Running Irons

by J. T. Edson

  Running Irons

  J. T. Edson

  Man with a mission ...

  Danny Fog has a lot to live up to, being the younger brother of Dusty Fog, the legendary gun wizard from Rio Hondo. But Danny's still a lawman to be reckoned with -- and by breaking up the loathsome cow-thieving outfit that's terrorizing Caspar County, he'll be well on his way to writing his own legend. The gun-crazy outlaws and Mexican cutthroats standing in his way shouldn't be too much of a problem for the big and brash young Texas Ranger. But dealing with the lady boss of the rustlers may be more than he can handle without help. So Danny's going to fight female fire with female fire, joining forces with one Martha Jane Canary. But kicking in with this tough gun-toting seÑorita could be more trouble than Danny Fog bargained for ... once he learns first-hand why folks hereabouts call her "Calamity."

  J.T. Edson

  Running Irons

  Chapter 1 BAT GOOCH’S MISTAKE

  THERE WERE MANY TYPES OF MARKS BY WHICH THE ranchers of the old west established ownership of their cattle, ranging from straightforward initial or number brands to John Chisum’s Long Rail, a line burned along the animal’s side from rump to shoulder.

  A box brand had a square outline around letters or numbers; a connected brand meant that one of the letters in it touched the other; barbed brands carried a short projection from some part of them; a bench brand stood on a horizontal bracket with legs extending downward like a bench; a drag brand carried lines sticking downward from its bottom; should a brand have a small extension from each side it was said to be “flying”; a letter suspended from or connected to a quarter circle bore the title “swinging”; a tumbling brand meant that its letters leaned over at an oblique angle; a walking brand bore twin small extensions like feet at its lower extremities; a rafter brand sheltered under an inverted V-shape; a forked brand carried a small V-shaped prong on one of its sides; a running brand meant that flowing lines trailed from it; a bradded brand had a large termini; a collection of wings without a central figure bore the title “whangdoodle.” Hacienderos below the Rio Grande used such large and complicated brands that a man might read them by moonlight, but could make no sense of them. The Texas cowhands called such brands “maps of Mexico,” “skillets of snakes,” “greaser madhouses” and other less complimentary names.

  A red-hot branding iron alone served the purpose of applying such a mark of ownership to a man’s stock. This consisted of a three-foot-long iron rod with a handle at one end and a reversed facsimile of the outfit’s chosen brand at the other. Such a branding iron, when heated correctly and applied to the animal’s hide, left a plain, easily read sign by which all men knew who owned the critter bearing it.

  While riding the range on their lawful occasions cowhands often toted along one of their outfit’s branding irons so as to be able to catch, tie down and mark any unclaimed stock they came across. It might be a grown animal overlooked in earlier roundups, or a new-born, late-dropped calf running at its mother’s side. Either way the application of the outfit’s brand set the seal of ownership upon the animal and added more potential wealth to the cowhand’s ranch. So a cowhand who carried his outfit’s iron was regarded as being a good worker, industrious and a man to be most highly commended.

  But when a rider carried a rod without a stamp-head upon it, man, that was some different. Known as a running iron, such a rod could be used to change the shape of a brand, or for “venting,” running a line through the original mark so as to nullify it, then trace another brand upon the animal—done legally this was known as counter-branding and was used when a critter be wrongly branded or sold after receiving its owner’s mark. So a man carrying a running iron was not thought of as being praiseworthy or commendable. Folks called him a cow thief.

  For almost six months past the range country around Caspar County, Texas, had been plagued by cow thieves. Stock disappeared in numbers that were too great to be put down to inclement weather or the depredations of cougar, wolf or bear; besides, not even the great Texas grizzly ate the bones of its kills and no sign of animal kills led the ranchers to blame Ursus Texensis Texensis for their losses. No sir, a human agency lay behind the disappearances and the ranchers decided it to be long gone time that something was done. A man who worked damned hard, faced hunger, danger, gave his blood and sweat to raise himself above his fellows, and took the responsibility of ownership and development instead of being content to draw another’s wages did not take kindly to having his property stolen from him. So the ranchers decided to strike back.

