“Darned if it isn’t,” Brant agreed, scratching another match “And I’ll bet a hatful of pesos he’s the hellion I spotted riding herd on us all day yesterday over here in the brush. Well, he horned into one game too many!”
Dawn was breaking by the time the cowboys combed the wide-looped cows out of the canyon and started them back to the camp. When they got there, they found that the rest of the herd had been rounded up and was grazing quietly near the bedding ground. The night hawks had obeyed Brant’s order and skalleyhooted at the first sign of danger. Nobody had been hurt, but Brant grimly surveyed the bullet holes in the bedrolls beside the rekindled fire.
“Snake-blooded bunch of hellions,” he told Webb.
The old cowman removed his wide hat and mopped his face with a handkerchief.
“Gives me the creeps to think of what would have happened if we’d been bedded down here instead of on that upper bench,” he said. “Son, you sure did a good chore and we all owe you a heap. How in blazes did you figger it out?”
“Yesterday,” Brant explained, “I spotted a jigger over in the edge of the brush riding herd on us. He kept it up all day, and I had a hunch he wasn’t doing all that riding just to exercise his horse. I figured he was there to find out just where we were going to bed down for the night and to get the lay of the land. Then he would hightail to a meeting place with the rest of his bunch and give them the lowdown. Chances were they were riding higher up in the hills, out of sight. When we did make camp, the thing was a perfect natural from their viewpoint. That canyon mouth is only about a mile distant from our camp. A plumb dark night. They could cut out a nice bunch of cows, slide them into that canyon and make an easy getaway. They figured we would be too busy rounding up the rest of the herd to trail after them, and even if we did, everything would be in their favor. So I decided the only thing to do was outsmart those gents. I gambled on their heading for the canyon with the bunch they cut out. Not that it was much of a gamble—the canyon was about the only place they could go. I also had a notion their sort wouldn’t stop at a little thing like a cold-blooded killing or two. That’s why I shifted the camp to the upper bench and left the bedrolls down on the lower bench as a come-on. They fell for it, all right.”
“Outsmarted ’em is right!” growled Webb. “They’re smartin’ right now, I betcha, what’s left of ’em. Figger you winged any more beside the two you downed?”
“There was some tall yelling when we cut down on them,” Brant replied. “I’ve got a pretty good notion there was a punctured hide or two among the bunch that got away.”
“Hope the hellions starve to death from leakin’ their vittles out the holes,” said Webb. “Well, mebbe we can make Dodge, now, without any more rukuses.”
“Hope so,” agreed Brant. “We should make it before dark, if things go right.”
Chapter Four
Somebody once said, “The only difference between Dodge City and Hell is that you don’t have to worry about anybody runnin’ you outa Hell!”
Which wasn’t much of an exaggeration when the Running W Trail herd rolled up to town.
The “Cowboy Capital” was at the height of its prosperity. When George Hoover and Jack Mc-Donald pitched a tent on the site of the future cowtown, from which they sold whiskey to Fort Dodge soldiers, it is doubtful if they in the least envisioned what the future was to bring. Harry Lovett put up a second canvas saloon, and a gentleman with more elaborate notions, one Henry Sitler, built a sod house. This growing metropolis was called Buffalo City until the following spring brought railroad construction gangs. The railroaders mapped a town on the north side of the Arkansas River, five miles west of the fort. Very quickly, the ruts of the old Santa Fe Trail saw a general store and ware house, three dancehalls and a half dozen saloons come into being. Dodge City was substituted for the really more descriptive “Buffalo City.” Here at the end of steel— where the Santa Fe was pushing south to the Rio Grande—swiftly boomed a roaring, hell-raising, gun-smoking frontier town, the equal of which the nation was never to see again.
Smack up against the buffalo range, all Dodge City needed was railroad facilities to become the focal point of the hide business. And in those days buffalo hides were “Big Business.” Thousands of hunters proceeded to collect millions of dollars for hides and meat and to spend the dinero in unequalled hell raisin’. Other throngs of wild and salty railroad builders added their payrolls to the flood of gold. Fully a thousand freight teams consisting of from eight to sixteen horses to a single great wagon hauled supplies south, west and north. The bull-whackers, mule-skinners and others attached to this industry were not of the modest violet type. Their chief ambition in life seemed to be to blow the wages of months in a single night of wild carousal in Dodge City. Several hundred soldiers and Indian scouts from Fort Dodge had similar notions. Dodge City was going strong, but hadn’t really seen nothin’ yet!
