By late afternoon, the fence was finished. Archibald told a couple of the men to stay there and patrol the length of it until he got back to headquarters and sent some relief out to them. Then he said, “Creel, you and Morton load up the wire that’s left and take the wagon back.”
Bo looked up at the segundo, who was mounted again, and said, “Listen, Joe, did the boss set this up just to get Ridley’s goat?”
Archibald frowned at him. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“I thought Big John and Ridley had agreed about putting up a fence and where it was supposed to be.”
“It’s supposed to be right here where it is. If you got a problem with that, Creel, maybe you better draw your time and ride on.”
“Now, hold on,” Scratch said. “We don’t want to go jumpin’ to no conclusions such as that. I reckon Bo was just a mite curious, that’s all.”
“It don’t pay to be curious when you ain’t in charge of anything.” Archibald wheeled his horse. “Get that wagon back to the ranch before dark!”
He and the others rode away, including the two men who would ride along the fence line to guard it, leaving Bo and Scratch to finish loading the wagon.
“Who put a burr under your saddle?” Scratch asked as he shrugged into his shirt and started to button it. “I’m usually the hotheaded one who goes off half-cocked and gets us into trouble.”
“I don’t know,” Bo replied with a shake of his head. “I’ve just got a feeling that something’s not right here. Like maybe Big John’s just using us.”
“Well, of course he’s usin’ us. He’s payin’ our wages, ain’t he?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“When you figure out what you do mean, be sure and let me know. In the meantime, try actin’ more like the Bo Creel I been ridin’ with for all these many years, and not like me.”
Bo managed a grin. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want that.”
They threw a partially used roll of wire into the back of the wagon, along with a small stack of fence posts they’d wound up not needing. Then they climbed onto the seat and Bo took up the reins, slapping them against the backs of the two horses hitched to the wagon. The team started toward Circle JP headquarters in a plodding walk.
The sun was almost down when the wagon rolled up to the largest of the three barns scattered around the ranch. An elderly cowhand who was too stove up to ride the range anymore came out and took charge of the team. Bo and Scratch climbed down from the seat, and Scratch started toward the bunkhouse, going several yards before he realized that Bo wasn’t with him.
Frowning, Scratch turned and saw that Bo was striding resolutely toward the sprawling, two-story, whitewashed house where Big John Peeler lived. Scratch hurried after him and caught up.
“Bo, what are you thinkin’ about doin’ now?”
“I want to ask the boss a question, that’s all.”
“About that blasted fence? Let it go, Bo. It ain’t like you to stir up a hornets’ nest.”
“If I’m going to risk getting killed, I want to know what for.”
“Nobody got killed,” Scratch pointed out. “Wasn’t even any gunshots.”
“What about the next time some Circle JP riders wind up facing Snake Track men across that barbed wire? What do you think is going to happen then?”
“I don’t know,” Scratch replied honestly. “Could be trouble.”
“That’s right.”
They had reached the steps leading up to the wide verandah that ran along the front of the house. Peeler must have seen them coming from inside, because the door opened and he stepped out to meet them.
“Howdy, Creel. Morton. Joe tells me you got that fence put up, with a little help.”
Big John Peeler lived up to his name. He stood a couple of inches over six feet, and with his barrel chest and his thick gut, weighed well over two hundred pounds. He was about fifty years old and had been in this part of the country for almost thirty years. His squarish head and rugged face looked like they had been chiseled out of a chunk of granite.
“Did Joe tell you we almost got in a shootout with Case Ridley and three of his men?” Bo asked.
Peeler nodded. “He mentioned it.” A grin spread across his face. “I sure would’ve liked to have been there when Ridley had to take water and run.” Big John slapped a hamlike hand against his thigh in amusement. “Mighty funny, and the joke’s all on him!”
“Because that fence really is in the wrong place, isn’t it?”
Peeler sobered and frowned at Bo. “What do you mean by that?”
“You’re trying to put one over on Ridley by taking more range than you agreed to. You figure once the fence is there and you have men patrolling it, there won’t be anything Ridley can do about it.”
