Rimfire

by William W. Johnstone

  “It’s takin’ ’em forever to get here,” Simmons complained.

  “Yeah, well, what else have we got to do?” Decker asked with a chuckle.

  “Nothin’, I suppose,” Simmons replied, also chuckling.

  The two men waited until the posse closed to less than one hundred yards.

  Simmons lifted his rifle again and rested it carefully against the rock, taking a very careful aim. “Wait until they get just a little closer,” he said quietly. “I’ll give you the word, then we’ll both fire at the same time.”

  “No,” Decker said.

  Simmons looked at him in confusion. “What do you mean, no?”

  “Think about it, Al. Do we really want to do this?”

  “What do you mean, do we want to do this? Seems to me like we don’t have no choice. ’Case you ain’t noticed, this here is a dead-end canyon. We ain’t got no way out ’cept through them.”

  “There’s at least twenty of them. There’s two of us,” Decker said. “What difference does it make how many we shoot? We’ll still be dead in the end.”

  Simmons nodded. “That’s prob’ly true.”

  “And consider this. Some of them men is our friends,” Decker said. “Hell, me ’n you had Thanksgiving dinner with Phil Burke and his wife. And how many times have we pitched horseshoes with Danny Mitchell? If we start shootin’ now, we’ll wind up killin’ some of our friends. I don’t mind goin’ to meet my Maker as a thief, but damn if I want to meet Him with murder on my conscience.”

  “What do you propose that we do?”

  “I say we give up.”

  “We’ll be goin’ to prison.”

  “Yeah, well, at least we’ll be alive, ’n we won’t be murderers. Besides, they’ll feed us there, ’n we’ll have a place to sleep. It ain’t like we don’t know no one that’s there. How bad can it be?”

  “Yeah,” Simmons said. “Yeah, you’re right. So, what do we do now?”

  “We give up. I’ll call down to ’em.” Decker cupped his hands around his mouth. “Phil!” he shouted. “Phil Burke!”

  Burke, Burke, Burke echoed back from the canyon.

  “What do you want?” Burke called back.

  “Me ’n Al want to give up!” Decker shouted.

  Give up echoed several times.

  “That’s up to the sheriff !” Burke called back up.

  “Sheriff, tell them boys not to shoot. We’re comin’ down,” Decker shouted.

  Down, down, down echoed.

  “All right. Toss your guns out, then come down with your hands up,” the sheriff replied.

  Simmons and Decker responded to the sheriff’s order, then, with their hands up, climbed down from their perch behind the rocks.

  Two weeks later, tried and convicted, they were delivered to the prison at Huntsville.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Slash Bell Ranch—Travis County, Texas

  Six mounted men materialized out of the darkness, riding slowly and quietly. Of the six men, only their leader Dirk Kendrick was not carrying a large wire cutter tool. When they reached a long stretch of barbed wire, he held up his hand. More than a hundred calves were on the other side of the wire. Most were sleeping, but many were moving around anxiously, searching for their mothers, for though they had been physically weaned away from the teat, they were not yet emotionally ready to be alone.

  “Cut from here to there,” Kendrick said, pointing to locations on the wire fence. “Cut all five strands.”

  When the wires were cut, five horsemen looped their ropes around the posts standing between the two cuts and urged their mounts on. The horses easily pulled the posts from the ground then dragged the section of fence away, leaving a twentyfoot opening.

  Aware that something had happened, even the calves that had been asleep were on their feet.

  “All right, boys, let’s get the creatures out of there,” Kendrick ordered.

  All six men went into the pen and, within less than a minute, every calf had been moved out, each content to move as long as all the others were moving.

  Merrill Town, Texas

  When Jason Bellefontaine, owner of the Slash Bell Ranch, left the theater, he decided to have a few drinks over at the CSS Alabama Saloon before returning home. Owner Ken Prescott had been a crewman onboard the Confederate raider and had honored his saloon with the name. He had lived in Mobile before the war and was signed on to the ship by Admiral Semmes, who, at the time, was also a resident of Mobile.

