By the Horns

by Ralph Compton

  “We sure don’t want to end it too soon, Bronk,” Luke Deal agreed, and abruptly spoke sharply to Sam Webber. “Light a shuck, you miserable wretch, before we change our minds and include you, too.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Deal, sir,” Sam Webber bleated, and with an apologetic glance at Alfred Pitney, he scampered off.

  Deal sauntered up to the Englishman. “Now then. Where to begin?”

  “I am not looking for trouble,” Pitney informed them. “I am here on business for the BLC, and I must admonish you gentlemen that they will not take kindly to having their representative interfered with.”

  Luke Deal snorted. “Did you hear this greener, boys?”

  “He throws out fancy words like they were money,” Grutt said. “A walkin’ dictionary is what he is.”

  “What I want to know,” Bronk said, his hand resting on the butt of his revolver, “is why he’s wearin’ his bandanna so strange?” Bronk’s own bandanna was red and in dire need of a washing.

  Pitney touched a hand to his throat. “This is called a cravat, gentlemen. In civilized society they are quite common.”

  “There you go again,” Luke Deal said. “Callin’ us gentlemen. If you were a horse you would be weedy.” He sniffed several times. “What in hell? Maybe we were wrong, boys. This ain’t no greenhorn. It’s a wood pussy.”

  Bronk and Grutt laughed. Laughter as cold and as hard as they were.

  “Dang me if he doesn’t make me want to put windows in his skull,” Bronk declared.

  “No,” Luke Deal said severely. “No spoilin’ it, you hear? I won’t take it kindly if you do, and you wouldn’t want that.”

  “I sure wouldn’t,” Bronk said, with the barest trace of unease. “I would never do anything you didn’t want me to, Luke.”

  Pitney looked from one to the other. “What is it you want of me, specifically? To make me dance, as I hear you cowboys sometimes do when indulging in hijinks?”

  “Now there’s a notion,” Deal said. “But we should come up with somethin’ special for a fancy hombre like you.” He paused, then suddenly poked Pitney in the chest. “Call us cowboys again and you’ll make me mad. You wouldn’t catch us nursemaidin’ a bunch of smelly cows for no measly forty dollars a month.”

  A new voice spoke, a voice as quiet as the whisper of the breeze, yet a voice of tempered steel. “Then it’s mutual. The cows wouldn’t want you there, neither. They have their standards.”

  Luke Deal spun, his hand hovering over his six-shooter. His companions likewise turned and visibly tensed, as if they had beheld a dangerous animal.

  The creature that confronted them was a tall, broad-shouldered man in typical Western garb. His hat, his shirt, his chaps, his boots were as ordinary as mesquite, but there was nothing ordinary about his face. He was uncommonly appealing, with eyes bluer than the sky and a jaw like an anvil. It was those eyes that marked him as above the ordinary. They mirrored a quality of character of a high order. That, and something else. His hair was as black as ink.

  “Owen!” Luke Deal exclaimed, and his whole body seemed to quiver like that of a hound straining at a leash.

  “This isn’t none of your business,” said Bronk, with more than a little rancor.

  “But it is,” Owen responded in that quiet way of his. “I’m here to fetch that gent for the Bar 40. That makes his welfare my concern.”

  Grutt was coiled like a spring. “What if we don’t want to hand him over?”

  “Then we have it to do,” Owen said, and lowered his right hand so it brushed the holster in which his Colt was sheathed.

  “Took the words right out of my mouth, cowpoke,” Grutt declared. “I’ve been waitin’ for an excuse to throw down on you since who flung the chunk.” He bared his teeth as if they were fangs.

  “No,” Luke Deal said.

  Grutt did not take his hateful gaze off Owen. “What do you mean, no? This is our chance, Luke. You hate him as much as we do! Him and his airs. Just because he’s Bartholomew’s foreman doesn’t give him the right to stick his nose where it shouldn’t be stuck.”

  “No,” Luke Deal said again, more harshly.

  “But why? He’s been a thorn in our side once too often. Remember that time he stopped us from beatin’ on that drummer? And when he wouldn’t let us burn that drunk Injun?”

  “It’s still no.”

