The Taylor County War

by Ford Fargo

  Luckily, no one stopped him before he reached the Wolf’s Den. Ira Breedlove’s pa owned the T-Bar-B. Even if Ira and his pa didn’t see eye to eye, blood had to count for something. Billy pushed through the batwings of the Wolf’s Den.

  Wesley Quaid stood at the far end of the bar, his elbows hooked on the polished surface and his left boot hooked on the rail that ran down the bar about a foot from the floor. “Good gads, Billy. What the hell happened to you? You look like something the old cat drug in. Some kinda near-dead rat. What’s up?”

  “Gotta talk to Ira. Where’s he at?”

  “Where’s Ira anytime, day or night? Back in that office of his, counting his damn money.”

  Billy nodded his thanks to Quaid and limped by him, headed for Ira Breedlove’s office.

  “Damn, Billy. You look like hell, if you don’t mind me saying so. What’s that? Someone shoot you in the ass?”

  Billy didn’t turn around and he didn’t slow down. “Yeah. I been shot in the ass. Not that it’s none of your business.”

  Quaid held both hands up, palms out. “Whoa. Whoa. Just asking. Looks like you could do with a new union suit and a shirt, that’s all.”

  The men at the poker table didn’t even look up. The whiskey bottle on the table still held more than three-quarters of amber spirits, and the talk amongst the players was desultory, languid, unhurried. The real contest of wills over the pasteboards had yet to begin, it seemed.

  As they ignored Billy, he ignored them. At the door to Ira’s office, he rapped, then called, “Ira. Ira Breedlove. It’s me. Billy Below.”

  “What the hell, come on in.”

  Billy juggled the knob and pushed the door open. “Rolling R’s hitting T-Bar-B, Mr. Breedlove. Your Pa needs help.”

  “Shit, man. Least you could do is get dressed. What’s this? Coming in here in your union suit, and all ragged at that.”

  “Gave my shirt to Marcus to make a bandage for Obie Wilkins, Mr. Breedlove. He got lung shot. Needed the shirt more’n me.”

  “Why’d a little kid get lung shot?”

  “Rolling R waddies come a-shooting. Obie got in the way of a bullet. They was flying fast and thick, too. Lanny Taggart’s dead, so’s our new hand Lige Henry. Took some lead myself, but it ain’t bad. Brandy over at the cathouse fixed me up right.”

  “Rolling R?”

  “Yep. That funny waddie with the cockeyed hat, the one with the brim turned up in front, well, he’s up to the sheriff’s office saying us’ns was rustling. Taking Rolling R stock. He stood right there in front of Zack, accusing us.”

  “But they shot Obie?”

  Billy bit his lip. After a moment, he said, “Yup.”

  “Damn. That’s not right.”

  “That Rogers man ain’t right, Mr. Breedlove. He’s leaning mighty hard on your Pa. Be righteous if you’d lend a hand. Send over some gun people or something.”

  “The old man doesn’t care much for me,” Breedlove said.

  Billy said nothing.

  “Much. Not much, he don’t. I don’t wanna herd a bunch of dumb cows all my life, and that makes him mad.” Breedlove seemed to be talking to himself. “‘Built this here spread all by myself, he says, you should be proud to take over. That’s why I sent you off to school, so you’d have smarts that I ain’t got.’ That’s what he said.”

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Breedlove, without some help, your pa’ll get run over roughshod. I’m just a cowboy, but ’less I miss my guess, that Rogers man’s planning to run this whole county.”

  “Shit. I don’t really want to get caught up in some range war.”

  “Mr. Breedlove. Old Mr. Breedlove’s your own pa.”

  “That he is. Not sure if that’s my bad luck or his.”

  “Blood’s thicker’n water, Mr. Breedlove. That’s what they say.”

  Ira Breedlove didn’t answer. He paced the room. He fingered his ribbon tie, the ruffles on his white shirt, the cufflinks at his wrists. He ran his fingers through hair that was just beginning to thin. “Damn,” Breedlove said softly, then raised his voice. “Quaid. Wesley Quaid. Get your ass in here.”

  Quaid’s head popped in the door. “You calling me, Ira?”

  “You gone deaf? Get in here.”

  Quaid stepped in.

  “You’ve been hitting me up for work since you got here, Quaid. You ready to earn your keep?”

