On Dead Man's Range

by Lou Cameron

  She said, “I wish we’d known the abandoned stock was down here among this chaparral instead of up where they murdered my father and brother. But how can you say that was managed range if the only stock we found there had strayed over from the Tonto Basin?”

  He shrugged and said, “It works a couple of ways. The easy way would be that they don’t watch it all the time. They just patrol it every now and again to make sure it stays empty. Stock and wild game grazing this far down would naturally drift back up to all that good grass and water when nobody was about. Then it would spook back here when the gang rode down from the north to scare and burn. That grass upstream hadn’t been grazed since the last green-up. Yet there was no last year’s thatch or serious weed sprout. The plains Indians used to burn the prairie clean from time to time. It makes for a thick sod of good grazing if it’s kept clear of either too much stock or encroaching chaparral. So that’s how they’re managing the upper valley, whether they know they’re doing it or not. They might be just trying to keep it empty.”

  Naturally she asked why, and naturally he couldn’t tell her why. He said, “They just are. If I knew why, I’d be in a better position to guess who.”

  She said, “It makes no sense, Stuarto. I can see why any number of desperadoes would wish for to grab such good land. I can see why someone might wish for to hold a mining claim against all comers, even cows. There is no mining in these hills, and even if there was, what would be the sense of simply sitting on a claim and not working it?”

  He said, “I just said I couldn’t figure any sensible reason for what’s been going on here for some time. But unless the mastermind is a rich as well as total lunatic, he has to have his reasons.”

  She asked why there had to be a mastermind, and he told her, “Aside from the fact someone keeps sending hired guns, not loco guns, to gun me, no one cuss would even try to hold this much open range against so many others. Whether ghost stories or something dirtier, the mastermind has been burning out and running off new settlers since the last known claimant to any part of this valley was murdered, maybe by the same rascals, a good ten years ago.”

  She said, “I know little of your Anglo laws. But my people say that once land has been abandoned seven years, it belongs to anyone who wants it.”

  He nodded and said, “Old Spanish and Old English Common Law are both based on Roman notions, and seven does seem the magic number left over from long ago. Whether either of those old feuding clans held legal or squatting title to the same range would be moot today.”

  She asked, “Does that mean that neither a Graham nor a Tewksbury who’d survived could return to reclaim his or her land now?”

  He said, “A he would have more luck than a she at the land office. But anyone related to the old warring factions would have the same rights, no more, no less, as anyone else if they wanted to file a formal homestead claim on any part of the valley now. The homestead act only allows you a quarter section on such well-watered and flat land. But I must say that would be tempting to many a stockman I know. Most so-called ranches are just a quarter-section homespread surrounded by open range. If I was out to start a beef operation in such an out-of-the-way place, I reckon I’d claim that abandoned Tewksbury site, along with its headwater springs, and that’s no doubt why it gets burnt out so regular. Someone doesn’t want anyone living there.”

  She repeated that it made no sense to hog a place unless one wanted it for some sensible reason. He told her they were talking in circles and asked her to tell him more about the country ahead instead of what he’d already seen.

  He was sorry he had, by the time she’d listed every abandoned ’dobe and the ghost story that went with it, all the way down the abandoned valley. So they stopped to rest their ponies and share a noonday can of tomatoes in the shade of some ridgetop boulders bridged over by wind-tortured mesquite branches.

  She thought it was a neat place to get out of the sun for a spell, and he found it pretty neat to get out of his duds and back into her for a spell. But they’d just gotten their second wind and he was about to remount her when he heard the popping of chaparral not too far off and got off Concepción to grope for his jeans in a hurry. She said, “Pooh, is only more wild cows, querido. Get back here and treat me wild again, eh?”

  He said, “Hold the fort. I told you I used to herd cows. They don’t move that serious through sticker bush unless someone is herding them.”

  He saw he was right when a few moments later, dressed and armed to receive company, he eased out of their love nest to see four riders and perhaps a dozen longhorns moving his way along the same ridge. He recognized them as the Hash Knife hands he’d met before. Montana recognized him at the same time and called out, “Stand clear, newspaper boy. These critters are half wild and all horn to man on foot.”