  “Tell me, Ken, do the folks back in Mobile actually live in houses?” Bellefontaine teased.

  “Not just houses, my friend, but mansions,” Prescott replied. “You will find some of the most beautiful mansions in all of America on Adams or St. Anthony, Claiborne or Conception Streets, right there in Mobile.”

  “Then why did you leave, if there are such beautiful homes in Mobile?”

  Prescott smiled. “Because I didn’t live on any of those streets. I lived on Telegraph Road.”

  Bellefontaine laughed. “Good enough reason. Besides, if you had stayed in Mobile, we wouldn’t have the Alabama Saloon, and where would I go when I have a thirst for a beer?”

  “You could always go to the Hog Pen,” Prescott suggested, mentioning one of the other saloons in town. Whereas the CSS Alabama was a very pleasant saloon with a convivial atmosphere, the Hog Pen catered to a considerably more crude clientele.

  “Ha. I would be real welcome in the Hog Pen now, wouldn’t I?” Bellefontaine finished his drink, then set the glass down on the bar. “Take care, my friend. I’ll see you later.”

  “Bye, Jason,” Prescott said as Bellefontaine started toward the door.

  * * *

  Bellefontaine rode through the dark to return home, thinking of the unbranded calves that had been rounded up over the last two days. Tomorrow his crew would be branding them, then turning them back into the herd. It promised to be a busy day, so reason told him he would be better served by returning to the ranch and going to bed.

  It took him no more than half an hour to cover the five miles between his ranch and Merrill Town, and though he had no watch, he was certain it had to be after eleven o’clock by the time he dismounted in front of the barn. He was about to unsaddle his horse when someone came toward him, moving out of the shadows. It was so dark he couldn’t see who it was, and for a moment he thought the worst. Cautiously, he let his hand slip down to rest on his pistol.

  Recognizing Sam Post, his foreman, he relaxed. “Hello, Sam. I thought sure you and the others would be in bed by now. Especially given how hard you all worked today,” Bellefontaine said as he returned to the job of unsaddling his horse.

  “We’ve got a problem, boss.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “When I stepped out of the bunkhouse about an hour ago, I heard the calves we had cut out for brandin’ today all bawlin’ ’n such, so I rode out to check on ’em just to make sure they were all right.”

  “And?”

  “They’re gone, boss. Ever’ damn one of ’em.”

  “Damn. How did they get away? Did the fence fall?”

  “No, sir, the fence didn’t fall. It was cut.”

  “Cut? You mean by the Fence Busters?”

  “Oh, it was the Fence Busters, all right, Mr. Bellefontaine. Ain’t no doubt in my mind about it.”

  “Dirk Kendrick?”

  “Yes sir. That’s what I figure all right. That’s why I’ve got all the men up and dressed,” Sam said.

  “What for?”

  “So we can go after him. Don’t forget, boss, those were some of the newly born Hereford calves. You don’t want to lose any of ’em, do you?”

  “Sam, suppose we did go after them. What good would it do? Remember, we aren’t dealing with your average rustler here. The Fence Busters are as well organized a group of men as I have seen since Robert E. Lee surrendered my regiment to the Yankees at Appomattox. If we go after them with no more than a handful of cowboys, we’re are going to win
d up getting a bunch of good men killed.”

  “Does that mean we don’t do anything at all?”

  “We can go see Sheriff Wallace,” Bellefontaine suggested.

  “Dirk Kendrick has Sheriff Wallace in his pocket, you know that. Deputy Bullock is so slimy I don’t see how even Wallace can put up with him.”

  “Yeah, well, I tend to agree with you,” Bellefontaine said. “But right now, what other choice do we have?”

  “You’ve got those Angus beeves comin’ in before too much longer,” Sam said. “I’d hate to see some of them get stole like these was.”

  “We’ll just have to be extra careful,” Bellefontaine said.

  * * *

  “How many?” the ranch owner asked.

