Rawhide Justice

by Ralph Hayes

  The noise was deafening. Dust rose into the air, restricting visibility. The herd stampeded in several directions as the shooting continued. A hunter on the edge of it all was knocked off his mount but was then rescued by another rider before he could be injured. Then the herd was disappearing into a rocky area beyond the hunters’ reach.

  Silence settled over them. O’Brien raised the Winchester’s muzzle to the sky, and reined in. His kills lay all around the valley floor, almost two dozen in all, and almost twice as many as most of the others. Between 200 and 300 buffalo lay dead in high grass, except for a few that had to be dispatched with a shot to the head. Cahill rode over to O’Brien.

  ‘Nice shooting, partner. I saw you working them.’

  ‘I learned with the Lakota,’ O’Brien said. ‘They have to do it with arrows.’

  Now Walcott rode past, just as McComb appeared near by.

  ‘Great shooting, young man. You really earned your pay this day.’

  McComb heard it, and grunted in his throat. O’Brien dismounted beside his latest kill.

  ‘It’s like shooting fish in a barrel, ain’t it?’ He spoke without looking at Walcott.

  Now everybody was on their feet, moving among the big, black humps on the ground, looking the hides over. Each man was supposed to skin and load the hides of the animals he himself had shot, but it rarely worked out like that. O’Brien stood over his biggest kill. He went and got a stake from his saddlebag and took a mallet from an equipment man who came past. Cahill walked over and helped O’Brien get the animal on to his belly, then O’Brien did the same for Cahill’s first animal. O’Brien then returned to his animal and pegged the buffalo’s snout to the ground with the iron stake. His next job was to make cuts behind the head and around where the legs joined the body. But suddenly McComb was standing beside him.

  ‘Hold on there, O’Brien,’ McComb said pleasantly. ‘The boss wants me to give some instruction in stripping to newcomers. I’ll do the first one for you.’

  O’Brien gave him a quizzical look. ‘The Lakota have a way of doing it pretty much like I see here,’ he responded. ‘I can handle it.’

  ‘No, no,’ McComb persisted, straddling O’Brien’s buffalo. ‘I don’t want Walcott to think I’m shirking my duty.’ He gave a hard grin.

  In the next moment he was using a big Bowie skinning knife on the buffalo at the appropriate places. O’Brien was partly behind him, unable to see exactly how McComb was doing it, and that was the way McComb wanted it. He was just going through the motions of making deep cuts that would eventually separate the skin from the body of the buffalo. In a short time he stepped away from the animal.

  ‘There. I got it done for you. Did you watch what I was doing there?’

  O’Brien grunted. ‘Much as I could.’

  ‘Well, if you have any trouble with it, just come to me. Now I’ll go skin a couple of my own kills.’

  He walked away. O’Brien shook his head. He brought the appaloosa over, tied a rope to a ring on the nose stake and the other to his saddlehorn and mounted the horse. Men all over the valley were doing the same. Now all he had to do was guide the horse past the animal’s tail and then keep it walking away from it until the skin neatly ripped off the buffalo from neck to tail.

  But as the appaloosa pulled on the rope, the hide did not separate. Now the whole bulk of the corpse was straining against the pull, and in the next moment the thick stake pulled loose from the ground, as the buffalo was rising off the grass. The horse had been pulling against the full weight of the animal, and had stalled in its tracks. Now it bucked for a moment as the corpse fell back to the ground on its side. The rope now hanging loose with the stake at its end, the horse was unfettered and O’Brien had to rein it in.

  O’Brien turned the appaloosa and went back to the buffalo, the rope trailing behind him. The buffalo was all twisted around on the ground. He frowned heavily, dismounted and knelt to examine the buffalo. There were ragged edges where McComb was supposed to have cut neatly through the skin.

  ‘Sonofabitch,’ O’Brien muttered.

  A couple of other hunters, situated near by, had turned to laugh at the mess O’Brien’s animal was in. In the next moment Walcott rode up to O’Brien.

  ‘What’s the matter, O’Brien? Never skinned a shaggy before?’ He smiled genially. O’Brien looked up at him somberly.

