by Abe Dancer
‘Looked to me like you was stormin’ the puncheons on a Friday night,’ Ben McGovren laughed.
Kettle shook his head at not fully understanding what Ben was alluding to. He wheeled his bay to look back from where he’d come.
‘They ought to be showin’ up right soon,’ he growled, shoving in fresh cartridges. ‘Wystan called that goddamn army o’ his in from both sides.’
Hector nodded thoughtfully. Then he pointed to where the herd was moving across the flats like the shadow from a cloud. ‘Ain’t no chance o’ them jiggers comin’ round behind you now, boss. If there’s any riders still yonder, me an’ Ben’ll sweep ’em up. We’ll chase ’em clear to the border, if we have to.’
‘That’s right, boss,’ Ben agreed. ‘Meantime, you got to head off them runnin’ steers. Get ’em turned, lest you want ’em bloatin’ an’ floatin’.’
Kettle spat drily. ‘Nice turn o’ phrase, Ben,’ he gruffed. Then he sat his bay quietly and listened to the new-found silence. A full minute later he pointed forward. Two of his men shifted the prisoners into a line and followed on at a lesser pace.
Not long after, Hector jabbed Ben in the ribs, nodded to where a bloodied Owen Pruitt was bringing in the mounts. The two men quickly looked them over, selected their own as the most suitable for their proposed pursuit of the Wystan riders.
Those remaining of Wystan’s rustlers were trapped by the stampeded cattle. They couldn’t escape to the south and east, and had the Standing K men before them on the west. They sought to cross the Rio Bonito for an escape, to take their chances through the pear thickets. But Hector and Ben had discussed just such a possibility. They took Kettle’s route across the ford and met up with a group of ’puncher’s who had been told to string out along the eastern bank.
The desperate rustlers, deeply fearing what awaited them on capture, ran pell-mell into the Standing K sixguns and carbines. They were in disarray, had lost heart for someone else’s fight and two more of them fell gravely wounded. To their right and to the north was the rocky, waterless stretch of country, where Hector and Ben had skirted the previous night. As a last chance, the beleaguered men turned back on their tracks, made towards Lizard Pass Ridge. But midway between the Bonito and the ridge, on the northern edge of the flats, Hector and Ben had regrouped with their feisty crew. From behind scattered boulders, the shelter of cracks and fissures in the ravine, they hurled more lead into the skirmish. But their anger had ebbed, and they used the force of their surprise to send the few remaining men scuttling across the ridge, into the water scrape beyond.
‘I’d wager a week’s pay, not one o’ them turkeys stops to take a leak before they reach Chaco Canyon,’ Ben drawled tiredly.
It was edging into first dark when Hector and Ben led their remaining force to the crossing. As they approached the bank, skirting the ford, Hector swore profusely and pointed ahead.
‘There’s the work of a man who likes to be just when it comes to sentencin’,’ he commented.
Ben looked ahead, gasped in fearful awe at the men who hung from the ends of ropes. The willows bent their pliant branches, the lifeless bodies swayed in the warm breeze.
‘Boss said he’d set out a line o’ ropes, an’ he has,’ Ben recalled. ‘I’d sort o’ forgot all about that. I guess the law’s got more important things to do than go chasin’ cow thieves.’
‘In this neck o’ the woods, Hoope Kettle’s the law. For what they did, these fellers knew the price o’ gettin’ caught.’
‘Yeah,’ Ben agreed. ‘Probably got dollars in their pants to prove it.’
‘Still, it’s some price to pay for runnin’ off cows.’
The two weary cowboys sat their horses for a while longer, solemnly discussed the outcome of their day.
‘Did you see if Wystan was there?’ Hec asked his longtime friend.
‘Dunno. Difficult to put a name to the state o’ them faces. Old Hoope’s got some hard bark on him, Hec.’
‘He’s had to have. This land weren’t no Garden of Eden, when he first came. The times are changin’, but he ain’t. Let’s hope Jasper an’ Judd never see this side o’ their pa’s disposition.’
‘Hmm,’ For a moment, Ben thought Hector’s remarks over. ‘You still thinkin’ it was someone on Standin’ K payroll who was helpin’ the Wystan spread?’ he asked.
