardcastle’s eyes left his brother’s pale, set face to roam over the landscape before him. The rancher’s expression was wooden, but anger was beating in his chest. He wanted to believe that the entry of Benedict and Brazos into the lists might be as innocuous as Kilraine had said, but common sense told him otherwise.
“Well, what are we gonna do about it?” Barlow demanded after a long minute’s silence.
Martin Hardcastle brought his anger under control. “We don’t do anything. We’ve got a roundup to finish and that’s what we’re gonna do.”
“Damn it all, Marty, you don’t know—!”
“I told you to simmer down!” Martin snapped. “And this is a warnin’, Barlow. Don’t you go doin’ anythin’ behind my back until I see which way the land is lying. Compre?”
Wariness washed away Barlow Hardcastle’s wrath. “What the hell does that mean? When did I do anything behind your back?”
“I still don’t know who hit the Golden Hoof at Coyote Gulch, Barlow.”
“You reckon I had a hand in that?”
“I reckon—” Martin broke off. He had his suspicions, but because they were no more than that, he was unwilling to put them into words. “Just heed what I say, Bar,” he said in a quieter tone. “Now get around those beeves you scattered and do it quick.”
The boy shot him a hard look, but spurred away after the beeves. Martin watched him with a mixture of affection, doubt and concern. Then he hipped around in the saddle to stare at the range that formed the boundary between the giant spreads. He was thinking now, not of a pair of tall gunfighters, but of a girl with auburn hair and eyes the color of jade.
The cattleman sighed and gigged his horse forward. The evening air was heavy with the smells of dust and cattle and prairie weed. He rode slowly towards the campsite, not conscious that his hand was resting on the butt of his Colt .45. He decided he would order double nighthawks from now on and keep a sharper eye on Barlow.
Chapter Five
Savage Grow the Guns
Four days passed—cold autumn days and colder nights without a shot being fired in the Golden Hoof-Shotgun range war.
The strange peace puzzled the citizens of Sunsmoke. When the town heard the news that Brazos and Benedict were riding with the Kilraine crew, it geared itself up for the worst. The towners were told that the men had supposedly signed on to preserve the peace and not to step up the fighting, but few believed it. But, by the time the four days had gone by without the report of one violent clash between the warring factions, they were beginning to have second thoughts. Doc Gregory, who’d been kept busy patching up wounded cowboys, got his first night of uninterrupted sleep in weeks, and Sheriff Barney Vint was free to go about the business he did best: running in drunks and keeping the jailhouse in order.
For the Shotgun and Golden Hoof ranches, they were days of hard work on the ranges, rounding up cattle and branding them in preparation for the arrival of the beef boats at the end of the month. Except for the gun hands in each crew. They drew their pay for doing nothing more than ride the boundaries.
For Benedict and Brazos they were four days of watchfulness and long hours in the saddle. They were often to be seen riding the borders between Shotgun and Golden Hoof, and they took turns riding nighthawk with the cowhands. Their presence gave confidence to the Golden Hoof work force, which had suffered a loss of morale after the last raid at Coyote Gulch, and it quickly became obvious to all that the trail partners saw themselves in the role of peacekeepers, not aggressors.
Strangely, in this time of peace in a strife-ridden environment, the relationship between the trail partners didn’t run as smoothly as it might have. Something had come between them, and that something was Tracy Kilraine.
Benedict seemed to avoid the girl, frequently choosing to eat with the crew when there was a standing invitation to eat at the house. It was obvious from the start that the girl was deeply interested in Benedict, who had been pursued by enough women to know all the signs. He was flattered, but nothing more. A man of keen intelligence, he sensed something about the girl that disturbed him, a hint of ruthlessness beneath a silky surface that he didn’t care for, though Brazos certainly didn’t seem aware of it. On the few occasions when he found himself with time to think about it, he supposed that it was Brazos’ obvious infatuation for the girl that bothered him most. Benedict didn’t mind scoring points off the big Texan when an opportunity presented itself, but deep down he felt a sense of protectiveness towards the big man when others were involved. He had a premonition that Brazos might get hurt, but whenever he attempted to spell this out tactfully, Brazos showed resentment.
Hank Brazos felt he had good cause. The moment he’d set eyes on Tracy Kilraine, he’d known something had happened to him that had never happened before. He laughed at his own gall in imagining that a girl of her class could be interested in a rough cowboy like himself, but his laughter had a hollow sound. Everything the girl did and said fascinated him, and the awareness that Tracy barely noticed him while she had eyes only for Benedict was like a knife in his insides. There was bitter irony in the situation that disturbed his night hours and put a testy edge to his moods that was foreign to him. Benedict was the one man he had ever come close to calling friend, and Tracy was the first girl he had ever fallen in love with. But the girl was fascinated by Benedict, who ignored her.