  Quaid’s smile wasn’t pretty. He pulled a nickel-plated Colt from a tooled black holster hanging from a belt that looked to have about twenty-four cartridges in it. “I’ve been keepin’ my gear clean, just for you.”

  “Want you to go with Billy here over to the T-Bar-B. Seems the Rolling R’s pushing my pa, trying to drive him out. I don’t want him driven out.”

  Quaid nodded. “I’ll get my paint.”

  “Mr. Breedlove,” Billy said. “I ain’t got a horse.”

  Breedlove turned on Billy. “How’d you get in?”

  “Rolling R shot mine. I picked up one of theirs to ride in to see the sheriff. Left him in front of the sheriff’s office. You got one I can ride back to the ranch?”

  Breedlove heaved a huge sigh. “Good Lord, man.” He shook his head, then said, “Tell Ben Tolliver over to the livery to let you have one, and I’ll pay. Now, you and Quaid ride on out to the ranch and tell my pa I’ll be out directly.”

  ***

  The horse Billy got from the livery was better than nothing, but not much. But then, sitting on half his butt like he did, he wasn’t much of a rider either. And Wesley Quaid riding up ahead, whistling like he didn’t have a care of any kind, didn’t sit well with Billy, either. Damn. He gigged the raggedy horse up alongside Quaid.

  “You may have to use that shiny gun, Quaid, and get it dirty.”

  Quaid chuckled. “Cowboy, you ain’t about big enough to teach me anything about guns.” He cast a sidewise glance at Billy. “You won’t catch me sticking my ass out for no Rolling R rannie to use for target practice, though.”

  Billy grunted and shifted around in the saddle, trying to find a comfortable position. He couldn’t. “Getting shot in the ass ain’t fun. Not deadly, but not fun. Keeping posteriors from the line of fire could become my first prerogative.”

  “Your first what?”

  “Prerogative. That’s what they call the thing you do first of all.”

  “Awful big word for a little fella like you, Billy.”

  Billy hid a smile. “I read some,” he said.

  “Figure they’ll come shooting?”

  “My ass says so.”

  Quaid snorted. “Be good to tangle with them kid-shootin’ rannies, I reckon.”

  “Bastards killed my horse, too.”

  “Get a new one.”

  “I’ll ride one from the remuda till I find the right one to buy, I reckon. Man and his horse kinda need to be friends. You know, trust each other. Just any cayuse ain’t about to do.”

  “Cowboys.” The word dripped off Quaid’s tongue like poison.

  Billy Below didn’t try to argue with Quaid. Some people understood what it was like to be a cowboy, how it wasn’t just anybody who could walk on two legs that could make the grade, how a man would think nothing of putting his life on the line for any one of the four-legged critters he was given watch over. Some knew. Some didn’t. And it didn’t do any good to argue. He let the raggedy brown drop back some so he wouldn’t have to talk to Quaid.

  The way to the T-Bar-B looked flat all the way to the banks of the Arkansas, but looks could be tricky. Box elders marked where water flowed after a rain, and sometimes they were too thick to get through horseback. Being a cowboy gave Billy pride in himself and what he could do. As he and Quaid rode for the Breedlove spread, he automatically checked the land. Was the buffalo grass ready to be grazed? Any good spots of Texas bluegrass showing through? Seemed like the more cows came up from Texas to be shipped east on the railroad, the more bluegrass grew. Bluegrass fed cows good, so Billy didn’t worry about the invasion, he just no
ted where patches grew.

  Billy noted black-eyed Susan blooms, some buffalo burr, cone flower, Indian Blanket, too. And one of his favorites, the prairie rose. After miles of buffalo grass and wild rye, dots of red and blue and purple soothed a cowboy’s eye.

  Purple. Whenever that color caught Billy’s eye, he looked sharply at the flower. Wouldn’t do to have cows grazing on locoweed. Not all that much around, but enough so’s a good cowboy kept his eye peeled. And assholes like Wesley Quaid thought cowboying was a soft job.

  “Hey, Billy.”

  “Whaddaya want?”

  Quaid turned in his saddle. “How much farther?”

  Billy pointed straight ahead. “See them red ash trees up there?”

  A green clump showed on the horizon. Quaid shoved his chin out. “That stuff up there?”

  “Yep. The ranch house is right back a them trees. Half hour from here, maybe.”

  “Good. Wonder if they’s anything to eat?”