  Stringer held his ground and said, “You can’t drive them through those rocks behind me.”

  Montana reined in, out ahead of his modest little trail drive, and said, “Sure we can. Their horns ain’t that wide. What are you trying to hide from us yonder, newspaper boy?”

  Stringer smiled thinly and said, “That would be my business. Just like brands of that stock you’ve picked up wherever would be your business, right?”

  Montana replied, “There ain’t a brand on a one of ’em. I know what I said the other day about Texas notions. But we’ve hunted high and low for them eight head of Hash Knife cows, and I hate to go home empty-handed. So just stand aside and we’ll say no more about it.”

  Stringer drew his six-gun and said, “I know neither of us are worth much, Montana, but it would be a shame if the survivors had to round those cows up all over again, and you know how gun shots spook ’em.”

  Montana sat his mount in thoughtful silence, staring down and hard at the gun in Stringer’s hand. One of the other Hash Knife riders bulled through the chaparral to join him and ask what was up. He saw Stringer’s .38, too, and said, “Oh. Well, it’s for you to say, Montana.”

  The older hatchet-faced rider said, “I’m thinking. I’m thinking. There’s four of us to one of him. On the other hand, he’s got the drop and he’s standing solid. He just made the interesting point that even do we win, we’ll have our cows scattered by the time it’s over. How do you feel about it, Pirate?”

  Pirate said, “Awful. I’d hate to round ’em up all over again in this hot dry chaparral. But I don’t like to look sissy neither.”

  Montana nodded grimly and said, “You see how it is, newspaper boy. I was brung up to act reasonable as most. But I’ll be infested with ticks if I don’t think you’re trying to rawhide the Hash Knife for no good reason at all.”

  Pirate added quietly, “The Hash Knife don’t rawhide easy, as many a cow thief or sheep herder meaner looking than you could tell you, if he was now in any position to talk.”

  Stringer tensed himself as he saw how tense this situation was getting. Then Montana laughed like hell and said, “Shoot, newspaper boy, why didn’t you tell us why you didn’t want us herding cows through your own private stock?”

  Stringer raised a quick glance over his own shoulder to see Concepción backing his play with a scowl on her pretty face and the Krag in her hands. She might have looked more dignified, if less serious, if she’d thought to put her duds back on first.

  But Montana and Pirate agreed they just weren’t up to shooting it out with a naked lady, and so Montana stood in his stirrups to wave his hat and bawl to the others, “Take ’em around them rocks ahead, and don’t let ’em spill down the slope on you.”

  Pirate ticked the brim of his own hat at Concepción with a mocking smile and spun his pony to help the other two as Montana grinned down at Stringer and said, “Don’t never do that to the Hash Knife again, old son. We got us a rep to live up to.”

  Stringer grinned back sheepishly and said, “I just noticed as much. Before you go, one more question. Have you boys ever been rawhided by anyone else over in this valley?”

  Montana shook his h
ead and said, “That’ll be the day. Even had you won, the outfit has close to a thousand guns in its payroll, and the company takes a dim view of losing either cows or cowhands. Nobody messed with the Hash Knife. That was settled back in the ’80s.”

  Stringer nodded and said, “I heard your outfit was untouched by either the Pleasant Valley War or Geronimo. Is it safe to assume that if you wanted this abandoned range, you’d take it?”

  Montana nodded and said, “Sure we would. Who could stop us? But like I said, our homespread is too far off. We’re fixing to play hell getting this stock all the way home with us. But we got to. So adios, newspaper boy. You, too, señorita.”