  “One hundred and nine,” Kendrick replied. “Eighty-five are Herefords and twenty-four are Longhorns.”

  “It will cost you five dollars a head to keep them here, same for the Longhorns as for the Herefords.”

  “The Longhorns are worth only half as much as the Herefords,” Kendrick complained.

  “Whatever the cattle are worth on the market means nothing to me,” the ranch owner replied. “I run the same risk in holding stolen Longhorns that I do stolen Herefords. The law makes no difference, so far as stolen property is concerned.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to pay it. I need someplace to keep them, and right now your ranch is the only place I have.”

  “Yeah, it is. Listen, I was thinkin’. Maybe you had better cut some of my fence and run off a few head of Longhorn. I’ll claim I had several head of Herefords stolen. I wouldn’t want people getting suspicious because my fence wasn’t cut ’n I wasn’t losin’ cattle just like ever’one else is.”

  Kincaid chuckled. “I see what you mean. It is to our mutual benefit to maintain a degree of secrecy with regard to our business arrangement. All right. Soon as we get the cattle we acquired tonight remanded to an area that offers the least chance of discovery, we run off a few of your Longhorns.”

  * * *

  “Just what is it you expect me to do?” Sheriff Wallace asked when he was approached by Bellefontaine the next morning.

  “Well, you are the sheriff and I did have some of my cattle stolen. The correct thing to do when you have some of your property stolen is to report it to the sheriff.”

  “Yeah, well, first of all, how do you know your cows was stole?”

  “What do you mean, how do I know? The calves were gathered in a pen to be branded. They were there, now they aren’t there.”

  “And you say it was the Fence Busters?”

  “It had to be. The fence was cut.”

  “Was the fence on public or private land?”

  “It was on public land. I run a lot of my cattle on public land and fence off my cattle to keep them separated from other brands. All the cattlemen do that. The only thing we do is make sure that everyone has equal access to the water. Hell, you know that, Wallace.”

  “Yes, I do know that, and therein lies the rub,” Sheriff Wallace said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know damn well, Bellefontaine, that there is no law against cutting fences that are on public land. If it was the Fence Busters, there’s nothing I can do about it. They have every right to be cutting the fences. In fact, they have been hired by a legitimate company in New York to do that very thing.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think they have been hired to steal my cattle,” Bellefontaine replied. “No legitimate land company would do that. Besides which, I’m not the only one having cattle stolen. I checked with some of the other ranchers before I rode in here this morning, and a few of them lost cattle last night, too.”

  “You said it was calves, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how do you know they were stolen? If it was calves, it’s more ’n likely they just wandered off on their own, lookin’ for their mamas. That’s what calves do, you know.”

  “It wasn’t calves that were taken from Chris Dumey or Tom Byrd or Donald Dobbins. It was cows, full grown and ready for market. Whether you are willing to admit it or not, the Fence Busters are nothing more than cattle thieves. They might try and pass themselves off as legitimate businessmen, but nobody in the entire state believes that.”

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to make that accusation, if I were you,” Sheriff Wallace replied. “You may not realize it, but you are setting yourself up for a lawsuit. Big companies like the New York and Texas Land Company have lots of money, and they can afford very expensive lawyers. It wouldn’t be good for them to be accused of association with cattle rustlers. I’d lay off if I was you.”

  Bellefontaine sighed. “Sam told me I was wasting my time coming here, and he was right.”

  “Even if what you say is true, how do you expect me to do anything about it? There are at least forty Fence Busters. I’ve just got Deputy Bullock.”

  Disgusted, but not really surprised, Bellefontaine left the sheriff’s office and rode back out to his ranch.

  * * *

  “What did the sheriff tell you?” Sam asked when Bellefontaine returned.

  “You were right. He isn’t going to do anything.”

  “We need to get rid of him come the next election,” Sam said. “He’s worthless as tits on a steer.”

