by J. T. Edson
Then a thought struck Donglar. A part of the plan to make trouble around Backsight had already been commenced from the ranch. Maybe he should send word to the sisters to call a halt to their part until he removed the menace of the Texans. He decided to wait until after settling his affairs at the saloon. Some of the Whangdoodle crew might be into town that night and he could pass word by one of them rather than chance going out to the house himself.
“What do you make of them?” Mark asked as they walked towards the Bismai.
“Same as you. They’re not the sort of hands you see in a small town saloon. If this was a trail-end or mining town, I’d know the kind of place to expect just by looking at them.”
“And Baxter?”
“He’s smooth; and dangerous. Could be one of those trouble-shooter house bosses some of the breweries and distilleries put in their places when they open up in a new town. You know, handle the local opposition.”
Mark nodded. “I know what you mean. In that case, he’d bring in a hard bunch to back him. What do you aim to do about them?”
“There’s not much I can do,” Dusty admitted. “I’ll watch them, check their games are honest, make sure they give the local hands a fair deal.” He looked at the darkening skies. “There’s a storm brewing. Let’s hope it’s just the weather.”
Chapter Eleven – There’s Nothing Worse Than A Cow Thief
FOR THREE DAYS the storm Dusty predicted swept across the Backsight ranges, alternating with driving rain and almost confining the entire district to its homes. So bad had the weather been, that it prevented Doc Leroy from riding into Backsight to join Dusty and Mark. When at last the rains ended, Doc offered his services to his host who needed every available hand to check on and attend to the storm damage.
Being new to the Backsight area, Doc rode with one of the local hands, a cheerful youngster called Flit. Although he had come West with the Raines wagon-train, Flit now knew a fair amount about cowhand work and was at home on the rolling Arizona range. Both Doc and Flit knew what to look for and the youngster possessed the necessary local knowledge to take them to the places where their services might be most needed.
The two cowhands made their way steadily towards the north-west in search of cattle which might have found themselves in difficulties after the storm. Knowing the area, Flit insisted that they would find the bulk of the stock in an area known as the bottoms, a sheltered spot ideally suited to offering protection from the elements.
“It’s up on our line and where the Swinging L and Larsen’s L over S come together,” Flit explained. “I bet the bottoms are just crawling with cattle from all three spreads, and a few strayed over from Terry Ortega’s place.”
“That’ll be where we start then,” Doc answered. “Unless we find anything before we get there.”
Which they did. On two occasions Doc and Flit had to halt in their passage and haul cattle out of mud-holes into which the animals strayed.
“If there’s one thing I love more’n herding sheep,” Flit stated as they rode away from the second belligerent animal rescued, “it’s hauling cows out of sticky mud.”
“They do say that good, healthy exercise keeps a man young,” Doc replied.
“I’d rather be all old and ornery,” sniffed Flit. “Thing I like about mud-hauling most is how them poor, dear lil cows run up to a man all full of gratitude at being saved. Why they get so plumb grateful that they’re like to run all over you just to show it.” Thinking of how he had been forced to make a flying mount over the rump of his horse to avoid the charge of the first cow rescued, he went on, “I tell you, Doc, them longhorns’re the most ornery, cross-grained—”
“We started the breed down in Texas,” Doc reminded Flit, overlooking that the Texans adopted the longhorned descendants of stock brought over by the early Spanish Conquistadores.
“Yeah,” Flit sniffed. “Anybody can tell that. Mean as hell, all lean and too tough to eat, no use for the meat except maybe to shoe boots with. Them Texas longhorns ain’t got a single good thing you can say about ’em.”
“Horns make a pretty fair wall decoration,” Doc pointed out.
In addition to their many bad points, the longhorn cattle possessed one virtue. They could live off the country with the ease of wild animals and did not need the constant supervision more docile and edible breeds demanded. When storms raged, be it slashing south country rain or raging north range snow, the longhorn would survive given anything like a reasonable chance of finding cover; although the longhorn could sometimes show a lack of wisdom in selecting a spot to wait out a storm. At one place Doc and Flit found that a small bunch of rain-blinded cattle had strayed into a dry-wash which became a raging stream of rushing muddy water. Following along the edge of the wash, the cowhands saw bodies lying in the mud along its bottom.
