by Bill Sheehy
The rancher nodded. ‘Wal, if anyone can do her, it’d be you. All right, you go get yourself to building a ranch. We’ll come by in a few years, I’ll have the men pick up what you’ve got extra and run them with mine. Pay you what I get for every head when they’re tallied at the railhead.’
Using the money he had saved, he hired a couple men to help him cut and limb a bunch of pine trees. He looked the land over and finally settled on one particular piece. Dragging the logs out of the high country, he started building his house. Filed his claim over the mountains at Fort Rawlins and just like that, he was his own man on his own ranch. A year or so after leaving Collinsworth he got word Jesus had been thrown by a horse and died. Riding over, he proposed to Mirella. She, being a strong Catholic said no, she was already married. But she would join him as his housekeeper. By the time Rose Marie was turning into being the beauty of the area and had cowboys lining up to hire on, his spread was showing a profit.
Chapter 16
‘Now then, gents,’ said Jacobson, smiling and motioning his guests to the coffee, ‘help yourselves and let’s talk. Oh, first off, I gotta say, I heard all about you from my daughter. She was madder than hell over what she called a couple saddle tramps getting in her way in town.’ His smile got even bigger. ‘Raised her myself. Her ma died right after she was born. Got to admit I might have done a better job of it. Darn girl is headstrong and stubborn. Makes it hard to live with at times. But I reckon you’re not out here to talk about Missy, are you?’
‘No, me’n Louie here are trying to get a handle on the vigilantes. Don’t really have a place to start doing what we’ve been hired to do. We figure you, having put up some of the money, might have some idea about things.’
‘Oh,’ laughed the cattleman, ‘I do. Yes, I do. But you have to remember, I might have added to the pot, but I’m in a position I don’t see how I can lose. You boys bring an end to the Vigilance Committee and we’ll all feel a bit better. However, on the other hand, while they are catching rustlers my stock might be a bit safer and the statehood people get a black mark against them.’
Louie frowned at that. ‘I’m not exactly sure how that works.’
‘Well, it’s simple. The Frying Pan is on 160 acres I filed on with the territorial government. That’s what is legal. Now you have to look at the area. It’s a big bowl with a mountain range running from the south, or south west, curving up and around. Here’s my spread at the southern end. There’s mountains, not real big but enough to make a good boundary in that direction,’ he flipped a hand that way. ‘The high country goes along acting like a barrier until it drops down at the little river, which is the end of my range. Actually, except for my 160 acres, all the land within that part of the bowl is open, public range. The way it is, though, I’m the only one can use it. So, keeping things the way they are is in my best interest.’
Louie shook his head. ‘What could change? The mountains won’t move and you said you’ve filed on this land. What could cause you trouble?’
‘It’s the open range. If the territory were to become a state as some people want, it’d open up the public lands for homesteading. Since the end of the war, back east, the federal government has wanted to let homesteaders move west. Seems there are a lot of men who were fighting in that war that now want their own land. Right now it’s the fear of the vigilantes that is keeping the politicians back in Washington from approving statehood.’
‘So on one hand,’ said Buck quietly, ‘they are protecting your livestock and your use of the open range by hanging rustlers. Sounds good, except I understand not all of the men hung are proven cattle thieves.’
‘Yes,’ said Jacobson, letting his almost permanent smile fade, ‘that is, I’m afraid, likely. Hell, I don’t think I’ve lost many head over the years. Not enough to worry about anyway. Oh, yeah, once in a while one or another of the folks living on smaller spreads, too small to make a good living, get hungry and they’ll take a beef. But people’s got to eat. No, I don’t recall any of my hands telling about cattle being missing.’
‘Your hands,’ Buck said, glancing at Louie, ‘they’re not all that welcoming. That one fella, Smokey someone called him, was looking like he didn’t like us much.’
