Vigilance Committee War

by Bill Sheehy

  Buck nodded. ‘Yeah, they don’t pay much attention, just like to move around a bit. So these big spreads you mentioned, Frying Pan and Double Bar R, they rely on open range?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Why the Frying Pan, just a bit east of here, Martin Jacobson owns that, he’s only got the 160 acres he was allowed to file on. But backing up against the foothills like he does, he has a corner on another huge amount of federal land.’

  ‘I imagine this causes problems for the Committee – I mean catching someone putting a brand on a maverick might be misunderstood.’

  ‘Exactly. Yes, that is what I think has happened. If someone was caught rounding up a bunch of unbranded cattle out on the open range, say in the spring before there was a roundup, well, would that be rustling? Who’s to say they weren’t simply gathering wild stock? But that’s not likely for either of the big spreads. Both Runkle and Jacobson got here before anyone. They put down their claim markers for 160 acres as allowed under the Homestead Act. Old Runkle, he’s a sly old dog, he had his hired hands make claims adjacent and then bought those claims. To make it all work both ranches are able to control huge acreages of open range that way. Out there, miles from anywhere is where rustlers do their work. At least that’s what that damn Committee claims.’

  ‘Well,’ said Buck, standing up and putting a few coins on the table, ‘I don’t imagine we’ll get much done simply riding out hoping to catch anyone stringing some poor fool to a tree limb. We’ll have to find another way to get what you want. OK, Mr Winterbottom, we’ll start earning our money.’

  Shaking hands with the shorter man, Buck and Louie pushed out, stopping on the sidewalk to settle their hats.

  ‘And what,’ asked Louie, adjusting his Stetson to the right angle, ‘are you thinking of doing to start this search for vigilantes?’

  ‘First off I want a bath. Then some clean clothes. But first I think a drink might be in order. To settle our meal, you understand.’

  ‘Bravo. My thought exactly.’

  ‘Oh, and that Mex talk you were laying on back there, wasn’t that a bit heavy?’

  ‘Naw. Mr Mayor wanted to come on as Mr Important. I just wanted to make him think I was impressed. You know, the dumb, lazy Mexicano in awe of the big man?’

  Buck chuckled. Then stopped, looking at a group of riders tying up at the saloon hitchrail across the street. ‘Hey, Louie, look who just rode in.’

  His partner casually glanced across the wide dirt road and let his hand fall to the grips of his hand gun. ‘Is that who I think it is? What the hell is he doing here?’

  ‘Yeah, for sure it’s Isaac Black. Seeing him after hearing about a gang of rustlers makes me wonder if maybe our job won’t be a little easier that we thought. C’mon. Let’s go have that drink.’

  Louie pulled his Colt and spun the cylinder, checking the loads. ‘We go over there, it might be a good idea to have your six-gun handy.’

  Chapter 4

  The men had served as Texas Rangers for a handful of years and had developed a standard method for entering a possible dangerous situation. Before stepping across the wide wood sidewalk and going into the saloon, Buck waited for a long minute or two.

  Using his left hand he pushed through the swinging doors and quickly stepped to one side, out of the open doorway. Glancing quickly around, he took in the room. A long plank bar was backed up by shelves of bottles and a big mirror. Tables of various sizes, each with spindle-backed chairs, were scattered around the rest of the room. Sunlight from the front windows lit up the front part of the room, the back half was dark in shadow. The place was empty except for the bartender, his dirty white apron ballooning out over a round stomach, and six men seated at a table near the back.

  Nodding at the bartender then quickly at the seated men, Buck thumbed the thong off the dog-eared hammer of the Colt Dragoon holstered low on his right hip.

  ‘Will you look at what the cat drug in,’ said Isaac Black loudly, coming out of his chair to stand facing Buck. ‘Men, we are in the company of one of the famous Texas Rangers’ celebrated outlaw-catchers. Oh, wait a minute. No, as I recall, the man standing there was once celebrated, but then, lordy me, can you believe? The Rangers fired him!’

  Black carefully kept his hand far from his cross-draw holster. Standing relaxed he was almost laughing. ‘Yeah, the story I got was he was given a direct order by his boss Ranger and told the fella to go to hell. Is that right, Buck?’

  Slowly shaking his head, Buck never took his eyes off the other man.