  Of course there were ways and ways of striking back. Vic Crither’s hiring of Bat Gooch struck most folks as going maybe a mite too far, even against cow thieves. Few bounty hunters ever achieved a higher social standing than Digger Indians and the Digger was reckoned as being the lowest of the low. Bat Gooch had a name for being worse than most of the men who hunted down fellow humans for the price their hide carried. For all that, Bat Gooch came to Caspar, called in by the mysterious, but highly effective prairie telegraph. Crither let it be known that Gooch would receive a flat wage for prowling the Forked C’s range and a bonus of two hundred dollars each time he brought in a proven rustler—alive or dead.

  The threat appeared to be working, for Gooch had ridden the ranges of the Forked C each night during the past fortnight without finding any sign of the cow thieves who preyed on the other ranches. While Vic Crither felt highly pleased with his strategy, the same could not be said for Gooch. So far his trip did not meet with his idea of the fitness of things. The potent quality of Gooch’s name appeared to have scared the cow thieves from Forked C and not a single two hundred dollar bounty had so far come his way.

  Being a man who liked money and all the good things it brought, Gooch decided, although he had never heard of the term, that if the mountain would not come to the prophet, then he would danged well go right out and find it for himself.

  So it came about that on a clear, moonlit night Bat Gooch left the Forked C range and rode into the Bench J’s domain. There was something about Gooch which warned of his chosen field of endeavor; a hint of cruelty and evil about his dark face and strangely pale eyes; the perpetual sneer on his lips, that silent way of moving, all hinted at something sinister. He wore dark clothing of cowhand style and Indian moccasins on his feet. In his saddleboot rode a Sharps Old Reliable buffalo rifle with a telescopic sight, but no bison had ever tumbled before its bullets. An Army Colt hung at his right side, a sheathed bowie knife on the left of his belt. Men had died through each of his weapons. In many ways Gooch was a man ideally suited to his work. He could move in silence through the thickest bush; shot well and possessed that rarest ability of being able to squeeze the trigger and kill another human being without a single hesitative thought. In addition to keen eyesight and excellent hearing, Gooch possessed a nose as sharp as a hound dog’s.

  On this occasion it was the nose which served him first. For four hours he had been prowling the Bench J land, eyes and ears alert for any sound that might guide him to a cow thief engaged in illegal operations. Once found, the cow thief would die and be taken on to the Forked C’s range where his body commanded a price of two hundred dollars. Yet, though he searched with care and used a considerable knowledge of the working of cow thieves to direct him, Gooch found no sign during the first four hours.

  Then it happened!

  The wind carried a scent to him. Not the pleasant aroma of jasmine or roses, but one just as sweet to Gooch’s keen nostrils. Raw, acrid and unmistakable it came, the stench of singed hair and burning cow hide as a branding iron seared its irremovable mark on to an animal. Yet no sound followed the stench. No sudden bleat of pain such as one heard when a brand was applied in normal circumstances. Not that folks branded cattle by night under
normal circumstances—especially on a range troubled by cow thieves.

  Two things were plain to Gooch: first, from the stench of burned hide somebody had just branded an animal upwind of him; second, the fact that the branders worked at night and took the trouble to muffle the branded critter’s head and stop its bellow of pain told that they had good reason for not wishing to attract attention to themselves. Add one and two together, and the answer came out as a chance of picking up at least two hundred fine old U.S. dollars over and above Gooch’s regular wages.

  Keeping his big, wild-looking dark roan horse to an easy walk, its hooves hardly making a sound in the hock deep grass, Gooch rode up wind like a blue-tick hound going in on a breast-scent instead of running the line by the smell on the ground. Faint sounds came to his ears, then he saw a small glow of light flickering through the bushes and down a slope ahead of him. Once again his nostrils detected the smell of burning flesh and he brought his horse to a halt. Swinging from the saddle, he moved forward on foot. The big horse followed on his heels, stepping with all the silent caution of a whitetail deer in hard-hunted country. Give Gooch his due, he could train a horse and the roan ideally suited his purposes. Moving silently through the bushes, man and horse came into sight of a scene which did Gooch’s money-hungry heart good to see.

