“You do not understand.” He spoke in the same soft nuance he might use when explaining something to little Lucas. “Amish do not speak in anger. We follow the example of our Lord and treat all men with patience.”
“This crook isn’t Amish,” Jesse pointed out. “We have to talk to him in a language he understands, but you don’t have to speak. I will. That’s why I’m here.”
The worried lines still gathered on Jonas’s forehead. “My anger is such that my tongue will not stay tamed.”
“Yeah?” Jesse studied the little man who, except for fidgeting with his suspenders, stood completely still and spoke in as even a tone as Jesse had ever heard. If he was as mad as he said, why wasn’t he hopping around with a red face and fisted hands ready to pound someone?
“You’re doing a good job of handling yourself. You look pretty calm. Me? I’d be fighting mad if a man walked in and tried to steal my land right under my nose. They shoot men for less.”
“Oh, no.” Jonas shook his head, his placid expression serious. “Inside I am fighting to remember that the Lord loved all, Jew as well as Gentile. Nor did He speak in anger to those who abused Him.”
Jesse stared at the man. It was almost laughable to think that inside he simmered with anger while outside he maintained such a peaceful countenance. Could a man really live without ever speaking an angry word to anyone? Even the likes of Littlefield? Yes, perhaps the Lord did, but He was God. Jesse’s instinct was to fight.
Jonas was no coward. Jesse knew that from the time they had spent together on the Chisholm Trail several years ago. And he was a man of his word. So if he said he was struggling to control his anger, Jesse believed him.
I don’t need Jonas to go with me anyway. Matter of fact, it might be better if he didn’t.
Though he didn’t intend for things to turn violent, he needed to be prepared for that outcome. Littlefield wouldn’t take the news sitting down, but Jesse was used to defending himself. Having to worry about keeping Jonas safe would be a distraction.
“All right, Jonas. I’ll talk to Littlefield alone.”
“No.” Jonas’s jaw firmed. “This is not right. It is my problem, and I want to go with you. But what I ask is simple. Please allow me time to pray and calm my rebellious feelings.”
Rebellious feelings. Jesse silently chuckled. Littlefield doesn’t give a whit about rebellious feelings. Only a strong arm and hot lead get through to his kind.
“Okay. We’ll visit Littlefield after breakfast tomorrow.”
Jonas’s chest deflated, and some of the tension in his forehead relaxed.
“But if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a closer look at that fence before I settle Rex for the night. I want to see what we’re dealing with.”
“Ja. I will unhitch the buggy and get a start on my evening chores.”
“You do that. I’ll give you a hand when I get back.”
Jesse pursed his lips and gave a low whistle. Rex obediently left the patch of sweet clover he’d been munching on and trotted over to him. Though lately Jesse had come to regret much of the past ten years of his life, acquiring Rex would never be a cause for remorse. He’d won the horse in a poker game. A rodeo show had come to town, and he’d watched with interest as the traveling troop set up camp and erected an arena and chairs for the upcoming show. Later that night, Jesse found himself seated across a card table from a middle-aged cowboy with a talent for horse training and a lousy poker face. After relieving the man of his cash, he was dealt a hand of pure nothing. Not even a pair of deuces. But a good hand is only a small part of winning at poker, and Jesse had been playing since boyhood. He ended the night several hundred dollars richer and the proud owner of the best horse he’d seen in his whole life. Morgans were known for their calm disposition and sturdy build that allowed them to do double duty as a light draft horse at need. Not that he’d ever worked Rex at anything except driving cattle and carting his drunken carcass all over the Western territories. In fact, there had been a few times when he’d woken up in a back alley from a rowdy night he couldn’t remember to find Rex standing guard over him.
He slapped the horse’s neck affectionately as he swung himself up into the saddle. “I won’t be long,” he told Jonas, and then pointed Rex northward and prodded his sides with his heels.
The fence was nothing but a series of posts with a line of ugly barbed wire strung between them. He found the eastern end about a hundred yards northeast of Jonas’s pole barn. The small herd of Switzer cattle had aligned themselves alongside the wire, and one brown and white milk cow stared mournfully toward the other side. Beyond the fence, a creek gurgled over a rocky bed. The fence outlined a shallow bend in the creek and headed north, effectively cutting off the cattle’s water access. No doubt about the reason for the fence. Littlefield was trying to ensure that his cattle would have access to plenty of water, while Jonas’s would have none.
