‘Once this business is over,’ Westoe said, ‘we’ll see about rebuildin’ that spread of yours.’
If Westoe had been more alert, he might have read something in Leonae’s words to the oldster, but his mind was occupied with getting to the Barbed S. Even so, he couldn’t mistake the anxious look in her eyes as he made to leave, nor his own feelings as he rode away.
‘I’ll be back,’ he had said, and he couldn’t have explained just what his own words signified.
He rode at a good pace, though mindful of the buckskin, and it didn’t seem to take so long till the Barbed S ranch house hove into view. As he rode into the yard he looked out for Lucas Bunch, but this time the youngster did not appear. He also kept a wary eye open for Rafe Stroup. He knew he was taking a chance, but Lucas had said he was often away from the ranch and Rafe would probably not recognize him even if he was there. He wasn’t sure of the best way to proceed, but the issue was taken out of his hands when the door opened and a middle-aged man appeared on the veranda.
‘I saw you ride up,’ he said. He looked Westoe up and down. ‘Don’t get too many visitors,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’d better state your business.’
‘I was hopin’ to speak to Mr Stroup,’ Westoe replied.
‘Which one? I’m Holden Stroup. I’m the owner of the Barbed S.’
‘Then it’s you I want to see.’ Stroup looked closely into Westoe’s face.
‘This isn’t anythin’ to do with my son Rafe?’ he said. Westoe hesitated, but only for a moment.
‘Nope,’ he replied. ‘It ain’t anythin’ much. I just rode out here to see if there might be a job goin’.’
Before Stroup could reply, a voice called out from inside. ‘Everythin’ OK, Mr Stroup?’
‘Sure, everything’s fine,’ Stroup replied. He turned back to Westoe.
‘Have you ever worked on a ranch before?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got plenty of experience.’
Stroup continued to look closely at Westoe. ‘Why the Barbed S?’ he said.
‘I’m told it’s one of the biggest spreads around. No other reason.’
Stroup thought for a moment. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I guess you’ve come to the right place. As a matter of fact, I could use an extra hand. It’ll be hard work, though.’
‘That suits me,’ Westoe replied. Stroup nodded.
‘Why don’t you mosey on over to the bunk-house,’ he said, ‘and have a word with my acting foreman, Jack Sumter. If he isn’t back yet, just wait. He’ll be along.’ He made to go inside and then turned back again.
‘You got a name?’ he said. ‘I reckon I might as well know it.’
For a moment Westoe thought of giving a false name, but then decided there was nothing to be gained by doing so.
‘Chet Westoe,’ he replied. ‘And thanks for the job.’
‘You might not be sayin’ that when you’ve been here for a day or two. Like I said, you’ll be earnin’ your keep. Sumter can fill you in with all the details, but be ready to start right away tomorrow.’
Westoe nodded in acknowledgement and then stepped from the veranda as the door to the ranch-house closed behind Stroup. His first impressions of the owner of the Barbed S were good. He would find out soon enough whether they were justified.
He soon found out that Stroup wasn’t exaggerating when he said the work would be hard. The first morning he was instructed to ride as far as the border of the range in order to locate some cattle which had drifted and throw them back onto the Barbed S range. As he rode he searched the landscape, familiarizing himself with its features, discovering, among other things, patches of loco weed from which cattle had to be driven and a cow mired in a bog hole which he roped and pulled back to dry ground. The section of range he had been sent to patrol seemed to be of poorer quality and he guessed this was why no effort had been made to fence it off.
The next day he rode down into the draws and coulees and rousted out some cattle which had strayed, working hard to prevent them circling and getting back in. It was a tough job; a couple of old bulls kept trying to lead the others back, but he rode them tight. The brush was quite dense in places and he had to be very careful to avoid thorns and branches from tearing at his face, using his arms, legs and shoulders to help shield him. It reminded him of the brasada he had worked one time back in Texas. After a time he had a group of more than a dozen cattle. He had been working hard all day and was considering whether to carry on any further when he saw a rider approaching. As the man got closer, he started to wave his hat and then Westoe recognized him. It was Lucas Bunch. The youngster rode up and almost jumped from the saddle.
