Rancher's Law

by Dusty Richards

  “That Texas cowboy Luke Stearn,” Matt began. “How did he get that many head? His S Star is all over the place on young cattle.”

  Charboneau relit his cigar butt, drew deep, held it pinched between his fingers, and leaned back in his chair. “You figuring that Burtle is in on it, too?”

  “T. G. Burtle. He’s number two of three,” Matt said, feeling more at ease. So far the men around the table acted like they were in this with him.

  “Three? Who’s the third one?” Porter asked.

  “Ted Dikes.”

  “Teddy Dikes!” Porter slumped in his chair, taken aback. “Why, he bought that place—”

  “Yeah, I know, he acted like he came in here all legitimate like. Bought the KT from Earnie’s widow, but boys, sure as shooting, he’s fell in with those other two wolves.”

  “I ain’t so sure he’s into this rustling.” Porter looked half sick at the notion and dropped his chin. “Them other two, I wouldn’t argue about them, but I don’t think Teddy’s in on that rustling business.”

  “Ain’t no maybe about any of them,” Matt said, and slapped the table top with his palm, unable to control the rage inside his chest. “That upstart from New York is in with them others!”

  Charboneau held up his hands in surrender. “All right, but what are we going to do about them sons a bitches? The only thing that the law out of Prescott ever does when they send a deputy over here is count our cattle for the tax rolls. If we caught them boys red-handed, they’d probably turn them loose over there.”

  “Boys, there is only one judge and jury. That’s hemp rope.” Matt sat back in his chair. His cards were on the table; the men were either with him or not. Made no difference, he’d get it done himself if he had to. Having them on the vigilante committee only added to the respectable appearance that it wasn’t a personal vendetta on his part. Folks might start asking lots of questions, since that big spring on the Earnie Matson place joined his range. If that old bitch had sold out to him at his price—no matter, it was that damn Yankee coming in there, giving her twice what it was worth that wrecked his plans to acquire it. All that was a nevermind now, Dikes buddying around with those two lobo wolves had fixed his fate.

  “When?” Charboneau asked, taking the stub of the cigar from his colorless lips.

  “You all in?” Matt asked, looking around the table hazed with their smoke. The adrenaline surged in his veins. He had to suppress his excitement. Too many things counted on his plan working. He couldn’t afford a show of confidence or jubilance over his victories at this point. Fighting back his own excitement, he casually began a man by man search of their faces.

  Crain nodded grimly, then ran his fingers through his thin black hair.

  Charboneau deliberately ground out the butt in the ashtray, then raised his gaze to meet Matt’s. “You can count me in.”

  Matt turned to Porter. This would be the real test. The man looked deep in thought and rubbed his palms briskly over his pants legs under the table. A visible shudder of his thin shoulder under his galluses; his Adam’s apple bobbed as if he had tried to swallow something large.

  “Damn, it Matt, I can sure agree them two drifters are probably using a running iron … but Teddy Dikes? Hell, Matt, he’s ate supper at my house a dozen times.”

  “He’s courting your sister?”

  “Sort of. Hell’s bells, I can’t believe he’s rustling. His folks have lots of money. He don’t need to steal nothing.”

  “Porter.” Matt looked him square in the eye. “He’s after some kind of excitement. Why else would some rich boy buy a damned two-bit ranch and go to wearing cowboy garb? And I say he’s running with that pack and doing what they do.”

  “Porter, that makes an awful lot of sense,” Charboneau broke in. “Them three are thicker than mud. Two weeks ago, I seen them together up on the Beaver. They weren’t up there looking for no butterflies. Besides, that’s miles from their outfits.”

  “You see them rustling?” Porter’s voice had a high-pitched edge.

  The older man twisted on his mustache and nodded as if considering the matter again, then made a wry face. “Nope, but I seen two big calves carrying Burtle’s fresh mark this week.”

  “Oh, no.” Porter collapsed.

  “You want out of this?” Matt asked, sharp enough to get his attention.

  Porter wagged his head no. “I just hope to God we’re right.”