Jesse turned at the corner and followed the fence north. It cut directly across the center of a freshly plowed field. A wide swath of destruction showed on either side of the barbed wire boundary, the neat rows of soft soil showing signs of several sets of hooves, boots, and wagon wheels. Jesse set his teeth together and rode Rex around the unplowed edge on the sturdier ground of green grass.
The Switzer barn and house dropped out of view when he topped the swell in the land that marked the northern border of Jonas’s field. The fence continued across uncultivated land. He soon crossed over the trench that Jonas mentioned, the one he’d carved in the land years before to mark his boundaries. Jesse urged Rex into a gallop, following it to the place where Littlefield’s fence turned sharply westward. From there he hadn’t ridden more than a few minutes when he caught sight of the Littlefield homestead.
He slowed Rex and studied the ranch house before him. Impressive by any standards, the main house was at least three times the size of Luke’s place, attractively built of smooth stone and whitewashed wooden planks. A deep covered porch ran the length of the front, and several chairs rested invitingly in the shade. A second building sat a little off to the left between the ranch house and a gigantic barn, a long, low building that Jesse figured was probably cowhand barracks. A second barn had been constructed on the opposite side of the main house, that one obviously to house horses. Apparently Littlefield had an affinity for fences, for a neat split rail fence marked the boundaries of the ranch house, setting it apart from the other buildings. The fence and, indeed, all the buildings had an unmistakable clean, brand-new look, and the smell of fresh-cut timber filled the air. He kneed Rex toward the fence.
As he drew close, a pair of men exited the ranch house. Dressed in trousers and fairly clean shirts, they both wore their holsters slung low around their waists. Across the shrinking distance Jesse caught sight of their unwelcoming stares. They didn’t stop on the porch but came forward. Pausing at the small gate, they took up a stance in front of the hitching post, a not-too-subtle sign that he was not welcome to hitch his horse and come in for a visit.
This suited him just fine. He halted Rex several yards away and spoke from the vantage point of the saddle.
“One of you named Littlefield?”
He knew the answer before the question left his lips. A big cattle baron from Texas would dress better than either of these two. They must be hired hands. Mean-looking critters.
The fellow on the left turned his head to spit on the ground before answering. “Who’s askin’?”
Jesse remained calm. “I’m asking.” His tone said without words, I’m not talking to a hired hand. Bring me the boss.
The spitter’s hand moved slightly toward his holster. Jesse kept a loose grip on the reins but tensed his muscles in readiness. He could outdraw most any man when he wasn’t drinking—and he hadn’t had a drink in a year.
The door to the house opened, and two more men exited. There was no doubt as to the identity of the one in the lead. Littlefield wore the clothing of a wealthy man, from his neatly combed hair and
waxed mustache all the way down to his polished shoes. Sunlight glinted off of a gold chain dangling from a pocket in his waistcoat, and a ribbon of smoke curled up from the cigar in his hand. He stepped off the porch and crossed the neat yard toward Jesse with a confident step.
“Hello, sir.” Polite words, spoken with the ease of one who enjoys the confidence of an elevated position in life. “Welcome to Circle Star Ranch. Name’s Andrew Littlefield. And yours is…” Brows arched over sharp eyes that belied the welcoming smile.
Jesse kept his gaze fixed on the man’s face without taking his attention from the three who flanked him.
“Name’s Montgomery. I’m here to talk about that fence your boys put up last night.”
The smile did not change, but the spark in Littlefield’s eyes flared at the mention of the fence. “Are you referring to the fence marking the boundaries of my property?”
“No.” Jesse matched the man’s conversational tone. “I’m referring to the fence on the land of your neighbor to the south, Mr. Jonas Switzer. Have you met him?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.” He lifted the cigar and inhaled. Smoke rose in a cloud from his mouth. “I will dispute the land, though. My employees”—his gesture swept the three ruffians at his side—“and I have scoured this area, and we found no boundary markings of any kind. According to the Homestead Act, I’m entitled to claim one hundred sixty acres so long as I improve the land.” He held out his hands to indicate the buildings. “There can be no doubt I’ve made the requisite improvements.”
