by Frank Bonham
TROUBLE AT
TEMESCAL
A WESTERN DUO
FRANK BONHAM
edited by
BILL PRONZINI
© 1951 by Popular Publications, Inc. © renewed 1979 by Frank Bonham.
© 2010 by David Bonham for restored material. © 2010 by David Bonham
Foreword © 2010 by Bill Pronzini
E-book published in 2018 by Blackstone Publishing
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-4708-6176-6
Library e-book ISBN 978-1-4708-6175-9
Fiction / Westerns
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress
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Foreword
by Bill Pronzini
During the 1940s, Frank Bonham wrote scores of novelettes and short stories for such Western and adventure pulp magazines as Dime Western, Ace-High Western, Lariat, Blue Book, and Action Stories. His output of short fiction substantially declined in the early 1950s, as the pulp markets dwindled and his focus shifted to longer works. “Trouble at Temescal” (Argosy, 11/51), was one of only six stories to appear under his byline in 1951, and his last piece of magazine fiction was published the following year. From then on he devoted himself exclusively to Western, mystery, and young adult novels.
Set in the pueblo of Los Angeles in the days following the Mexican-American War, “Trouble at Temescal” tells the tale of two entrepreneurial mustangers, Hank Ashwood and Red Wolfe, who have driven a herd of horses from New Mexico to California for resale. Their efforts to sell the animals to one of the Mexican hacendados—Dona Julia de la Torre, owner of Rancho Temescal—are hampered by a scabrous group of squatters led by Owen Pike, bent on claiming rights to her land. Racially biased ownership laws, the actions of a hot-tempered neighbor, Ramon Calder, Ashwood’s growing love for Julia, and his partner’s unexpected duplicity provide additional complications. As with all of Bonham’s Western and historical fiction, the historical period and background are accurately and colorfully depicted, and there is excitement aplenty throughout.
A total of seventeen Western novels appeared under the Bonham byline between 1948 and 1980, outstanding among them such titles as Snaketrack, Blood on the Land, Night Raid, Hardrock, and Logan’s Choice. (His last novel, Eye of the Hunter, was published posthumously in 1989.) Action, suspense, deftly developed characters, and a fine sense of time and place are the hallmarks of each of these works. King of the Defiances is the restored version of an original paperback novel by Frank Bonham, first published in 1956 and appearing in this form for the first time. It is the story of Big Jim Jackson, former boss of the range in the Defiance Mountains who was driven out after his twenty-year government lease expired and who intends to return to make a new fortune by logging off the best railroad-tie timber in Arizona; and of former man hunter Troy Cameron, the leader of a group of small cattle ranchers who stand in Jackson’s way. Through devious means, Jackson now holds notes on the ranchers’ land and plans to foreclose if the notes aren’t met on time. And he has a hired crew of gun hands ready to use force against anyone who resists. With all of this power behind him, Jackson is confident he’ll have little trouble once again crowning himself King Defiance. But he doesn’t reckon on the determination of Cameron, a man whose fighting spirit makes him a fearsome adversary.
Trouble at Temescal
I
Beyond the meadow he could see a vineyard, and beyond the vineyard the huge adobe building with sheds and outer houses huddled like hawk-frightened chicks around a hen. The lacy, round heads of peppertrees made shade everywhere.
“What they call a hacienda, I reckon,” Hank Ashwood said. He whittled shavings for a fire, his big, horseman’s hands easy and familiar with the Green River knife stroking off the long, even curls of wood.
From the gully beside their horse camp, Red Wolfe came swinging into view with the dripping water bags bearing him down. He poured some water into the Dutch oven and began crumbling jerky into it. “We sure come to the right place, Hank. There’s money in this outfit. I hear these California hacendados are crazy for a blond, whether it’s a horse or a woman. I’m telling you what’s the truth. We’ll sell these yella horses at a hundred a head.”
“I’d feel surer of it if they were blond women,” Hank Ashwood said.
Chain-hobbled, the horse herd grazed tranquilly. Aside from the need for currying, they looked good—ex-army mounts, most of them, bought cheaply in New Mexico and trailed to the pueblo of Los Angeles for resale.
Red threw a handful of dried vegetables into the kettle. He was a stretchy, middle-size man of twenty-five who could never sit easy; he had to be busy all the time. Around a horse camp it came in handy. He took a deep breath. “Smoke yonder must be the town. Real hell roarer, what I heard.” The thin dusting of freckles spread across his face with a quick smile. “You know what I’m going to do with my cut of these here plugs?”
“Blow it on craps, women, and whiskey … in two days. After five months on the trail.”
Hank spoke gruffly and gave the stew a stir. But he smiled a little in his whisker stubble. Red would do all right. A mite wild, maybe, but his red head was screwed on tightly enough when it counted. They had met in Santa Fe, when Hank was just out of the army and Red was on the loose from some moneymaking project or another that hadn’t paid off—Hank had never learned just what. Some horse talk over a bottle of whiskey had made them friends; Red knew his way around, and Hank had some back pay and poker winnings burning in his pocket. So they became partners. They finished the bottle and shook hands and went out to look over the army mounts. Five months had brought them this far along the trail, and about as close as two men can get.