“That’s not any of your business, Creel. You just do what you’re told and don’t worry about anything else.” Peeler snorted in disgust. “Hell, you’re lucky that I gave a couple of broken-down old saddle tramps like you and your friend any kind of job at all. If you don’t like what you’ve been doing, you can help old Jonas muck out the stables, by God! See if you like shoveling horse shit better.”
“Now wait a minute, boss—” Scratch began.
“Wait a minute, hell! I’m not used to anybody questioning what I do, and I’m sure not gonna take it from some crazy old codger.”
“I’m not that much older than you,” Bo said, tight-lipped.
“Well, maybe it’s not the years so much as it is the miles.” Peeler waved a hand. “You two get out of my sight. You can spend the next few days working in the barns with Jonas. It’s probably all you’re good for, anyway.”
Scratch had had just about enough of being talked to like that. He put a foot on the bottom step and said, “Now look here—”
Bo stopped him by taking hold of his arm. “Let it go, Scratch.”
Scratch looked over at him in surprise. “What, all of a sudden you’re the voice of reason again? I swear, Bo, you’ve got as changeable as the wind.”
“I’m just too tired to argue about this anymore. Let’s go to the bunkhouse.”
Scratch hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. “All right. I reckon it ain’t worth fightin’ over.”
Behind them, Big John Peeler laughed. “That’s right. Just like Ridley will wise up and decide that extra ground isn’t worth a range war.”
Bo stopped in his tracks. He looked back. “You’re admitting that the fence isn’t in the right place? That you’re grabbing that range just to spite Ridley?”
“Well, what of it?” Peeler shot back at him. “I knew when he saw where you fellas were building the fence, he’d come out there and start blustering around. That’s why I had Joe and some of the boys ready for him.”
“Then I was right,” Bo said quietly. “Scratch and I were just bait that you dangled in front of Ridley.”
“What of it? What else are a couple of old fools like you good for, anyway?”
Scratch made a grab for Bo’s arm but missed. With speed that belied his age and weariness, Bo bounded up the steps to the verandah and charged Big John Peeler. He slammed into the surprised rancher and drove him backward so that Peeler fell and both men crashed through the doorway, disappearing into the house.
CHAPTER 3
For a few stunned seconds, all Scratch could do was stand there and stare. Then he regained his wits and hurried up the steps. He saw Bo and Peeler rolling around on the floor just inside the door, wrestling and slugging at each other.
Some of the cowboys gathered around the buck-house in the fading light, smoking and talking while they waited for the supper bell to ring, must have seen the way Bo had charged Big John. They let out indignant yells and ran across the ranch yard toward the house.
“Bo! Damn it, Bo!” Scratch jerked the door open more. It had torn loose from its top hinge and flopped around, getting in his way. He gave it a vicious yank that tore the other hinge free and shoved the door aside. “Bo!”
> Bo didn’t pay any attention. He hammered his fists into Peeler’s body. Even though the rancher was bigger and younger, Bo’s actions had taken him by surprise, and Bo clearly had the upper hand in the fight.
Scratch bent down, hooked his hands under his friend’s arms, and hauled Bo off Peeler, lifting him and dragging him back toward the door. At that moment, the group of cowboys pounded into the house.
Joe Archibald was one of them, and when he saw his boss lying on the floor, bloody and battered, and Scratch holding Bo back, he jumped to the correct conclusion. The segundo yanked his gun from its holster and leaped toward Bo, yelling, “You son of a bitch! I’ll beat you within an inch of your life!”
Scratch twisted around, still holding Bo with his left arm. His right hand flashed toward his hip, and the ivory-handled Remington on that side seemed to leap out of its holster as if by magic and appear in Scratch’s hand. Archibald came to a sudden, startled stop as he found himself staring down the long barrel of the .44.
“Nobody’s beatin’ anybody,” Scratch said in a flinty voice. “This has gone on long enough.”