  ‘I get it,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘We all have to learn the hard way,’ Walcott told him. ‘Just don’t mind if the boys rib you about it. They don’t know no better. You need any help now? I can get McComb over here.’

  ‘I think I’ve got it now,’ O’Brien replied.

  Walcott nodded and rode on. A moment later Uriah Cahill walked over as O’Brien was taking the stake rope over to the inert animal again.

  ‘I saw the whole damn thing,’ Cahill said when he arrived. ‘That ornery bastard did that on purpose. To make it look bad.’

  O’Brien looked across the high grass to where McComb was working on a buffalo, and saw the man grinning at him. Navarro, near by, was having a good laugh, and telling the man next to him about it. Cahill looked, too.

  ‘See that? What did I tell you?’

  ‘I see it,’ O’Brien said.

  ‘Well, did you tell Walcott?’

  ‘It ain’t Walcott’s business. This is between McComb and me. It always has been from the minute we set eyes on each other.’

  ‘Well,’ Cahill said doubtfully.

  ‘Here. Help me get this animal ready to skin,’ O’Brien said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There were a few more comments about the incident, at the hunt site and later in the barracks at Whiskey Creek. Other hunters would make joking comments, but all in good humour. Neither McComb nor O’Brien ever spoke of it. But McComb would often give O’Brien a crooked grin when he passed him.

  The hunt they had just come off reaped big rewards for Walcott. Many of the hides were so-called robe quality, the very best hides that Plains Indians used for robes, boots and blankets. On the eastern market they would make Walcott a lot of money.

  For days after the hunt hide-men were very busy scraping, tanning and currying the hides brought in on one of the big wagons. Most of the hunters, including O’Brien, were put to work stacking, sorting and recording hides already in the process that would make them ready for market. McComb was not required to participate in this work, but he came through the building regularly because he was technically their supervisor.

  Two days after their return from the big hunt O’Brien and Cahill were working on stacking and counting hides in the warehouse building, when McComb came through. His friend the Mexican was working at a table of stacked hides not far from O’Brien and Cahill.

  The stack of hides that O’Brien was counting was very high, and a bit unstable. McComb walked over to it, and spoke to O’Brien.

  ‘What have they got you doing this for, greenhorn? You can’t count to twenty without taking your boots off, can you?’

  Near by, Navarro and another hunter laughed at the remark. Cahill, at the next table, scowled toward McComb. O’Brien gave him an acid look.

  ‘I’ll manage all right.’

  ‘You got this stack too high,’ McComb went on. ‘You don’t want them on the floor. Walcott will begin wondering whether you’re right for the job, after what happened on the hunt.’

  ‘Ain’t you got something to do?’ O’Brien said, not looking at him.

  ‘Maybe I’ll just take a few of these hides off the top of the stack,’ McComb said. Making sure O’Brien was standing close to the stack on the other side, he reached up and shoved the whole top part of the stack over toward O’Brien.

  But O’Brien was looking at the stack at that moment, and saw them coming. He quickly stepped to one side as the heavy pile of hides brushed past him and hit the floor heavily beside him. He hurled a burning look at McComb.

  ‘You bastard,’ he growled.

  ‘I was just trying to help,�
� McComb said, straight-faced. ‘I told you they was stacked too high. It ain’t my fault.’

  O’Brien moved around the table and came up very close to McComb. ‘You keep at this, we’re going to get into it, McComb.’

  McComb unconsciously took a quick breath in. A moment later he hated himself for reacting. He got himself under control.

  ‘Ain’t you stretching the blanket some, rawhide? You’re just a raw recruit talking to a foreman, remember? I can have your butt scraping hides if you ain’t careful.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ O’Brien said in alow voice. ‘I’d clerk in a general store before I’d scrape hides here.’

  McComb grunted, ‘Well, for now, get them hides picked up before Walcott sees them on the floor.’

  ‘You pick them up,’ O’Brien said evenly. ‘You put them there.’

  McCombs face colored. ‘By God, I won’t tell you again. Get them damn hides cleaned up!’

  Cahill quickly stepped over to the table, near O’Brien, and lifted a hide up.