From his possible sack Red had produced a steel mirror and was looking himself over. He bared his teeth and fingered a knife scar on his cheek bone. “Buddy, I’ll strike a hard bargain with the señoritas hereabouts. They’ll know how Red Wolfe likes his bacon before I leave. How ’bout you? What you figuring to do with your cut?”
“I’ll find something,” Hank said.
When the fire was going well, the smoke seemed to release something in both of them. They stood, watching the sunset fume along the horizon, until Red noticed a covey of blackbirds strutting on the cropped grass a hundred feet away. Abruptly he drew his Colt and fired into their midst. One of them exploded into feathers as the rest scurried off.
“What the hell was that for?” Hank said.
Red grinned devilishly at the smoking pistol as he said: “Ain’t you ever felt that way? So full of vinegar you could bust? Man, what are you … a gelding or something?”
Hank smiled, but he pointed out across the gullied pasture. “If the people in that castle ain’t used to gringos, they’ll be putting furniture in front of the doors tonight.”
“They ought to be used to ’em. If they ain’t, they’ll know about Yankees before we leave.”
A few minutes later they heard the horseman coming across the field from the buildings. It was now late dusk, and the windows of the ranch house were orange with lamplight. There were the sounds of cows lowing to be milked, of sheep, and the family sounds of chickens going to roost. The fragrance of wood smoke and food drifted past Hank Ashwood’s nose. He would always think of charcoal fumes and frying chilies when he thought of Mexicans.
Red was shaving cake
coffee into their cups, listening to the oncoming hoofbeats. His face gleamed with wicked expectancy.
Hank poured hot water. “Listen, kid,” he said mildly, “don’t forget we’re in somebody else’s town, now. Have your fun, but remember you’re a guest.”
Red snorted. “The hell you say! This is California, ain’t it? And California’s a state of the Union now, ain’t it? We licked them Mexes for fair. They get off the sidewalks for us.”
“If it comes to that. But it don’t have to come to it. These people were here a couple of hundred years before us. They never made trouble. Now there’s plenty of the kind of woman you’re looking for, and plenty of places to raise hell, without riling up the decent folks …”
“What the hell’s gone and got into you?” Red stared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a preacher? Why, hellfire, man, we could have had chapel every night.”
“For a fella your size that’s a lot of mouth you’re flapping …”
Red came up quickly, swirling the coffee in his cup, staring with open hostility. Across the fire from him Hank got to his feet, not quite casually. “It’s this way,” he told the redhead. “We want some money out of these horses. We won’t get it by going on the butt with our customers.” His square, dark face said he was offering an explanation, nothing else.
After a moment, Red grunted. “Now, that makes sense.”
They were sitting on the ground with their pie pans in their laps, eating half-cooked stew, when the horseman arrived.
He came like a flourish of trumpets. Loping his horse directly into the camp, he put it to a plowing halt on its hind legs and then, with a lift of his reins, hauled it over to the fire. Hank stared, not alarmed, just amazed. The man handled the magnificent horse like a god. He was a young Mexican with coppery skin.
He was furious. Hank was glad the Green River knife rested on his plate.
The Mexican said: “Buenas noches, caballeros.”
“Hi, Mex,” Red said. He speared a bit of meat and took it in his teeth.
The face of the Mexican worked. He was blue eyed, so Hank guessed him to be of Spanish blood. Whatever his blood, it was boiling.
Hank said gravely: “¡A sus órdenes, amigo!”
The courtesy tamed the man a little. He addressed his next remark to Hank. “¿Habéis tirado una pistola?”
“Yeah, we shot a gun,” Red said.
“¿Porqué?”
“Porqué you no speak English, if you understand it?” Red demanded.
Still speaking Spanish the man said: “I understand English, but I speak my own tongue. That is all right?”
“Sure. You talk spik. We talk English.”
Hank set his plate down and stood up, wiping his knife with two fingers. “Señor,” he said, “we’re mustangers. We come a long way today and we’re plumb glad to get here. My partner took a shot at a bird, just because he felt good. I felt the same way, but I just grinned. The shot didn’t mean any more than my grin. Only you heard it.”
“Yes,” the Mexican said. “We did.”
Red walked around, looking at the horse. “You the boss man? You look too green to boss much of anything.”
He was grinning a little, but Hank knew that American humor was not Mexican humor. The Californian’s anger was rising like the neck feathers of a fighting cock as he stiffly watched Red circle the horse.
“I am Ramon Calder. This is Rancho Temescal, the de la Torre Ranch. I am a neighbor of the owner.”
“Who’s the owner, Ray?”
“Dona Julia de la Torre.”
Red gave him that brash grin. “Prob’ly call her Julie, where we come from. How old is she?”
“Old enough to hate gringos,” snapped the Mexican.
Red frowned. “Maybe we ought to drop around and show this lady how lovable we are.”
Hank said quickly: “Cut it out, Red. Señor Calder, all we want is pasturage for some horses until we sell them. We figured to pay our respects to the patrón and find out if we could leave them here.”
“You figured,” the Californian said, “to squat here until you could claim the land. Like the others in Pike’s company.”
