A Good Day To Kill

by Dusty Richards

  “Who are you?”

  “Chet Byrnes.”

  “You can’t do this in Mexico.”

  “I might have been told I couldn’t, but I am.”

  No shot so far. He’d listened close. The others had their prisoners cuffed and on the ground outside the buildings.

  “Did we get them?” he called out.

  “Hell, yes,” Roamer said.

  “Bunch these prisoners up and go find the evidence we need. Shawn, you guard them.”

  When Chet went into the big man’s house, the dark-eyed women backed away. He looked at the three saddles, no doubt stolen, but Roamer had the list. There on the table was an old pistol. He turned the six-gun to the light. DECKER COLEMAN was engraved in the barrel. He made sure the caps were off the nipples, then jammed it in his waist. That would send Manuel Robles to prison.

  He found a large pot on a shelf and looked around. No one was in the room. He took it down and put it on the table. The jug was full of U.S. paper money, and underneath that were some gold rings. Taken from victims, no doubt. Two of the rings had diamonds. He pocketed them carefully and folded up the paper money. Lots of money. He’d count it later.

  When he got to the door, Roamer was coming in.

  “Three saddles in here. Shawn, you and Ortega better start saddling us horses.”

  “We’re on our way.” Both of them were smiling over their surprise attack and how well it worked. Chet felt the same.

  “Those three saddles in there were stolen. I have them on my list.”

  “Good. We’re doing great. Let’s get them to jail.”

  “What will we do?” a woman asked in Spanish. “We have no money. No horses.”

  “I have ten dollars, and I’ve seen several burros around here. You better use them. These men will be in prison for several years.”

  Ortega translated his words for the ones who didn’t understand English. The older woman took his money and told the other to go catch the burros.

  They piled the saddles on some of the stolen horses. In a short while, the grumbling head outlaw was handcuffed to the saddle and on a lead line. Ortega led the chain of horses bearing the prisoners, and they wasted no time getting out of the hills. Chet took them wide of the mining village, so as to avoid any possible confrontations.

  Five hours later they crossed San Pedro River Bridge at the stamping mill, and forty-five minutes later they were at the Cochise County Courthouse. Shawn went inside to find the jailer. The mounted prisoners were fast drawing a crowd as Roamer unchained them one at a time and made them get on their knees so he could re-cuff them behind their backs.

  The chief jailer came out, a tall man named Yates, and Chet called him over. “That big guy, Manuel Robles, is the leader. He escaped a federal prison in Mexico. I want him chained to his bunk in the cell until the marshals come for him. He broke federal laws by taking stolen goods out of the U.S. They’ll be tried in federal court. We have several horses and saddles stolen in this area. We need them as evidence. Some wedding rings, as well. After the trial, they can be claimed at Marshal Blevins’s office in Tucson.”

  Yates told his deputies to take them inside. “Chain the big bastard to his bed. They’re federal prisoners.”

  “I want all this evidence—horses, saddles, and the rest—guarded. We’re going down to Nellie Cashman’s and celebrate. Wash up at that pump over there, guys. We’ll have a great meal, then come back and round up all this, then put the horses up, sleep here, and ride back to camp tomorrow.”

  “Boy, I could eat a lot,” Ortega said.

  “They serve a lot of food,” Chet promised them.

  Washed up, they strolled downtown. A deputy city marshal who Chet didn’t know blocked their path on the boardwalk.

  “Check those firearms in this saloon,” he said in a belligerent voice, and pointed at the batwing doors to Big Nose Kate’s Saloon.

  “We’re United States Marshals. Stand aside.”

  “I don’t see any badges.”

  Chet lifted his out of his shirt pocket. “Marshal White knows who we are. Now, get out of the way.”

  “Next time, wear it where I can see it.”

  “Next time, know who we are.” Chet went right past him, planning to talk to Marshal White about his man.

  At supper, he wrote a telegram to send to Blevins.

