Rimfire

by William W. Johnstone

  Chance laughed and admitted, “That pretty well sums us up, all right.”

  “Thing is, you might still grow out of it. I’m too old and set in my ways.” Wingate hitched his trousers up. “Well, come on, let’s get ready to ride again. We’re gonna have a whole heap o’ pilgrims to keep an eye on.”

  * * *

  Once the camp was established, Fairfield assembled the entire group to explain to them how they would proceed.

  Before leaving Missouri, the men in the company had drawn lots to see in what order they would claim land once they reached their destination. The men on the first half of that list would leave camp first to explore the valley and stake their claims, one at a time as the others in the party watched for trouble.

  The others would remain in camp with the Wingates to guard it. When the first group had completed their work, they would return to the wagons, and the other men could go out to stake their claims.

  While this was going on, the women and children would remain at the camp, as well as the older boys who could also help guard the wagons.

  “I’m going to ask Ace and Chance Jensen to ride with the groups staking the claims,” Fairfield continued.

  That came as a surprise to the Jensen brothers and didn’t sit too well with some of the immigrants, evidenced by muttering coming from the crowd.

  Fairfield raised his hands to quiet them. “All of you know that Ace and Chance risked their lives to help us fight off Clade Mitchell’s gang, and just because they had to go into Rimfire yesterday to take care of some business of their own doesn’t change that. We’re lucky to have such valiant young men on our side!”

  “I’ll second that,” drawled Dave Wingate.

  Ace didn’t feel particularly valiant at the moment. He figured Chance didn’t, either. Stiff, sore muscles from the beating they’d received made both of them hobble around like they were considerably older than they were. They could still ride and handle guns and knew these people still needed help, so none of the rest of it mattered.

  Fairfield, who was standing on the tailgate of a wagon to address the crowd, turned to them and said, “I suppose I should have asked you fellows about that before announcing it . . .”

  Ace shook his head. “No, sir, that’s all right. Chance and I will be happy to go with your folks.”

  “Yeah,” said Chance, “if there’s going to be another run-in with McPhee’s men, my brother and I want to be there for it.”

  With that settled, plans proceeded quickly. The sun was up, and McPhee’s men might stumble across the camp at any time. Ace and Chance ate a hasty breakfast, swallowed cups of hot coffee, and then mounted up to ride out with eight of the pilgrims who had come to settle in the valley.

  Naturally enough, the men wanted to be close to the creek so their farms would have a good source of water. They stayed near the stream as they picked out their claims one by one and drove in their stakes.

  Ace and Chance kept their eyes open, scanning the countryside around them on both sides of the creek for any sign of McPhee’s men or anyone else who might pose a threat to the immigrants. As they rode, they saw a few cattle grazing here and there, but no vast herds.

  “Given the time of year, McPhee probably has most of his stock up in higher pastures right now,” Ace commented. “He’ll move it back down here during the winter, where there’s more protection from the weather.”

  Chance nodded. “So he probably doesn’t have a lot of hands riding this range right now. Maybe that bunch of pilgrims will be lucky and can get dug in good before McPhee even knows they’re here.”

  “We can sure hope so.”

  A few minutes later, Ace wondered if he and his brother had jinxed things by saying that as they spotted several riders in the distance coming toward them.

  Ace looked around and saw that the men from the wagon train were widely scattered. His gaze fell on a small stand of trees about a quarter mile away. “Round up the others and gather them in those trees, just in case we have to fight,” he told Chance. “I’ll see who those fellas are and maybe stall them a mite, if I need to.”

  A lot of times, if the stakes were low, Chance would argue with his brother’s decisions. Ace was convinced he did it just for the love of arguing. In times of real danger, however, Chance tended to defer to Ace’s judgment.

  On this occasion, he said, “I don’t like you facing them alone . . . but I’ll do what you say. Just be careful, Ace.”

  “I won’t start any trouble,” Ace promised. Of course, he couldn’t speak for what those other hombres might do....