Archibald lowered his gun and used his other hand to point past Bo and Scratch at Peeler, who lay there groggy from the punches Bo had landed. “Your pard jumped the boss! You reckon we’re gonna let him get away with that?”
“Big John…had it coming,” Bo panted. “He knew he told us to put that fence…in the wrong place. He was just…trying to get the best of Ridley.”
“I don’t care what he did. He’s the boss. We do what he says.” Archibald made a curt gesture to his companions. “Some of you help Mr. Peeler up, damn it.”
Three of the men went around Bo and Scratch, all of them warily eyeing the gun in the hand of the silver-haired Texan. They took hold of Big John and lifted his considerable bulk to his feet, then stood there bracing him as he shook his big, square head like an old bull.
“I told you earlier that if you don’t like the job, you can draw your time and ride on,” Archibald continued. “Well, you’re not even gonna do that. You don’t get any wages for attacking the boss. Just gather your gear and get off this spread…now.”
“You can’t do that,” Scratch argued. “Lord knows Peeler wasn’t payin’ us much. Slave wages is more like it. But what we earned, we got comin’.”
“You’re lucky you don’t get a rope and a necktie party! Or I can send somebody into Socorro to fetch the sheriff, and you can spend the next six months locked up in jail for attackin’ one of the county’s leading citizens. Would you like that better, Morton?”
Bo said, “Let go of me, Scratch.”
“You ain’t gonna go loco again if I do?”
“No, I reckon that’s over and done with.”
Scratch released his grip on Bo, who looked around and then bent over to pick up his hat, which had fallen off when he tackled Peeler. He brushed off the hat and straightened a dent in it, then put it on and said, “We’ll go.”
“Wait a minute,” Scratch objected. “Peeler owes us money.”
“I don’t want his money. I just want to be away from here.”
Archibald sneered. “We want you away from here, too, Creel. You’ve got the place stinkin’ of old man.”
Scratch gave the segundo a hard look. “This old man got the drop on you, mister, when you already had your gun out.”
Archibald didn’t like being reminded of that. He glared at Scratch.
“Step aside,” Scratch said.
“Don’t push it,” Archibald warned.
“You wanted us gone, we’re leavin’. Come on, Bo.”
Archibald motioned for the other men to step aside. The Texans moved past them through the ruined doorway, crossed the porch, and went down the steps.
Quietly, Bo said, “Sorry I lost this job for us, partner. I just couldn’t keep the rein tight enough on my temper.”
“Shoot, don’t worry about it, Bo. Peeler’s a jackass, and Archibald ain’t any better. They don’t appreciate us here. We’ll be better off somewheres else.”
“Yeah, but at least here we could eat.”
“Well, that could be a problem, seein’ as we’re broke. But we’ll think of something.”
When they trudged into the barn to get their horses, the skinny old hostler called Jonas met them. “What was all the commotion over to the big house?” he asked. “I heard a lot of yellin’.”
Scratch grinned and jerked a thumb at his old friend. “Bo here got in a tussle with Big John.”
Jonas’s eyes widened. “You tangled with the boss? Good Lord, Bo, even if he wasn’t the boss, I’ve seen Big John bust fellas plumb in half with his bare hands. He could’a killed you!”
“Yeah, well, Bo was gettin’ the best of the fight when I pulled him off,” Scratch said.
“What’d Big John do?”
“Nothin’. He was still too groggy from Bo handin’ him his needin’s. But Archibald threw us off the place. Said we weren’t even gonna get the wages we got comin’.”
Jonas shook his head. “Now ain’t that a damned shame. Don’t tell him I said it, but Joe Archibald is a plumb mean-spirited hombre. He’s all the time sayin’ things about me being old and broke-down and worthless, and he don’t ever seem to notice that I work like a sumbitch takin’ care of all the saddle stock around here.”
Bo put a hand on the hostler’s shoulder. “You do a good job, Jonas. I’ve noticed how you care for our horses, and I appreciate it.”
