Badlanders

by David Robbins

  “Oh!” Stimms exclaimed as if it were the greatest revelation ever. “Now I get it. Lieutenant Stimms. I like the sound of that.”

  Beaumont drummed his fingers on the table.

  “What?” Stimms said.

  “Back in your buffalo huntin’ days, did you accidentally shoot yourself in the head?”

  Stimms’s eyebrows tried to climb into his beaver hat. “If I’d done that, I wouldn’t be sittin’ here. A Sharps doesn’t shoot birdshot. It leaves a hole you could stick your fist through.”

  “I can see the hole,” Beaumont said.

  “Where?” Stimms placed a hand to the side of his head.

  Beaumont extended his arm across the table and jabbed his finger into the middle of Stimms’s forehead. “Right there.”

  Stimms colored, and Dyson laughed.

  “Now, then. Where was I?” Beaumont paused. “If you’ll recollect, Mr. Wells informed us that the Badlands Land and Cattle Company plans to start up a ranch. You were right here. You heard him, the same as I did.”

  “So?” Dyson said.

  “So it hasn’t occurred to you how that will change things? There will be someone to run it, maybe his family, and that foreman, and fifty to sixty hands, if not more. Plus those that do work besides tendin’ cows. Some of them will have families, too. All of them will need things. Supplies and clothes and tools and the like.”

  “It’s too bad there’s not a general store hereabouts,” Stimms said. “The owner would make a lot of money.”

  “Yes, I will,” Beaumont said.

  “You own the saloon, boss,” Stimms said. “Why would you give it up to run a general store? You like whiskey more than you do pickles.”

  “I really could just shoot you.”

  “I think I savvy,” Dyson said. “Beaumont is plannin’ to open his own store plus have the saloon. Am I right?”

  “You’re now my captain,” Beaumont said.

  Darietta snorted. “If that’s all it takes, you should make me a general. Because if I know you, you won’t stop there. You’ve been sayin’ since I met you how you’d like to run your own town someday, or some such nonsense.”

  Beaumont Adams smiled, then uncoiled like a striking rattler and backhanded Darietta across the face. He hit her so hard both she and her chair flipped backward, with her screaming in stark terror. The chair turned as she fell and came down on top of her. She went to cast it off, but Beaumont sprang and pressed on the chair’s legs, forcing the back of the chair against her neck and chest. “Talk to me like that again,” he growled. “I dare you.”

  Chalk white, Darietta stopped struggling and got out, “I didn’t mean nothin’. Honest.”

  “Since when is it nonsense to want to be rich? Since when is it nonsense to want to be king of the mountain?”

  “It’s not! It’s not!” Darietta squealed. “I apologize. Let me up. Please. This chair is hurtin’ me.”

  Beaumont bore down with all his weight. “Good. Maybe the pain will teach you a lesson.” Stepping back, he kicked the chair and it slid half a dozen feet. “What do you know, you dumb cow? What do you know about anything? All you’ve ever done is spread your legs for money, and you barely ever make enough to get by doin’ that.” He balled his fists as if to hit her. “I have big plans. Grand plans. Runnin’ this two-bit saloon isn’t enough. I only own it because the man who built it didn’t have the sense to give me a half interest and run it for the both of us.”

  “So you snuffed his wick,” Dyson said, and laughed. “I still recollect the look on his face when you shot him between the eyes.”

  Beaumont stepped back, his fury fading. “I never intended to stay on. Figured I’d save enough to head for greener pastures. But now all that has changed. Now a godsend has been dropped in my lap and I aim to make the most of it.”

  “The godsend bein’ the new ranch,” Dyson said.

  Beaumont nodded, then bent and offered his hand to Darietta. She shrank back, afraid to take it. “Let me help you, damn you. I shouldn’t have knocked you down, but you made me lose my temper and you know what happens when I do.”

  “Don’t ever make the boss mad,” Stimms chided her. “He ain’t nice when he’s mad.”

