Badlanders

by David Robbins

  Now, stepping out into the cool of the night, Lice leveled his shotgun and hollered, “Where are you, bear?” He hoped his shout would be enough to drive it off.

  His mongrel, tied at a corner of the cabin, was still raising a racket, its hackles raised and teeth bared.

  “Where is that critter?” Lice said, sidling to his dog’s side. He didn’t have a name for the dog. He just called it “Dog” and let it go at that. Thinking up a name was hard work, and work was one thing Lice avoided if he could.

  Dog rumbled deep in his chest.

  Lice peered in the direction the dog was looking and gave a mild start. It wasn’t the black bear, after all. Two riders were approaching. His first thought was that they must be Injuns, but no, he could make out hats and saddles. His second thought was that they must be owl hoots. “Hold it right there.”

  The pair complied and the smaller of the two called out, “Would you be Mr. McCoy? Mr. Isaiah McCoy?”

  “Who the hell are you?” Lice demanded. He didn’t like visitors. He didn’t like people, period. Which was why he lived so far from everybody. He wanted to be alone and to be left alone. Unfortunately his constant craving for alcohol meant he had to go into town every couple of weeks for a bottle. But that was a small price to pay when the rest of the time he lived in cherished solitude.

  “Franklyn Wells, pleased to meet you,” the small man said cheerily.

  “What do you want?” Lice didn’t like having his dozing interrupted. “It’s damn late to be traipsin’ over the countryside.”

  “We’re here specifically to see you, Mr. McCoy,” Wells replied. “I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but we’ve come a very long way and I wanted to conclude our business as soon as possible.”

  “What sort of business do you have with me that you show up now? It must be pushin’ ten o’clock.”

  “I’ll gladly tell you all about it if you’ll lower that cannon,” Wells said.

  “Not hardly,” Lice said. “How do I know you ain’t outlaws?”

  The other rider spoke in a deep, low voice. “Would outlaws ride right up like this? Use your head, old-timer.”

  “I am usin’ it,” Lice rejoined angrily. “Some outlaws are trickier than others. You might have rode up thinkin’ I’d think you must be honest folk, and then you gun me in the back.”

  “We’re not here to harm you in any way,” Wells said. “I assure you.”

  Lice snorted. “You expect me to take the word of a gent I don’t know from Adam? You must reckon I’m stupid.”

  “Please,” Wells said. “Lower that shotgun so we can talk.”

  “You have one minute to tell me what you’re doin’ on my place and then I let fly with buckshot,” Lice said.

  The other rider raised his deep voice. “Enough of this. Jericho.”

  “Jericho?” Lice repeated. “That’s a city, not a prophet, you lunkhead. Don’t you know your Bible any better than—” He suddenly stopped. A hard object had been pressed to the side of his head, and he heard a gun hammer click.

  “I’ll say this only once,” said someone in a manner that sent a shiver down Lice’s spine. “Hand the howitzer to me or I splatter your brains.”

  Lice believed him. “Sure, mister,” he said quickly. “Go easy with that hardware.” He held the shotgun to one side, careful to keep the barrels pointed at the ground. A hand reached out and took it, and the object gouging his head went away.

  “Come on in, Neal. The old tom cat has been declawed.”

  Lice looked at the man who had taken his shotgun, and swallowed. He flattered himself that he was good at reading folks, and this one was a curly wolf if ever he saw one. Raising his hands, he said, “Take whatever else you want. Just don’t kill me.”

  The man in the black hat and shirt was holding a pearl-handled Colt in one hand and the shotgun in the other. Unexpectedly, he twirled the Colt forward a few times and then backward and slid it into his holster with a flourish, all as naturally as breathing. “No one’s goin’ to kill you, you old goat.”

  Lice was terribly confused. He decided to keep quiet and await developments. The man at his side scared him. He knew a gun hand when he saw one.

  The other pair rode up and dismounted.

  “Let’s try this again,” Franklyn Wells said. “You can lower your arms. I was serious when I told you we’re here on business.”