  MARSHAL BLEVINS

  MY FORCE ARRESTED MANUEL ROBLES AND THREE OF HIS RAIDERS ON THE BORDER. THEY ARE IN THE COCHISE COUNTY JAIL. THERE IS ENOUGH EVIDENCE TO PUT THEM IN PRISON. SINCE THEY CAME ACROSS THE BORDER TO COMMIT THESE CRIMES, I THINK THEY ARE A FEDERAL CASE. CHET BYRNES

  The large meal didn’t disappoint anyone on his crew. Full of great food, he and his weary men walked the three blocks back to the courthouse to secure their animals and gear. Then they walked two more blocks back to the O.K. Corral and Livery. Horses watered and fed, they dropped in the hay and slept. Early morning, before the sun came up, they walked down to a small café and ate a hearty breakfast. Then later, with the sun peeping over the Chiricuhuas, they saddled up and rode for their camp at Tubac.

  Chet was on the roan horse in the lead. From time to time, he looked back at his Force. Things were going much better on the border. Time to go over to Rancho Diablo and check out progress. He planned to take Ortega and look at what they had done so far.

  Lots of issues in that place needed to be figured out. In the end, it needed to produce marketable beef—three-year-old steers fat enough to eat. Then he’d need to find a market for them.

  After dark, they were back at camp, horses unsaddled. Evidence was placed in the big tent. Ortega, arm in arm with Maria, went off to their casa. She left them a pot of hot beans on the stove for supper. Everyone was worn down, so they each ate a bowl and turned in.

  Maria had breakfast ready before daylight. Shawn had saddled Chet a horse and Ortega brought one of his own with him. Roamer and Shawn were going to hold down the fort, and Shawn wanted to check the horses’ shoes. Roamer was cleaning rifles and pistols.

  Chet and Ortega rode out in the first sunlight to cross the desert and mountains and head for the ranch headquarters. Once over the steep trail and range of hills, they headed across the desert and by noon were at the ranch headquarters. The adobe hovels and sun-blackened rails in the sprawling corrals were not a bright sight for him. Nice headquarters didn’t make money, but they did boost the morale of the workers, vaqueros, and even the wives. If nothing else, they needed some palm trees, like the abandoned women’s camp and missions had in the area. The Spanish brought them up there centuries ago in their saddlebags and they marked many sites in southern Arizona.

  He dismounted and drew dark-eyed stares from several wives who came outside to see who had arrived. Twisted in the saddle, he said to Ortega, “Tell the women to come talk.”

  “Hey,” Ortega waved and, in Spanish, told them the patron was there and for them to come talk to him.

  They looked at each other with frowns. Then, one woman waved for the rest to follow her, and they moved to join him at the corral. Many small children hung on their skirt tails and sucked on thumbs. Chet squatted on his boot heels, nodding and smiling at them.

  “You translate. My Spanish is too poor.”

  “No problem. I didn’t think they would come at first.”

  “They need to know us. Tell them I am the boss of all the ranches and I welcome them to our family.”

  Ortega told them that, plus more that Chet savvied.

  The women still looked stern, with their arms folded.

  “Ask them what they need.”

  After Ortega’s question, the older woman spoke seriously and scrambled to her feet to show him two small children that were no doubt half-white.

  “She says they need a foreman that does not take advantage of the workers’ wives.”

  “Damn, that is serious. Tell them my men will not do that.”

  After Ortega’s speech, they nodded.

  “What else?”
/>   Ortega asked and a few quietly asked for things and others agreed.

  “They need cloth for clothes. They want some meat—not all frijoles. They want a garden where they can water and grow their own food.”

  Chet held up his finger. “Next trip we make, I’ll buy several bolts of material, scissors, needles, thread, and buttons, and bring them back on the next shipment from Tucson.”

  Once translated, smiles crossed the near dozen brown faces and they gave nods of approval.

  “Tell them we will get them more beef and hogs.”

  Ortega told them, and that pleased them more.

  “Tell them when we get a windmill, if we have the water underground, they will get a big garden.”