Jacobson’s smile was back. ‘I reckon. That boy is trouble looking for a place to happen. He was coming on to being a good hand when he found he had a knack for shooting that pistol of his. Got him to thinking he was a natural born gunfighter. Some day, he’s gonna brace the wrong man and . . . wal, we’ll see. Now the rest of them?’ he chuckled. ‘Yeah, those men understand how it is for the ranch. They’ll just be protecting the Frying Pan. Don’t pay them no mind.’
‘Our question is about the Committee. Do you have any idea who makes up that gang?’
‘No sir, I don’t. It isn’t any of my hands and I doubt if any work for Runkle, the next rancher over. He’s about in the same situation I am. Most of his range is open and would be broken up by homesteaders’ fences. We’ve got the biggest spreads in this part of the territory and hire the most men. Oh, Fitzwalter, on over beyond Runkle’s Double Bar R has a couple men working for him, but it’s not hardly likely they’re part of any vigilante bunch.’
It was apparent the owner of the Frying Pan wasn’t going to be able to help them. Riding away from the ranch, Louie had to say, ‘Don’t seem that helped us much. A good cup of coffee but not much information.’
‘Maybe. But I’ve been thinking about where a gang of men making up a vigilante committee could be. Not likely they’d be camped out in the mountains somewhere. Or come into this area just to do their dirty work. Nothing says they’d have to all come from one ranch or another either. Nope, it could be a few men from here, a few from there and even a few from town. You’re right. Good coffee but we’re still without a starting point.’
Louie rode quiet for a bit then laughed, ‘At least no one took a shot at us. I was kinda worried about that guy with the tied-down gun. What’d they call him? Smokey?’
Chapter 17
Following directions given by the cattleman, the pair crossed the river at a shallows and rode on to find the rutted stage road again. Slowly the layout of the land changed from being almost flat grassland to rolling prairie. Riding at a ground-eating trot they passed through a scattering of stunted trees, most not more than tall bushes. Coming out into the open country they noticed how the landscape changed again. Ahead and off to one side, a jagged upthrust of rock towered over the road.
Glancing at the rock face, Buck instinctively considered it a good place for an ambush. The thought barely faded when his horse shied to one side a step and a bee buzzed by his ear. The sound of a gunshot came almost instantly.
Both men reacted, reining around and spurring away at a gallop. Pulling up a short distance away they sat their saddles and looked back.
‘Now, dammit, Louie. Everything was going good until you said something about us getting shot at.’
‘Wonder if it was the Vigilance Committee making themselves known?’
‘Not likely. I reckon any vigilantes would be wanting to hang us up not shoot us. What say we take a ride over that way, see what we can see?’
With their long guns ready the two rode back toward the rocky file at a good clip. Since serving as a ranger Buck had carried three weapons, two .44 Colt Dragoons, one holstered at his side and the other in a saddle bag, and a Winchester of the same caliber as a saddle gun. Louie’s rifle was a lever-action Henry. His belt gun was a cartridge-converted Colt Walker, holstered in a Slim Jim holster. More likely called a California Slim Jim, the leather holster covered most all of his revolver.
Both men kept their focus on the rocky outcropping as they rode close. Circling around they quickly found where the shooter had tied his mount. A pile of smoking horse apples were all that was left.
‘Gonna be hard to identify the horse from those,’ said Louie, his eyes searching the rocks above where they had stopped.
Buck swung down and grou
nd-hitched the stud horse. ‘I’d say our friend is long gone. But keep an eye out and I’ll take a look.’
Others had used this pile of rock before, leaving a faint trail winding up around boulders, some as big as houses. At the highest point, a small opening was well-guarded by more weather-rounded boulders. From there the roadway below was visible for a long stretch. It didn’t take long for the big man to see the ambusher had left nothing behind.
‘Nothing,’ he said climbing back in saddle. ‘A very likely place covering the trail, though. It’s a wonder he wasn’t able to make the shot.’
‘Your horse side-stepped a bit,’ said Louie. ‘I thought you’d probably seen something, but maybe the horse did.’