“Could be worse,” Doc remarked as they rode away.
“It’s bad enough though,” Flit answered.
After covering another two miles, they met up with a pair of riders from Major Leyland’s Swinging L ranch who were also on their way to the bottoms.
“This’s Jervis and Sid,” Flit introduced, indicating first the medium-sized middle-aged man then the taller youngster. “They can’t help not riding for the best spread in the county. Meet Doc Leroy, boys.”
“Never thought I’d see you riding for an outfit like the Bradded R, Doc,” Jervis commented, extending his hand.
“Somebody has to show them how it’s done,” Doc explained.
While continuing their ride towards the bottoms, Doc studied his companions and listened to the flow of banter among them. Every cowhand worth his salt felt pride and loyalty to his outfit, being ready, willing and able to uphold his claim that it was the best at everything. Under the flow of abuse Doc detected a friendly rivalry but nothing more. The friendly atmosphere continued until the quartet came into sight of the bottoms, a valley with sloping, wooded slopes which acted as a rain-brake. Due to its winding course, the bottoms offered shelter from the worst of the storm and numbers of cattle appeared to have taken advantage of it. Before the riders could go into the bottoms, they saw two more men approaching.
“Adcock and Mitch from Larsen’s,” Flit remarked.
“They do say you can meet up with such nice folks in this sort of country,” Jervis said dryly.
“They say wrong,” grunted Sid, then lifted a hand in a welcome greeting. “Howdy, Mitch.”
Studying the reactions to the approaching pair, Doc concluded that it was not Mitch who caused the comments and change in friendly atmosphere. Turning his eyes from the slim youngster, Doc gave Adcock his attention. Tall, burly, sullen-faced, Adcock struck Doc as being a typical bunkhouse bully, Adcock wore dandy, if cheap, clothes and sported a low hanging Colt from which his hand rarely strayed; this combined with an air of truculence intended to make folks look on him as an all-fired hard case.
“All right, Mitch,” Adcock said, ignoring the others. “Let’s go down and chase the culls from among our stuff.”
“There’s too much for us to handle,” Mitch replied. “And most of it’ll belong to Swinging L and Bradded R.”
“Sure. You bunch’d better come cut your’n out and get it off our land.”
Doc sensed the hostility around him at the words. No fences separated the different ranches, and their cattle roamed at will. For maintenance purposes the ranch owners adopted arbitrary boundaries, mostly following some natural line such as a river or hill range, but nothing prevented the cattle from one ranch crossing on to another. From what Flit had told on the way out, the bottoms tended to be in the nature of a no-man’s land on the borders of all three spreads and so ideal as a storm protection zone that none of the owners claimed it. Adcock’s words struck a sour note in assuming that the bottoms lay on L over S property.
Another possible cause of trouble sprang to Doc’s mind, one which might take on serious proportions in view of Adcock’s statement. No matter how thoroughly a round-up crew worked at clearing a ra
nge, some cattle always slipped the net and avoided the ownership-marking burn of a branding iron. Being gregarious creatures by nature, the unbranded animals soon rejoined others of their kind; but were different in that the first man to catch them could apply his ranch’s mark and claim them for his own. Any loyal cowhand could be expected to brand any such unclaimed cattle that he found. With three outfits present, the ownership of the unbranded animals might cause dissension, especially with a man like Adcock around.
“What’ll we do with any unbranded stuff?” asked Doc. “I reckon it’s best we decide now.”
“This’s our land. They’re ours,” Adcock replied.
“I’ve never heard that the bottoms was on L over S,” Flit stated.
“You wouldn’t be calling me a liar, now would you, boy?” growled Adcock. “’Cause I wouldn’t like that if you did.”
“Way I heard it,” Doc put in. “This’s all open range.”
“I don’t see how you figure in this,” Adcock answered, rounding on Doc.