  A young woman said something to his man in Spanish. Chet knew she had mentioned agua.

  He turned back to Chet and smiled.

  “They said they could water a small patch by hand. But they need seed.”

  “You will get the seed, too.” They knew what he said and clapped their hands.

  The older woman, whose name was Angel, told him she would feed him and Ortega lunch. The others agreed and they took him to the row of hovels and sat him and Ortega on a blanket under a canvas shade that flapped in the hot afternoon wind.

  Chet turned to Ortega. “I think when we get through, they’ll like living on the ranch.”

  “Oh, yes. Were those children Masters’s, do you think?”

  “Probably. I think if those women had not been forced, she’d never have mentioned it.”

  Ortega agreed. “It was a serious thing with them.”

  “About as serious as Masters hiring killers to come to my house to kill me.”

  “You still think Masters was the one did that?”

  “Yes, Raphael and his men found that out before they hung them. In time, we’ll know the truth. Meanwhile, we’ll need a couple windmills down here to start with.”

  Ortega smiled. “I thought the same thing.”

  “What do you think now?” Chet asked.

  “You will win these women. The men will, of course, like that.”

  “That wasn’t much they asked for.”

  “No. Can you find JD some more tough desert cows in Mexico? The cattle we have on the Verde wouldn’t survive down here. But the native cattle in Mexico would think they went to heaven.”

  “Oh, si. I can find them. How many?”

  “When we get the water issue settled and figure out what we have, we’ll decide. I’m anxious to hear JD’s findings.”

  Waiting for the meal, Ortega hugged his knees and shook his head, smiling. “I can see a great ranch here.”

  “Me, too. What do you see?” Chet asked him.

  “A hacienda. Is that enough?”

  Chet nodded. That was what he saw.

  His thoughts turned toward home. Marge, I haven’t forgotten you and Adam. If things remain quiet enough down here, I’ll be home to hold both of you.

  CHAPTER 12

  Late afternoon, JD and the crew rode in. Weary and dust-floured, JD had a grim smile on his face when they shook hands.

  “How’s the rancher?” Chet asked.

  “Alright. How are you?”

  “Fine. The raider, Robles, and his gang are in jail and will be transported to Tucson.”

  “Good. We have a rough count of about a hundred seventy-five mother cows. About fifty big steers. Close to a hundred one-year-olds and that many two-year-old steers. There are fifty some heifers that should calf next year and move us over two hundred head. It could vary a few head, but we have put in some hard days.”

  “Sounds good to me. What about water sources?”

  “We need to build some tanks. There are a few springs that need tanks to hold that water. Some natural water, but lots to develop. We’re feeding and watering too damn many wild horses. I saw some good ones, but there’s a lot of bangtails that aren’t worth their eating a blade of grass.”

  “That’s a problem with having lots of land.”

  “We can clean them up.”

  “Part of management of a ranch.”

  “What have you seen that needs done?” JD asked him.

  “I guess you need to plant palm trees.”

  “I probably do.” JD laughed.

  They discussed his conversation with the women. JD agreed that everything Chet promised them could be accomplished easily. “What about the windmills?”

  “They’ll take time to arrange, unless we can find a supplier in Tucson and he don’t cost us an arm and a leg.”

  “I’m not giving one of mine,” JD said.

  Chet chuckled. “That saying comes from artists that painted portraits. A simple painting of you cost so much, but if you added an arm or a leg to the picture, they charged lots more.”

  “I heard that before and thought it meant amputate them.”

  Chet shook his head and accepted a plate of food from Angel.

  JD told her in Spanish she was going to spoil Chet bringing him food.

  “No, no spoil him.” She looked at JD hard. “He will spoil us.”

  Chet waved thanks to her.

  “What does this place need to run? I mean, how many cows?” asked JD.

  “Five hundred mother cows. Maybe grow out the steers off the ranch.”

  JD shook his head as if perplexed. “I am already going to need horse hay to keep them there.”