  Grutt appealed to Bronk. “You’re with me, right? Just the other day you were sayin’ as how it’s do-good jackasses like him who spoil it for those of us who ride the high lines. You want him dead as much as me.”

  “I wouldn’t lose any sleep over buckin’ him out in gore,” Bronk said, “but we do what Luke wants. That’s how it is. That’s how it has always been.”

  Clenching his fists, Grutt hissed in anger. “You’ll regret it. Both of you. See if you don’t.”

  Luke Deal smiled at Owen. “You have more luck than an Irishman. One of these days, though, your string will play out, and then what will you do?”

  “Cross that bridge when I get to it, I reckon,” the handsome cowboy answered.

  Deal nudged Bronk and Grutt and the three went back into the saloon, Grutt bringing up the rear and glowering at Owen as if daring him to do or say anything that would justify his quenching his thirst to spill Owen’s blood.

  Only after the door closed behind them did Owen walk to the middle of the street. Up close his blue eyes were even more piercing. “Are you all right, sir?”

  Although his chest stung where Deal had poked him, Alfred Pitney replied, “Never better. Those bounders liked to hear themselves talk. I daresay they are perfectly harmless.”

  “As harmless as rabid wolves,” Owen said in his quiet way. “Between them they have planted upwards of ten men. Not countin’ Indians and such.”

  “By ‘planted’ you mean killed?” Pitney asked, and when the cowboy nodded, he said, “My word. How can that be? Why haven’t they been arrested? Why aren’t they behind bars?”

  “They cover their tracks real well,” Owen said. He had shifted so he could keep one eye on the saloon. “Without proof there is not much the law can do.”

  “Yet you know for an indisputable fact they have murdered others in cold blood?”

  “We can talk about them later,” Owen said. “Right now we should talk to Harry Anderson about puttin’ you up for the night. That is, I take it you aim to get a good night’s sleep and head for the ranch at daybreak?”

  “I have been told it will take three days to get there.”

  Owen smiled. “God willin’ and the creek don’t rise. I have a buckboard and a team over to the livery. It will only be the two of us, but don’t fret. This time of year the Comanches stay pretty much to the north, and there have been no reports of bandidos lately.”

  Alfred Pitney was more interested in something else. “How did you know it was me?”

  “Sir?”

  “How did you know I was the one you were to meet? I never sent your employer a description.”

  “Your letter said you would arrive today, and you were the only one who got off the stage,” Owen said. “That, and bein’ from England, you can’t help but talk peculiar.”

  “Me?” Pitney said, and chuckled. “My dear man, were you to visit Bristol, they would think the same of you.”

  “I suppose they would.” Owen looked about them. “Where is your baggage?”

  Pitney explained about his trunk still in the rear boot of the Concord. “Most is clothes. I also have several tins of fine British tea I can’t do without. I can’t buy the brand your side of the pond.”

  Owen made for the stage. “I’m not much of a tea swiller, myself. Give me coffee thick enough to float a horseshoe and I’m happy.”

  “Do you have a last name?” Pitney inquired.

  “Not one I use much.” Owen nodded at the old man in the rocking chair. “How’s the gout today, Toothless?”

  “It comes and it goes.” Toothless smacked his lips. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to
care to treat a friend to a bottle, would you? I’m not fussy. The cheap stuff kills the pain as good as anything else.”

  “I might maybe consider half a bottle,” Owen said. “Provided you get a note from the doc sayin’ I can.”

  Toothless’s bottom jaw drooped. “That was plumb cruel. It’s my body. I can poison it howsoever I like.”

  Alfred Pitney surveyed the street from end to end. All he saw was the pig, the dog, and several chickens pecking at the ground in front of the general store. “Where are all the people?”

  “It’s siesta. This close to the border, folks tend to do like the Mexicans do and take it easy durin’ the hottest part of the day.” Owen squinted from under his hat brim at the blazing orb in the sky. “The saloon is nice and cool. We can pay it a visit after we get you situated.”

  “But the saloon is where those killers went,” Pitney noted. “Is it wise for us to go there?”

  “They’re not likely to gun us in broad daylight.”

  “If you say so.” But Pitney was not nearly so sure.