  “Twenty-five bucks a month ‘n’ found,” Billy said. “Them’s cowboy wages. T-Bar-B grub’s better’n most and beats the hell out of beans and beef a man gets on the trail.”

  “Anything to drink?”

  “Ira runs the booze part of the Breedlove bunch. Old man Tobias’s as close to a teetotaler as I’ve ever seen.” Billy had to grin. Working cowboys and rattlesnake whiskey didn’t mix well. Any rancher who knew anything knew he had to keep booze out of the cowboy’s reach outside of town. Old Man Tobias Breedlove was about as canny as a rancher can be when it came to cows and cowboys.

  As the two riders neared the ranch, Billy pushed the raggedy brown ahead. He leaned from the saddle and removed the leather loop from the top of the gate and swung it open. After Quaid rode through, he closed it again the same way. Nothing fancy, just something every cowboy did.

  “Stop right where you are, stranger. You don’t want fifty calibers of buffalo lead through your guts, you’ll do what I say.”

  “S’all right, Mr. Breedlove,” Billy hollered. “Wesley Quaid’s here. Ira sent him. He’s got shiny guns.”

  “Don’t like no strangers coming around. Them Rolling R rowdies have gone to taking pot shots at my boys.”

  “I know, Mr. Breedlove, I was there. Ira sent us a gunman, your son thinks he’s gotta be good as anything Rolling R has.”

  Tobias Breedlove came around the corner with a Sharps buffalo gun in the crook of his arm, cocked. His old felt hat showed plenty of grease stains under the braided leather hatband, and his homespun britches hung from a pair of threadbare suspenders. The buffalo gun and the knife at his waist were well cared for. His face showed at least two days worth of white stubble. Billy knew Tobias Breedlove was pure whang-leather tough, and that a man should never judge the owner of the T-Bar-B by what they saw on the outside.

  “Light’n set, gunman,” Tobias said. “Got coffee on the stove. Vittles at sundown. Put yer gear in the bunkhouse.” The old man stepped up on the porch that fronted the house. “Thanks for coming,” he said, then opened the front door and disappeared into the ranch house.

  After the door closed, Quaid spoke. “She-it. He’s what I’m supposed to protect?”

  “You’re just an extra gun, Quaid. Don’t get no bright ideas about your importance around here. Rest of us’ll be right there when the lead starts flying. Bunkhouse’s around back.” Billy chucked the raggedy brown with his boot heels and the horse shuffled around the ranch house. Quaid followed. They dismounted by the corral.

  “All of us? Don’t seem to be no one around.”

  “They was four of us,” Billy said. “But Lanny Taggart and Lige Henry went down. Jimmy Spotted Owl should be around, unless he’s still back at the line shack with Marcus and the kids.”

  “You, and me, and a shit-kicking Injun?”

  “And Mr. Breedlove. He may be old, but he shoots awful straight with that Sharps.”

  “Damn.”

  “You any good with them guns, Quaid?”

  “I get paid to use ‘em.”

  Billy went to the trash pile and got an empty can. He set it on a fence post and came back. “Whatta we got? Thirty feet? ’Bout as far as a man can hit with a short gun.” He pulled his Colt and lined it up on the tin can. The gun bucked and the can jumped into the air.

  Before it could hit the ground, Quaid’s gun was out and his shots kept the can jumping three times. “About that good,” he said as he shoved the spent cartridges from the shiny converted .44 and reloaded.

  “You’ll do, Quaid. Don’t know what Ira pays you, but it probably ain’t enough.”

  Quaid grinned and patted his lean stomach. “Man can’t be too choosy,” he said, “if he wants to eat.”

  Billy grinned. “Chuck’s good here,” he said. “And it don’t come outta your pay. Put your horse in the corral and throw your saddle over the rail.” Billy let the raggedy brown into the corral, removed the saddle and bridle, which he put on the corral’s top rail. “I’ll get some hay.”

  With the horses taken care of, Billy and Quaid made for the bunkhouse. Of the six bunks, four were obviously taken. “Your choice,” Billy said, waving at the empty bunks.

  Quaid dropped his saddlebags on the nearest. “When’s chow?” he asked.

  Before Billy could answer, the clang of iron bar hitting triangle sounded. “Come get or I throw to hog.”

  “That’s Sen Yung,” Billy said. “He cooks mighty good, for a Celestial. We’d better go chow down.” He dug a shirt from his possibles bag and put it on. “Can’t run around in my union suit all day. Let’s go.”