  “See what you can line up at Tucson. Jesus has relatives that could help you.”

  “The supplier Jesus chose are real good people. It’s a family-run store, but they are sure helpful. The Valdez family, they brought his first order today, and will be back tomorrow with the rest. Oh, thanks for talking to the wives. I never thought of it. All we had left was frijoles. I guess they never had much to eat.”

  “Fill them up. You can get more treats and things so they have full bellies. An army fights better like that, they say. Ortega says he sees a hacienda here.”

  “I do, too. But, damn, it is hot and dusty right now.”

  Chet shook his head.

  The next day, while checking on future water developments, a rainstorm swept through the ranch. In their slickers, their horses splashing mud, they headed back for the base camp. Chet, riding beside JD, leaned over. “How do you like mud?”

  He shook his head. “I guess you can’t please me no way.”

  “No, in time you’ll learn the things you can control and the things you must stand for.”

  “I promise I’ll try to do that.” Smiling and laughing, JD pulled his horse down to a walk. “I guess I learned a real boss don’t complain about those things. That his job is to keep the spirits of his men up and not weigh them down with his pity complaints.”

  Chet looked over at his nephew. “That’s the way it works.”

  Two days later, Chet rode into Tucson with Jesus to find a windmill merchant or a mechanic who could build them some. They got there late at night and slept in the livery hay. Next morning, before the sun’s rays reached the adobe-walled city, they went to a hole-in-the-wall café. When they returned to the livery, they saddled their horses and rode up near Fort Lowell to see a man who they’d been told made windmills.

  The name of the man was August Randall. They found him under some cottonwood trees in a shop full of smoke from his blacksmithing. The man’s face, blackened by his efforts, looked up and frowned at them.

  “What do you need?”

  “Two windmill pumps to start.”

  He pulled off his thick gloves and shook Chet’s hand.

  “I’m Chet, and this is my man, Jesus.”

  “Nice to meet you.” He made a face about the smoke. “The wind is wrong today. Let’s go outside and talk.”

  “Sure.”

  Outside, Randall stretched his broad shoulders. “It ain’t usually that smoky in there. Where do you need the windmills?”

  “I have a new ranch southwest of here. It’s big and we’ll need at least two to start, plus a water system at
our base camp.”

  “Let me show you something.”

  “Sure.” Chet and Jesus followed him to another swayed-roof shed made of weathered lumber taken from various former buildings. The door dug on the ground when he pulled it back.

  “It needs a new hinge. I should get a real blacksmith to make me one.”

  They laughed.

  Chet saw some new lumber boxes and several sections of pipe.

  Randall bent over and raised the crate lid. “This is a very well-made windmill. I have two of them. But they cost more than most people want to pay for one. I have been sitting on them. I paid half the cost of them and promised to pay the rest in six months. I thought I could sell them by now. If you take them both, I can set them up with pipe and all for four hundred dollars.”

  “Overhead water tanks for storage?”

  “If you will build the base, I have two used tanks I can let you have for fifty dollars and I’ll install them.”

  Chet looked over at Jesus. “When can we get one built and how long will it take?”

  His man nodded. “I can get some adobe men down there in a few days.”

  “You go find them today. I’ll meet you at the stables this afternoon.”

  “No. Meet me at my relatives’ farm tonight.”

  “I’ll be there,” Chet agreed. “Randall and I will work out this gold-plated deal.”

  Jesus gave them a wave and left.

  “He’s a damn good man.” Chet turned back to the blacksmith. “Now, a well driller?”

  Randall wet his lips. “There is a man named Crazy Ed. He can pound holes. He’s eccentric, but a good driller. I doubt any other drillers would go that far, but you could ask them.”

  “This Ed is crazy?”

  “Aw, he won’t eat you, if he killed you.”

  “Alright, where is he?”

  “Probably drunk.”

  “I need a well driller, not a drunken crazy nut.”

  “He will drill you wells.”

  “How do we get him down there?”