  His confusion climbing, Lice shook. He also shook the hand of the man with the deep voice, a big cowboy with as strong a grip as Lice ever felt. “It sure is strange, you showin’ up out of the blue like this.”

  “How about if we go inside and I explain everything?” Wells proposed.

  Lice was relieved when only the little fella and the big cowboy followed him in. The gun shark stayed outside. Lice indicated his table with its two chairs and stepped to his own by the fireplace. Crossing his legs, he folded his hands in his lap and waited.

  The scary fella had given the shotgun to the big cowboy and now the cowboy propped it against a wall.

  “This is Neal Bonner, by the way,” Franklyn Wells introduced him. “He’ll be the ramrod, I believe it’s called, for the Badlands Land and Cattle Company.”

  “The what?”

  Wells took a seat and set his bowler on the table. “The firm I represent. I’m a lawyer. I’m here on their behalf to make you a generous offer.”

  “Mister,” Lice said, “I hope to hell I’m drunk and dreamin’ all this, because it makes no kind of sense.”

  “Permit me to enlighten you,” Wells said. “The BLCC needs land, and lots of it. Some months ago, Mr. Bonner and I looked over this part of the Badlands, and he’s of the opinion that it can be turned into a profitable cattle enterprise. Nearly all of it qualifies under the Homestead Act and can be filed on, with two exceptions. The first is Whiskey Flats. The second is your homestead.”

  Lice didn’t know where this was leading, so he didn’t say anything.

  “My employers regard the town as an eventual supply hub for their ranch. But your homestead is another matter. Your land is at the very heart of their proposed enterprise.”

  “I don’t mind havin’ a rancher for a neighbor,” Lice said.

  “They’d rather avoid that situation, if they could.”

  “How’s that again?”

  “Think of it, Mr. McCoy. The Diamond B will have thousands of head of cattle. Perhaps hundreds of thousands if all goes well. And if your homestead is in the middle of the ranch, they’ll be trampling all over your property unless you put up a fence. Not only that, the cattle will have to be driven around you to get from one place to another. Does that sound logical to you?”

  “I don’t know about logic, but I know I like it here,” Lice said.

  “I don’t blame you,” Wells said. “This site of yours is ideally located.” He paused. “You have your own well, we’re given to understand.”

  Lice nodded. “I dug it my own self. Plumb surprised me, how the water came pourin’ out of the ground like it did.”

  “Water is one thing my employers need to ensure that their ranch is a success. Which is another reason why they’ve authorized me to offer you a substantial amount to buy you out.”

  “Is that why you came all this way?”

  “None other,” Wells confirmed.

  Lice became angry. He’d meant it when he said he liked living there. The winters were harsh, but he always stocked up on firewood and bottles and got by until spring. “You can turn around and go back again. I’m not sellin’ out. Not now. Not ever.”

  “You haven’t heard my offer yet,” Wells said.

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  Undeterred, Wells said, “They’ve left the amount to my discretion. And after meeting you, and this short talk we’ve had, I feel confident in proposing to purchase your homestead for t
he princely sum of three thousand dollars.”

  Lice was dumbfounded. That was more than he’d ever had at one time at any point in his entire life. More than he could ever dream of having. It was far more than his property was worth. Which made him suspicious. “Why so much?”

  “I’ve already told you,” Wells said. “It wouldn’t do to have your place in the middle of the ranch. Plus, you have water, a valuable commodity. My employers can afford to be generous to expedite things.”

  “Lordy, the words you use,” Lice said.

  “Big words or little, they all mean the same. Three thousand dollars. What do you say?”

  “I don’t know,” Lice said. He honestly and truly didn’t want to sell. But three thousand! His mind reeled at how many bottles he could buy. To say nothing of a new rifle and some new clothes and a new pipe. His brain flooded with images of his richness.

  “I happen to have the money in my saddlebags,” Wells mentioned. “All you will have to do is sign several documents I’ve brought and the money is yours.”

