Abe Tucker whistled. “He must be mighty fast.”
“He is no slouch,” Lute Bass said. “I look forward to finding out exactly how good he is when I catch up with him.”
“No interest in old age?”
Lute Bass smiled. “Ever climbed on a bronc that was a man killer to test your mettle?”
“I can’t say as I have, no.”
“I have. It is what I do. I test myself all the time. This Lin Bryce will be another test. They say he is good with an iron. I think I am better. And there is only one way to find out.”
“Better you than me,” Abe said. “Your profession is too dangerous for my temperament.”
“I also get three thousand dollars when the job is done.”
Abe whistled again. “Now that I can understand. But my conscience and my maker would still hold the killings against me.”
“Did you ever hear about that mother and baby down in Denver? The mother got sickly and died. The baby cried for days in its crib. Neighbors heard, and did nothing, and the baby starved to death.”
“I did not hear of it, no, and I can’t say as I would want to. What was your point?”
“You mentioned our maker,” Lute Bass said. “That mother and her baby prove that God does not give a good damn about what goes on down here.”
“You blaspheme, sir. And I will not have anyone speak ill of the Lord in my presence.”
The broomstick carrying the Sharps snickered. “We’ve got us a regular Bible-thumper here, Lute.”
Lute Bass shrugged. “He can believe what he wants. We will leave him with his Bible and go ask around about the Bryces. They were heading this way. Someone had to have seen them.”
“They could be in Montana by now,” Abe said.
“I doubt it. We are not that far behind them. But Montana or Canada—it makes no difference. I will trail them to the ends of the earth if I have to. They will not escape me this side of the grave.”
“To take pride in your work is commendable.”
About to turn, Lute Bass stopped. “Spare me your scorn, storekeeper. When I take a job, I see it through. You can call that pride if you want. I call it earning my pay.”
“I meant no disrespect.”
The three manhunters filed out.
Abe went around the counter and over to the front window. He watched them confer, then separate and amble off in different directions.
Just then someone came out of the saloon. It was Efram Pike.
Lute Bass made right for him.
Abe returned to the counter. Reaching underneath, he brought out a silver flask. He opened it and tilted it to his mouth, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. After a few chugs, he capped the flask and put it back under the shelf.
“Hell in a basket,” Abe summed up the state of affairs.
The more Lin shared the company of Etta June Cather, the more she impressed him.
A lot of ranchwomen did not do actual ranch work. They tended to the house and the upkeep of their families. The cooking and preserving, the washing and ironing, the cleaning and polishing, were an occupation in themselves. Preparing a meal could take hours. Doing the laundry could take an entire day.
Etta June was not content to be chained to her domestic duties. She had helped her husband out on the range, and she made it plain to Lin and Chancy that she would do the same with them.
So it was that the next morning she was at the corral to oversee the picking of their string.
The cavvy was not large, but Lin liked their quality. Hammerheads were absent, none were cold jawed, and all had experience cutting. Lin and Chancy each wound up with three horses besides their own. The supplies they strapped on a pack animal.
The ranch had two branding pens. Neither had been used since Etta June’s husband died. It had been only a year, and Lin reckoned the pens would be in good shape. The nearest pen was, but when they reached the second, they discovered the gate was in need of repair.
Lin had brought tools. Etta June helped, and now and again they brushed shoulders. He was disappointed when she squinted up at the sun and announced, “I have to head back soon.”
“Will you be out tomorrow?” Lin hopefully asked.
“I can’t say. I have a lot to catch up on.” Etta June removed her work gloves. “But I will come out every day I can until the roundup is done.”
Lin was watching her ride off when a chuckle sounded behind him. “If you are fixing to say what I think you are fixing to say, I do not want to hear it.”
Chancy came up next to him. “All I was going to say is that she will make a fine sister-in-law.”
“I knew it.”
“I have seen how you look at her when you think she will not notice, and I have seen how she looks at you.”
“I do no such thing,” Lin said. He took a step toward the horses, then stopped. “Wait. What do you mean by how she looks at me?”
“The lady is fond of you, Big Brother. Pretty soon she will throw her loop and it won’t surprise me a lick if you step right into it.”
“You are mistaken. She is being friendly, is all.”
“Keep telling yourself that until you are in front of a parson saying ‘I do.’ “Chancy laughed.
Lin refused to believe him. But for the rest of the day all he could think about was Etta June. He considered Chancy’s notion preposterous. The thing was, though, that deep down he liked the idea. Etta June had a lot of admirable traits. That, and when he looked into her eyes, he did not want to stop.
The next day they began the roundup. There was too much work to do for idle talk.
A lot of the cattle were scattered among the broken slopes that bordered the valley. Flushing them was a chore. Lin or Chancy would work through the thick brush while the other stayed back waiting for cows to break. Another tactic was for one of them to wind along the bottom of a ravine while the other kept pace on the rim.
A lot of the cows meekly let themselves be herded to the branding pens. Those already branded—and they were a majority—were counted and set free to graze. Those not branded—mainly calves, but more than a few cows—had to be roped and then treated to the red-hot end of a branding iron.