For the longhorns were on the march. The great herds began rolling up the Jones and Plummer Trail, and with them came their cowboy guardians with ideas of whoopin’ it up that surpassed anything Dodge City had yet seen. Because of the element of competition involved, bull-whackers and mule skinners sort of didn’t like railroaders and buffalo hunters. The sentiment was returned. Soldiers considered themselves better men than the gentlemen who drove mules, hunted buffalo or graded railroad, and were willing and ready to prove it at any time. Differences of opinion naturally arose, for the gentlemen who did not wear the blue couldn’t see it that way. The result was gunsmoke in more than considerable quantities. The Texas cowboys had their own notions of who really belonged on top of the heap and backed it up with cartridges.
A proper seasoning for this kettle of “hell-broth” was provided by the gamblers, gunmen, owlhoots, “ladies” and others of similar ilk gathered from the four corners of the earth and run out of at least three and usually four.
All of which made Dodge City not exactly the place for a rest cure.
Of course, the Texans didn’t like Northern men and were not slow in making the fact known. As they swaggered from saloon to gambling-hall to honky-tonk, jingling their spurs on high-heeled boots, their broad-brimmed “rainsheds” cocked jauntily over one eye, their six-guns much in evidence, they express their opinion in no uncertain tones. All of which somewhat irritated the older citizens. And not altogether without reason. The cowboys rode their horses on the sidewalks and into saloons. They took over the most attractive of the dance-hall girls. By way of variety they held up gambling games, and added insult to injury by throwing the dinero thus acquired across the bars, onto the green tables and into the ready hands of the “ladies.” They shot the windows out of stores, proved their marksmanship by dusting the lights in various places with lead and by “dusting off” individuals who registered protest. It was all good fun, of course, but the humor was not always appreciated.
The most striking proof that all was not peaceful in Dodge was the fact that in Dodge’s first season as a cow camp, twenty-five gentlemen were planted in Boot Hill, so called because the deceased were almost always buried with their boots, and other clothing, on. Lumber was too scarce and dear to waste on coffins.
At the time, Dodge was mostly Front Street, a wide road running east and west just north of the Santa Fe tracks. The principal cross street over the Arkansas River. For two blocks each way from Second Avenue, Front Street widened into what was known as the Plaza. The town’s chief business establishments were strung along the north side of this square. Here were the Dodge House, Deacon Cox’s famous hotel, Wright & Beverley’s store, about the most important commercial establishment on the plains, the Delmonico Restaurant, the Long Branch Saloon, the Alamo Saloon, the City Drug Store, the Alhambra Saloon and the Dodge Opera House. The railroad depot, water tank and freight house were at the east end of the Plaza. Just south of the tracks was the calaboose or city jail, a one-roomed building constructed of two-by-six timbers. Perched on top of the flat roof was a flimsy structure the city judge and cle
rk used as an office.
South of the tracks were cheap hotels, honkeytonks, saloons without number, small-fry gambling houses and corrals.
To the north of Front Street, on a hill, was the residential section. An adjoining rise, the highest point in town, was occupied by what many considered the town’s most thriving establishment— Boot Hill.
To the north of the railroad there was at least a semblance of law and order. South of the tracks in Hell’s Half Acres, between the railroad and the Arkansas River, most anything went, and most anything was the commonplace happening.
“I’ve seen Abilene, Wichita and Ellsworth, but this pueblo plumb passes the limit,” old John remarked to Austin Brant. They had just finished a satisfactory conference with Webb’s buyer and were walking slowly along Front Street in the early evening.
“You haven’t seen anything yet, just wait till it gets dark,” Brant prophesied. “By the way, I’ve a notion we ought to drop in and have a talk with the city marshal. His name is Tom Carney, I believe.”
They found the marshal in his office. He was an affable man who greeted them pleasantly.