‘I’m snappin’ hard at Wilshaw Broome’s shadow, Ben, but there’s no way o’ provin’ it. For now, let’s keep them thoughts to ourselves. In the boss’s present frame of mind, even a notion’s as good as a guilty stamp. Besides, there’s a couple o’ vaqueros that Quedo warned me about. I’ll see ’em when we get back. They just might have a tale to tell.’
But Hoope Kettle was a keen appraiser of men’s shortcomings as well as their virtues, and he was back in his ranch-house den some time before Hector and Ben returned.
He called in Quedo Lunes, because he too now wanted information on the allegiance of his crew.
‘I’m no protector o’ cattle rustlers, jefe,’ the Mexican wrangler offered at Kettle’s request for information. ‘You tell me, an’ I get it seen to.’
Kettle thanked his loyal wrangler, knew it would be the man’s friends who would be taking care of the situation. Whatever happened, the treacherous ’punchers would never be seen on Standing K land again, dead or alive.
Moreover, and a full day prior to that, Hector had advised his boss not to make Wilshaw Broome aware of their plan to chase down Wystan and the Facing West outfit. Instead, he’d persuaded Kettle to send the foreman to Fort Wingate with the ranch’s stock wagon. It would mean an overnight stay, but with the spicy attractions of a big town, it wasn’t a chore that Broome would likely object to.
Broome returned before full dark the following evening. But later the same night, when excited ’plunchers told of the Rio Bonito incident, he responded with an intriguing mix of both outrage and alarm. He sought out Hoope Kettle with the argument that he was ranch foreman, should have been the one to lead any assault on cattle rustlers.
But the ranch boss told him they’d had no time, they’d responded to the shock discovery that the herd was being gathered for a stampede across the Rio Bonito. He suggested that if Broome wanted a fuller explanation he’d best talk to Hector and Ben who had led the fight.
Broome did, with the purpose of intimidating the two waddies. But the foreman got short shrift. Instead, he was put in no doubt as to the price he might eventually have to pay.
Hector Chaf was right about times changing. Hoope Kettle had, by virtue of a last hurrah, put an end to large-scale rustling. He’d lost a few men in doing it, but most acknowledged it was an unavoidable outcome. The gunslingers and rustlers whom Hector and Ben had chased from the county wouldn’t be reforming, or spreading word of easy money from a rebranding job. The grim tokens that were strung along the banks of the Rio Bonito threw up an unsightly curtain for anyone with lingering doubts.
‘Certainly puts me off any crooked doin’s,’ Ben had said, with matter-of-fact sentiment.
7
As the months, then years passed, there remained a chilly impasse between Hector Chaf and Ben McGovren and the Standing K foreman. But for a reason that maybe only Wilshaw Broome himself could explain, there was never a time when any of them pushed for a face-off.
Jasper and Judd returned from across the state where they had received their schooling. They were no longer boys, but able, strapping young men. As Hector and Ben had foreseen, that to which their father had turned a blind eye, the character traits in each of the youngsters, hadn’t changed, just strengthened with time. Judd was surly and wretched, decided to chum up with Wilshaw Broome, rather than have much to do with his father or brother. Jasper on the other side was a cheerful, open young man, bore a likeness to his father and grandfather before him.
Kettle was loyal to both his sons, impartial when it came to any outward show of parental care. However, the elderly rancher did believe in the convention of eldest son being first in
line, and consequently detailed more duties to Judd in the way of ranch management. Despite his pleasant demeanour, it didn’t take long for Jasper to become frustrated and restless. But for Wilshaw Broome it was a time for which he had long waited. In anticipation of the benefits, he started to throw his weight around once again. For Hector and Ben it explained a lot, presaged the trouble that would once again run a dark shadow across the land of Standing K.
A new arrival in town was Beth Shortcorn from Hackberry, Arizona. She thought that Lemmon was far enough east to find a less wild society. Jasper thought that funny, made her even more to his liking. Judd also had been an admirer, but Beth was quick to appreciate the difference between the brothers. Favouring Jasper meant there was little chance for someone of Judd’s disposition. Jasper was won over and, with his parents’ blessing, asked for Beth’s hand. The couple were married the same fall, made their home not more than ten miles from the Standing K’s home pasture.