Though he’d heard of the Homestead Act and the opportunity to claim free land, Jesse wasn’t familiar enough with the details to argue them.
“Look, Littlefield,” he said in a reasonable tone. “Jonas Switzer is a good man. He’s Amish, which means he’s peace loving, a man of faith. Why do you want to cause trouble for him? Kansas is a big place. There’s plenty of land for everyone. Just move your claim a hundred acres or so to the north and west, and leave him to farm his little parcel in peace.”
“Oh, but I can’t do that. The land to the west is owned by Mr. Woodard here.” He nodded his head toward the spitter. “And to his northern border is Mr. Lawson’s property.” The thug beside Woodard heaved a laugh.
“Let me guess.” Jesse glanced at the fourth rascal, whose slack jaw and dull eyes made him look as though he was playing with only half a deck. “You own the land to the west of Woodard’s?”
He turned a questioning stare on Littlefield, who answered for him.
“Actually, Mr. Sawyer’s property is north of Mr. Lawson’s. The parcel to the west is owned by a dear sweet lady in Boston, a widow whose husband was killed in the war. And beyond hers is land belonging to her sister, a spinster.” He took another puff from the cigar and blew it out through a triumphant grin. “Of course, since the poor women are unable to manage the property themselves, I volunteered to do that for them.”
So that was the way the wind blew. Littlefield had probably laid claim to dozens of one hundred-sixty-acre parcels by means of working through those he could control. Once the claims were secured, he would no doubt offer to buy the land from the “owners” at a fraction of the value. He’d end up with several thousand acres of prime Kansas land, and poor Jonas would be left with a piece of worthless property with no access to water for his crops and livestock.
He intended to slowly squeeze Jonas off his land.
“And of course none of those acres have convenient access to the creek,” he said.
Littlefield’s eyebrows arched. “Why should that matter? I have a perfect watering hole on my land, right beyond that ridge.” He pointed toward Jonas’s property.
Hold your temper, Montgomery. Jesse confidently met Littlefield’s eyes and spoke in an even tone. “Your plan isn’t going to work with the Switzer place.”
“You think not?” The man’s eyes rounded with fake innocence, and then the smirk returned. “Who’s going to stop me? A pack of mild-mannered religious yokels who refuse to pick up a gun to defend their own daughters or aging mothers?”
A lump of ice slid down Jesse’s spine. Obviously Littlefield knew something of the Amish practice of nonviolence, but did the mention of daughters and an aging mother refer to Jonas’s daughters and Maummi Switzer?
Jesse spoke in a voice as stiff as his spine. “You stay away from the Switzers, you hear me? They may not fight, but their sons-in-laws, who aren’t Amish, won’t stand by and watch them harassed or taken advantage of.”
His words stirred up an instant reaction. Sawyer and Lawson stepped forward, and Woodard’s hand actually dropped to his pistol. Rex sidestepped uneasily. The tension was almost palpable in the air around them.
Littlefield, however, merely laughed. “Why would I want to harass a harmless farmer? I mean the man no ill will.” His eyes hardened, and he lowered his voice to match. “As long as he stays on his side of my fence.”
Jesse returned the cool glare. “Seems our business is finished.”
“Seems it is, sir. Have a nice day.”
“For now,” Jesse clarified. He tightened his knees around Rex’s barrel and tugged the reins sideways.
“By all means, do return for another friendly chat, Mr. Montgomery.” Sarcasm saturated the gentile Texas drawl. “I’ve discovered folks in this part aren’t so friendly.” He chuckled. “Except those Amish. Why, they would give you the shirt off of their backs.”
Jesse clamped his jaws down on the parting shot. As he turned, the tail of his eye caught a look exchanged between Littlefield and Woodard, and his insides tensed. This matter was far from over. He urged Rex into a gallop as he rode away, aware that the men stood staring after him. A spot in the center of his back burned from the weight of their glares. He hated turning his back on a pack of no-goods. He turned his head a fraction, enough to see them out the side of his eye, and watched them disperse. Littlefield disappeared into the house along with the third man, Lawson. Sawyer and Woodard were nowhere in sight. They had probably slunk back into whatever hole they crawled out of.