‘Mr Westoe,’ he shouted. ‘I heard someone new had been taken on. I was kinda hopin’ it might be you.’
‘Howdy,’ Westoe said, holding out his hand. ‘It’s sure good to see you again.’
‘It’s been a few days now. I figured you must have changed your mind about gettin’ a job with the Barbed S.’
‘Let’s just say somethin’ happened to delay me.’
‘I’m headin’ back,’ Bunch said. ‘How about we ride in together?’ Westoe cast an eye on the cattle.
‘I’m just figurin’ what to do with these critters,’ he said. ‘If I leave ’em, they’ll probably head back into the brush.’
‘Let me give you a hand. We can drive ’em at least part way back to the ranch house.’
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ Westoe said.
It was an easy enough matter for the two of them, and as they rode Westoe took advantage of the opportunity to ask the youngster a few questions.
‘There should be more of ’em,’ he commented. ‘There’s plenty of sign, but too many of those draws are empty.’
‘Well, that wouldn’t be too surprisin’,’ Bunch replied. ‘From what the boys have been sayin’, it seems like quite a few of the cattle have been disappearin’.’
‘Cattle rustling?’ Westoe queried. ‘Has anybody got an idea who might be behind it?’
‘Not that I know. As far as I’m aware, Mr Stroup is on good relations with all his neighbours.’
‘Have any of them been losin’ stock?’
‘I think so, but you’d best have a word with Mr Sumter or Mr Barnet when he gets back.’
‘Where is Barnet? It’s kind of unusual for the foreman to be away, isn’t it?’ The youngster shrugged and they rode on in silence till Westoe attempted another approach.
‘I think you said Mr Stroup had two sons. Did neither of them show any interest in the runnin’ of the ranch?’
‘Nope. And now Eben’s dead. We never did see too much of Rafe. In fact, we ain’t seen him since the day you met him.’
‘Only briefly.’
‘Yeah, but even so I reckon you could see what sort he is. As for me, I was warned to give him a wide berth and that’s just exactly the way I’ve been playin’ it.’
‘Where does Rafe get to when he’s away?’ Again the youngster shrugged.
‘I don’t know and I don’t care. As far as I’m concerned, the more he ain’t here, the better it is for everyone.’
They rode slowly, occasionally spurring forward to haze in any of the cattle that seemed inclined to wander. Suddenly Westoe had an inspiration.
‘Does the name Sean Bowman mean anythin’ to you? His mother runs a trading post not too far from here. Maybe you know it.’
‘Sure I know it. And I knew Sean Bowman. Not personally, you understand. Only because he used to hang out with Rafe from time to time. In fact, they were real friendly for a while. Then he vanished from sight and I only heard later that he’d been killed.’
‘Killed? Why, what happened.’
‘You sure seem to be interested in all this,’ Bunch replied. ‘Sorry, I can’t really help. There was a rumour he’d got into some sort of fight. I didn’t really pay it a lot of attention. It’s only because you ask that I remember anythin’ about it now.’
‘Sorry. None of it’s any of my business either. I gu
ess we’re just shootin’ the breeze.’
All the while Westoe had been observing the terrain, matching it against his first impressions, and he realized they were getting quite close to the ranch.
‘What do you reckon?’ he aid to the youngster. ‘Do you think we’ve brought these critters far enough?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Then I figure we can leave ’em right here till it’s time for the roundup.’
They rode the rest of the way in silence and the sun was touching the horizon when they pulled up outside the stables.
‘I’m sure lookin’ forward to some grub,’ the youngster said.
‘Yeah. Ridin’ the range makes you feel kinda hungry. Best see to these horses first,’ Westoe replied. Bunch walked over and ran his hands along the buckskin’s flanks.
‘I started off as wrangler so I know a good horse when I see one,’ he said. ‘That sure is a fine animal.’