The calves were small but they were quick, and roping them took know-how as well as a skilled cutting horse. Usually the calves struggled and bawled, causing their mothers despair, and occasionally a cow would charge to the rescue with lowered horns.
Lin and Chancy worked the orneriest critters together. They would ride up on either side. One would throw his rope over the cow’s head and dally the rope tight. With the cow distracted, the other would toss his rope under the animal’s rear legs so the loop fastened about its heels. Once the cow was down, the brothers took turns dismounting and applying the branding iron.
That evening, around the campfire, Chancy pressed a hand to his spine and grumbled, “I forgot how rough ranching can be. I am sore and stiff all over. Too bad I cannot take a hot bath.”
“Pa would roll over in his grave if he heard you talk like that,” Lin bantered. “You are getting soft.”
Chancy nodded at their growing herd. “They do not mean as much to me as they do to you.”
“They are cows.”
“Cows that belong to the filly you have set your sights on.”
“You beat a dead horse to death,” Lin complained. He refilled his tin cup with steaming hot coffee and sat back.
“You could do worse,” Chancy said. “Wed her and this ranch is as much yours as hers.”
“Listen to you,” Lin said indignantly. “I have not known her a week and you have me married off.”
“You are not getting any younger.”
“I do not want to talk about it,” Lin said. There had been a girl once. The daughter of a neighbor. She fancied him, and he thought she was the prettiest girl alive. Then his father died and his mother took to drink and his every waking minute was spent trying to keep their ranch afloat. He did not get over to see the girl as often. Maybe it was stupid of him,
but he figured she would understand and stay true. Instead she became engaged to the son of another rancher.
“Lin?”
“I said I do not care to talk about it.”
“Lin!” Chancy said again.
Annoyed, Lin shifted. His brother was on his feet, pointing to the west. “What?”
“Damn it, look!”
Lin shifted again and nearly spilled his coffee.
Twilight had descended, and out of the gathering dark, riding slowly toward them, came a group of riders. Not cowhands or settlers or shootists—but a band of Indians.
Chapter 11
Many whites lived in terror of the red race. Whites called them redskins, or savages, or heathens, or, as one newspaper put it, “little better than animals.” Indian attacks and atrocities were written up in grisly detail. Reports of Indians on the prowl spawned wide-spread fear.
Growing up, Lin did not have much to do with Indians. He saw Indians from time to time, but he never got to speak to them or to know them. The newspapers, he noticed, nearly always blamed the Indians for any flare-up. But when he read of Indian women and children being killed in raids on Indian villages, and of how one prominent white referred to them as “gnats that must be crushed,” he did not see where his own kind had the right to put on airs.
Still, as the band of warriors approached, Lin could not quash the fear that coursed through him. The warriors bristled with weapons: bows and arrows, lances, knives, tomahawks. It was easy to imagine him and his brother being massacred.
Then Lin noticed that the warriors were not painted for war. Nor were any of their weapons brandished in a threatening manner. Arrows were all in their quivers the bows were unstrung.
Out of the corner of his eye Lin saw Chancy’s hand swoop to his Colt. “Don’t!” he said, standing.
“I can drop three or four before they let fly a shaft.”
“You stand there and do nothing. I will handle this.” Lin stepped past him.
“Don’t you remember? There are reports of Crows on the warpath. This bunch is liable to stake us out and skin us alive.”
“We don’t even know if they are Crows.” Lin looked at him. “Take your hand off your six-shooter, but be ready to back me if it goes bad.”
“Are you loco?” Chancy snapped. “These are redskins. What in hell are you trying to prove?”
“Etta June says she has never had any trouble with the Indians,” Lin brought up. “She says her husband was even friendly with some of them.”
“Her husband is dead.”
“It wasn’t Indians that killed him.” Lin faced the warriors. He squared his shoulders, held his hands out from his sides and smiled.
The warriors showed no emotion beyond what Lin construed as curiosity.
The one in the lead, a tall warrior in fine buckskins astride a splendid pinto, studied him as Lin was studying them. Ten feet out, the warrior came to a stop and the rest followed suit.
“Welcome,” Lin said.
None of the Indians responded. The tall warrior might as well have been a statue carved from wood.
“I do not speak your lingo,” Lin went on. “Or sign talk, neither. Do any of you speak my tongue?”
“I speak it,” the tall warrior said.
“My name is Lin. My brother and me ride for the EJ Ranch. Are you and your friends passing through?”
“We hunt.”
Lin almost asked, Men or animals? but instead he said, “Get down and join us if you like. We have coffee on, but there might not be enough for all of you.”
The warrior said something in his own language to the others. Climbing down, he came over. He moved with a calm bearing. Stopping in front of Lin, he said, “You are a friend of Tom Cather?”
“Tom Cather is dead,” Lin explained. “A mustang crushed his head. His wife hired us to do the work Tom used to do.”
For the longest while the warrior did not speak. Lin began to worry that the Indians might not be as friendly as he had hoped.
Then the tall warrior said, “Tom Cather was my friend.”
“I never got to meet him,” Lin said.
The warrior gazed toward a knot of grazing cattle. “He gave my people meat.”