‘Hmm, well, whichever. It appears someone was waiting. Makes me wonder who knew we’d be coming this way.’
‘Didn’t make it any secret, our idea of talking to Jacobson and the other one, Runkle, did we?’
‘No. But from town only the sheriff knew we were riding out this way today. Of course there were all those hands at the Frying Pan.’
‘Uh huh,’ said Louie slowly, ‘but let’s not forget our friend, Isaac Black. As I recall he’s working where we’re headed.’
‘Oh, I haven’t forgotten him. Not for a moment.’
Chapter 18
The Double Bar R wasn’t as well laid out or maintained as Jacobson’s place was. It was obvious the main house, the pair of large hay barns and all the outbuildings hadn’t seen a coat of paint in a long time. A half dozen or so head of riding stock came to the corral fence to watch the riders ride by. Buck noticed one of the horses was sweaty, foam dripping from its mouth.
Ready to greet the two were four men, standing at the rails on the porch of the main ranch house. Buck and Louie reined in and sat their saddles while taking their time to look the men over.
‘What the hell y’all want here?’ called down one man. Buck figured that had to be the owner, Runkle.
Standing as tall as he could, Runkle was shorter than any of the others. A banty rooster of a man, Buck thought, born small but making up for it by being pushy, louder and usually meaner. He’d run into the kind before.
From the saddles, the men were all looking eye-to-eye with the welcoming committee.
Ignoring the owner, Buck let his gaze settle on the man at one side. Standing facing Buck squarely, Black’s right hand sat loosely on the butt of his cross-draw holstered six-gun. The gunman wasn’t smiling.
‘Well, Isaac,’ said Buck easily, ‘I see you didn’t take time to rub your horse down after running him like that. Not the sign of a good horseman. Not that I’d ever figure you for being anything but a blow-hard would-be gunnie anyway.’
Black’s face blanched. Quickly glancing around he stammered. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ranger. Boss,’ he said turning to Runkle, ‘this here is the mighty Buck Armstrong. And his shadow, Louie Lewis. A couple has-been Texas Rangers, ya know.’
‘I’ll ask ya again,’ demanded Runkle, hands on hips, glaring at the mounted men, ‘what the hell are ya after here? You’re not welcome and best be turning around and riding out while ya can.’
Louie shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Buck took his time, studying each man as if he wanted to remember them. Lifting his gaze he slowly let his eyes take in the front of the house.
‘Well,’ he said finally, not hurrying, ‘If you’re counting on that damn fool Black there, I’d say we have little to worry about. Now you can stand up there and bluff and bluster all you want. But in your heart of hearts you and those standing with you know, if anyone gets pushy, you’ll be the first I’ll shoot.’
For a long moment nobody moved. Then, glancing first to one side then the other, Runkle nodded.
‘All right. You can climb down. Won’t let it be said anyone coming to the Double Bar R ain’t treated right. Boys,’ he said to the others, ‘I reckon y’all got something to do?’
Chapter 19
Handley Runkle was a bully. There were no two ways about it. From his earliest days he had had to fight for what he got. The runt of the family, one of six boys and two girls making it past childhood, he’d always got only what the others left. Until he stole his first pistol.
Breaking a rear window of one of the general stores in New Orleans, he slid open the window and walked to the front as if it was open and he was a customer. Runkle had been given the job by the gang he was running with because of his size.
‘Yeah, y’all go ahead and do it like I said,’ ordered the leader of the gang, a kid named Cassidy, ‘then come up and open the front door. We’ll clean the place out and you’ll get your share.’
It worked out about like Cassidy had planned. He was the gang boss only because he was bigger, tougher and meaner than any of the others. The gang, made up of boys aged 12 to 18 or so, had been causing trouble since early spring. Living on the busy city streets, the gang existed by what they could steal.
It wasn’t the first time Runkle had done what Cassidy ordered. This time was no different except when walking through the darkened store, Runkle spotted the glass-fronted gun case. Stopping just long enough to grab a revolver he finished his job, opening the front door. A few days later, after Cassidy had sold the goods the gang had walked out with, Runkle took his share and returned to the store where he bought a box of .38 caliber shells.