With easier breath, Jesse followed the fence toward Jonas’s house, glad when he passed over a hill that hid Littlefield’s place from view. At the corner of the fence, he pointed Rex southward and let him settle into an easy canter. What would Jonas say when he told him he’d already spoken with Littlefield? He might be relieved that he didn’t have to sit through the uncomfortable encounter. Or he might be upset that Jesse had gone behind his back. One thing was for sure, he’d be unhappy with the outcome. No doubt he’d hoped his neighbor would listen to reason and remove the fence with no further trouble.
Jesse’s mind fixed on his thoughts, so at first he didn’t see the horses galloping toward him across the plain. They were within gunshot range by the time he noted the sound of hooves pounding the soil. He jerked his head around, reaching for his weapon at the same time, and spotted two men bearing down on him diagonally, coming from the direction of Littlefield’s place. Inside the fence. Alarm rang in his head and vibrated down his spine. The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. It was Woodard and the simpleton, Sawyer. And they had guns in their hands.
He made a show of drawing his weapon as he slowed Rex to a stop. Better to face a threat head-on than run from it. He turned and sat stiff in the saddle, waiting for them to come near. They stopped on the other side of the fence, no more than twenty feet away.
Woodard spat before speaking. “We wanted to make sure you made it back home safe, Montgomery.”
“Yeah.” Sawyer gave a high-pitched laugh. “Shame for you to get hurt by thugs afore you get home.”
“That’s mighty kind of you. You boys can go on home now to your mamas. I know my way around.”
Woodard dropped the pretense. His gaze hardened. “Don’t be messing in Mr. Littlefield’s business. You tell that Amish man to shut his mouth and keep to his farming, and nobody will get hurt.”
Jesse tensed. “And if he pushes the matter, are you threatening
the Switzers?”
Their gazes locked together with steel. “I’m sayin’ it’d be in his best interest not to find out.”
Jesse had run into men like Woodard many times over the years. The saloons were full of them, hardened men who made their living doing the bidding of others by way of their pistols and a show of bravado. Problem was most of them were downright mean enough to shoot a man without thinking twice. And they were decent shots to boot. Not that he was afraid of Woodard or any of his ilk, but it didn’t make sense to pick a fight when you were one man against two and there was a peaceful way out.
I sound like Jonas, taking the nonviolent way.
Well, and so be it.
He didn’t loosen his grip on his pistol, and he didn’t look away from Woodard’s glare, but he did give a shallow nod. “I’ll be sure and deliver the message.”
Was that disappointment in the man’s eyes? He’d been itching for a fight. Two against one, the coward.
Slowly, and with exaggerated gestures, Jesse turned Rex, pointed him toward the south, and then prodded him into a walk, leaving the two thugs behind.
“That’s it?” Sawyer said behind him, a touch of outrage in his reedy voice. “We’re gonna let him walk away?”
Rex kept walking.
“Ah, com’on. Let’s get home,” answered Woodard.
Sawyer argued in a tone like a whiney child. “But Mr. Littlefield said we could—”
“Shut up, you idiot,” snarled Woodard.
Mr. Littlefield said they could do what?
Rex took another few steps. The hair on the back of Jesse’s neck stood at attention. He strained his ears to catch any sound of movement behind him. No rustling indicative of movement.
“Don’t call me an idiot,” came the hot reply. “I’m sick of being called an idiot. I can hold my own. You jest watch.”
The sound that followed erupted in Jesse’s ears like an explosion. The click of a gun’s hammer. Was the kid getting ready to fire on him?
Woodard’s shout. “Sawyer, put that—”
The warning was cut short. An explosion filled the air. At the same moment, fiery pain hit Jesse in the back, high up near his shoulder. Lightning flashed through his brain. The force of the bullet caught him off guard, pitching him forward. He scrambled to grab hold of the saddle pommel, but his nerveless fingers couldn’t find a grip. The ground rose up to meet him, and he landed with a breath-battering thud.
A Cowboy at Heart Page 4
