The Taylor County War

by Ford Fargo

  A prickly feeling raced down Wesley’s spine and he turned in the saddle, catching a glare of pure hatred in Eddie’s eyes directed at Tobias.

  Wesley slipped the thong off the hammer of his Thuer Conversion 1860 Colt Army that fired .44 cartridges. He had half a mind to just gun Eddie down and spare them all the trouble of having to do it later. Something about the man just didn’t feel right.

  “Spread out and cut for sign,” Tobias said. “But try not to get out of sight of one another.”

  Billy headed north and Eddie spurred his horse in a southerly direction. Wesley rode along with Tobias.

  The old man looked over at him, squinting against the sunlight. “You riding out?”

  “I’m getting paid to do a job. I intend to do it.”

  “I don’t need a nursemaid. I can look out for myself.”

  “I reckon you can. But a man don’t have eyes in the back of his head.”

  “I’m going to have to have a talk with that son of mine.”

  “That’d be between you and him, Mr. Breedlove. He said he was coming out here.”

  The sound of a calf bawling echoed in the morning. Their horses’ ears perked in that direction.

  “Here’s a few cows.” Tobias kicked his animal into a gallop. “Let’s head ‘em back.”

  Wesley followed several paces behind. He focused his attention on the old man, but kept his eyes scanning the horizon. Neither Eddie nor Billy were still in sight. Where could they have got to?

  Tobias rode around the dozen or so cattle and started them moving back toward the ranch. Spurring his horse, Wesley lent a hand.

  The echo of the gunshot reverberated in the morning stillness. Wesley flinched and gritted his teeth. His first thought was of the old man. Had he been shot? And who was doing the shooting? A glance at Tobias ascertained that he was none the worse for wear. He returned his Colt to the hand-tooled black leather gun belt. He did not even remember drawing it.

  “What the hell?” Tobias asked.

  Two more evenly spaced gunshots rang out and Wesley turned north. Billy Below waved an arm in the air, signaling them.

  Slapping the spurs to their horses, both men headed toward him.

  “What’s all the shooting for?” Wesley asked, glancing anxiously around.

  “I been hollering, but you all didn’t hear me. I figured to signal up Eddie too.” Billy looked past them. “Here he comes.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Tobias scanned the surrounding countryside. “I figured some Kiowas had got after you.”

  Billy grinned. “No sir. I found sign of about fifty head.”

  “What’s so special about that?” Wesley asked.

  “They were being driven.”

  “Son of a bitch. Rustlers.” Tobias shucked his Sharps buffalo gun from the saddle boot and checked the load. “Where were they headed?”

  “Tracks were headed due east. I followed them for a spell and they turned south.”

  Tobias chewed at his bottom lip. “Hartman’s spread is that way.”

  “So is the Crown W,” Billy said.

  The old man shook his head. “I have a hard time believing either of those men would rustle.”

  Eddie Benton spat a stream of brown liquid. “I don’t know about that Hartman feller. I’ve heard talk of him.”

  Wesley frowned. For someone who was supposed to be a grub line rider, Benton sure knew an awful lot about the folks in these parts. They sat in silence for several moments.

  “Show me those tracks, Billy, and let’s get after ‘em.” Tobias jammed the stock of his Sharps against his thigh and rode with the barrel in the air.

  “Yes, sir.” Billy turned his animal and headed south. The rest of them followed.

  ***

  The dust cloud became obvious long before they caught up with the cattle.

  Wesley shucked his Colt and loaded the sixth chamber. Sometimes an extra bullet came in handy. No matter what happened, he was going to keep an eye on Eddie Benton. Ira was paying him to keep his father alive, and Wesley had no qualms about killing folks who needed to be shown the error of their ways.

  Riders appeared suddenly from the dust cloud. Gun shots rang out.

  The old man’s horse stumbled and went down, tossing Tobias headfirst. Wesley cursed and fired a round at the riders even though he knew they were out of range.

  Billy unlimbered an 1866 Henry and began popping off shots as fast as he could work the lever.

  Wesley jumped to the ground and turned Tobias over, checking him for wounds. He wasn’t bleeding anywhere, but the fall had knocked him out cold.