“I’m staying at the Bradded R. The name’s Leroy, folks call me Doc.”
“You work for the Wedge?”
“I did once. Now I’m with O.D. Connected.”
For a moment Adcock made no answer, but studied Doc carefully and with considerable attention to the way he wore his gun. Doc had on a short coat, its right side stitched back to leave a clear way to his Colt and the gun hung just right for a swift withdrawal. Pallid and studious-looking Doc might be, but Adcock did not doubt his claim. The Wedge had become famous for their ability to drive trail herds through dangerous country, often with their gun-savvy to cut a path, and the O.D. Connected acknowledged no superiors in salty, controlled toughness. From all the stories passed around, Doc Leroy could stand up on his own feet in both the tough outfits.
“What do you reckon we should do?” Adcock finally inquired, trying to keep his voice hard.
“How’d you see it, Jervis?” Doc countered.
“Share ’em three ways and any over we chase off and good luck to the man who comes on ’em next,” the elder Swinging L hand replied.
“I’ll go along with it,” Doc drawled. “How about you, Flit?”
“That’s three of us voted ‘yes,’” Flit replied.
“I’m making it four,” Sid remarked.
“Can’t say I agree,” Adcock said.
“You, Mitch?” asked Doc.
While Mitch agreed with the majority, he had to share the bunkhouse with Adcock and knew the other’s way with folks who riled him. So Mitch cast his vote along with his fellow-worker.
“That’s four for it, two against,” Doc declared. “Majority rules in this great democratic land of ours.”
“Arizona’s Republican,” Adcock pointed out.
“We all try to forget that,” Doc answered. “Even shares and all that we can’t split three ways get scattered back into the wild country. Let’s go.”
Adcock opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again as he saw the others put up a solid front against him. Given a rough-house fist fight, he could take any of the quartet individually, but on so important a matter fists would not be the answer.
Swinging along the upper rim of the bottoms for some distance, the men finally turned and rode down to form a line across the valley. At a signal from Doc, they rode forward and started to ease the cattle ahead of them. Skilled riding kept the cattle moving and frustrated attempts to cut back through the timber. Towards midday the six riders had pushed all the cattle—except the inevitable few which slipped back and escaped—out of the bottoms and on to open land. The men decided to rest their horses before beginning the task of cutting their own stuff out of the gather.
After an hour’s rest, Doc and the others resaddled their horses and went to work. For a time nothing happened, other than the decrease of the main gather and growing of four separate groups of cattle. Adcock and Doc worked among the main gather, selecting animals and hazing them towards the group which held the brand the particular creature bore. All stock carrying non-local brands, or without brands, went into the fourth bunch.
Suddenly Adcock jerked free his rope and flipped it over a cow’s head. He rode closer, glared at her brand, then turned and waved to Doc.
“Just come and look at this,” he said and raised his voice. “Mitch, come on over here.”
Something in the sound of Adcock’s voice brought all the others riding towards him. A flush of anger reddened Adcock’s cheeks as he pointed to the animal’s side. The others followed the direction indicated and all recognized what they saw. Burned on the cow’s flank was an L over S brand with a line through it and just in front a Swinging L indicating that Leyland’s ranch lay claim to the animal.
“The L over S’s been vented,” Doc remarked, but he knew something to be wrong.
A vent line burned through a brand meant that the animal so treated had either been wrongly marked at a round-up or changed hands since—provided both parties involved agreed to having the vent applied.
“And it’s been done recent,” Adcock answered. “A damned sight after the brand was put on.”
Clearly the L over S had been applied at an earlier date than the vent brand, its scar-tissue showed that.
“Likely,” Doc admitted.
“Anybody can see it has!” Adcock spat out. “There’s nothing worse’n a cow thief.”
“Just what’re you meaning?” Jervis asked, moving his horse forward.
“Only what it looks like,” Adcock replied. “We sure as hell didn’t change that brand, no stranger’d profit by doing it neither—and your spread has that Army contract.”