  Chance galloped back the way they had come while Ace rode toward the strangers at a more leisurely pace. He didn’t want to hurry a showdown along. Better to give Chance as much time as possible to gather the other men.

  Ace could tell when the other riders spotted him. They spurred their horses faster, closing in on him. He wished he still had his Winchester. The repeater would have gone a long way toward evening the odds.

  As it was, he was facing four men while armed only with a single revolver. He took the Colt from his waistband, thumbed a round from his pocket into the empty chamber where the hammer had been resting, and tucked the gun away again.

  The men were close enough that he could see their rugged faces and well-worn range clothes. They appeared to be cowboys, and Ace had a hunch they rode for the Tartan spread, which was the biggest ranch in that part of the valley. At first glance, he didn’t recognize any as McPhee’s men he had seen in Fort Benton or Rimfire. That didn’t mean much, though, since he had probably laid eyes on only a fraction of McPhee’s crew.

  Since they were hurrying to confront him, he didn’t see any reason to keep riding toward them, reined in, and waited. The reins were in his left hand. His right rested on his denim-clad thigh, ready to make a fast grab for the Colt if he needed to.

  The men hauled back on their reins and slowed down, coming to a halt about twenty feet from Ace. One of them, a blocky man with a slab of beard-stubbled jaw, eased his mount forward a step and demanded, “Boy, what are you doin’ here? This is McPhee range!”

  “Actually, it’s not,” Ace replied calmly. “The government owns this land, and it’s been opened up for homesteading.”

  The man turned his head and spat contemptuously. “Yeah, we heard somethin’ about that. It don’t make no sense. The gov’ment is thousands of miles away in Washington. What some damn paper pusher back there says don’t mean squat here in Montana.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” said Ace. “You can ask the army and the U.S. marshals if you don’t agree.”

  One of the other men said, “Quint, there’s more of ’em over there in those trees.” The words had a slightly worried tone to them.

  The punchers were outnumbered, and from where they were they couldn’t tell if the men Chance was gathering together in the trees were armed with rifles.

  “Some of those damn sodbusters the boss sent word about?” asked Quint. “How ’n the hell did they get down here? They’re supposed to be camped up by Rimfire!”

  The man’s reaction told Ace that McPhee was probably still at the settlement and hadn’t returned to the ranch yet. He had sent word to his men, though, to be on the lookout for the immigrants.

  Quint didn’t wait for his companions to answer his question. He edged his horse forward another step and glared at Ace. “You get off this range right now, boy, and take your friends with you. You ain’t welcome, and you got no right to be here. We’ll take it easy on you this time, but if we can catch you on Tartan range again, you’ll get a tarrin’ and featherin’—if you’re lucky!”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” Ace said. “Those men are staking their legal claims, and they’re going to continue to do that.”

  Quint stiffened. So did the men with him. Bluster was one thing; driving stakes into the ground was another. Those stakes were physical proof that the homesteaders were not going to be denied their rights.

  “Kid, I
’m about two seconds away from shuttin’ your big mouth with a bullet.”

  “You try that and the rest of our group will blow you all out of your saddles.” Ace summoned up a smile that was a lot cooler than he felt inside. “I’m sure by now there are half a dozen rifles lined up on you.” He hoped he was right about that.

  A man said, “Quint, looks like that bunch has taken cover in the trees. We’re out in the open. It ain’t shapin’ up to be a good fight.”

  “You reckon any man who pushes a plow can handle a gun worth anything?” Quint demanded harshly.

  “I’d just as soon not find out. The boss has got other men ridin’ for him who are more used to this sort of thing than I am.”

  “Yeah, that goes for me, too,” agreed one of the other men. “Let’s go back to the ranch, get a bunch of the fellas together, and then come see what we can do about this.”

  “Damn it!” Quint snapped. “Shut your big mouth, Cooper.”

  “What does it matter? You can tell this youngster’s smart and coolheaded enough to have figured out already what’s gonna happen.”