  “Out of the mouth of idiots,” Beaumont said, and held his hand lower. “Do you really want to make me mad a second time?”

  Shaking her head, Darietta let him pull her to her feet. When he swiped at a stray bang, she recoiled.

  “Stupid cow.” Beaumont reclaimed his sat. “Someone pick up her chair. Floyd, keep the brandy comin’. If I know Lice McCoy, it won’t be long before he pays us a visit.”

  It was the next day, shortly after noon, that the man they were waiting for rode up to the hitch rail, visible out the front window.

  Beaumont Adams was at his table with Darietta. “Get in the back,” he commanded, and she left without a word.

  Beaming happily, Lice alighted, wrapped his reins, grabbed his saddlebags and slung them over a shoulder, and sauntered to the batwings. Pushing through, he called out, “Barkeep! Set me up with a bottle of Monongahela. And not the cheap stuff, neither.”

  Beaumont Adams raised an arm. “Bring the bottle over here, and a glass, too. It will be on me. That is, if you don’t mind, Lice.”

  “Mind a free drink?” Lice said, and chuckled. “That’ll be the day. You don’t need to, though. I have the money to pay.”

  Beaumont patted an empty chair next to him. “I insist. It’s the least I can do for the man who has been the cause of my deliverance.”

  “You’re what, now?” Lice asked, coming over. He placed his saddlebags on the table and sank down.

  “My deliverer,” Beaumont said.

  “Like in the Bible, you mean?” Lice said. “Hell, you must have me confused with that travelin’ parson who came through here about a year ago.”

  “Oh, it’s you, sure enough.” Beaumont filled the glass Floyd brought and slid it to Lice. “Here you go. Drink hearty. And while you’re at it, I’m curious. How much did they offer you?”

  “Who is this ‘they’?” Lice asked.

  “Play innocent if you want, but everyone knows,” Beaumont said. “Or didn’t they tell you they stopped here to ask how to find your place? I treated them to drinks, and the short one let it drop about the ranch and how they were hopin’ to buy your land.”

  “Darned leaky mouth,” Lice grumbled.

  “I’ll ask you again,” Beaumont said. “Not that it’s any of my business, but I’d very much like to know how high they went. I shouldn’t think more than a thousand.”

  Lice snickered. “Shows how much you know.”

  “Fifteen hundred, then,” Beaumont said. “Any more than that, they’d have to be loco.”

  “Maybe I’m smarter than you give me credit for,” Lice boasted. “Maybe I held out for twice that.”

  Beaumont shook his head in amazement. “Three thousand dollars? Is that what you’re tellin’ me? And all of it there in your saddlebags?”

  “Three thousand, yes,” Lice confirmed, and caught himself. “Wait. I never said anything about my saddlebags.”

  “You didn’t have to. You’ve never brought them in with you before. Only one reason you would. You don’t want to let the money out of your sight. But you had to have a few drinks to celebrate, so here you are, and my nest egg, besides.”

  “Your nest egg?”

  “I need money to improve my saloon and to start up a general store, among other things. Between what I have socked away and your three thousand, I should just about have enough.”

  “What in hell makes you think I’m goin’ to give you my money?” Lice snapped. “I’d have to be addlepated to do a thing like that.”

  “No,” Beaumont Adams said. “You’d just have to be dead.” So saying, he gave a sharp flick of his right arm and a
derringer appeared in his hand. Lice bleated and started to throw up his hands, and Beaumont shot him in the face.

  4

  The Badlands.

  Thousands of square miles of what some would call the most godforsaken country anywhere. To others they were a magnificent display of the Almighty’s handiwork in the natural world.

  Rocky buttes and towering mesas brushed the clouds. Winding canyons and deep ravines slashed the earth. Washes were dry most of the year but not all. Ridges crisscrossed every which way. Occasional streams accounted for green valleys nestled amid the brown of rock and earth.

  The Badlands Land and Cattle Company had chosen their range wisely. It contained a lot of green. There were more year-round streams than elsewhere, and wells produced plentifully. A lot of work was called for, but the Diamond B promised to become a thriving enterprise if managed wisely.