  At the back door to the ranch house, Billy stopped at a washbowl. “Gotta wash up. Rules.” He slopped water from a jug into the washbowl, wet his hands, soaped them, scrubbed his hands across his face, swished the suds from his hands in the basin, wiped his face, and then dried everything with the old flour sack hanging on a peg. Quaid followed Billy’s lead.

  Tobias Breedlove sat at the head of the table. The Sharps stood against the wall within easy reach.

  “Evening, Mr. Breedlove,” Quaid said. “I don’t know much about cows, but I do all right with guns, just about any kind. And that’s what Ira sent me for.”

  “Sit and eat, boy. We’ll talk on full bellies.” Tobias hollered at the cook. “Hey, Sen Yung. Bring’um eats, chop chop.”

  “Sen Yung come now, boss. Never worry.” The Chinaman brought a steaming pot to the table and put it down on a pad. “Stew,” he said. “Chinaman stew.”

  Tobias Breedlove bowed his head. “Lord,” he said. “We’re thankful for what we are about to receive. Bless it to our health. Amen.”

  Billy and Quaid looked expectantly at Tobias. “Well,” the old man said. “What are you waiting on? Grace’s been said. Dig in.”

  While Tobias and the hands piled into the stew, Sen Yung brought mugs of dark black coffee and set one in front of each man.

  As one, they put down their spoons and reached for the mugs. “Damn,” Quaid said after a sip. “Ain’t had coffee that good for a month a Sundays.”

  “More where that came from,” Tobias said. “Who was shooting outside?”

  “Me and Quaid,” Billy said though a mouthful of Sen Yung’s stew.

  “What for?”

  “Ah, nothing. Just shooting at a can.”

  “And?”

  “Quaid shoots almighty good. Glad to have him on our side,” Billy said.

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” Quaid said, “way he rode me all the way out here.”

  “Just joshing,” Billy said.

  Tobias cleaned the last of the stew from his plate with a piece of bread. “Billy’s one of the best cowmen I know,” Tobias said. “He rides for the brand and he looks out for the cows. Ain’t never heard him lie, but I hear he bluffs good at cards.”

  “Hello the house.”

  The three men at the table were silent. Tobias’s hand stole over and grasped the Sharps. Billy stood, holding his chair so it wouldn’t scrape against the floor. Quaid’s
move was also silent, and quick as a cat. He held his shiny Colt in hand and padded into the front room on silent feet.

  “Hello the house.”

  “Answer, Sen Yung,” Tobias said, almost under his breath.

  “Coming. Coming,” Sen Yung shouted. He clomped from the kitchen to the front door. “Who there?” he asked.

  “Grub line rider,” a voice said.

  “Boss?” Sen Yung would not open the door without a word from Tobias.

  “Open up.” Tobias said. He stood in the doorway with the Sharps in hand.

  Sen Yung opened the door. The self-proclaimed rider was a silhouette. “Mr. Breedlove? My name’s Eddie Benton. Sure would like a bait of grub.”

  “Come on in, son,” Tobias said. “Never turned down a grub line rider.”

  The man called Eddie Benton came in. His hat, which was crumpled in his hands, had definitely seen much better days, and his britches were patched in more than one place. He wore a gun, but it hung over his crotch in a most unlikely position. Hesitantly, he cast his eyes to where Sen Yung’s stew sat on the table, mostly gone. Billy and Quaid’s dishes had been put away.

  “Sit anywhere,” Tobias said. “Help yourself.”

  Billy and Quaid quietly left by the front door. Sen Yung shut it after them.

  “I’ve seen that waddie before,” Billy said, leaning toward Quaid so his voice wouldn’t carry. They took a look at the man’s horse. Billy snorted. “Livery shit,” he said. “Saw that horse when I got that raggedy brown. Why’s a grub line rider using livery stock?”

  “Where’d you see him?”

  “Drinking at the Lucky Break. Seemed awfully friendly with some Rolling R riders. Why’s he here, now?”

  “Maybe he’s really riding for the Rolling R.”

  Billy looked at Quaid, just able to make out his face in the evening light. He nodded. “But,” he said, “if that’s true, it might be better to have him here under our eyes than off riding for them. Might be able to milk some information out of him, too.”

  They went around the house, made a lot of noise scraping boots on the porch and slopping the water jug and washbasin around, then barged in the back door. “Coffee still on?”