  “You have it with you?” Lice said. “You must have been awful confident I’d sell out.”

  “Not that so much,” Wells said, “as I believe in always being prepared. I brought the money in case you agreed. It saves me having to ride all the way back and then pay you a second visit.”

  “That’s smart,” Lice had to agree.

  “What do you say?”

  “I still don’t know,” Lice said. “How much time do I have to think it over?”

  “Take all night if you have to,” Wells said. “My friends and I will make camp just a little ways off, and I’ll come over in the morning to hear your decision. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

  “It does,” Lice said. He’d be the first to admit he wasn’t much of a thinker. Not a quick one, anyhow. He did his pondering nice and slow and came to his decisions only after a lot of deliberation. “I’m obliged.”

  “No, Mr. McCoy,” Wells said, “we’re the ones who are grateful that you’ll consider our offer.” He stood. “I’ll leave you to get to it. It’s been a terribly long day and I would like to turn in.” Shifting, he said, “Coming, Neal?”

  “Hold on,” Lice said. “I’d like to talk to the cowpoke alone, if you don’t mind.”

  Franklyn Wells stopped in midstep. “Whatever for?”

  “That’s between him and me.”

  Wells looked at Neal Bonner and shrugged. “I don’t see why you need to, but I don’t see any reason not to, either. I’ll wait with Jericho.” He touched the brim of his bowler and went out.

  “Is it me or does that gent have the talkin’ talent of a patent medicine man?” Lice joked.

  “He does at that,” Neal said.

  “Which is why I want to talk to you,” Lice confessed. “You have an honest face. That law wrangler is too oily and that gun gent is spooky. But you’re normal, like me.”

  “You can’t know how I am,” Neal said. “I haven’t hardly said a thing since I got here.”

  “See? You’re even honest about that,” Lice said. “So tell me. What do you think of this here offer of theirs?”

  “It’s generous,” Neal said. “The filing fee for your homestead was, what, eighteen dollars? You don’t have more than a hundred in improvements, if that. And you haven’t done a lick of farmin’ or ranchin’, as required by the law.”

  “There’s the cabin,” Lice said. But the cowboy was right. He’d done the bare minimum.

  “Which they’ll likely tear down to make room for their own buildings,” Neal said.

  “But I like livin’ here,” Lice said yet again.

  “I don’t blame you. It’s quiet and peaceful. If I had a place of my own, I’d likely live off from everybody, too. Only I’d raise cows for a livin’.” Neal gazed at the cabin’s simple furnishings. “I reckon you aimed to live out your days here. But the thing is, you can do that most anywhere. You can find another spot, build another cabin, and have enough money to last out your born days, besides.”

  “You’re not sayin’ that just because you stand to be their foreman?”

  “You asked my opinion,” Neal said. “And the other thing is, no one else will ever make you an offer like this one. Not unless another conglomerate comes along, and how likely is that? This is one of those once-in-a-lifetime deals. Just like their offer to make me their foreman.”

  “I told you that you were honest,” Lice said, and smiled.

  “What will you do, old-timer?” Neal asked.

  “What any sensible coon would do.”

  3

  Beaumont Adams had claimed his usual table and was treating himself to a glass of his best stock. Taking a long swallow, he smacked his lips, smiled with contentment, and began whistling the tune to “Home on the Range.”

  Darietta sat beside him, her elbow on her knee, her chin in her hand. It was obvious she was bored and trying not to show it. His whistling perked her interest. “What’s gotten into you, Beau?”

  “How do you mean, darlin’?”

  “Why are you so happy all of a sudden?”

  “Nothin’ sudden about it,” Beaumont answered. “If you’d been payin’ attention when those three gents were in here, you’d know why. But because you’re as dumb as a stump, you don’t.”

  “Here, now,” Darietta said. “You have no cause to insult me.”

  “You work for me, darlin’,” Beaumont said. “I’ll insult you all I want.” He went on whistling but stopped when the batwings parted and in came Dyson and Stimms.

  They made straight for his table.