  Wesley slapped him several times across the face. After a moment, the old man’s eyes fluttered open and he sat up.

  “Keep him covered, Billy.” Wesley sprang into the saddle and charged headlong toward the rustlers. He put the reins in his teeth and drew a second Army Colt, firing with both hands. The riders broke and scattered before his onslaught.

  Holstering his guns, he chased them for a few hundred yards, trying to get close enough to identify them, but to no avail. The riders had too much of a head start and the dust cloud made identification impossible.

  The thought of leaving Tobias in such a precarious position with Eddie Benton around caused him to slow his horse and spin around in the direction he’d come from. Besides, he wasn’t getting paid to round up rustlers.

  “Did you get any of them?” Tobias asked. He patted the shoulder of his dead horse.

  Wesley pulled his animal to a halt and eyed the old man who still sat on the ground. A large goose egg had formed on the left side of his forehead.

  “Naw. Couldn’t tell who they were, either.”

  “Damn.” Tobias pounded a fist into his palm.

  Wesley glanced around. “Where’s Eddie?”

  “He started off to round up the cattle. I was waiting on you to get back.” Billy cleared his throat and nodded in the direction of Tobias.

  The old man didn’t notice Billy’s nod. Apparently, Billy had concerns about leaving Tobias alone as well.

  Hoof beats sounded and Wesley glanced over his shoulder. Eddie rode up, leading a sorrel mare that was already saddled.

  “Where’d you find her?” Tobias asked.

  “Mixed in with the cattle. Figured you could use it.”

  “Much obliged.” Tobias climbed to his feet and groaned, placing a hand to his lower back and grimacing.

  “We must have got one of them,” Billy said. “Did you see any bodies lying about?” He took the reins from Benton and studied the brand on the mare’s hip.

  Eddie shook his head and spat some brown liquid onto the ground.

  “They must have carried him off,” Wesley said. “Recognize the brand?”

  “Never seen it before. You?” Billy handed the reins to the old man and turned to his own horse.

  “It’s a Texas brand, I think,” Wesley said. He noticed Eddie eyeing him with a skeptical gaze, but didn’t comment on it.

  Tobias grasped the saddle horn and climbed onto the sorrel. The mare pranced a little at first, but then settled down.

  Once mounted, they rounded up as many of the cattle as they could and started them in a westerly direction. Eddie rode point while Tobias and Billy took up flanking positions. Wesley rode drag, eating all the dust, and was reminded why he’d sworn off the cattle business.

  He popped the cork on his canteen and took a long swill. Wesley watched Tobias for a moment, but the old man seemed to be getting along well despite his fall. Billy glanced his way, waved an arm and rode toward him.

  “Did you notice Eddie doing any shooting earlier?” Wesley asked.

  Billy frowned and rubbed his chin. “Come to think of it, I don’t rightly recollect. He had his gun in his hand, but I can’t say if he was shooting it.”

  “I can’t either. There was too much happening to pay much attention.”

  “I guess we’re going to have to watch him closer than we thought.” Billy removed his hat and
swiped the back of his hand across his forehead.

  “I reckon. I’ve seen him somewhere before, I just can’t place him.”

  “Is he a gunman?”

  “I don’t know,” Wesley said. “He’s someone I should know, and that’s what scares me.”

  ***

  The clomping of hooves and the squeak of ungreased wheels grew gradually louder. Wesley Quaid pulled the hammer back to half-cock on the Army Colt conversion and rolled the cylinder the length of his forearm, listening to the music the gun made.

  The sun had just dropped over the horizon but twilight still lingered. He squinted his eyes toward the approaching buckboard but couldn’t make out the identity of the driver.

  “Hallo the house!”

  The door behind Wesley opened and the kerosene lantern on the table guttered.

  Tobias Breedlove stepped onto the porch. “Ira? That you?”

  “It’s me, Pa.”

  “Light and set, boy. Supper’s over, but I’m sure Sen Yung can scrape something together for you.”