After selling the youngster the bullets, the shopkeeper thought about it a bit. What would a young kid like that want with .38 caliber bullets? Did he have anything to do with the break-in where a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson pistol had been stolen? Watching Runkle walk away he decided to talk to the town marshal. When that lawman called out to the young man, Runkle didn’t hesitate. Grabbing the reins of the first horse he came to, he swung into the saddle and kicking the surprised animal in the ribs, galloped out of town.
That was his first brush with the law. But not the only one. Arrested a few years later following a botched bank robbery, Runkle was sentenced to two years in a work gang. It was his size that got him caught. A witness had noted one of the robbers had been a boy. Walking down the street the next day, the witness identified Runkle.
‘I thought it was a boy,’ the witness explained to the marshal, ‘but the way he walked, swaggering down the street like he owned it. Yes, sir. He’s one of them.’
Being small, the deputy overseeing the work gang put Runkle to work carrying a water pail from a nearby creek to the prisoners. It didn’t take Runkle long to realize the deputy couldn’t very well leave the work gang. On the next trip to the creek, Runkle tossed the bucket into the brush and kept going.
He figured he was about twenty-five the next time he stood before a judge. It was in Las Vegas, New Mexico and the charge was beating up a girl in one of the town’s better brothels. The girl stood tall in her high-necked bright red linen dress and told the judge, ‘Yes, your Honour. It was that little bastard right there what left me all bruised up. He just turned crazy when I told him I didn’t do what he wanted me to do. So he hit me. Not once but two or three times. Here,’ she said, starting to unbutton the front of her dress, ‘I’ll show you the bruises.’
Chapter 20
The judge quickly stopped her, saying he believed what she was saying. Runkle was sentenced to two years in the county jail. It was there Runkle met Henry Morse. A bounty hunter had brought Morse in claiming the reward put out for his arrest. The town marshal locked Morse up and sent a telegram to the person offering the reward. Runkle and Morse had nearly a week, sitting in a cell and talking before Morse was released. The response the marshal had received said the reward was no longer offered.
With nothing to do, Runkle sat on the hard wood bench and counted the days. It was Morse who came to his rescue. By offering the prisoner a job, the judge had agreed to free Runkle as long as he promised not to go anywhere near the brothel or the women he’d beaten up.
It was an easy promise to make. The job Morse had for Runkle was in the saloon and brothel he owned.
Runkle stayed with Morse for a year or two before moving on. It was about five years later the two got together again. In that time Morse had sold his saloon and gone out to California. Meanwhile Runkle headed the other way, back to New Orleans. There he fell into partnership with a woman almost as tough as he was. The saloon they operated was owned by a wealthy shipping family who made their fortune bringing rum from the Caribbean. That partnership lasted until Runkle was caught stealing from the till. When he left town, again on a stolen horse, he took along the son he’d fathered with his partner. The woman, glad to get rid of both the boy and his father, didn’t make a big thing of it.
The man whose horse Runkle had stolen had, on the other hand, sworn out a warrant for his arrest.
Chapter 21
Isaac Black was the last of the hands to walk off, leaving Runkle standing alone on the porch. Buck could almost feel the heavy threat in the gunman’s eyes.
‘C’mon up,’ said the little boss man finally, motioning to Buck and Louie. ‘We can sit while we talk.’
Up close it was easy to see the man’s thin face, his beady eyes dark and part hidden under thick eyebrows. Runkle hadn’t aged well; coarse wrinkles fanned from the corner of his eyes lining his sunken cheeks. Taking one of the bare wooden chairs he sat down and after motioning the two to other chairs, sat and glared.
‘Don’t bother asking me anything about the vigilantes. I ain’t bothered by them or by any two-bit rustling.’
Buck nodded. ‘But still you helped with the pot we’re going to be paid with. How’d that happen?’