“I’d say the Dodge House is your best bet,” he replied to the question Webb put to him. “It’s usually quiet and orderly and Deacon Cox who runs it doesn’t stand for any foolishness. Questionable characters aren’t wanted there, and they know it. I certainly wouldn’t advise you to go foolin’ around south of the tracks. Everybody knows you run your big herd in today and that a buyer was here waiting for you to take over most of your cows. They’d be liable to figger the buyer paid off as soon as the cows were turned over to him.
“Besides, I don’t expect much peace to night. I got word that some of Dutch Harry’s bunch are headed for town. They are out-and-out owlhoots and won’t stop at anything. Soon as I hear where they land, I figger to drop a loop on them and corral them in the calaboose. Young hellions from the cow country raisin’ cain is one thing, but jiggers with robbery and cold-blooded killin’s in mind is somethin’ else again. Under the circumstances, I’d stay indoors as much as possible while you’re in town, if I was you.”
“Good advice,” agreed Webb. “Reckon I’m takin’ it.”
Before repairing to the hotel, Webb and Brant walked up the hill through the residential section. From its crest they could see a dozen herds held outside of town. The stockyards were crowded to the gates.
“Plenty of business, plenty of business,” remarked the ranch owner. “And I figger the end ain’t in sight yet.”
Webb was right. An amazing market for Texas cows was developing with astounding rapidity. Four transcontinental lines of railroad were building. They made millions of acres of land accessible to home seekers. The push of the railroads into the Mississippi region made possible contact between the crowded population of the East and the rich grasslands of the West. Modern packing plants had already come into existence. Refrigerator cars were already running. Beef was being canned. To supply these markets and to stock the great ranges along the Rockies was up to the Texas longhorns. And at the moment, hell-roarin’ Dodge was the focal point of distribution. Yes, there was “plenty of business,” and more to come.
“I figure I’ll look the town over a bit before hitting the hay,” Brant told his Boss when they reached the hotel. “Like to see what makes it tick. And,” he added, “I want to sort of keep an eye on the boys to night. They’ll be swallerforkin’ all over the lot.”
“Reckon they will,” agreed Webb. “Go to it, son. Me, I’m takin’ the marshal’s advice and not sashayin’ around with this hefty passel of money on me.”
Dusk was falling when Brant left the hotel. He located a good restaurant and enjoyed a prime surroundin’ of chuck. Then he sauntered out to look the town over.
“It was worth looking over, all right. With the advent of darkness, Dodge was really beginning to howl. Front Street was jammed with folks of all sorts moving to and fro on the board sidewalks, jostling, elbowing, laughing, swearing. In the street, riders were weaving in and out. Horses were tied to hitch racks, freight outfits were still unloading. The windows of saloons and gambling halls glowed as yellow as the gold that clinked the mahogany or slithered across the green cloth. The great mirror blazing bars were crowded, as were the tables and the other games. Mule-skinner, bull-whacker, cowboy, buffalo hunter and outand-out badman rubbed shoulders. Orchestras blared, voices bellowed song, and boots thumped solidly on dance floors. The whir of roulette wheels vied with the sprightly clatter of flung dice. The chink of bottle neck on glass rim echoed the ring of the tossed gold piece. The afternoon rumble of Dodge was crescendoing to a star-quivering roar.
Brant dropped into the Long Branch saloon, run by Chalk Beeson and Bill Harris, and watched the famous Luke Short supervising the gambling. The Long Branch was noted for high stakes and the tenseness of the play induced more than ordinary quiet. After watching a poker game for a while where white chips were worth twenty dollars each, Brant decided on a look-see south of the railroad tracks.
Here the turbulence was at its height. Cowboys, whooping and yowling, raced their horses along the street, clattering onto the sidewalks at times, to the accompaniment of a wild scattering on the part of pedestrians. Somewhere sounded a stutter of shots, possibly only an outburst of exuberance, possibly something more serious. The saloons were not so well lighted as those on Front Street, but they were even more crowded. Gambling was not for so high stakes as in the Long Branch. As a recompense, it was accompanied by more noise, more arg’fyin’ and more violence. The card sharps were just as adept, and deadlier than their compatriots of the Main Stem.