  At the foot of a small hollow six hundred dollars worth of cow thieves worked at their trade. The ground at the bottom of the small basin was clear of bushes, although its sides and the range around was liberally dotted with them and offered good cover which hid the light of the fire from all but the closest inspection. If Gooch had not caught the tell-tale smell of burning hide, he might have ridden right by the place without noticing anything. Instead he looked down at the three shapes around the fire. All wore cowhand clothes, although Gooch could only see two faces, the other having a wide-brimmed hat that effectively shielded the features. The two Gooch could see, he identified as young cowhands who worked for the Bench J; a brace of cheery, happy-go-lucky youngsters typical of hundreds across the length and breadth of the Texas range country. Although both of them wore holstered Colts, Gooch did not figure them as dangerous with the weapons—even if he aimed to give them a chance to fight. The third figure was smaller, not more than five seven, and slim under the wolf-skin jacket. Gooch studied all three noticing first that the slim, boyish third member of the party did not appear to be wearing a gunbelt.

  Bending, the third figure thrust a running iron into the flames of the fire where a second iron lay heating. One of the other pair released a freshly branded calf and stripped the slicker from around its head.

  “Go get another,” said the third cow thief, nodding to where half-a-dozen calves stood hobbled.

  Excitement appeared to be affecting that one, making his voice almost as high pitched as a soprano woman’s. Gooch gave little thought to the voice, being more concerned with deciding what course of action to take and which of his armament best suited his purpose. The single-shot Sharps would not serve, nor the bowie, so he must handle things with his Colt. At that range, with his targets illuminated by a fire, he figured to be able to down all three. If he knew them, they would panic when the first one went down, giving him a chance to tumble the other two before they could make for the trio of horses standing at the far side of the clearing. He reached down a big right hand, drawing the 1860 Army Colt from its holster.

  “I don’t like this,” the taller of the trio stated, standing with his back to Gooch—although he did not know of the bounty hunter’s presence.

  “Nor me,” the second cowhand went on. “Buck Jerome’s been a good boss.”

  “Shucks, he’ll not miss a few head, and anyways you know you can slap a brand on any unbranded critter you see,” the third member of the party answered.

  “Sure,” agreed the second rider. “Only this bunch were with Bench J cows.”

  “So?” snorted the third cow thief. “That doesn’t mean they had Bench J mammies. And anyways, how’ll you and Dora ever save en——”

  The words ended unsaid as flame spurted from the darkness of the bush-dotted slopes around the basin. Caught in the middle of the back by a .44 caliber soft lead round ball—so much more deadly in impact and effect than a conical bullet—the tallest member of the trio pitched forward and just missed the fire as he fell. Just as Gooch figured, the second cowhand showed shocked indecision for an instant before trying to turn and draw his gun. By that time Gooch had cocked the Colt on its recoil and, before the young cowhand completed his turn or made his fumbling draw, fired again. Lead ripped into the cowhand’s head, dropping him in a lifeless heap on the ground, his gun still in leather.

  At which point Gooch saw that his plan had partially gone wrong. Instead of being in a state of panic, the third member of the party acted with speed and a show of planned thought. Spinning around, the figure left the fire and sped toward the horses in a fast, swerving run. Twice Gooch’s Colt roared, but his bullets missed their mark. With a bound, the escaping cow thief went afork one of the horses. Range trained, the horse had been standing untied, its reins dangling before it. Scooping up the reins, the cow thief set the horse running, crashed it through the surrounding bushes like they were not there.