  Ira pulled the buckboard to a halt. He set the brake and climbed down. Doffing his hat, he ran his fingers through his thinning hair and then opened the gate. “I’ve already eaten. I just wanted to stop by and see how things were.”

  Wesley lowered the hammer on the Colt and set it on the table. Then he turned his attention to its completely disassembled twin.

  Ira stepped onto the porch. “Earning your keep, Quaid?”

  “I reckon.” Wesley wiped the cylinder a final time and began reassembling the Colt. He glanced from one Breedlove to the other. According to talk around Wolf Creek, neither of these men saw exactly eye to eye. They seemed to be off to an amiable start tonight, though.

  “Doing too good a job, if you ask me.” Tobias rubbed at the knot on his forehead. “Won’t hardly let me out of his sight.”

  “Good. What happened to your head, Pa?”

  “He decided to head-butt the ground after taking a flying leap from a horse’s back.” Wesley reattached the barrel to the cylinder and locked it into place. He didn’t bother looking up.

  Ira grinned and glanced from Wesley to his father. “You all right, Pa? What happened?”

  “I’m fine, just old and sore. We nearly caught up to some rustlers, but they got away.”

  Ira adjusted the gold cufflinks at his wrists. “You couldn’t tell who they were?”

  “No such luck.” Wesley worked the hammer a few times and spun the cylinder. Then he opened the loading gate and began dropping .44 cartridges into the Colt.

  “You told me before you like to keep those things clean,” Ira said. “You weren’t kidding.”

  Wesley shrugged. “A gun’s nothing more than a tool, but it has to be kept in good working order.”

  “Speaking of the rustlers,” Ira said. “Where’d you catch up to them?”

  “Billy picked up their sign east of here, but we trailed them a ways south before we caught them,” Wesley said.

  “East? That’s where Rogers’ Rolling R is,” Ira said. “You figure he’s behind it?”

  “I got my suspicions,” Tobias said.

  Ira nodded. “Rumor has it that Rogers was in town today. He had a discussion with both Marshal Gardner and Sheriff Satterlee.”

  Wesley chuckled and shook his head.

  Tobias cleared his throat, drawing Ira’s attention. “When you coming back out here to take over the ranch, son? I ain’t getting any younger.”

  Ira’s mouth worked several times but nothing came out. Finally, he clamped his teeth together. “I told you a thousand times. I’m not going to nursemaid cows all my life.”

  The old man’s gaze hardened. “Dammit, son. I built all this for you.”

  Ira spun on his heel and stomped across the ranch yard. He yanked the gate wide open and stalked through it, without bothering to close it.

  The buckboard rattled away into the growing darkness.

  Tobias stood watching as the night swallowed it up. Then he looked at Wesley. “Hard headed little bastard. Got it from his mother.” He gazed skyward for a moment. “God rest her soul.”

  “If you say so,” Wesley said. For some reason, he had different ideas about where Ira had inherited the Breedlove stubborn streak, but didn’t figure on arguing with the old man.

  Once the squawking of the wheels had been faded, Tobias stepped inside the house without uttering a word.

  Left alone in the night, Wesley dumped his gun cleaning materials into his haversack that was a remnant of times gone by and slung it over his shoulder. After blowing out the lantern, he headed to the bunkhouse.

  ***

  The door creaked shut and Wesley Quaid opened his eyes. Soft snores emanated from across the bunkhouse. Yet someone had just left. Who?

  Wesley threw back his blankets and sat up. In the dim moonlight that filtered through the windows, he could just make out Billy Below’s sleeping form. He knew it was Billy because the man was lying on his stomach. He suppressed a chuckle. It must hurt like hell to get shot in the posterior, as Billy had called it.

  After slipping his boots on, Wesley eased to the door and opened it a crack. A figure rounded the corner of the ranch house. He returned to his bunk and shoved a Colt into the waistband of his pants. Before he left, he confirmed his suspicion. Eddie Benton’s bunk was empty.

  Benton. There was something about that name that seemed familiar. Shaking his head, Wesley left the bunkhouse and trotted across the ranch yard. He pulled up short at the corner of the main house.

  The unmistakable figure of Eddie wearing his unkempt clothing shut the gate and then jogged away into the night.