‘Yeah, though she’s more of a range horse than a cow horse.’
‘Once we start up the trail, you can pick your own string.’
Westoe didn’t reply. He had got himself a job with the Barbed S for purely pragmatic reasons – to find out something more about the set-up. Despite the hard nature of the work, he found he had enjoyed it. He had also begun to feel an unexpected sense of obligation. Leaving everything else that had happened out of account, did he still owe Stroup something? He wasn’t sure whether there was much else to be learned. Bearing in mind that Barnet might arrive at any time, did it make any sense to remain much longer? He had almost decided the time had come to make himself scarce, but now he wasn’t so sure. If Barnet turned up, would he recognize him? He had only a vague impression of the man, gained from observing his pursuers through his field-glasses. Presumably Barnet’s image of him, assuming he had one, had been gained the same way. It wasn’t his style to cut and run. Maybe he should stick around after all, at least for a time, and see how things worked out.
In the days following his encounter with Bunch, Westoe saw little of the youngster. He worked hard at the tasks he had been assigned, setting off early and returning late. The evenings passed without incident. He got on with the rest of the men he met and joined them a time or two in a game of cards. They confirmed the impression Stroup and Sumter had made; that they were a decent bunch and the Barbed S a well-run outfit. But then, there was Rafe Stroup – he didn’t seem to fit into the picture.
The morning of the third day passed and towards noon he was about to have a break when he stopped in his tracks. The buckskin’s ears were lifted and it was clear something was disturbing her. He looked around. The range was empty and still except for the droning of flies, but it seemed to him there was something ominous in the atmosphere. He untied his bandana and mopped his face. The air hung heavy, as if a storm was brewing, but the sky was blue and cloudless.
‘What is it, old girl?’ he said to the horse.
It edged sideways and stamped its hoof. Through the dancing, shimmering haze Westoe’s eyes scanned the horizon. He licked his lips and unconsciously bent forwards, listening intently, and presently his ears picked up a low rumbling sound. It grew louder, like the gathering thrum of a railroad train or the reverberation of thunder. For a few moments he was confused and then he realized what it was: the drumming of horses’ hoofs. He peered even harder into the distance and caught sight of a dark cloud which seemed to hover on the horizon, but it wasn’t a cloud; it was the dust raised by a mass of galloping horsemen and it was heading towards the Barbed S. He had no idea what it all portended, but he knew it couldn’t be anything good.
In an instant he was in the saddle and headed in the same direction, but coming at the ranch house from a different angle. As he rode, he kept looking in the direction of the as yet unseen horsemen, and soon had his first glimpse of them. It was hard to tell how many there were, but there were plenty. They had split into two groups of more or less equal sizes, accompanied by others who had fallen back and become strung out behind. Who were they? They still had some way to go before they reached the ranch house, but as they converged they caught sight of him and a few shots began to ring out. He spurred his horse harder and was rapidly gaining on them. His intention was to reach the ranch house ahead of them, not to give warning because he realized the advancing horde must have been seen, but to play his part in the defence of the Barbed S. He was ahead of the pack and for the first time became concerned about what sort of reception he might receive. If they didn’t recognize him, he was likely to be met by a hail of bullets. There was no time for consideration. He would just have to take his chances.
Some shots were still being fired in his direction, but he was too far away. They carried no real threat and soon he was even further ahead and out of range. The buckskin hurtled on, foam flying from its nostrils, but the distance to the ranch house seemed to have grown since he had set off earlier that day. A dip in the land put him out of sight of the attacking horde, although he could still hear the drum of their horses’ hoofs. How many men could Holden Stroup muster? He wasn’t sure about the numbers, but it was certain that a good number of them would be out working on various parts of the range. How many would volunteer to come back and put up a fight? There was no way of knowing and he settled himself to carry on riding as hard as he dared, trusting that the buckskin wouldn’t put its hoof in a gopher hole and send him flying.