“That’s still sticking in your craw, ain’t it?” Jervis growled. “It’s been running a burr down you L over S yahoos’ hides ever since we got it. I hate to hear loser’s music.”
“And I hate a stinking cow thief!” Adcock snarled back.
“Hold it!” Doc ordered.
On the words, his right hand made a sight-defying flicker and the ivory-handled Colt appeared to meet it in mid-air, its cocking click bringing a halt to all hostile movement—and only just in time. Jervis and Sid had come together and were reaching for their guns. While Mitch disliked Adcock, he hated cow thieves and stood ready to back the other member of his ranch if such became the issue.
“Who’s asking you to bill in?” Adcock demanded, staring at the gun Doc held.
“Figure this’s between us and them,” Jervis went on truculently, but without trying to reach his gun.
“If there’s one thing I hate, it’s digging lead out of fool bodies,” Doc explained. “And as I’m here and the nearest regular doctor’s in town, I know who’ll get the chore happen you fools cut loose—so you keep them in leather where they do no harm.”
“You siding—” Adcock began.
“I’m telling all of you there’ll be no fuss,” Doc interrupted. “Ride behind them and take their guns, Flit.”
“Nobody takes my gun!” Adcock warned.
“You want to bet?” asked Flit, riding forward to obey Doc’s orders.
Although primed to resist, at the last moment Adcock lacked the cold nerve to call Doc’s bet. One look warned him that the slim Texan aimed to back any play to the hilt. During the days when Doc worked as deputy under Dusty Fog in Quiet Town, he learned certain rules and put one into practice at that moment. “Take the man out who’s starting the trouble.” Dusty always advised for dealing with such a situation and experience had taught Doc that the Rio Hondo gun-wizard gave sound counsel. Adcock showed signs of being the biggest single cause of trouble and so Doc made him the prime target.
Acting as if he had been trained for such work, Flit cut in behind Adcock and removed the man’s Colt. Still keeping out of Doc’s line of fire, the Bradded R hand completed the disarming of the remaining trio and returned to the Texan’s side with four guns in his hand.
“What’s next, Doc?” the youngster asked.
“We’ll cut the rema
inder of the gather and see if there are any more vented critters among them,” Doc replied, then turned his attention to the others. “The first man to make trouble gets shot.”
“And leave us not forget that ole Doc here’s the only one present as knows how to dig out a bullet after he’s put it in,” Flit continued cheerfully. “So anybody he shoots is in one hell of a fix.”
Throwing hostile glares at each other, the men obeyed Doc’s order to start cutting the remainder of the gather. The cattle already separated were ignored as the riders went into action. Over a hundred and fifty head remained to be checked. With the discovery of each vent-branded animal Adcock grew more truculent and Mitch lost his easy geniality. One cow carrying the vent brand might have been overlooked, but not ten and more.
“Twenty-five!” Adcock hissed as they finished cutting the gather. “Not counting any that got pushed out without being shown.”
“What’s that mean?” Jervis barked, puzzled at the development but loyal enough to believe that his spread could not be in the wrong. He also disliked the implied slur on his personal integrity.
“Drop it!” Doc ordered. “This whole damned affair doesn’t sit right by me.”
“Cow thieves never have with me,” Adcock answered.
“Sit still, Jervis!” Doc snapped, fingers spread over the butt of his Colt. Only in time did he give the order for Jervis reached down towards his rifle. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on here, but starting shooting won’t answer it. Mitch, head for the L over S and tell your boss to come into town, Jervis, you ride in and pass world for Major Leyland to meet Larsen at the marshal’s office. Flit, finish off here and tell Colonel Raines what’s happened and that I’ve take the vented stuff into town with these two gents.”
“I’ll go tell the boss,” Adcock said.
“I said Mitch,” Doc replied. “You’ll come to town with me.
Flit grinned as he saw the wisdom of Doc’s decision. If Adcock went to the ranch, he might stir up the other hands. Mitch and Sid tended to be steadier, more easy-going and less likely to make trouble. The way Doc arranged things, Adcock and Jervis—-the two most likely to start a fuss—would be separated.