  Still holding his Colt, Gooch turned and vaulted into his saddle. Knowing its work, the roan leapt forward, racing down the slope and across the open ground. A glance in passing told Gooch that he had earned four hundred dollars and that if not already dead the two cowhands soon would be. Knowing he could safely leave them where they lay, and find them there on his return, Gooch gave his full attention to riding down the last member of the trio.

  Through the bushes and out on to the open range tore the horses, one ridden by a cow thief with the fear of death, the other carrying the same death in human form, wearing range clothes instead of a night-shirt and toting a .44 Army Colt in place of the more conventional scythe. For almost half a mile Gooch chased the cow thief, his roan closing the gap with every raking stride, although the other’s mount was not exactly slow. While the bounty hunter held his Colt, he did not attempt to shoot. Gooch knew the folly of trying to shoot from the back of a running horse, at least over anything but short range. Sure, he had two loaded chambers left, but recharging a percussion-fired revolver could not be done from the back of a racing horse, and he had no wish to approach the other when holding an empty gun. So he aimed to get closer in and cut loose from a range where he could not miss; or if the worst came to the worst, take the fleeing rider from the ground and using his heavy caliber rifle.

  Once the fleeing cow thief twisted in the saddle and looked back, gauging the distance between them and guessing there was no chance of outrunning that big roan. Turning to the front again, the rider reached up with a hand to open the jacket and do something else that Gooch could not see. The bounty hunter grunted, not unduly worried, for he knew shooting backward from a galloping horse to be, if anything, even less accurate than firing in a forward direction. However, a man did not care to take chances on catching a stray bullet; he could be killed just as long, permanently, dead by a blind-lucky shot as through one taken after careful and deliberate aim.

  Before the bounty hunter could make his move, either to start using the Colt or stop the roan, dismount and make use of his Sharps, he saw what appeared to be a stroke of bad luck take the fleeing rider. Ahead of the cow thief stood a noble old cottonwood; the spreading branches of which no stealer of cattle ought to look on without a shudder and thinking of the hairy touch of a Manila rope around the neck. However, the rider appeared to be mighty insensitive to atmosphere, for the horse’s course took it under the low, wide spread branches of the tree.

  Suddenly the cow thief jerked backward, apparently struck by a branch, and slid over the horse’s rump to crash to the ground. Gooch brought his roan to a halt, gun held ready for use as he studied the shape on the ground. Swinging from his saddle, Gooch advanced and the shape moved slowly, rolling on to its back. Gooch’s Colt had lined
at the first movement, its hammer drawn back ready and his forefinger on the trigger. Before he could send lead crashing into the near-helpless shape, he saw something that made him hold his fire and brought a broader sneer than usual to his lips.

  In falling, the cow thief’s hat had gone from his head and the shirt under the thrown-open jacket appeared to have been torn apart to expose the flesh below. The first thing Gooch noticed was long hair trailing around the head. Hair far longer than even Wild Bill Hickok sported, and framing a beautiful, most unmasculine face. Next the bounty hunter’s eyes strayed downward, to the open shirt and what it exposed. Apparently the cow thief did not go in for wearing underclothing and what Gooch could see rising from the open shirt most certainly did not belong to any man.

  Holstering his gun, Gooch walked forward and drank in the sight of those round, full and naked female breasts. Never a pleasant sight, his evil face looked even more so as he advanced on the moaning, agony-moving figure. While watching the trio by the fire Gooch had been aware that this third member of the party appeared to be the boss. Maybe she was the boss rustler of the area. Stranger things had happened and from what Gooch had seen of her in Caspar, she had the brains to be the big augur and nobody would ever suspect her. Only now she had been caught in the act and would bring in at least two hundred dollars same as the other two—dead.

  Only before she died, Gooch figured he might as well pleasure himself a mite. He had a keen eye for a beautiful face and good figure; and, man, that gal on the ground afore him possessed both. Once dead, which she would be as soon as he finished his fun, the girl could not tell any tales of what happened before she met her end.

  “Gal,” he said, dropping to his knees besides her and reaching down toward the open shirt front, “if you enjoy it, you’ll sure die hap——”