  Owen produced a large new trunk from out of the boot. “Is this yours?” Pitney eagerly reached for it, but the cowhand, with remarkable ease, hefted the heavy trunk to his broad shoulder. “Follow me, sir.”

  Studying the individual buildings, Pitney commented, “How is it I don’t see a marshal’s office anywhere? They had one in Cheyenne.”

  “Whiskey Flats doesn’t have a tin star.”

  “Then how do you keep uncouth louts like Luke Deal and his fellow cads in line?”

  “The same way we do the rest of the badmen. There’s only one thing polecats like them understand.” Owen patted the butt of his Colt.

  “There are moments,” Alfred Pitney said, “when I dearly miss Bristol.”

  2

  A Knuckle Affair

  Harry Anderson turned out to be the owner of the general store. A mousy man with big ears, he had a ready smile and a warm nature. He pumped Alfred Pitney’s hand as if they were long-lost relatives. “Sure I’ll put you up, and since you are here to visit the Bar 40, I won’t charge you. Jim Bartholomew is a good friend of mine.”

  “You have extra beds in the back?” Pitney asked. The store was crammed with goods until it was near bursting at the corners. Everything from kerosene to clothes to tools to foodstuffs like flour, Saratoga chips, and more.

  “Beds?” Anderson said, then laid a hand on the counter. “Here is where you will sleep, and be as snug and comfortable as a mouse in its hidey-hole.”

  Pitney eyed the countertop dubiously. It was long enough to accommodate him but rather narrow. It had one other flaw. “I’m not accustomed to sleeping on such a hard surface.”

  Anderson pointed at a pile of blankets on a shelf. “You can make it as soft as a feather bed if you want.”

  “Whiskey Flats doesn’t have a hotel,” Owen remarked. “Mrs. Harker puts up boarders but she only has one room and a drummer has it at the moment.”

  “Pushiest drummer I ever did see,” Anderson said. “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘no.’ I told him over and over I do not need ladies’ corsets but he kept pushing and pushing. Finally I bought one to shut him up.” Anderson shrugged. “Maybe I can sell it to my wife’s sister. She’s coming to visit in a month, and she could easily pass for a buffalo.”

  “I thank you for your kindness,” Pitney said.

  “This is the best place to bed down short of the hayloft in the livery,” Owen assured him while sliding the trunk to one end of the counter where no one would trip over it. “Now that you are fixed for the night, let’s visit the saloon.”

  “I still don’t think that is wise. Those bounders will be there.”

  “Who?” Harry Anderson asked.

  “Luke and his pards,” Owen said.

  Anderson’s features clouded. “I’ll be glad when those curly wolves move on. They were in here yesterday and that Grutt thought he could help himself to a pickle without paying.” Anderson nodded at the pickle barrel. “Tried to sneak one when I was busy with a customer. The nerve.”

  “Badmen are baddest when your back is turned,” Owen commented, and unconsciously hitched at his gun belt.

  “I close at seven,” the store owner told Pitney. “Give me half an hour to shoo out those who always drag their heels, and you will be set for bedtime.”

  “I thank you for your kindness,” Alfred Pitney said, “and for watching over my trunk until I return.”

  Anderson smiled. “Your belongings are perfectly safe. The only ones liable to steal it would be Deal’s bunch, and they’ll be busy liquoring themselves up the rest of the afternoon. As they do pretty near every day.”

  A tiny bell over the front door tinkled and in came a striking young woman whose hair shone like burnished gold and whose dress, although as prim and proper as a dress could be, nevertheless did little to conceal a figure as shapely as an hourglass. She glanced down the aisle and seemed to give a slight start, then adjusted her bonnet and came toward them, displaying teeth as white as snow. “Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson. Would that be Owen I see with you? It has been so long since I saw him last, I about forgot what he looks like.”

  The broad-shouldered cowboy colored and suddenly showed an interest in a display of silverware.

  “Miss Langstrom!” Anderson declared. “It has been a while since you graced my establishment with your lovely presence.”

  “Pshaw,” the beauty said. “I have half a mind to tell Mrs. Anderson you have been flirting with me.”

  Now it was Anderson who reddened and quickly said, “Cynthia, you know I would never do any such thing. Edith knows it, too.”