After what seemed an age the ranch house appeared ahead of him. It had a curious look as though it was deserted, and he guessed that Stroup had already placed his men ready for battle. He could only hope and pray that he would be recognized. The buckskin tore into the yard and before it had stopped he had already drawn his rifle from its scabbard and launched himself from the saddle. He smacked the horse hard on its rump and it carried on in the direction of the corral. He turned to the veranda, shouting ‘It’s me, Westoe.’ In response the ranch house door swung open and he dashed inside. His eyes quickly took in the scene. A man had been placed at each window, among whom he recognized Sumter as well as Stroup himself.
‘You were damned lucky you weren’t shot,’ Stroup snapped.
‘Never mind that. Where do you want me?’
‘We’re short of men upstairs. Take one of the front rooms.’
‘One of the men rode in with the news that a bunch of riders were headed this way, but he only saw them from a distance. Did you get a chance to see who they are?’ Sumter said.
‘Nope, but they’re sure lookin’ for trouble.’
As the sound of the approaching riders began to swell, he ran for the stairs. It was the first time he had been in the ranch house since his initial conversation with Stroup, but there was no time for observation as the first crack of rifle fire boomed from outside. At the top of the landing there was an open door and he ran through. The room seemed to be some sort of study with books on shelves and a long window overlooking the yard. He peered out as the riders came into view, firing as they came.
There was a response from inside the ranch house and then the yard erupted into a thunder of noise. The attackers were firing rapidly, but it was a random volley. Smoke began to billow through the yard, and through it Westoe could now see them still coming forward, but reining in their horses, apparently surprised by the response. Some of them began to turn back and Westoe took advantage of the confusion, firing into the melee of horses and riders. For a few minutes Holden Stroup’s men held an advantage, but the situation was soon resolved as the attackers drew back and began to spread out and take cover. Bullets now slapped into the walls of the ranch house and Westoe pulled back his head as lead ripped into the window shutter, showering him with sharp splinters of wood. He pumped bullets into his rifle and levered off another round. He couldn’t see exactly what was happening because of the smoke, but several bodies were lying on the ground. After a rapid exchange of shots the firing became more sporadic.
‘Everybody OK?’ a voice yelled. There was an answering chorus in the affirmative.<
br />
He took another look out the window. Apart from the dead and dying in the yard, he could see no sign of anybody. A stray horse crossed his line of vision and wandered away. He strained his eyes to see if he could discern any markings, but it was too far away and quickly gone. Its presence gave him an idea and he moved quickly to the landing, looking about for a way up to the roof. There was a skylight and he quickly fetched a chair in order to reach up to it. With some effort, he succeeded in forcing it open and then poked his head above the tiles. He was at the back of the building and he was protected from the view of anyone at the front by a chimney. He climbed out and lay flat, surveying the scene. The first thing he saw was that some of the attackers were making their way under cover of the outbuildings to the rear of the ranch house, obviously aiming to surround it. They weren’t being exceptionally careful and he was strongly tempted to take a shot with his Army Colt, but he resisted the temptation. Then he saw something which really made him start. Away to the right and out of range, a man appeared directing some of his companions. He was some distance away, but Westoe thought he recognized Rafe Stroup. He had only run across Rafe once, the first time he had visited the Barbed S and met Bunch, but he felt certain it was him. It wasn’t just what he could discern of the man’s features. The clothes he wore were the same and there was a certain angularity to his figure. If it was Rafe Stroup, then the mystery of who was attacking the Barbed S only deepened. Why would Rafe lay siege to his own father’s ranch? It didn’t make sense. Nonetheless, he was sure it was Rafe. As he peered closely, the man disappeared again. Westoe had seen enough. He began to slither back towards the skylight in the same moment that a rifle cracked and a bullet went singing over his head from someone who must have caught sight of him. Supporting himself on his arms, he dropped to the floor of the landing before making his way to the stairwell.
‘They’re circling us,’ he rapped.
‘Hell, that doesn’t sound too good,’ Stroup replied
He was just about to tell him what he else he had seen from the rooftop when there came a rattle of gunfire from outside.
Desolation Wells Page 7