  The only other person in the saloon was Floyd, the barkeep.

  “It was like you said, boss,” Dyson began.

  Beaumont held up a hand. “Take off your hats.”

  “How’s that?” Dyson said.

  “There’s a lady present,” Beaumont said. “The proper thing for a gentleman is to take off his hat in her presence.”

  “It’s only Darietta,” Stimms said.

  “She’s just a whore,” Dyson said.

  Beaumont’s smile faded. He placed both arms on the table and there was a thunk, as of something hard hitting the wood. “Do I have to tell you twice?”

  “No, sir,” Dyson said, and slicked his hat off as quick as could be.

  Stimms, his face scrunched in bewilderment, removed his beaver hat and looked at it as if he couldn’t believe it wasn’t on his head. “This beats all.”

  Beaumont sat back and chuckled. “In light of all the changes I foresee for Whiskey Flats, you need to learn more manners, boys.” He gestured. “Enough of that. Tell me what happened. Don’t leave anything out.”

  “There’s not a heap to tell,” Dyson said. “We followed them, like you wanted. It weren’t hard since we knew where they were goin’.”

  Stimms nodded. “We were careful not to get too close, like you told us.”

  “They went straightaway to McCoy’s,” Dyson said. “We saw the old buzzard come out and wave his shotgun at them, but that cowhand with the fancy Colt stuck it to his head and took the shotgun away.”

  “Did he, now?” Beaumont said, laughing. “And quit callin’ him a cowhand. He might work cows, but he’s more than that.”

  “More how?” Dyson asked.

  “He’s a squisher. Don’t you remember? But go on.”

  Stimms said, “We couldn’t hear what they were sayin’, but we could see some of it from the light that spilled out the window.”

  “The other cowboy and the little feller went inside and were in there awhile.” Dyson took up the account. “Then the little feller came back out. Him and this squisher made camp and then the cowboy joined them and they turned in.”

  “We took turns keepin’ watch,” Stimms said. “Along about daybreak they were up and about, and not long after
, Lice came out of his cabin and they jawed a spell and Lice and the little one shook hands and went back inside. Maybe half an hour later the little one came back out. He was foldin’ papers and appeared happy as can be.”

  “Do tell,” Beaumont said.

  Dyson nodded. “That’s about all except for the three of them threw on their saddles and came this way, but they circled Whiskey Flats and kept on goin’.”

  “Just like you said they would,” Stimms said.

  ‘How did you know they wouldn’t stop?” Dyson asked.

  Beaumont began refilling his glass. “They had no reason to. They’d gotten what they were after. That little feller, as you called him, would want to get the news to his bosses right away.”

  “What news?” Dyson asked.

  About to raise the glass, Beaumont regarded the pair with disappointment. “Pitiful. You don’t have a brain between you. I always have to do the thinkin’. A gold mine has been dropped in our laps and you’re too dumb to see it.”

  “Those fellers were cowmen,” Dyson said. “How did gold get into this?”

  “Have a seat,” Beaumont said.

  “At your very own table?” Dyson said in surprise. “The last peckerwood who did that, you shot.”

  “He was drunk and wouldn’t get up when I told him to,” Beaumont said. “Have a seat before you make me mad.”

  With the air of men roosting on shards of glass, the pair obeyed.

  “Now, then,” Beaumont said, “I’m goin’ to explain things to you two and Darietta here. You’re the closest thing I have to lieutenants and you need to know.”

  “To what?” Stimms interrupted.

  Beaumont frowned. “Ever hear of the army?”

  “Why, sure. Everybody has,” Stimms said. “Are you sayin’ we’re one? How can that be when there’re only three of us?”

  “Honest to God, I could shoot you.”

  “I’m only tryin’ to savvy, is all,” Stimms said. “To be smarter, like you’re always sayin’ you want us to be.”

  “I had that comin’,” Beaumont said, and sighed. “All right. You know how the army has generals and colonels and captains and such?” He didn’t wait for them to respond. “Think of me as the general and you as my lieutenants.”