  ‘I’m getting them, boss. I’m the one piled them that high, anyway. I’ll load them onto my table. This boy can get on to more important work.’

  McComb just stood there absorbing that for a moment. Cahill was a favourite with Walcott, and would listen to his view of things. Also, this allowed McComb a saving face without a showdown.

  ‘Hey, if you want to do his work, go at it.’ He gave O’Brien a last hard look. ‘You’re as good as gone, mister.’ Then he turned and left the building.

  That evening, after mess O’Brien and Cahill were in the bunkhouse sitting across a narrow aisle from each other. O’Brien had just finished oiling his rifle.

  ‘If you want to do this for a while,’ Cahill said to him, ‘you’re going to have to keep away for McComb. He likes to push his weight around. And you’re his favourite target right now. He’ll weary of it pretty soon.’

  ‘It might not be soon enough,’ O’Brien said. He laid the Winchester aside, and stood up. ‘I’m heading into town, Cahill. I’m getting a special scabbard made for my knife.’

  ‘If you want to wait till I get a patch sewed on my shirt, I’ll ride along.’

  ‘No, I’ll go it alone tonight. I’ll see you back here in an hour or so.’

  ‘I thought you had a knife sheath,’ Cahill said.

  ‘I’m having this one sewed onto my right stovepipe,’ O’Brien said, referring to his boot. ‘It might be handier for skinning.’

  Cahill nodded. ‘Never thought of that. Well, see you soon, partner.’

  O’Brien saddled the appaloosa and rode into town a short time later. He was hoping a cobbler’s shop was still open, even though it was dusk already. As he passed Elias Walcott’s house, though, he heard Walcott calling his name.

  ‘O’Brien. You have a minute?’

  O’Brien reluctantly reined in. ‘Sure, boss.’

  He wrapped his reins over the hitching post out front and went up onto the wide porch, where Walcott stood smoking a pipe.

  ‘Heading down to the Conestoga?’ Walcott smiled at him.

  ‘No, sir. Just getting some leather work done.’

  Walcott lowered his voice. ‘I know what happened the other day. With the skinning.’

  O’Brien just stood there.

  ‘Don’t pay no mind to McComb. He gets out of line once in a while. But he’s a good foreman.’

  ‘A good foreman works with his men,’ O’Brien said.

  Walcott studied his strong face. ‘I like you, boy. Try to find a way to fit in.’

  Before O’Brien could reply a screen door opened and Molly Walcott came out onto the porch. Her face changed when she saw O’Brien. She looked him over carefully.

  ‘Well. You’re the one I saw ride past the other day. What’s your name?’ She spoke in a sexy, flirting manner.

  ‘This here is O’Brien, Molly,’ Walcott told her, smiling. ‘Our new rifleman. He got us a pile of hides on that last hunt.’

  Blonde Molly looked good in a tight gingham dress and with a bow in her hair.

  ‘So you’re a pretty good shot?’ she purred at him.

  O’Brien was getting uncomfortable. The only girls he had seen act this way were in saloons.

  ‘Pretty good,’ he finally said.

  ‘That’s a gross understatement.’ Walcott grinned. ‘I reckon he might be our very best rifleman.’

  ‘Well I declare!’ Molly said with a coy look. ‘I thought you looked special when I first spotted you on that gray horse.’

  Walcott looked over at his daughter and cleared his throat.

  ‘Well, I’m going in to refill my pipe. Why don’t you two go ahead and have palaver some?’

  He left too abruptly for O’Brien to object and suddenly he was on the porch alone with Molly.

  ‘Can you stay a minute or two?’ she suggested.

  O’Brien studied her pretty, sculpted face. He didn’t recall meeting any female quite as attractive. And she was practiced at getting a man interested.

  ‘I have to get to the cobbler before he closes,’ he told her.

  ‘Oh, he’s open all evening,’ Molly said. ‘Why don’t you set with me a minute. I’m not dangerous.’ Another sexy smile.

  O’Brien hesitated, and then he sighed inside. ‘All right.’

  They sat on the porch swing, and Molly sat down close to him. He could feel the soft touch of her beside him, and he liked it.