“Pike? Who’s Pike?”
Calder repeated softly: “Who is Pike!” He laughed without humor.
Red’s back stiffened.
Having stood between them long enough, Hank Ashwood was now tired of it. He liked fun; he didn’t mind fighting. But he didn’t like sarcasm.
“Calder,” he declared, “we don’t know Pike, and Pike don’t know us. I said we were mustangers, and that’s the story on us. They call me Hank Ashwood. This is my partner, Red Wolfe. We’ll be over to say howdy after we’ve eaten. Tell the lady we’re sorry about the shot. We don’t know this fella, Pike, and we don’t aim to squat. Will you tell her that?”
“No,” Ramon Calder said. “I will tell her that Pike has sent two more squatters in. But that I ran them off.”
“Well, listen to the boy.” Red took a twist of tobacco from his hip pocket and broke off a chew with his teeth. He began to work it up. “Calder …,” he said, “Ramon Calder. Got a gringo daddy, eh? Reckon that would make you kind of a half-breed, eh?”
There was a pistol at Calder’s hip that Hank had not noticed. He saw it now, gleaming in the firelight, rising from the far side of the horse as the Mexican threw down on Red.
Red’s gun was holstered at his feet, lying beside his saddle. He dropped to his knees and clawed at the gun. Hank’s hand and wrist rolled in a blur of fluid movement. The knife turned lazily in the air and hit Calder’s wrist with such force that the pistol was jarred from his grasp. It fell into the grass.
Calder stared at his arm. The point of the knife had gone in crookedly, tearing the shirt, ripping his flesh. As the blade fell to the ground, blood flooded his sleeve.
Red had kept moving. He was across the fire, leaping at Calder, pulling him to the ground. He had pumped four blows into Calder’s face before Hank dragged him off, dominating him by sheer fury.
“You hard-mouthed little pint of willow juice! Why didn’t I let you have it? We could have made a friend out of this boy, maybe, but now you …” He shook his partner savagely.
Red twisted away. “He threw down on me, didn’t he?”
“After you called him a ’breed.” Hank turned to stare down at the Mexican. The boy was stunned, and was bleeding steadily.
With a clean bandanna, Hank bound the injured wrist. “I’m sorry about this,” he said.
But the Mexican’s eyes remained stony. He did not say another word. When he finally left, he did not return to the rancho headquarters but quartered off northeast, toward his own ranch.
Red found a bottle of wine that he had acquired at a mission the day before. He lay back on his blankets and tilted the bottle to his lips.
“I’ll buy him a drink in town,” he offered, grinning. “Hell, we’ll make a Christian out of that kid yet.”
“The less we have to do with that fire-eater,” said Hank, “the better off everybody’s going to be. If they’re all as touchy as this one, we’re going to have to go in with our hats in our hands before we get rid of these horses.”
II
In the morning, a man from the ranch house rode to the horse camp. “Juan Soto, mayordomo of this ranch,” he introduced himself. “At your orders, señors.” He was slender and dark, with leathery skin and a gray mustache, an old but a vigorous man.
“Glad to know you,” Hank said. “Young Calder tell you what we wanted?”
“You desire pasturage, as I understand. La patronacita will have to decide. Will you come to the casa?”
They rode through the vineyards. La patronacita—the little boss. It was intriguing, and Hank wondered how she would look. Probably seventy-five, and would have wooden pegs for teeth. Soto led them into the court
yard. Two women stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching them.
Directly in front of them, as they rode through the gate, was the two-story wall of the main building. A gallery ran along the full length of the upper floor. Vines trailed along the spidery woodwork, and behind it, standing in the sunlight, a girl was stroking her hair with a silver brush. Seeing them, she stood poised with the brush to her hair.
He would always remember her that way, Hank knew. When he thought of the Pueblo of Los Angeles, he would think of a girl on a balcony, brushing her black hair with a silver brush. In her vivid features was the same pride Ramon had thrust at them.
Even after she had called down, “¡Momentito!” Hank sat, staring.
Red caught his glance. “By godlins! Now there’s a Mex filly I wouldn’t mind putting my brand on.” Soto growled something to the boys who came to take their horses. They walked toward the big, nail-studded front door. Walking slowly, a lanky-boned man with unkempt dark hair, his sleeves too short, and his face unshaven, Hank felt like a peddler about to invade a forbidden parlor.
Soto took them to the parlor. The furniture was heavy, homemade stuff, but handsome. The floor was red tile, patterned with hides.
The girl came down the stairs into the hall and entered the room. The tapping of her heels was light and feminine and throat tightening. Both men bounced up.
“Los americanos, señorita,” Soto announced. “They would like to arrange for pasturage.”
She met them without a smile. “Bienvenidos, caballeros.” She was tiny, olive skinned, and slender, with eyes like black velvet. Her lips were very bright. She wore a high-necked gown of pale green merino whose lowest hoop just brushed the floor.
And watching her move toward a chair, Hank decided his first impression in the courtyard had been right. She was the loveliest woman he had ever seen.
He started to sit down again, but she raised a slim hand toward him in a motion of annoyance and alarm.