  ‘Well, I swear,’ Black went on, laughter still backing up his words, ‘the famous Buck Armstrong, here in little old Auburn town. Say, Buck, I’m told you’re here to end the hanging of rustlers. Is that true?’ Waving a hand at another man now standing at his side, he went on, ‘Let me introduce you to Son Runkle. Yes, sir, it’s his pa who’s helping pay for your services. Son, meet Buck Armstrong.’

  Buck didn’t take his eyes off Black.

  The man identified as Son Runkle wasn’t smiling. ‘I don’t care if Pa is paying or not, we don’t need no fancy Ranger coming in to fight our battles.’ Hitching his gunbelt to a comfortable setting, he snarled, ‘Fact is, I ain’t so feared of any Ranger.’

  Black chuckled. ‘Son, there’s a couple things I gotta say before you go getting yourself killed. First off, like I told ol’ Buck here, last time we was talking, I’m the one gonna punch his ticket. He caused me no end of grief. And second, if’n you’re gonna talk like that, move away. I don’t want any bullets coming my way cause of your loose mouth. And finally, think on it. Every time, where you see Buck here, somewhere nearby is his partner, Louie.’ He called out, ‘Hey, Louie, you still backing up this upstanding man?’

  From the back of the room, standing at the end of the bar, Louie laughed. ‘Yep, and I still got both Colts primed and ready.’

  Son Runkle spun around but stopped when he saw the wide-shouldered man standing calmly, holding a six-gun in each hand.

  Black glanced back, then laughed and patted the other man on the back.

  ‘Best you just relax, Son. Ain’t gonna be no shooting in here today. Boys,’ he looked over his shoulder at the other men, ‘I’d say we should be drinking up and getting back to the ranch. We’ll save all this for another time.’ Looking back at Buck he nodded, ‘And for sure Buck Armstrong, there’ll be another time for you and me.’

  Buck stepped to one side as the cowboys filed past, pushing through the doors. He watched through the window as they gathered up the reins and climbed aboard their horses. Not moving until the riders, still in a bunch, cantered down the street and out of town.

  ‘Thought there for a minute,’ said Louie after coming down to where Buck was standing at the bar, ‘we were going to have a war. As I recall that Isaac Black swore he’d shoot you next time y’all met up. Think he got over that?’

  Buck nodded at the bartender. ‘Bring us a couple glasses of your better beer, will you?’ Turning to his partner he smiled, ‘Nope, I somehow don’t think so. Sooner or later he’ll come calling, but I know him. It won’t be until he thinks he’s got the advantage.’

  The bartender sat the glasses in front of the two men and picked up the coins Buck dropped on the bar.

  ‘Tell me,’ asked Buck after thanking the man and taking a sip of beer, ‘is that one, Son Runkle really the son of the rancher who owns the Double Bar R?’

  ‘Uh huh,’ the bartender mumbled and picking up a greasy rag, started wiping a place on the bar. ‘And it ain’t often he’ll back down from a fight. He likes to push people around, he does. Got a bad attitude.’

  Louie wiped foam from his upper lip. ‘Is that really his name? Son?’

  The bartender chuckled. ‘It is. The way I heard it, when it came time to name his newly born son, his pa, Handley Runkle, he wanted to call the boy the same as himself. But he didn’t like the idea of there being a junior in the family so he named him Son Handley Runkle. Him being Pa Handley Runkle. Don’t make much sense to
me, but there it is.’

  The explanation got a quiet laugh out of both men. Sipping his beer, Buck smiled at the bartender. ‘Well, while we’re having a neighbourly conversation, what can you tell us about this committee of vigilantes?’

  ‘Not much. It all started up about a year or so back. Someone found a man hanging from a tree limb not far outa town. A piece of paper pinned to the dead’uns shirt said something about there being one less rustler. Since then there’s been a slew of them. Not all with the paper, but most were. And not only at what folks are calling the hanging tree, neither. A couple were spotted on down by the creek bottom and one or two farther out.’

  Buck nodded. ‘Coming in we saw a sign nailed to a big gnarly oak tree warning rustlers to keep riding. I reckon that’s the only warning this gang gives.’