About the same time Ben McGovren took a wife. Her name was Aileen, and she too was an incomer up from Las Cruces. They decided to rebuild the tumbledown homestead of Ben’s early youth, clear out the pear and matchweed. But nothing much changed for Hector Chaf. Most evenings he rode out to the breeding range to watch the bulls, or strolled to the corral to run an eye over a new breed mare. It was while looking over a fine sorrel one evening with Hoope Kettle that his old friend lost his balance and fell back from a top rail. He landed badly and, because of his stiff bulk, he suffered internal injuries that wouldn’t allow him to walk or ride far, ever again.
Either from old-fashioned loyalty, or just plain stubbornness, Kettle continued with Wilshaw Broome as his foreman. But with Judd’s growing involvement, it was more in name only, and why Hector never questioned Hoope’s decision. But in time, Broome managed to drive a wedge between Judd and his brother. Although sadly aware of Jasper’s situation, Hector accepted it as a family matter, that Kettle blood was thicker than water. But in his own way, Hector could be just as dogmatic as his boss, and he was going to stay close and vigilant until the peace broke. And he’d a grain of an idea just how long that would be.
Gradually, Wilshaw Broome elbowed out any rider whom he suspected of not being too loyal to him and his association with Judd. He reasoned, shrewdly, that if needs be, they’d probably side with Jasper and Hector Chaf – something along the lines of your enemy’s enemies are your friends. As a consequence of this workforce cull, Hector had no more than three genuine, trusty friends including Jasper, whom Broome couldn’t influence or dispose of. Ben McGovren would still side with Hector, and for the least of causes. And there was the bone-handled .44 Colt that was close to Hector’s side, day and night. It made up a quartet that grimly satisfied Hector, something for Broome and his cohorts to disregard ever at their peril.
In due time, Beth Kettle gave birth to a husky young son who thrived under the full name of Bruno Joseph Kettle. Then inevitably, but somewhat later, Ben and Aileen produced a daughter.
In one of the outlying adobes that Hoope Kettle had set aside for the married workers, another girl was reaching early womanhood. Her parents were Mexican, her father was the wrangler, Quedo Lunes. Home for mother and daughter was at the furthest section from the main house, no more than five miles from the burgeoning outskirts of Lemmon. One reason this little family had moved that much nearer to town was the intimidating attitude of both Judd and Wilshaw Broome towards Mexican employees and their families.
But despite the flawed circumstances of their housing, Quedo knew that young Clemente was beginning to attract the attention of both these men. There was nowhere more convenient where Quedo could find suitable work, even if he wanted it. So, like Hector Chaf, he accepted his lot tolerantly. His wife did washing and mending for the payroll ’punchers, and Clemente grew ever more attractive as time passed.
The Lunes looked upon Hector as a good and reliable friend, and he was a regular caller at their home when he rode to Lemmon. He’d usually leave it for a Sunday call, when he knew Quedo would be there. After each visit, Clemente would invariably find an extra fund to supplement the family food cupboard, but Hector’s calls were becoming less frequent. He’d set himself to keep a closer eye on the Standing K ranch house, where old Hoope’s health had started to deteriorate rapidly.
‘There’s not much any of us can do, Hec,’ Jasper said one day. ‘He’s bein’ fed like a weaner calf.’
8
One day, Wilshaw Broome decided to make a courtesy call at the Lunes’ adobe. Bearing in mind the man’s hostility towards Mexicans, it was a surprising visit, even more so, if the rumours were true that he kept a wife and boy child in a small border town west of Gallup. ‘OK for the washin’ an’ keepin’ a friendly cot, but not for the marryin’ of,’ was his oft quoted opinion of any girl from south of the border.
Clemente and her mother made no mention of the visit to Quedo. At that time, the Standing K foreman hadn’t actually said or done anything that could be taken as offensive or unsociable, even. Clemente did mention it to Hector, but he had no idea either, only that the man’s intentions were hardly ever principled. Some time later, he recalled Quedo once wistfully told him that because of her striking looks, his daughter would be safer in a Salt Lake seminary.
A month or so on, and Hector saw Broome and Judd roughhousing against one of the Standing K corrals. The pushing and shoving wasn’t serious, and obviously at the expense of a third party. They were bragging, claiming as to who would be falling to whom.