  Cynthia Langstrom had a marvelous laugh. “Are we still on for supper Friday evening? Edith wanted me to bring one of my pies.”

  “Apple, I hope,” Anderson said. “If you ever give up teaching, you could open a pie store and make a fortune.”

  “A pie store? Who ever heard of such a thing?” Cynthia flashed her dazzling smile at Owen but he was bent over the silverware.

  Anderson turned to the Britisher. “Where are my manners? Mr. Pitney, I would like you meet Miss Langstrom, our schoolmarm. Miss Langstrom, Mr. Pitney here hails from England, and has come to conduct business at the Bar 40.”

  “You don’t say?” Cynthia Langstrom said, offering Alfred her hand.

  Pitney accepted her fingertips and dipped his chin. “My utmost pleasure, madam. Did I understand him correctly? You teach school?”

  “You sound surprised, sir.”

  “It is just that I would not think Whiskey Flats big enough to have enough children,” Pitney observed.

  “There are six from town,” the schoolmarm said, “and another eleven from the outlying ranches and homesteads. Believe me when I say they are more than a handful.”

  Owen gave a slight cough. “Ridin’ herd on seventeen head of younguns takes a lot of sand.”

  Cynthia Langstrom put a hand to her throat. “Why, Owen, I had forgotten you were there. Did you say something?”

  “I was just complimentin’ you,” the cowboy said sheepishly.

  “You need to speak up more,” Cynthia said. “I get enough mumbling from my students, usually when they do not know an answer and are trying to hide their ignorance.”

  Owen shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I can’t blame them. You can be a frightenin’ critter when your dander is up.”

  As sweet as sugar, the schoolmarm said, “Oh, I am a critter now, am I? Comparable to cows and such?” She fluttered her green eyes. “What a wonderful compliment.”

  “I didn’t call you a cow, dang it.”

  “I should hope not,” Cynthia said. “Not when just last week you compared me to a star in the night sky. Or don’t you remember that occasion?”

  “I recollect it just fine, thank you very much. Of course, as stars go, it was a mite puny.”

  The schoolmarm’s eyes became emerald sabers. “Is that so? I seem to recall you called it th
e brightest in the heavens. But then, we do tend to remember our previous associations in the most flattering light, don’t we? Now if you will excuse me, I bid you good day.” With a swirl of her dress she swept down the aisle and the tiny bell over the door tinkled once more.

  Harry Anderson chuckled. “Ever notice how women always have to get in the last word? She hit you dead center.”

  Owen grinned. “Her aim has always been good. But she’ll be plumb flustered when she realizes she forgot to buy whatever she came in for.”

  “If that was her intent,” Anderson said.

  “How’s that?” the cowboy said. “Oh. You reckon she saw me come in and followed just to stick me with knives because she thinks I have been neglectin’ her?”

  Alfred Pitney cleared his throat. “Forgive my curiosity, gentlemen, but am I missing something?”

  “It’s a private matter,” Owen said.

  “Semi-private,” the storekeeper amended. “Everyone in town has been counting on attending a wedding but a certain cowpoke who shall go nameless has turned out to be gun-shy.”

  “Does Ethel know you have such a leaky mouth?”

  “Don’t go off mad,” Harry Anderson said.

  But the cowboy was already halfway to the door, his long legs allowing strides that forced Pitney to hurry to catch up. A cloud of dust from a passing wagon billowed about them as Owen pulled his hat brim low and muttered, “Busybodies everywhere you go these days.”

  “I don’t think he meant any insult,” Pitney said.

  Just then they both heard, clear and sharp, a female voice raised in anger. “Unhand me this instant!”

  Two buildings down was a feed store. Between it and the saloon ran an alley. In the alley mouth stood Grutt, one hand on Cynthia Langstrom’s wrist. Evidently he had come out of the alley as the schoolmarm was happening by.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” she demanded. “I will not stand for being accosted like a common tart. And next time be so good as to do your business out back, not here where anyone might see you.”

  “Now hold on, missy,” Grutt said. “All I want to do is treat you to a drink. Where’s the harm?”

  “You do not want to do this,” Cynthia informed him.