  Ace might have appreciated that compliment under other circumstances, but he just wanted to get out of the situation without any lead flying. The immigrants had been tested by the battles with Clade Mitchell’s gang and it was likely they could hold their own against McPhee’s men, but nobody needed to die today if it could be avoided.

  Finally, Quint growled, “All right.” He pointed a blunt finger at Ace. “But this ain’t over, kid. I’ll see you again, and then I’ll teach you not to mouth off to me.”

  “I was just telling the truth,” Ace said.

  Quint grunted a curse and jerked his horse around. He galloped furiously back the way they had come from, taking out his anger on the horse. The other men turned and followed him, casting wary glances at Ace as they left.

  When the McPhee men were gone, Ace rode back to join Chance and the others at the trees. Chance’s gun was in his hand as he rode out into the open. The immigrants were dismounted and still held their rifles at the ready.

  “I was hoping you’d have the sense to hit the dirt if those cowboys pulled iron,” Chance said. “We had beads on all of them.”

  “That’s what I told them,” Ace said. “One of them didn’t much want to listen to reason, but the other three just wanted to get out of here without getting ventilated.”

  “Where are they going?”

  “Back to McPhee’s ranch,” Ace replied grimly. “I’m sure they’ll gather the rest of his men and head over here to drive off the wagon train.” He looked at the homesteaders. “I think we’ve staked all the claims that are going to get staked today. We need to get back to camp and warn everyone to get ready for trouble.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The men who hadn’t staked their claims yet were reluctant to abandon the effort, but they understood that their families back at the wagon train might soon be in danger, so that made all the difference. They mounted up and rode hard along the creek toward the camp.

  The people there heard the horses coming and turned out to greet the riders. Edward Fairfield and Dave Wingate hurried forward.

  As the newcomers reined in, Fairfield asked, “What happened? Are you finished already?”

  “No,” said Ace. “Some of McPhee’s men stumbled across us, just like we knew they might.”

  “I didn’t hear no shootin’,” Wingate commented.

  “It wasn’t far from that . . . but we had them outgunned and they decided to head back to the ranch and get reinforcements.”

  “Then they’ll be here in a little while.”

  Ace nodded. “All they have to do is backtrack along the claims that are already staked. That will lead them right to the camp.”

  “We’d best be gettin’ ready, then.” Wingate went to start the preparations while Ace, Chance, and the other men dismounted.

  Fairfield asked, “How many of the claims did you get staked?”

  “Five, I think,” Ace replied. “With your claim here where the camp is located, that makes six.”

  “Not a bad start, I suppose . . . although I wish they hadn’t discovered that we’re here until we had finished.” The older man sighed. “Now we may not get to.”

  “Don’t go thinking that,” said Chance. “You folks just want what’s rightfully yours. McPhee’s got to be reasonable enough to see that, sooner or later.”

  Ace hoped his brother was right . . . but he wasn’t going to count on it.

  The wagons were still in a circle. The livestock had been allowed to wander and graze, but they were quickly driven back inside the enclosure formed by the vehicles. Mothers gathered up any children who had gone exploring, and men made sure rifles and shotguns were loaded and ready before they took up defensive positions behind the wagons.

  Once that was done, there was nothing else for the immigrants to do except wait to see what was going to happen next.

  It didn’t take long for them to find out.

  Ace and Chance waited at the Fairfield wagon, along with Dave and Rufe Wingate. The Jensen brothers and the elder Wingate spotted a cloud of dust in the distance at the same time.

  “Yonder they come,” Wingate said as he nodded in that direction.

  “From the looks of that dust, it’s a pretty good-sized bunch, too,” said Ace.

  Rufe turned to Laura. “Don’t worry, honey. I won’t let nothin’ bad happen to you.”

  She pushed her red hair back from where the breeze had moved it into her face. “You be careful and don’t let anything happen to you, Rufe.”

  “When they get here, I’ll do the talking,” Fairfield said.

  “You sure you want to do that, Cap’n?” asked Wingate. “I ain’t sure you and these fellas speak the same language.”