  Molly asked him what he did before coming to Ogallala, and he told her briefly about Wells Fargo.

  ‘Did you ever have to shoot anyone? I mean, riding shotgun?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ he said. ‘It’s mostly just boring trail stuff.’

  ‘How tall are you?’

  He looked over at her quizzically. ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

  ‘You must be one of the tallest men at Whiskey Creek,’ she said.

  He looked over at her. ‘You grow up around here?’

  ‘No, we had a ranch. Daddy came here a few years ago, when I was just growing breasts.’ She put a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh. I didn’t mean to say that.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ O’Brien told her.

  She gave him a big smile. ‘Yes, I did. That’s because I like you, O’Brien. Better than all those other ones. You believe you can tell at first sight?’

  ‘Tell what?’

  ‘I had this feeling when you first rode by. It’s kind of hard to explain. Would you like to kiss me?’

  O’Brien smiled a rare smile. ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Why not? Don’t you think I’m pretty?’

  ‘You might be the prettiest girl I ever seen.’

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘You’re the boss’s daughter. And the boys say that you been seeing McComb. And I don’t hardly know you, Molly.’

  ‘Forget Cyrus! I just let him visit to keep from getting bored here. I would never think of him seriously.’ She looked into his eyes. ‘Like I would you.’

  O’Brien rose. ‘You don’t know nothing about me, Molly. And now I got to get a scabbard made. I’m sure I’ll see you around here again.’

  She had risen, too. She stood very close to him and he could smell the aromatic perfume coming from her.

  ‘You’d better,’ she said in a pouting way. ‘You’re going to have to make up for tonight. Nobody has ever refused an invitation to kiss me, you know.’

  ‘I believe that,’ O’Brien said.

  ‘Then you come visiting, you hear?’

  O’Brien tipped his hat. ‘I’ll be by here, I’m certain. Good night, Molly.’

  ‘I’ll be thinking about you,’ she said in that purring way.

  Then O’Brien walked to the street and rode on into town.

  Several days slipped past without any further word about shaggies in the area. O’Brien and Cahill worked steadily in the warehouse, without further trouble from McComb. Then one afternoon an older rifleman found McComb and told him he had seen O’Brien sitting on Walcott’s porch with his daughter.
McComb’s face fell into hard lines.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I was just riding past on my way to the Conestoga. It was dark, but there was some light from inside the house. It was him, all right. I’d bet my next pay on it.’

  ‘What the hell!’ McComb hissed out. ‘That brazen backwoods billy. That does it. I’ll have that boy’s ass.’

  ‘I just thought you’d be interested,’ the other man said.

  Within a half-hour McComb found O’Brien taking cured hides off hangers in a back corner of the warehouse. He came over to him hostilely.

  ‘What the hell do you mean, sneaking around sweettalking Molly Walcott?’

  O’Brien turned to him in surprise and wiped some sweat off his brow.

  ‘Are you talking to me?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb, O’Brien. You was seen. Hanging around Molly like a bull in heat.’

  ‘Oh. If you mean that set-down we had on Walcott’s porch, I wasn’t sneaking around, if that’s any of your business.’

  ‘You ain’t got no reason to be at Walcott’s house. Just what is it you think you’re playing at?’

  O’Brien let a long breath out. ‘It was Walcott invited me,’ he said casually. ‘Now I got work to do, McComb.’

  McComb’s face changed. ‘I don’t give that credence.’

  O’Brien was getting irritated. ‘I don’t give a damn what you believe. What I do on my own time is my business.’

  McComb stepped closer to him. ‘You stay away from Molly Walcott, backwoods. You understand me?’

  ‘Like I said,’ O’Brien responded. Then he turned away to resume his work.

  McComb lowered his tone. ‘You get right in my craw, boy. You’re right, this is going to come to a head.’

  O’Brien took a hide down and laid it on a nearby table without even looking at McComb again. A moment later McComb was gone.

  It was in late evening the next day, in the bunkhouse, when Uriah Cahill came over and sat beside O’Brien as O’Brien slid a big skinning knife in and out of its new scabbard on his stovepipe boot.