  “We are,” Charboneau said, as if the whole thing had been settled forever. “Now, what do we do next?”

  “Saturday at noon,” Matt began. “We’ll meet at the Alma Creek crossing. Wear masks. Keep out of sight. They’ll be coming through there sometime in the afternoon on their way to the schoolhouse dance.”

  Their card playing over for the night, they stood up without a word, except the dejected Porter, who remained in his chair. Matt slipped on his suit coat, satisfied his longawaited plans would unfold in the next two days. Patience. He needed lots of it. And in due time, he would control the entire Christopher Basin. Eliminating two of them homesteaders and that rich kid would be enough sign for the next ones drifting in this country with their long loops to keep on tracking.

  “Alma Creek Crossing?” Charboneau asked, and put the weathered Stetson on his head. Matt gave him a nod. Then, like a small bear, he lumbered out the doorway into the hall. Crain followed him with a wave and shut the door behind him.

  Porter poured more whiskey into his glass. Still seated, he looked like a man who had lost his best friend. Matt realized Porter was the weakest link. Somehow he needed to resolve the matter before they left this very room.

  “I sure hope you know for certain that Teddy’s in on this.” Porter tossed down half the glass’s contents.

  “You worried about your sister?”

  Porter swiveled his head around and frowned. “Yes. And I’m hoping we’re dead right about Teddy being in with them other two.”

  “If I showed you a calf with his brand on it, sucking one of my cows, would you believe me?”

  Porter blinked, and swallowed hard. “You’ve got one?”

  “Yeah. Seen her last week up on the mesa. A brindle cow carrying lots of longhorn blood. That’s why I figure we missed her last spring. She hid out. The calf weights four-fifty.”

  “Why? Why would he do that?”

  “Excitement. He’s here for a high old time. Live dangerous. Your sister, she might be lots better off without his kind.”

  “Oh, Matt. It will break Margie’s heart.”

  Determined to convince him of the matter, Matt pulled out a chair and sat on the edge of it. “What would your old daddy do?”

  “Hang him.” Porter dropped his gaze to the table and warily shook his head in defeat. “I was with him and two other ranchers back in Kansas when they caught this kid red-handed with three of our horses. They strung him over a walnut limb on the spot.”

  Good enough. Matt nodded as if he understood. That lynching had left a real mark on Porter. Good thing he didn’t want him to find that calf, because there wasn’t one—yet—that he knew about.

  “All right.” Porter raised the glass and with another shudder of his thin upper torso beneath the snowy-white shirt, he tossed down the contents. After a great sigh, he said, “I’ll do my part. I’ll be there at noon.”

  “It’s the right thing,” Matt said, and rose wearily. He still had a ten-mile drive back to the ranch. Taking his stiffbrimmed hat from the wall peg, he considered the Brown Hotel across the street, but dismissed the notion. No, he had plenty to do before Saturday. Best get home and make all the arrangements.

  He reached his ranch headquarters in the starlight. The buildings and pens set back in the tall ponderosas at the base of Loafer Mountain. At the corrals, he drew the buggy horse up. One of the hired men could put the bay up in the morning, only hours away. He fastened the lead to the hitch rack.

  His wife, Taneal, would be asleep upstairs. With his thumb, he rubbed the light bristle on his chin an
d considered the large log home. She wouldn’t want to be disturbed at this hour. That’s why they slept in separate bedrooms.

  He entered the dark house and the pine floors gave small groans under his soles. His hat and coat hung on the hall rack, he combed back his short brown hair with his fingers, then headed in the shadowy light for the kitchen. A small candle night lamp flickered in the room filled with the rich smells of spices, cooking, and wood smoke. He looked about and noticed a fresh-made loaf on the table. In passing, he tore off a large hunk of it and went to the side door. With a mouthful of the sourdough drawing his saliva, he eased the door open with a thin squeak.

  In the faint light, he could see Lana’s shapely form under a blanket on the cot. Wallowing the sourdough around with his tongue, he was ready for her. Dessert came next, he mused, and shook her shoulder to awaken her.