‘You ridin’ the old mare?’ Judd said, and sniggered.
‘They says to put a young trooper on an old horse, Judd,’ Broome returned with a vulgar laugh.
Hector, not knowing the direction of their crudeness, shook his head and turned away. Later in the evening, he rode to Lemmon on one of his now even rarer visits. For some fateful reason he didn’t feel much like drinking, no more than settling the dust from the ride. He wanted to see Clemente and her ma, thought he’d pay his sober respects on the return to Standing K. He made his way to one of the town’s dog-hole saloons, but checked himself before entering. Through the quartered front window, a circle had been smeared through some of the dust layers, and through it he saw Broome and Judd at the end of the bar. Within a few feet stood a gun-toting pair of supporters who had recently taken to riding close to the two men. Hector would have preferred his usual company of sidewinders to any one of that group, and he crossed the dirt-packed street to an even less respectable cantina. He sipped uneasily at a glass of beer, pondered on the unfolding events in and out of the Standing K.
‘Don’t see much o’ you in here,’ the barman said after a minute or so.
‘You won’t see much more, if it’s conversation you’re lookin’ for,’ Hector snapped testily.
Untroubled, the barman shrugged. ‘No need to kick,’ he said. ‘I only mentioned it ’cause a little while back, feller came in and had a word with my other customer. I think he said he was lookin’ for you.’
‘Who was he, this feller?’
‘Hard to tell under one o’ them big sombreros.’
‘You sayin’ he was Mexican?’
‘Yeah, an’ he seemed genuinely wound up. Then again, these chillis are always pretty excited about somethin,’ he added with a boorish sneer.
‘Aren’t they just,’ Hector said more to himself than the barman who had already turned away. He sucked at the last of his beer. ‘It must’ve been Quedo. An’ he’d only come lookin’ for me if there was some sort of trouble,’ he added. ‘This other customer o’ yours – I don’t suppose you’d know where he’d have gone?’ he called out to the barman.
The barman shook his head, and Hector returned a thin smile. ‘No, I didn’t think so,’ he said, and quickly left the bar. Outside, he heeled his claybank mare in the flanks, turned its head for the end of town.
‘Goddamn, I knew it … could feel it,’ he rasped, and kicked on through the darkness, rode hard into the few miles that would take him to
the Lunes’ adobe. He saw no sign of any other riders, and within fifteen minutes he was dragging the mare into a sliding stop.
‘Where the hell are you?’ he called out. ‘Where’s your goddamn lights?’ He swung from the saddle, ran fearfully for the front door.
Knowing it was pointless, he didn’t knock, pushed the door wide and peered into the pitch-dark interior. He stepped inside, struck a match and held it at arm’s length until it burned. He didn’t feel the pain as he extinguished the burnt splinter between his fingertips. He cursed, leaned against the edge of the door, lit another match and cursed again. Then he moved forward and lit the tallow lamp that stood in the middle of the scoured oak table.
The yellow light spread to reveal Clemente and her mother sprawled on the puncheon floor. They had both been shot dead, blood had run thick and viscous from their upper bodies. Clemente was clutching a knife. She had died either wanting to protect herself or her mother, probably both.
Beside her mother – Quedo’s wife – Hector then saw the second knife, but its blade was still glistening wet. Hector gritted his teeth, groaned when he noticed the blood across her neck, a dark ribbon that had trickled from where part of her ear had been snatched away. ‘They gone an’ tagged you,’ he muttered thick and hoarse. ‘I reckon you both must’ve give somethin’ in return, for ’em to do that.’
He took both knives and placed them on the table. ‘I’ll get you taken care of,’ he said absent-mindedly. ‘I’ll do it for all of us.’ For some long minutes, he stood sentinel in the darkness, unsure of when, what moment to make a move.
‘I was hopin’ that some sort o’ law had paid Lemmon a visit, but it ain’t,’ he muttered eventually. Then he walked from the room, stepped carefully so as not to jingle his spurs. Outside, he tugged gently at the mane of his horse. ‘They’re your family, Quedo. Why ain’t you here, lookin after ’em?’ he asked of no one.