“So do I,” Scratch added. “Guess you better bring ’em out now, come to think of it. Bo and me got our marchin’ orders.”
It didn’t take long to get Bo’s rangy lineback dun and Scratch’s big bay saddled and ready to ride. “Where will you go?” asked Jonas.
“Socorro’s not far,” Bo said. “I guess we’ll ride in there and start looking for work again.”
He didn’t mention how they had had trouble finding work in Socorro before. That was how they’d wound up on the Circle JP. But maybe the situation had improved since then and something better would turn up.
“You got any money at all?”
Scratch shrugged. “Not to speak of. Big John hadn’t gotten around to payin’ us.”
Jonas hesitated. “Listen here. I don’t like to see any man tryin’ to make his way in the world when he’s flat-broke busted.” He delved in a pocket of his overalls and brought out a coin. “Here, take this. It’s only five dollars, but it’ll buy you some grub and a place to sleep, maybe.”
Bo shook his head. “We can’t take that, Jonas. Five dollars is a lot of money.”
“Yeah, but I got plenty. I don’t do nothin’ with my wages but save ’em, anyway. I’m too old for women, and I never developed a taste for whiskey.”
Scratch reached out and took the coin from the hostler’s fingers. “We’re much obliged, Jonas. This is mighty kind of you.”
“Consider it a loan,” Bo said. “When we get on our feet again, we’ll send it back to you.”
“You do that,” Jonas said with a nod. “I’ll be here, I reckon. Ain’t nowheres else for me to go.”
Bo and Scratch shook hands with the old-timer, then swung up into their saddles. As they rode out of the barn, they saw Archibald and some of the other Circle JP hands arrayed in front of the house, watching them with hostile glares. Other cowboys were in front of the bunkhouse, looking equally unfriendly.
“Looks like a gauntlet,” Bo said under his breath.
“Yeah,” Scratch agreed. “I hope we don’t have to shoot our way outta here.”
None of the men reached for a gun as the Texans rode between them. Bo and Scratch kept their pace deliberate. They might be leaving, but they weren’t going to run. That wasn’t in their nature. They didn’t nudge their horses into a trot until they cleared the ranch yard.
“You know,” Scratch mused as they rode off into the gathering dusk, “maybe we ought to mosey over to the Snake Track. We could tell Ridley that Big John knows good and well he’s claimin�
� land that don’t belong to him.”
Bo shook his head. “I don’t like Ridley any more than I do Peeler. He can look out for his own interests. I don’t want to be in the middle of those two anymore.”
“Yeah, I understand that. Tell you the truth, Bo, I’d just as soon head for some other part of the country as soon as we can put a stake together. Got that damn ugly Jornada del Muerto off to the east and nothin’ but mountains and hardscrabble range to the west. We can find some place better to spend our time.”
Bo nodded and said, “Yeah. All it’ll take is money.”
“We got five dollars,” Scratch pointed out. “That’ll buy your way into a poker game.”
Bo rubbed his jaw. “Yeah. With that and a little luck…”
Biting back a groan of despair, Bo stumbled toward the outhouse behind the livery stable in Socorro early the next morning. His muscles were stiff because he and Scratch had slept in the stable’s hayloft. The owner had agreed to that in return for them mucking out the stalls. Even though they had left the Circle JP, they’d wound up having to shovel horse shit after all.
The five-dollar stake had lasted less than half an hour in the game at Socorro’s Desert Queen Saloon before Bo was cleaned out. When a man’s luck turned, it turned hard, he supposed. The bartender had taken pity on them and let them scrounge some hard-boiled eggs from the jar on the bar, and that was all they’d had to eat. Then they had made the deal with the liveryman so they wouldn’t have to sleep on the ground.
“I’ll buy both those horses from you,” the man had offered. “They look like fine animals.”
“Our horses ain’t for sale,” Scratch had responded indignantly.
“Well, I just thought that from the looks of you, you’ll be selling your saddles any day now, anyway, so you might as well sell the horses, too.”
Mankiller, Colorado Page 2