  “Señor?” she asked in a sleep-filled voice and bolted up. “You are home?”

  “Sí,” he said, and took another bite of the bread. He stepped in front of where she sat on the edge of the bed in her flowing white gown. His free hand grasped the nape of the neck and roughly he forced her to get to her knees before him. The rest of the bread stuffed in his mouth, he swiftly undid his belt and britches to expose himself.

  “My sweet Lana,” he said around the mouthful. “I have thought about you the entire ride home.” He took the back of her hesitant head and forced her closer. She understood her obligations. Feet set apart and engrossed in his personal pleasure, he slowly chewed on the mouthful of bread. It had been a fruitful evening.

  “Where’s Randy?” Matt demanded. Seated at the great table with sun spilling through the open windows and the cool early-morning breeze lifting the lace curtains, he fumed over the absence of his son at breakfast. “Get that lazy thing up!”

  “I swear, Matthew McKean, you act like some kind of wild bear in the morning,” his wife, Taneal, said, coming into the room, wrapping the long white robe around her slender form. Her light brown hair up in a French braid, she took a cup of coffee from her place and went to look out the front door.

  “Is he here?”

  “I would think so,” she said with a shrug, not looking back standing in the open doorway.

  “Lana! Go upstairs and get him up!”

  “Matthew, you don’t send a young woman to wake up a young man in his bedroom.”

  “I don’t care whether it’s proper or not. Lana, go get his ass up!”

  The Mexican girl of eighteen looked wide-eyed at him, then at his wife, who told her to stay. She wore a simple white blouse that showed her proud breasts and a full skirt that hugged her narrow waist. Her olive fingers fussed with the ties of the apron behind her back as if unsettled about what she must do next. Her dark eyes looked close to panic. At last, he shook his head at her to dismiss his order.

  Taneal came stalking back, her glare fixed on him. “What’s got you so fuzzed up this morning?”

  He bolted to his feet and pointed at the table. “I want that boy’s ass down here and right now. You’ve babied him long enough. He’s sixteen. That’s old enough, and he needs to pull his weight in this outfit or get the hell out.”

  “Matthew, he’s a boy.”

  “When I was his age—”

  “You were the only male at home. I know, I know. The rest of the men were gone to war. We aren’t at war any longer, Matthew.”

  “He’s going to think it’s war, if he don’t get his lazy ass down here and start doing a day’s work on this ranch.”

  “Someone calling me?” Randy entered, putting his shirt on over his head.

  “This is not the place to dress, young man,” Taneal said in disapproval and looked around for Lana, who had already exited into the kitchen.

  “Hell, I heard all the screaming and thought the gawdamn house was on fire or something.”

  “Enough of your lip. Did you check that spring yesterday?” Matt demanded, ready to smash his mouthy offspring upside the head.

  “It’s working.”

  “It need digging out?” He looked down at his plate of eggs, peppers, and potatoes, which was growing colder by the minute and realized he was still standing astraddle of the chair.

  “Needs more water.”

  “You saying it’s slowing down?”

  “He told you—”

  “Shut up!” He waved Taneal aside with his hand. He wanted that hatchet ass boy to tell him what he found.

  “The damn thing is running about half what it was and I couldn’t pry open the mountain and get it to run any more,” Randall said.

  “I won’t be talked to like that!” She stood in defiance at the end of the table. “I am not your cowboy nor your laborer.”

  Matt dropped on the chair and waved for her to take her place.

  “I don’t bid at your beckon call, Matthew McKean. And Randall is your own son, not some Mexican peon you own under slavery terms.”

  “This is his ranch and he better learn how to run it.” He pointed the fork at her. The only thing that kept him from going down there and jabbing it through her long face was a tiny thread of containment.

  “If I were him, I would tell you to take this place and … .” She glanced away without finishing her threat.

  “And what?” he demanded, knowing full well what she meant, but he wanted her to say it. To spit it out.

  “Put it up your pompous ass!” She glared back at him.