  Then he rode off, laughing. Stringer was sort of sorry to see Montana and the others go. He had them figured now as what they said they were. Four honest young cowboys, armed and willing to stand up and be counted. Everyone else he’d run into down this way, save for crazy little Concepción, seemed to be a sneaky son of a bitch who wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  Nothing half as interesting happened as they rode along the same ridge trail until sundown. Concepción kept looking back and muttering darkly about whatever her half-Papago eyes thought they were glimpsing in the shimmering heat waves above the now-solid chaparral. To calm her down he gave her some of his own .38 rounds for her nickel-plated and beat-up S&W and told her they seemed to be off the disputed range now, if they were in Pleasant Valley at all.

  The map didn’t say. Wherever they were wasn’t so pleasant. The ridge trail they were on was now out of sight of Cherry Creek to their right. The valley, if one still wanted to call it that, had widened out to a vast flat covered with blue-gray desert scrub, and the creek, wherever it was, had dug itself a deep ditch winding through no longer semiarid but seriously-arid desert. He was sure he’d ridden through and beyond the mystery of Pleasant Valley. But this was no place to leave a lady, and he’d wired his home office he was headed for Globe, on the far side of the Salt, in any case.

  They both knew the coming night figured to be their last alone together. So by tacit consent they reined in and dismounted as the last light of gloaming showed them a swell place to bed down.

  Drifting sand had settled in a smooth gentle slope against an outcrop of pillow-shaped bedrocks, so they wouldn’t have to clear brush or worry about the snakes of a desert evening among the same. They could hear desert diamondbacks, or critters running from them, in the chaparral all around the natural clearing as Concepción spread their bedding while he tended to the ponies. He tethered them to mesquite they could nibble, rubbed them down, and gave them more oats than usual after watering them. His feed sack was about empty now. But they were almost back to civilization, and even the old Army stray had earned a square meal for a change.

  He rejoined Concepción. She was holding his can of coffee wistfully, bayonet in the other hand, waiting for him to say. He said, “The can’s already open, honey. I reckon it would be safe to build a fire tonight. We’re ridden way beyond any fool secret those fools could be guarding back there. I sure wish I knew what it was. But I don’t. So I’d best gather some firewood.”

  He did. It was easy, with half the local vegetation dead and sun-baked brittle enough to bust up with bare hands. They made a hollow in the sand, down-slope from their bedding, and he got it going on the second match with only a fistful of dry-leaf kindling. Concepción had already filled the pot with canteen water. As she put it on to boil she said, “I shall brew out last coffee strong. So we won’t get sleepy until you have utterly ravaged me beyond recovery. I do not wish you to forget me soon, querido. I know I shall never forget you. You were my first Anglo lover. Had I known sooner how good your people made love, I would not have waited so long.”

  He laughed, perhaps a little louder than he felt like laughing. He was glad she was being a good sport about it. A lot of gals tended not to be. He was feeling a mite wistful, knowing he’d no doubt miss old Concepción some future night when the moon caught him all alone in his bedroll, or with someone not as sweet and athletic. He knew she expected him to say something mushy. So he said, “I do wish things could be different, honey. But I told you my job just won’t let me stay in one place long.”

  She said, “Si, and even if it did, I’d still be Mex, no?”

  He said, “No. That’s not it. I know your folk and mine have had some differences in the past. But I grew up with Mex neighbors, and one of my best boyhood chums—a kid named Pedro—got killed in the war with Spain as patriotic as the rest of us. We called him Pete. I learned a lot of Spanish from him.”

  She said, “I’ll bet you screwed his sister, too, eh?”

  He told her not to talk dirty. He had, in fact, made out sort of friendly with old Pete’s kid sister that time. But she’d been sort of blond, and he’d never called her a greaser. He said, “That brush sure burns better than it makes coals. I’d better go gather some more.”

  He did. It didn’t take long to gather an armful, if a man could stand the noise. He carried it back to the fire. Concepción wasn’t there. He figured she’d gone off to enjoy a squat in private. He hunkered down to put a few more sticks on the cook fire. He heard the snick of a gun being cocked behind him and stiffened silently.

  His own sidearm was still on his hip. Both the Krag and the nickle-plated S&W Concepción had found lay nearby on her blanket. But not nearby enough. So he wasn’t too surprised when a male voice told him calmly, “Unbuckle that gun rig and let it fall where it may, MacKail.”