Lin had it then. Etta June’s husband made friends with the Indians by letting them have a cow now and then. “You are welcome to take one if you like. Any more than that, and I must ask Tom’s wife. She runs the ranch now.”
The warrior looked at him, and Lin would swear there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“You work for a woman?”
“Tom’s woman, yes.” The warrior said something over his shoulder, and many of the warriors grinned. “We will take one cow,” he said in English, and white fashion, he held out his hand.
Lin shook. Chancy started to speak, but Lin motioned for him to keep quiet. The warrior climbed back on the pinto and the band faded into the gathering darkness. Only then did it occur to Lin that he had not asked the warrior’s name or learned which tribe they were from.
Chancy was staring at him.
“All right. What?”
“You were awful free with Etta June’s cow.”
“She will understand,” Lin predicted. “Losing one is better than losing twenty. They could have snuck in and helped themselves to as many as they wanted.”
“You don’t think that Injun was lying about her husband giving them meat?”
“There was an honest man if ever I met one,” Lin said. “He was telling the truth.”
“Listen to yourself,” Chancy said. “He was a red, for God’s sake.”
“Are you sure you are my brother?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I do not have your high opinion of them. They should all be put on reservations. And those that won’t go should be exterminated.”
Lin sat and picked up his tin cup, saying, “What did they ever do to you? They are people, like us.”
Chancy snorted. “Where you get some of your notions, I will never know. I will allow that some of them are decent enough. But most hate us as much as we hate them.”
“Speak for yourself. I try not to hate anyone if I can help it.”
“You are too easygoing. You always have been. When Pa died you weren’t nearly as shook up as Ma and me.”
Lin disagreed. He had hurt deep inside, hurt so much that for weeks he barely ate or slept. But he did not make a spectacle of his grief. His father always said that a man should mend in private.
“If they show up again tomorrow and ask for another beef, what will you do?”
“Give them you.”
Chancy blinked, put his hands on his hips and roared with mirth. “I believe you would too, you sorry so-and-so. But I am too scrawny. There is not enough meat on me to feed a cat. They would like you better.”
On that lighthearted note, they settled in for the night. They did not bother riding herd. The cattle they had collected would not stray far, certainly not off the EJ Ranch.
Unable to sleep, Lin lay on his back staring up at the stars. He was glad the Indians had not caused trouble. Let other whites despise them on general principle. He judged each man on that man’s merit, no matter what the color of his skin happened to be.
Lin thought of Etta June. He liked thinking about her. About her face, and those eyes of hers. Others might say she was plain, but to him she was as pretty as a rose. Funny, how he rode into Mason on his way to who knew where, with no prospects to speak of, and now here he was, daring to entertain notions he had no earthly right entertaining.
Life was peculiar. Before his father died, Lin had his future all worked out. He’d reckoned on having a ranch of his own not far from his folks, and marrying and having kids for them to bounce on their knees and spoil. Then calamity struck. His mother could not manage on her own, so he stayed to help. But they were so deep in debt they could never get ahead.
The worst was the night his mother died. Another drunken stupor was to blame. Liquor kille
d her as surely as if she put a revolver to her head and squeezed the trigger. But then, she wanted to die. She missed their father so much, she refused to go on without him. It took her five years, but she succeeded in joining him in the hereafter. I miss you, Ma, was Lin’s last thought before he drifted off.
The low of a cow brought Lin back to the here and now. Sitting up, he stretched and yawned and looked around. His brother was buried under his blankets, which glistened with morning dew.
Lin reminded himself to ask Etta June whether she had any spare tarps.
A few prods with Lin’s boot roused Chancy.
Etta June had left them some buttermilk biscuits for breakfast. They washed the biscuits down with half a pot of coffee and were soon in the saddle commencing another day’s work.
Lin liked ranch work. Yes, it was hard. Yes, the hours were god-awful long. Yes, cattle were not always predictable and could be as stubborn as sin, but with a good horse under him and a rope in his hand, he was the master of any situation that might develop.
About nine that morning his ability was put to the test.
They were working the breaks to the north of the valley when they flushed a bull. So far all the bulls they’d come across were branded. Bulls were costly, and no rancher would let one loose on the range without a brand. This one planted its four legs and snorted, tossing its horns from side to side, as they warily circled, inspecting its hide.
“No brand that I can see,” Chancy said.
“Me, either.”
“Didn’t Etta June say all their bulls had been, so far as she knew?” Chancy mentioned. “Maybe it is not one of theirs. Could be it strayed here from another spread.”
“It has been frolicking with EJ cows. That makes it an EJ bull now,” Lin said.
Chancy laughed.
“What?”
“All a bull does is walk up behind a cow and ram it in. That is hardly what I would call a frolic.”
“To a bull it might be.”
“I have said it before and I will say it again. You come up with the darnedest notions.”
Lin began to shake out his rope. “We have to do it, Little Brother. Let’s drive him to the branding pen.”
“I would as soon wrestle a bear,” Chancy said. But he reined into position on the other side of the bull. “Ready when you are.”
Ralph Compton Ride the Hard Trail Page 8