Stepping into a quieter saloon, Brant was rather surprised to encounter Norman Kane. The Flying V owner greeted him with his flashing smile and a pleasant nod.
“Boys are sort of whoopin’ it up,” he commented. “I came down to keep an eye on my hands. Reckon you’re here for the same reason, eh?”
“Sort of,” Brant admitted, “but I like to see the fun, too.”
Kane made a wry face. “It’s likely not to be so funny before the night is over,” he predicted. “There are some hard characters down here. Plenty of snake blood. They’re not all cowhands in for a bust.”
Brant nodded soberly. “Let’s have a drink,” he suggested. Kane was agreeable and they moved to the bar. They were discussing the contents of their glasses when a young cowhand hurried in through the swinging doors, paused and glanced keenly about. With an exclamation of satisfaction, he strode up to Brant, who recognized one of his own riders.
“Boss,” he said, “I was huntin’ for you. Cooney said he saw you slide in here. There’s a place down on Bridge Street, close to the river, where some of our boys are hangin’ out. There’s a bunch come in there and they aim to make trouble— clean out the place good. They’re just waitin’ for a couple more of their outfit to show up. The boys would like to get out, but figger if they try, trouble is liable to start.” He glanced at Kane as he finished speaking. “You’re the Flying V owner, ain’t you, suh? There’s a couple of your boys in there, too. And I heard,” he added, “that the bunch is part of the Dutch Harry gang.”
“Thanks for letting me know about it, Ray,” Brant replied quietly. He turned to Kane. “Reckon we’re both in this,” he said. “First off, we’d better notify the marshal. He’s on the lookout for the Harry bunch and will come along with us. That’ll put the law on our side if anything busts loose.”
“Good notion,” applauded Kane. “Let’s go.”
Together they hurried to the marshal’s office. They found Tom Carney in, and alone. He swore crisply when he heard what they had to say.
“I’ll head down there pronto,” he said. “My deputies are out somewhere, but I won’t wait for ’em.”
“We’ll trail along, if it’s agreeable with you,” Brant said.
“Good!” exclaimed Carney. “I’ll deputize you both to help me in this business. I know the place your hand spoke about, Brant. All set? Here’s a pair of
handcuffs for each of you. Use ’em.”
They hurried out. Carney led the way down Bridge Street almost to the river. “This is the place,” he said, pausing before a poorly lighted saloon from which came the sound of loud voices raised in argument, a bellowing curse and the thud of a fall. “I’m scairt somethin’s due to bust loose any minute. Kane, you stay outside and don’t let anybody come up behind us. All set, Brant? Let’s go!”
Shoulder to shoulder, the marshal and the Running W foreman pushed through the swinging doors. Outside, Norman Kane stood slender and erect with watchful eyes, and hands close to his gun butts.
Abruptly the turmoil inside the saloon hushed to a tense silence that endured for a crawling instant of suspense, then was shattered by the roar of gunfire. A moment later Marshal Carney reeled out, his body shot through and through, dying on his feet. Norman Kane sprang forward, caught the marshal’s sagging body as he fell. He half carried, half dragged him beyond range of door and windows and eased him to the ground. Then he straightened up with a bitter curse and ran back. A gun in each hand, he plunged through the door, brought up short and stared in incredulous amazement.
Austin Brant, a smoking gun in one hand, was handcuffing two prisoners together, one wounded. In a circle around him lay three grotesquely sprawled forms. Directly in front of the menacing gun muzzle stood two men with their hands raised high.
Brant slanted a flickering glance sideways. “Put your cuffs on those two hellions,” he directed Kane, gesturing slightly toward the hand-lifted pair with his gun muzzle. “Did they cash in the marshal?”
“I’m scairt they did,” Kane replied as he manacled the scowling pair. “He looked like a dead man to me when I laid him on the sidewalk.”
Brant bent his icy gaze on the prisoners for a moment, then he turned to where several cowboys, among them a glowering Cole Dawson, stood stiffly beside the bar. “Look after the marshal,” he told them. “If he’s still alive, get a doctor pronto. Come on, Kane, we’ll herd these sidewinders to the calaboose. Get going, you, and don’t stop, if you don’t want to stop for good.”
Longhorn Empire Page 4