  He did what he was ordered to do. He had no other choice. As he squatted there, six-gun on the sand beside him, his unknown tormentor said, “Stand up and turn around now, slow.”

  Stringer did so. He felt as foolish as he felt afraid when he saw who had the drop on him. The total stranger was a little bearded gent with a battered desert-rat look to him and a single-action Colt ’74. But the old thumb-buster was cocked as well as trained-on him. So all Stringer could do about it was nod and mutter, “Howdy. Since you know me by name, it’s safe to assume you’re interested in something more than coffee, right?”

  The older man nodded and said, “I am. Have you any last words for me to carry back to the boss?”

  Stringer said, “I might. It depends on who your boss might be, and what in thunder he might want.”

  The man who had the drop on him said, “I’ll ask all the questions here. You’ll answer ’em, if you don’t cotton to the notion of dying slow, gut shot.”

  Stringer said, “I don’t reckon I’d enjoy that. But since you mean to kill me in any case, I see no harm in laying all the cards face up on the table.”

  Before the other man could argue, Stringer quickly pointed out, “I don’t know what it is that your boss is afraid I’ll find out. As you can see from this fool fire, I rode all the way through the range you boys are haunting without seeing a thing worth printing in the San Francisco Sun. Can’t you even give me a hint?”

  The older man shook his head and said, “Not hardly. The boss pays me to protect his secrets, not blabber about ’em. So what do you think the secret might be, MacKail?”

  Stringer said, “I told you I was stumped. It has to be mighty important, unless you’re determined past common sense. Can I assume you’re either a Graham or a Tewksbury? No offense, but you look old enough to have rid in their war a few years back.”

  As his newspaper experience had led him to hope, the old gunslick was as interested in hearing the opinions of others about himself as most folk were. He said, “Guess again. You might say I’m imported as experienced outside help. Who I might be working for is less important than who you might think I’d be working for. So it’s your turn.”

  Stringer shrugged and said, “I could give it to you numerical or alphabetical if I possessed a county register, and I can’t say for sure we’re talking about Navajo County. Don’t it end at about the Mogollon Rim?”

  The old man chuckled and said, “You don’t know nothing. It’s sort of a shame, seeing as I got to kill you anyway
s, old son.”

  He raised the gun in his hand to do so. Then the muzzle gave a sudden jerk and fired well over Stringer’s head as Stringer dropped to claw his own gun from its holster in the sand.

  But as he rolled over once for luck and came up in a fighting crouch, he saw the murderous old man was already hitting the ground, face down, with the brass-bound hilt of a Krag sword bayonet sticking straight up from between his shoulder blades.

  As Stringer pondered this, Concepción stepped into view from behind the just-visible rocks she’d made her throw from. She wore a little Mona Lisa smile on her half-Indian face as she stared down at her victim, saying, “That blade has a nice balance. I was afraid the range was a little far.”

  Stringer whistled softly and said, “I can see why the Apache felt it best not to mess with Papago. It’s sure lucky you felt the call of nature well before he moved in on our fire light.”

  She asked, “What call of nature? I heard the fool coming long before he got here. He didn’t dismount before he was maybe fifty yards out, over that way. I told you I thought someone was still following us, Stuarto.”

  He nodded and said, “I never argue with Indian blood about such notions, honey. We’d best let the fire go out. I’m pretty sure he rode on after us alone, maybe in hopes of a bonus, but I’ve had enough dismal surprises for one night.”

  Concepción bent over, picked up the rifle, and said, “You go gather in his horse. I’ll climb up on the rocks and make sure we’re alone while our coffee boils. I told you why I wanted to fill both our bellies with good strong coffee tonight, and I meant it.”

  He didn’t argue. He went out to find the dead man’s pony. It was a bay mare, and the other mounts seemed glad to meet it. He unsaddled it, watered it, fed it, and then dragged the old man farther out on the desert fiat by his boot heels, making another twenty-odd dollars and no further information on the deal.