  “I would suggest that you run for sheriff . . . except that you are too good a foreman, and I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

  Sam grinned. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, boss. I like ridin’ for the brand.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Blowout, Texas

  The town was a scattering of flyblown, crumbling adobe buildings laid out on the east side of the Blanco River about three miles below the origin of Blanco Creek. The name came from Blowout Cave, located in a hillside east of the river about a mile above the spring. At one time, the cave had been home to thousands of bats, and over at least a hundred years, a huge deposit of guano had accumulated. Ammonia and other gases from the decomposing guano had built up to such a degree in the cave that it was impossible for anyone to breathe, thus no one could even stand to be there long enough to mine it for fertilizer.

  During a thunderstorm, lightning struck at the cave mouth and ignited the gases. The resultant explosion carved away almost one third of the mountain and gave the town its name.

  It had no city marshal nor sheriff and had trouble filling those positions since three law officers had been killed over the last two years. Those hapless victims of Blowout’s lawlessness lay buried in a part of the cemetery known as the “Lawman’s Corner.”

  Blowout wasn’t an outlaw town as such. There were still decent citizens and merchants who were trapped in the town by circumstances. Occasionally, they would hold secret meetings and plan ways to attract someone willing to put on a badge.

  At the moment, such a meeting was taking place.

  “Who is going to give his life to be the sheriff in this town?” asked Wes Long, owner of the mercantile. “We didn’t do anything to help any of the previous lawmen stand up to Kendrick, and we aren’t likely to show any more courage for the next sheriff.”

  “Besides, we already got law.” Fred Matthews owned the wholesale and freight company.

  “What are you talking about, Fred? You call Dirk Kendrick law?”

  “Yeah, I do. I mean, when you think about it, he keeps his men sober ’n won’t let any of ’em run roughshod over the citizens of the town. He keeps the peace.”

  “It’s a hell of a peace is all I’ve got to say,” Long added.

  As had all previous meetings, that one ended in frustration and failure. They had not been able to come up with one suggestion to deal with the problem at hand—the occupation of the town by Dirk Kendrick and the Fence Busters.

  Wheatland, Wyoming

  Wheatland was twenty-five miles north of Chugwater and more than twice as large. The greater population had brought Duff to town, for it was there that he was able to make arrangements to have enough cattl
e cars delivered to the railhead in Chugwater to accommodate the cattle he would be shipping.

  Once he had completed all the arrangements, he stopped at Nippy Jones Tavern to have a beer before he started home to Sky Meadow Ranch. Only one other customer was at the bar, standing at the opposite end. Duff got the distinct impression that the man was looking at him. More than looking, the man was studying him.

  Duff started to walk down and introduce himself, but before he could do so, the man left the saloon. He also left a beer mug that was more than three quarters full.

  As Duff was mulling this over, Nippy Jones, the owner of the saloon, came down to speak with him. “Hello, Duff. What brings you to town?”

  “Hello, Nippy. I came to town so that I might lease twenty stock cars.”

  Over the years since he had arrived in the United States, Duff had done a considerable amount of business in Wheatland. As a result, he knew several of the local businessmen. As it so happened, Nippy Jones and Baldy Johnson, owner of Fiddler’s Green, were also very good friends.

  “Ah, shipping some stock to Kansas City, are you?”

  “Nae, to Texas. I’ve sold some cattle to a rancher there.”

  “Ha, it’s about time Texas started improving their ranches with good Wyoming cattle.”

  “Scottish cattle,” Duff corrected. “ ’Tis true that they’ll be coming from Wyoming, but the breed is from Scotland.”

  Nippy laughed. “I’ll not argue with you. By the way, how is the old Sergeant Major doing?” Nippy asked.

  “Baldy is doing quite well, and ’tis his own regards he asked that I bring you.”

  “And give him my best as well,” Nippy replied.

  “Nippy, the gent that just left your establishment, would ye be for knowin’ his name?”

  Nippy shook his head. “I never laid eyes on ’im ’til he come here today.” Suddenly he brightened and held up hand. “But I think he must know you. No more ’n fifteen minutes before you came in, he asked about you.”