  That was where Alexander Jessup came in. Jessup had no experience running a ranch—that was why the BLCC hired Neal Bonner—but Jessup did have an impeccable record at managing large businesses. Even better, he’d demonstrated a talent for turning a profit from every business he was involved with.

  “Alexander the Great,” his peers had dubbed him. It was a measure of the man that he regarded it as a title, not a nickname. “Am I not Alexander the Great?” became one of his pet replies when someone questioned his judgment.

  When the consortium approached him about managing their new cattle venture, Alexander was overseeing a chain of dairy farms. He’d organized them so efficiently he dominated the dairy market in New York City and other large Eastern cities.

  Alexander lived with his two grown daughters in a mansion on the Hudson River, a mansion he’d named Macedonia, and had a sign put up to that effect.

  The consortium sent Franklyn Wells to negotiate, and Alexander told him he could make his case over dinner.

  Wells was dazzled by the luxury the Jessups seemed to take for granted. After a sumptuous three-course meal, the men lit cigars, sat back, and got to it. After presenting the particulars of the consortium’s offer, Wells ended with “We realize we’re asking a lot. Cattle raising in the West is nothing like the dairy empire you’ve established.”

  “Nonsense,” Jessup replied. “Cows are cows.”

  “Be that as it may, we’ve hired Neal Bonner, one of the best ranch foremen west of the Mississippi, to be your second-in-command, as it were. He knows all there is to know about ranching, and then some.”

  Alexander Jessup harrumphed. “In the first place, I don’t have seconds-in-command. I lead, others follow. If you want him to be foreman, fine. But he’ll take orders from me like everyone else.”

  “Of course,” Wells said.

  “In the second place, what I don’t know about ranching I’ll soon learn. In case your background on me is incomplete, I’m a very quick study. It’s one of the secrets to my success.”

  “Am I to take it that you agree to our terms, then?”

  “Provided your consortium agrees to mine,” Alexander replied. “I shall operate at my complete discretion. They may advise me as they see fit, but the final decision in matters relating to the ranch is mine and mine alone.” He had held up a hand when Wells went to speak. “A house must be provided. I don’t expect another Macedonia, but I won’t live in a hovel. The house must be ready in advance of my arrival.” Jessup paused. “My daughters go with me. They accompany me everywhere, and are indispensable. Both are outstanding businesswomen in their own right. You might have heard I had them privately tutored by some of the best instructors in the country.”

  “I have, in fact, heard that,” Wells said.

  “If I can’t take them, I won’t go.”

  “The consortium wouldn’t think of refusing your request.”

  “Then I must ask,” Alexander said. “What are the perils involved? Not for me, but for them. Besides the obvious.”

  “The obvious?” Wells repeated.

  “Men.”

  “Oh.” Franklyn Wells coughed. “Well, there will be the climate. It’s a lot harsher than what you’re accustomed to, with temperature extremes in the summers and winters.”

  Alexander dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “We won’t let a little weather bother us. Go on. What about hostiles?”

  “The nearest tribe are the Dakotas, or the Sioux, as they are more commonly known.”

  “The ones who wiped out Custer?”

  “They had a part in it, yes. But General Crook and that other fellow, Miles, have put an end to their depredations. Their raiding days are over.”

  “Anything else?”

  Wells tapped his cigar on his ashtray. “There is one thing I should mention. I’ve never lived in the West, you understand. But I went to Texas to make our offer to Neal Bonner, and learned a lot about the nature of the men who do. You see, Mr. Bonner had conditions of his own, and one of them was that he bring his pard, as he calls him, along. The gentleman’s name is Jericho. He’s what they call a shootist.”

  “I’m unfamiliar with the term.”

  “Jericho is uncommonly proficient with a firearm.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Alexander said. “From what I hear, everyone in the West wears a gun. Every male, that is.”