  ‘Uh huh. Been one man stung up there. One of the early ones. Somehow it don’t seem right, hanging a man so far from any cattle and claiming he was a rustler. But don’t get me wrong. I don’t know nothing. I just pour liquor and mind my own business.’

  Back out in the sunshine, the two men decided to walk across to the Chinaman’s to bathe. Getting the road dust washed from their clothes while in the tub was part of the clean-up process.

  Crossing the dirt street, kicking up dust with each step, neither were paying any attention and were nearly knocked down when a horse-drawn buggy came barrelling around a corner, almost tipping over.

  ‘Hey,’ yelled Buck, pushing Louie out of the way. Grabbing at the horse’s harness he planted both heels in the dirt. ‘Whoa there, whoa up.’

  Once the rig was halted, he moving forward to hold the animal’s cheek strap.

  ‘Get your hands off my horse,’ yelled the driver, grabbing the whip stock and popping it over the horse’s back. ‘Get out of my way.’

  Buck turned the horse’s head, gently talking to the animal, calming it down.

  Louie, after picking himself up, started to dust himself off but stopped when the whip cracked a second time. Jumping up onto the buggy step he reached out and jerked the whip from the driver.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he snarled. Then looking up into the eyes of a beautiful young woman, he stopped, stunned.

  ‘You fools,’ the woman, now standing and jerking the reins one way and then the other, hollered, ‘get out of my way. Let loose of my horse. Damn you, can’t you see I’m in a hurry?’

  Buck gently scratched at the horse’s nose, ignored her and continued talking calmly.

  ‘Yes m’am,’ said Louie, trying not to stare. He’d seen beautiful women before but nothing like this one. Young, he put her age at maybe sixteen. Long, unbound blonde hair hung inches over her shoulders, when not whipping around as she shook with rage. Dust didn’t completely cover her checkered long-sleeved blouse, the tails tucked into the waist of a long flowing woollen skirt. Louie, sure he was in love, handed the whip to the angry young woman as if presenting her with a present.

  ‘All right now,’ said Buck, walking back, patting the heavily breathing horse’s rump. ‘What fire are you rushing to that nearly killing your horse is warranted?’

  ‘It’s none of your business. If you’re so drunk you can’t cross the street you shouldn’t be allowed off the sidewalk. Now get out of my way.’

  ‘Wonderful. Louie, have you ever seen anything like it? Such anger. And from such a pretty face, too. Why I do believe someone ought to turn this youngster over a knee and teach her a lesson.’

  ‘Why you . . .’ she started to say, then stopped. ‘Do you know who I am? Nobody talks to me that way. And certainly nobody turns me over any knee and lives to brag about it.’

  ‘No m’am,’ said Louie, smiling his most pleasant smile. ‘It would be a pleasure to be the one who tames such a fiery temper but to do so with love, not force.’

  ‘Bah, no ragtag cowhand will ever lay a hand on me. Now get out of my way. I have important business to conduct.’

  ‘Ragtag cowhand?’ said Buck, looking down at his trail-worn clothes. ‘Yes, m’am, I reckon we fit that description. But looks are deceiving. For instance look at yourself. From all appearances one would think you are a gentle, well-mannered young lady. But I don’t know. Louie, what do you think, a spoiled brat? Seems most likely, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’ll have you know I’m Rose Marie Jacobson. My father owns the biggest cattle and horse ranch in this part of the territory. When he hears how two saddle tramps accosted his daughter he’ll be hanging you out to dry. Now let go of my horse.’

  Grabbing the whip she snapped the tippet over the horse’s back. The startled animal bolted, sending the buggy down the dusty street in a near panic.

  ‘Oh, boy,’ said Buck, watching the buggy disappear in the dust cloud, ‘how about that? First we meet the son of one of the men paying us to do a job and now the daughter of another. Not a good way to start, wouldn’t you say?’

  Chapter 5

  Clean from sitting in a tub of water out behind the Chinaman’s, and wearing clothes washed dirt-free from the same place, Buck felt like a new man. Finishing the job by sitting in a barber’s chair with a warm towel covering his chin, Buck thought about how to start doing what they’d been hired to do.

  ‘You know, Louie? I reckon having a talk with the local lawman would be about right,’ he said, the words, coming from under a warm towel, muffled.