  “Well, I keep you up pretty damn well, Miss Priss.”

  “Not well enough for me to put up with your tyrannical rages every time you come back from Fortune with a hangover. Did you lose money at cards last night?”

  “No,” he snapped, and resumed feeding his face. She needed a good horsewhipping. Some day he would give it to her.

  “Don’t plan anything for Saturday,” he said to the boy between mouthfuls of food.

  Randy shrugged, then raised his gaze and blinked in question at him.

  “Don’t ask, I’ll explain later.”

  “What’s so damn secret about Saturday?” Taneal demanded.

  “None of your gawdamn business!” He threw down his fork and napkin on his plate and stood up. “You’re asking for it.”

  “Hump,” she snorted out her long slender nose. “You lay a hand on me and you’ll wake up the next morning a gelding.”

  “We’ll see about that. You heard what I said about tomorrow, boy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Today I want you to start riding them colts. It’s your job to break them.”

  “You’re going to get him busted up trying to ride them. Those aren’t colts. They’re all outlaws from hell. You sold the good ones.”

  Matt paused in the doorway of the kitchen and turned around to face her. “That’s how I can afford my highfalutin wife, selling the good ones. They bring more money. I want them all rode at least two hours apiece today,” he said directly to the boy. Then he started and turned back. “And don’t plan on anything for Saturday. You understand?”

  The boy nodded.

  “What’s so gawdawful important about Saturday?”He heard her asking as he went through the kitchen. “Some folks need a day off … .”

  He needed a day off from her sharp tongue. What happened to that sweet girl from Ohio whom he married when the bluebonnets flooded Palo Pinto County? The one who so cheerfully cooked for him and his trail hands coming on that long cattle drive to Arizona from Texas? Maybe if some of their other children had lived, and she hadn’t had all those miscarriages … Hell, he built her the biggest house in Christopher Basin, ordered the finest furniture from St. Louis, hauled it all in from the railhead at Flag.

  She couldn’t still be mad about finding him with that Mormon gal. That had been years ago at a dance. Lucille was her name. Hardly out of her teens and good-looking. Her dark brown eyes alone would have fully aroused an eighty-year-old man on his deathbed. He’d danced a waltz with Lucille, when sh
e, kind of sly, suggested they meet at his wagon after two more sets.

  He’d glanced down at her ripe form in the calico dress and agreed to the whole thing without thinking. Afterward, he rejoined his wife, who made some snide comment about his last partner.

  “Her? Nice young lady,” he said, and went after some lemonade for both of them.

  He danced with Taneal and the next tune with Sam Haygood’s widow, Mae, a gray-headed woman twice his age. That was to take Taneal’s mind off Lucille. His wasn’t, and the longer the dance went on, the more he felt a growing need for the shapely one. He showed Mae to her place and strode across to where Taneal sat on the wall benches.

  “I’ll be back,” he said to his wife like he was on his way to relieve his bladder or to take a snort of some moonshine, the ordinary things he did every Saturday night during the dance.

  Moments later at his wagon, that out-of-breath Mormon gal rushed over and said that she couldn’t be out there with him for long. Only a few minutes, or her husband would-surely miss her. So they had to be fast. Quicker than a fox, she crawled under the wagon ahead of him, lay on her back across the bedroll, and drew up the dress above her waist.

  He looked around, but saw nothing out of place in the darkness. Filled with a huge urge for her, he jerked open his pants, dropped to his knees, and joined her under the rig.

  Right in the middle of everything, Taneal, screaming like a panther, began kicking his feet and legs. He raised up, mad as hell at her interruption. Lucille, with a look of fright, slithered out the far side, shrieking loud enough for all to hear, fighting down her dress and running off as fast as she could across the school yard in the starlight.

  Wearily, he backed out while trying to dodge his wife’s flying fists and shoes. He finished pulling up his pants and buttoned them under her barrage.

  “I knew you were out here with her.” Like a buzz saw, Taneal’s fists pummeled him on the shoulders. “You noaccount horny devil!”