  “Many do, as I saw with my own eyes,” Wells said. “But few are any shakes at it, as Mr. Bonner would say. Jericho is. They’re quite reticent about it, but I was able to learn that Jericho has turned five to ten men toes up, as another of their quaint expressions has it.”

  “Wait,” Alexander said. “You’re saying this Jericho is a killer?”

  “At least five times over, probably more.”

  “And I’m to have him in my employ?”

  “No Jericho, no Neal Bonner, and we need Mr. Bonner. And you need Jericho.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Hear me out.” Wells took a puff and blew a smoke ring. “You asked about the dangers. I’m enlightening you. One of them has to do with the character of the men out there, or the lack thereof. You see, Mr. Jessup, the West is home to many bad men. Gunmen, confidence men, cheats, cardsharps, thieves of every stripe, and, more to the point, rustlers. They’re much more common than you can possibly imagine, and they are why you need a man like Jericho on your payroll.”

  “I’m still not sure I understand,” Alexander admitted.

  “Think of him as a deterrent. Those who live outside the law will be much less likely to give you trouble when they know that they must ultimately deal with Jericho.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Westerners aren’t like us,” Wells said. “Their character, their fundamental natures are different. They’re highly self-reliant. They respect three traits in a man more than any others. His honesty, his devotion to keeping his word, and how lethal he is.”

  “By God, you are serious.”

  “Never more so. Shootists, they call them, are held in great esteem, and widely feared by the criminal element. I’m sure you’ve heard of Wild Bill Hickok, shot down in Deadwood not that many years ago. With a man like him on your payroll, no bad man would dare come near you or the Diamond B.”

  “This Jericho is as widely feared as Hickok?”

  “Oh, goodness no. But he does have a reputation. And as Mr. Bonner put it to me, once Jericho has bedded down a few coyotes of the human variety, you should have no more trouble with any of their kind.”

  “You make it sound as if it’s a foregone conclusion we will have trouble.” Alexander thoughtfully contemplated the glowing tip of his own cigar. “Very well. I’ll let this Jericho work for me, but only because you’ve assured me we need Bonner and Bonner wants him along. But Jericho will pull his weight, like everyone else.”

  “You need not be concerned in that regard. Jericho will work cattle along with the rest of the punchers.”

 
“Good. Then I look forward to the challenge. How soon before the house is ready?”

  “Six months, give or take,” Wells said. “Mr. Bonner is at this very moment driving several thousand head of cattle from Texas to the Badlands to serve as the nucleus of the Diamond B’s herd.”

  “It’s settled, then.” Alexander blew a smoke ring of his own. “Assure your investors that they’ve chosen wisely. I’ve yet to fail at anything I’ve undertaken.”

  “They have every confidence in you,” Franklyn Wells declared.

  • • •

  Now, over five months later, Alexander Jessup still brimmed with confidence. As the stage that was taking him and his daughters to Whiskey Flats clattered and bounced along the rutted and winding excuse for a road, he gazed out over the Badlands and felt an unusual stirring in his breast.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Father?” asked one of the two young women who sat across from him.

  Born three years apart, they were night and day.

  The older, Edana, had hair like spun gold that hung past her shoulders in a lustrous wave. Her eyes were green, like Alexander’s. She had an oval face with high cheekbones, thin lips, and not much chin. Her expression was nearly always earnest, and she seldom laughed.

  By contrast, her younger sister, Isolda, nearly always wore a smirk, as if the world were a source of constant amusement. She had her mother’s looks: curly black hair, brown eyes, a wide forehead, and full lips. Where her sister went in for plain dresses and ordinary shoes, Isolda liked to wear dresses with lace at the cuffs, and shoes with higher heels.

  “If a penny isn’t enough,” Edana said when her father didn’t reply, “I can make it a dollar.”

  “Ninety-nine cents profit,” Isolda said. “I’d jump at it were I you, Father.”

  Alexander smiled with genuine affection. “I was thinking of your mother, girls, and how much she would have loved this scenery.”

  “It is pretty,” Edana said, “in an austere sort of way.”