  ‘Sheriff McDonald?’ asked the barber, whipping his cut-throat razor against the leather strop. ‘I dunno what good that’ll do. Now I ain’t saying Mac ain’t a good enough sheriff, cause he is. But,’ he went on talking as he removed the steaming towel and bushed Buck’s lower face with white shaving cream, ‘for a town this size, wal, there just ain’t much sheriffing needed. No sir, and that’s a fact.’

  Buck, thinking about the sharp straight-edged razor caressing his face, didn’t respond. Sitting nearby and watching, Louie did, wanting to keep the man gossiping.

  ‘But if the town don’t need a lawman,’ he asked, ‘why is there even a sheriff?’

  ‘Oh, a couple good reasons. Yes, sir. First off, what kind of town would this be if it didn’t have a sheriff? It’d be like if we didn’t have a bank . . . or . . . or a saloon. No, sir. Without certain services it wouldn’t be no kind of town at all. Then there is a call for the sheriff to do his duty. Not often, mind you, but, wal, there are times. That’s when it calls for someone like ol’ Mac to do what’s best. And you can count on him for doing it too. Yes, sir.’

  Lifting Buck’s nose gently, the straight edge took the last of the cream from his upper lip. Using the towel to wipe his customer’s face, the barber removed the cloth cover.

  ‘There you go, young man. Now then,’ he said turning to Louie, ‘are you next?’

  Louie shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I don’t feel comfortable having someone getting that close to me with a weapon like that.’

  Buck, laughing, paid the barber. ‘So what times are you talking about, exactly, when the sheriff does his job?’

  ‘Wal, there’s two kinds calling for Mac to do the right thing. Take for instance when a fella comes out of the saloon, say on a Saturday night, having taken on too much liquor. He’s celebrating something, let’s say, and starts shooting up the sky. Well, that’s when Mac does his job and carefully removes the fella before any real damage is done. Spending the night in the jail is a good way to control that. Then there’s the occasion when after selling a herd, the hands let off steam. They could also be celebrating but somehow it’s a different matter. That’s when ol’ Mac uses his head and goes fishing.’

  ‘Goes fishing?’

  ‘Yes sir. You see Mac knows when such an event is gonna happen. Or is most likely to take place. So before things get too out of hand he loads his saddlebags up with fishing pole and the like and goes down to the river. It’s only a couple miles to his favourite fishing hole down there. The next day, after the cowboys have all gone back to the ranch he comes back into town and finds everything peaceful. Knowing
how to handle each kind of incident is what makes Mac a good sheriff.’

  Buck glanced at Louie and nodded.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, settling his hat and heading for the shop’s door, ‘I can see what you mean. Uh huh. I surely do.’

  Out on the street the pair stopped. ‘Well, compadre,’ said Louie quietly, ‘do you think the town’s good sheriff would have anything to tell us that’d be helpful?’

  ‘Got to start somewhere. Personally I don’t feel like riding blindly out and about. Yeah, let’s see what the sheriff has to say.’

  From the barber shop down to the sheriff’s office didn’t take long. Traffic along the street was light, only a couple of wagons moving along and no more than a rider or two. No more than a handful of horses were standing head down, dozing at a few of the hitchrails. This was typical, Buck thought, for a middle-of-the-week day in any of a hundred towns this size. Or even a thousand. Saturday was when the most business was done, when folks from the outlying ranches and farms came in to shop. Whole families making the trip an occasion.

  Opening the door and stepping inside, Buck quickly saw all there was to see. The man sitting behind a spur-marked desk looked to have been dozing, waking up with a start. On the wall behind was a rack holding a half-dozen or so rifles and shotguns. Along the far side, bound by a lattice-work of strap iron was a single jail cell.

  ‘Hurmph,’ the man, obviously the sheriff, snorted abruptly coming awake. ‘Wal, now, what can I do for you?’ Frowning and quickly studying the two men he nodded, ‘Oh, yes, you’d be the men they’ve hired. Uh huh. I been expecting you. Come on in and take a chair,’ motioning to spindle-backed chairs sitting in front of his desk. ‘How about a cup of coffee while we talk? Was from this morning but I reckon its still drinkable.’

  Buck glanced back toward a black iron stove, nodded and went over to pick up the pot sitting on top. Taking cups to the desk he poured into two of them and then filled the near empty cup sitting in front of the sheriff.