For Tracy Kilraine, the situation was more complex than either Brazos or Benedict could have guessed. Her vanity was pampered by the Texan’s attention, and stung by the disinterest of the most handsome man she’d ever
known. Yet, when she was alone and her face wore the look that she never permitted the world to see, Tracy Kilraine didn’t see Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos as attractive men but as potential allies in a war she had to win. Persuading the gunfighters to join Golden Hoof had been the first big step towards the achievement of her secret, dark objective that not even her father knew about. For the time being, Tracy was content to wait, to bide her time until guns thundered again, as she knew they must ...
Tracy played her waiting game and hid her excitement well that fourth night when a lathered rider rode in from the Whetstones to report that the peace had been broken, violently.
Raiders had hit one of the Golden Hoof herds at the Five Mile. Two Golden Hoof men were dead and the rustlers had made off with thirty-five head of cattle.
Starlight lent a ghostly gleam to the red butte. The crimson glow of Benedict’s cigar burnished his face as he drew deep. He turned at the sound of footsteps and Brazos’ bulk emerged from the gloom.
“Mount up, Yank,” Brazos said briskly, striding past him to his appaloosa. “We’ve got some ridin’ to do.”
Benedict stayed where he was. They’d already covered many miles in an abortive attempt to pick up the rustlers’ sign and he’d had his fill of horse work for one night. It was obvious that the raiders who’d hit the Five Mile were expert at their trade and had professionally blotted their tracks. He would be ready to take up the chase at first light, but not before.
“What are you trying to prove?” Benedict asked irritably as Brazos swung up. “You couldn’t find a buffalo herd in country like this by night.”
“Wrong again, Yank,” Brazos said. “Come on, time’s a-wastin’.”
Benedict called after him, but the big man rode out of sight around the butte. Swearing, Benedict untied his black and followed. Some two hundred yards deeper into the broad ravine, Brazos reined in and whistled softly. Benedict heard the pad of paws, and moments later Bullpup trotted into sight. Brazos turned to the frowning Benedict with a broad grin.
“He’s picked up their scent, Yank. Guess you’re gonna have to take a second look at them low opinions you got of old ugly, huh?”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Benedict replied, but without much force. He often said how much he despised Hank Brazos’ hound, but he had a great deal of respect for Bullpup’s trailing skills.
Bullpup started off at a brisk pace and Benedict and Brazos followed. At first the trail was easy, but soon it began to climb sharply and the terrain became a maze of fissures and gulches. Frequently they were obliged to rein in while Bullpup sniffed and hunted around to pick up the scent again, but each time the dog’s sure nose prevailed and led them on.
They’d covered more than a mile before they saw the sign of the cattle ahead. The rustlers had blotted the sign through the rough country, but obviously they’d felt safe once they’d gained this area of gully-slashed high plain. Brazos swung down to study the sign.
“Three of ’em,” he said. “And they ain’t too far off.”
His judgment was proved correct some thirty minutes later, when they heard the lowing of cattle ahead, at the base of a dark ridge. The pair dismounted, drew their Colts and made their way stealthily through mesquite shrub.
The sound of the cattle grew louder. Brazos motioned to Benedict and they dropped to their knees and crawled towards a dark hump of ridge. Soon they were sprawled on the ridge crest, staring down at the cattle gathered in the draw below. Voices drifted up and they were finally able to pick out the forms of two men standing against the backdrop of a cedar stand.
“We’ll take ’em alive if we can,” Brazos breathed, “and the other way if we have to.” His gaze stabbed the gloom. “Where’s that third jasper?”
They saw him moments later, a dim figure moving along the ridge to their left. Brazos came up in a half crouch and moved like an Indian after the shadowy figure, big boots soundless on the soft earth. Then Brazos’ left arm whipped around the man’s neck and his shout of alarm was strangled in his throat. Then a swinging Colt barrel sent him limp. Brazos lowered him to the ground, and was straightening when a sharp voice sounded from below:
“What was that?”
Benedict jumped erect, twin guns in his hands. “Freeze!” he shouted. “Move and you’re dead.”
They moved, running for cover. Benedict’s twin Colts roared and a running figure went down as his legs were blasted from under him. Brazos, running down-slope as the cattle started to stampede, jerked trigger and the second rustler toppled, got up again and sent lead back. Benedict’s Colts spewed fire again. The rustler propped, staggered backwards, reached for air and went down under the hoofs of a wild-eyed steer.