  “Well . . . maybe it would be better if you tried to convince them that we have a right to be here. But I am the duly elected captain of this wagon train, and I’ll handle whatever I need to handle.”

  “I know you will, Cap’n. I ain’t sayin’ you won’t.” Wingate let out a grim chuckle. “Anyway, I got a hunch it won’t make a heap o’ difference who does the talkin’. Those fellas’ll be lookin’ for trouble, and they’ll likely be bound and determined to find it.”

  The riders came into view a few minutes later, pounding toward the wagons. Ace estimated there were at least twenty men in the group, making the odds close to even, but McPhee’s men had more experience when it came to fighting. Ace could sense the tense, nervous air that hung over the camp.

  “I’ll go on out there and talk to ’em.” Wingate stepped over the wagon tongue.

  “We’ll go with you,” Ace said.

  “Just to back you up,” Chance added. “You’re doing the talking.”

  Wingate nodded to them. “Appreciate that, boys.” He looked past the Jensen brothers to his nephew. “Rufe, you stick close to Miss Laura and her grandpa. I’m countin’ on you to look after ’em.”

  Rufe swallowed and nodded. “I’ll sure do it, Uncle Dave,” he vowed.

  Wingate, Ace, and Chance walked out about a dozen yards from the wagon and waited for McPhee’s men. The scout carried his Winchester in both hands, slightly slanted across his body. Ace and Chance drew their revolvers and stood holding the guns at their sides.

  The riders didn’t slow down until the last minute. Ace knew they were trying to be intimidating. He, Chance, and Wingate didn’t flinch, however. Dust swirled as the group of Tartan punchers hauled their horses to a stop about twenty feet away.

  Quint was still in the lead. About half of the men with him looked like typical cowhands, tough enough but not professional gunmen. The others had the stamp of the hardcase on them, like Quint.

  He rested his hands on the saddle horn and leaned forward with a sneering grin on his heavy-jawed face. “I told you there’d be another time, kid,” he said to Ace. “I’ll bet you didn’t think it’d be this soon, though.”

  “You’re talki
n’ to me now, mister,” snapped Wingate.

  Quint glared at him and demanded, “Who are you, besides a scrawny old pelican?”

  “Name’s Dave Wingate. I’m the chief scout for this wagon train.”

  “Then you’re the one who led them onto Tartan range. You should’ve known better than that, old man.”

  “This ain’t Tartan range,” said Wingate, “but I figure you already know that.”

  “It’s open range and always has been! It’s Angus McPhee’s land by right of use. He’s been grazin’ his stock in this valley for nigh on to twenty years!”

  Wingate shook his head. “That don’t matter. It’s gov’ment land and has been ever since ol’ Thomas Jefferson bought it off the Frenchies eighty years ago. Up until now, nobody really cared if fellas like McPhee grazed their stock on it, but that don’t mean things’ll stay like that forever. Back in Washington, they’re wantin’ homesteaders to come out here now and help civilize the frontier.”

  “Do you even hear what you’re sayin’?” asked Quint. “The frontier don’t need civilizin’. It’s just fine the way it is!”

  Wingate scratched at his jaw and sighed. “You know, son, I sort of agree with you. I come out here even before the men like your boss. I seen this country the way it once was, when there was nobody around but the Injuns and the place was full o’ antelope and bear and moose and buffalo. Didn’t have to worry about towns clutterin’ up the landscape or railroads stinkin’ up the air or anything else like that. You could wake up in the mornin’ and breathe deep and watch an eagle soarin’ overhead without a care in the world. Plenty of times I wish it was still that way. But it ain’t, and there ain’t a damn thing you or me or anybody else can do to put it back like it was. The world just don’t work that way.”

  Quint sat there glaring for a long moment after Wingate fell silent. Finally, he said, “That was a pretty speech, old-timer. But words don’t change nothin’. Get those wagons and them damn sodbusters outta here now or there’ll be trouble, bad trouble. We won’t be responsible for what happens, either. It’ll be on your head.”