  Wesley cat-footed it to the gate and slipped through between the rails. He lowered himself to a crouch and crept forward. Wherever Eddie was going couldn’t be far, or else he’d have taken a horse.

  Wesley headed toward some brush off the edge of the trail that led to the ranch. He heard the unmistakable sound of horse blowing nearby and froze. The last thing he wanted to do was spook a horse and give himself away. There’s no telling how many people Eddie could be meeting out here.

  The full moon slipped out from behind a cloud. Two men appeared in the dim illumination. Wesley bit his bottom lip and dropped to the ground. He could barely make out their voices and eased closer.

  “The old man and a couple of his riders nearly caught some of the boys red-handed. Wilcox took a slug in the arm. I want you to make sure that doesn’t happen again, Benton.”

  Wesley stopped, listening. There was that name again. Benton. Yet why would a fellow conspirator call Eddie by his last name?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve got too much riding on this for it to go south now, you hear me?” The speaker was a youngish man, probably in his mid-thirties with a head full of dark hair. “I intend to own this country.”

  Could this be Andrew Rogers? Was he the man behind the rustlers? Back at the line shack he had ridden away before Wesley could get a good look at him. Wesley crawled forward and froze when both men turned toward him. His heart skipped a beat.

  “You hear something?” Eddie asked.

  “Probably just a rabbit.”

  “You’re right, Andrew. I’m just a mite on edge.”

  “What for?”

  “I think that Wesley Quaid feller is suspicious of me.”

  “Don’t worry about a man like Quaid. He can be paid off.”

  Wesley frowned. What kind of man did they think he was? Once he sold his gun, it stayed sold.

  “Anyhow. I’ve got some gunnies riding to the ranch in a few days. When they get there, we’re going to wipe the T-Bar-B off the map.”

  “You gonna let me know so I can vamoose?”

  “No. I want you on the inside to make sure old man Breedlove catches one. Shoot him in the back if you have too. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You bet, Andrew. You know I’ve never had no problems doing your dirty work.”

  The man clamped Eddie on
the shoulder. “I know I can count on you, Benton.”

  The two shook hands and parted company. Eddie spun on his heel with a smile on his face.

  The expression triggered a flash of inspiration and Wesley’s memory clicked. In that instant, he knew where he’d seen the man and a cold chill washed over him. Wesley had run into Benton a few years back in a saloon in South Texas and had watched him kill a harmless drunk who’d sloshed whiskey onto his boots.

  Only, his name wasn’t Eddie Benton. It was Benton Kingsberry. Benton was a hired gun, one of the best in the business, but that wasn’t how he’d made his reputation. He was an indiscriminate killer, the lowest of the low in Wesley’s mind. Killing a man who was looking at you with a gun in his hand was one thing. Cold blooded murder was something else entirely.

  Could he face down Benton Kingsberry if he had to?

  Wesley knew he was skilled with a gun. He practiced every day and as of yet, no one had even come close to beating him. Yet that didn’t mean there wasn’t a faster man out there.

  Andrew Rogers climbed into the saddle and rode away quietly. Benton headed back toward the ranch, passing within a few feet of Wesley without spotting him.

  After he passed, Wesley followed along behind Benton, wanting to give Rogers time to clear out. Wesley pulled his Army Colt. “That’s far enough, Kingsberry.”

  Benton froze in his tracks at the sound of the hammer being pulled back.

  “Quaid?”

  “That’s right. Turn around slow and keep your hands in the air.”

  “Or what? You’re gonna shoot me.” Benton laughed and turned slowly. “If you know who I am, you know you’ll never beat me.”

  “Almighty sure of yourself, ain’t you?” Wesley stepped closer, eyeing the man closely. He didn’t appear to be armed. Not obviously, anyway.

  “Give me a gun and find out how fast you are.”

  “My mama didn’t give birth to no idjits.”

  “I think she did. You’ve caught me. Now what are you going to do with me?”

  “Well, for one, I ain’t about to let you harm that old man in yonder or his son. They’re good people, better than you and me put together. Well, the old man is, anyways, and the son pays my salary.”