By the time Brazos reached the rustler, he was dead. A grim-faced Benedict checked out his partner and holstered his guns. “Fools!” he said bitterly. “We had them cold and they were too damn stupid to see it!”
Brazos nodded as he struck a match. The two rustlers were strangers. Each had the hardcase look of a badman. Brazos rose and looked at Benedict.
“They’re not Shotgun men,” he grunted. “Leastways I never saw ’em with the Shotgun crowd.”
“Look like professionals to me,” Benedict said. “Let’s take a look at the one up the slope.”
The man was groaning when they reached him. He lay face down. Brazos reached down, seized a handful of the fellow’s jacket and flipped him onto his back.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he breathed.
They were looking into the pale, pain-contorted face of Barlow Hardcastle.
Chapter Six
Time to Take a Drink
Sheriff Barney Vint looked from face to face of the five men standing around his desk—at Barlow Hardcastle’s mean, twisted young face; at Brazos leaning against the rifle rack; at the handsome, impassive Duke Benedict near the open window; at the angry, flushed face of Ethan Kilraine, whose bearing and dignity always filled Vint with something like awe; and finally at the hard, determined face of Martin Hardcastle who was waiting for a response to his declaration that Barney Vint lacked the power to throw his brother into jail. Not looking up, Vint cleared his throat and said, “No, I guess I can’t at that, Martin.”
Barlow Hardcastle looked relieved, but Ethan Kilraine looked even more indignant. Upon his arrival at the office in response to a summons from Benedict and Brazos, who had also sent for Martin Hardcastle, Kilraine had demanded that Barlow be charged with murder and rustling. Two Golden Hoof men had died at the Five Mile last night—and Kilraine wasn’t swallowing Barlow’s story that the two rustlers had been responsible.
The dead men were from Wyoming, a pair of professional cattle thieves named Miller and Monroe. Barlow had revealed that he had met the pair by accident in the Whetstones three weeks earlier, and without Martin’s knowledge had set out to use them to weaken and harass the Golden Hoof. Barlow had admitted sneeringly that Miller and Monroe, along with five others who had since drifted back to Wyoming with the stolen cattle, had been responsible also for the brutal attack on the hands at Coyote Gulch several days earlier. His insistence that he had played no direct part in the murderous business was supported by Martin, who’d been with his brother in town that particular night.
On the surface, it might have appeared a cut-and-dried case. Barlow had ridden with the rustlers last night; two men had died at the Five Mile; Monroe and Miller had been shot down in the Whetstones by Benedict and Brazos; Barlow had been taken prisoner and admitted his involvement. Theft and complicity in murder would fetch a man the rope just about anywhere.
But this wasn’t an ordinary town, and Box Butte County was certainly no normal stretch of cattle country. The Golden Hoof and Shotgun were at war. Range war makes its own rules, and the rules in the Golden Hoof-Shotgun conflict had been laid down early: hit or get hit. Five Golden Hoof men had died within a week, and two weeks earlier a Golden Hoof force led by Lothar Redford and Erskine Getty had surprised some Shotgun men hunting wild horses in the
mountains at Redskin Pass and had killed four from ambush. The sheriff hadn’t arrested anybody then, as Martin Hardcastle had pointed out, so how could he feel justified in jailing Barlow?
It was hard, but it was logical. A stronger, more determined peace officer might have stopped the range war soon after it started, but Barney Vint was neither strong nor particularly determined. Now the trouble, had reached the point where no single man could end it.
Vint tried to explain his feelings to Ethan Kilraine. “You can’t make fish of one and fowl of another. What Barlow did last night was bad, real bad. But how can I take action against him when you’ve got boys at the Golden Hoof with blood on their hands?”
“You might think back to who started this dirty business, Sheriff Vint,” Kilraine replied. He jabbed an accusing finger at Martin Hardcastle. “These thieves lifted stock from my land, and when faced with their guilt by my riders, they opened fire. It began right there.”
“I’ve told you countless times, Kilraine,” Martin Hardcastle rapped out, “we knew nothin’ about those beeves of yours you found on the Shotgun.”
“Liar!”
“You gonna take that, Marty?” Barlow flared. “I wouldn’t swallow it,” he added venomously.
“Why don’t you shut your flappin’ mouth, kid?”
They turned to Hank Brazos. Brazos, kneeling now, was scratching Bullpup’s ears. The big Texan’s eyes were as hard as the bore of a rifle barrel. He said, “I’m just about up to here with that damned voice of yours.”
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