He finally took hold of her flailing wrists and got her calmed down.
“Ain’t nothing happened here,” he said to the gathered crowd of onlookers. “Just a little family misunderstanding.”
But he could have killed her for the snickering that went on as the curious moved away. He held her in place by the forearms and they stood glaring at each other in the starlight. Not a word was spoken until the others were out of earshot.
“You can sleep by yourself from now on,” she hissed. “And screw every little hussy in this basin that you want to. But you won’t ever touch me again, Matthew McKean.”
Outside the ranch house in the fresh morning air, he shook his head and closed his eyes to the distasteful memories of that fateful night. She had damn sure kept her word all those years. He looked across the open yard, anxious to set the entire matter aside, and noticed the cowboys had put away his buggy horse. Good enough. He headed for the blacksmith shop, where the activity centered on shoeing horses. The ring of hammers on steel pealed off in the fresh, pine-scented air.
Sid Jakes stood, rolling his own, and overseeing the three ranch hands. They each shod a different horse. The lanky, older foreman nodded morning to him. Jakes came from Texas with Matt. Tough as cured mesquite and despite his age, still the best man on the place with a riata.
Henry Davis gave his usual morning grin looking up from shoeing. Another of Matt’s veteran hands, Henry came from back in the Tennessee hills. Lacking two teeth in front, the wiry little man was dependable, though a bit dense. Beside Henry, and nailing shoes on the bald face horse, labored Sweeney O’Brien, a drifter who never had much to say. He nodded at the boss, spat tobacco to the side, then businesslike he resumed his nailing.
Lefty Mounds was the youngest crew member. Sweat streaked his face, and he gave a sudden look that said, “Oh, hi,” then he fought with the horse’s kicking hind hoof grasped in both hands.
The action of the horse drew some cursing from Lefty as he moved about on the end of his hind leg. Finally out of patience at the fuss going on, O’Brien grunted and went over beside the jittery animal. He caught the lead, shouted a command at the upset horse, then slapped him hard on the ribs with the side of his hammer. His actions settled the bronc for Lefty.
Matt went over to the side of the shop to join Jakes. He and his foreman squatted on their heels to observe the hands at their work. There was plenty on Matt’s mind about how they would handle the rustlers at the crossing. No place for errors once they were committed. He fretted about all the details left.
“Henry and O’Brien are getting ready to pack some salt up on the rim,” Jakes said. “Soon as we get these here shod.”
“Good. Then have Lefty help Randall saddle them colts today. I told him to ride them some.”
Jakes raised his thin eyebrows as if skeptical of the plan, then shifted his weight to the other leg. “Those two may be all day saddling one of them.”
“Good. Come dark, they’ll have it figured out how.” He gave a head toss toward the side of the shed and rose. What he had to tell Jakes needed to be said in private. Less folks knew about it, the better for all concerned.
When they were out of earshot of the crew, Matt kept his voice low. “Give them boys the day off tomorrow. Send them into Fortune. Give the three of them each ten bucks to blow.” He dug the money out of his pants and handed it to Jakes. “I don’t want them rooting around up here.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
“I want you to stick around. And without them noticing, gather us up three good long new ropes. We’re going to need them tomorrow.”
Jakes nodded. “I’ll get it done.”
“Fine. Have ’em saddle up that chestnut for me. I’m going to do a little checking around.”
“Be careful riding out there by yourself. You might ride up on one of them brand blotters.”
“I do, he won’t ride away.”
In deep thought, Jakes stared off into the distance like he was considering it. “You know, I’ve lost some good friends that a way.”
“Yeah.” He wanted to tell the man that in twenty-four hours, this basin would be rid of its three biggest troublemakers. He looked up in time to see his son dragging his way from the house, scuffing his boot heels along in the dust. Must have plenty of lead in both his boots and his ass, the way he was coming. To ignore him and not lose his temper twice in the same morning, he went inside the blacksmith shop.
The smell of acrid coal smoke from the forge filled his nose. He heard Jakes send Lefty off with the boy to help capture the colts. Matt would have liked to have been a mouse sitting on the corral the rest of the day. No. Best he went scouting. How could he be certain that those three rustlers were coming to the dance? They were a part of the usual crowd there every Saturday night. A regular ritual for them to be there. Only it would be his bad luck if for some reason they changed their routine. He hoped not. If they only caught one or two of them, those left would certainly be on their guard.
“Blocky’s saddled,” Jakes said from the doorway.
“Good, see you later.”
He went out in the bright sunshine, took the reins from Henry, tested the cinch, then satisfied, he swung up. The big gelding built a bow in his back. Matt checked him up close, hoping to walk it out of him. In the far corral, he could see the two boys had the initial front-feet-flailing colt snubbed to a post; a deep red bay, he sure was fighting them. Both of the boys were taking turns at their courage, and making false starts for his head to ear him down.
Anxious to be on his way, Matt used his spurs to nudge the horse beneath him. Blocky gave two short crow hops before Matt pulled his head up, then set him into lope.
“You bucker, you. I’ll take that starch out of you before dark,” he promised the pony. Then he looked off to the pine-timbered knoll to the south, across the wide-open grassland. This high country still beat Texas. He swung Blocky east on the road and let him run.
Close to midday, he spooked some cows and their calves out of the trees. Easing Blocky downhill, he wanted to take a good look at the brands. Most of them wore his ear notch, but that meant little. Rustlers would notch the calf to match the cow and then scorch their own brand on its hide. When a working cowboy saw an owner’s ear notch, he figured the calf had been worked and let it go, never checking the match.
Matt had seen at least one S Star brand like that on a big calf. His notch was in the left ear on the half-grown critter, the S Star burned in the hide. That threesome was getting a lot bolder at it. After tomorrow, there would be no more of that, and allowing a respectable period, he would have his lawyer contact the Dikes family and buy the place. Them being back east, not knowing the value and by then anxious to part with their sad memories of the real estate, he should take it off their hands well worth the money.
Absently he rose in the stirrups, and sent Blocky into a trot to keep up with the bunch of cattle that moved away suspiciously at his approach. He wondered if either of those other two cowboys had proven up on their homesteads. In that case, he would need to claim or buy them both before more squatters moved in. Kinda like rats, they always settled in some abandoned nest and saved themselves the work of building a new one. Both places had some water, too. A commodity that came scarce up there.
Then he noticed a two-year-old brindle bull break out of the brush. He sure never left one a stud carrying that much longhorn blood. Must have missed the wiry devil at roundup. A real maverick. No. The stag wore Ted Dikes’s ear mark. Matt pushed the big horse to go faster. He wanted to see the other side of the animal. What brand was on him? The boughs of the junipers scraped his legs as the horse scrambled over rocks and jumped downed trees.
The critter cut to the right to try and beat him to the timber, and Matt could read the fresh TK brand. He reined up the horse on the hillside and nodded. Not missing the other signs either, he could see the dried black blood on the insides of the steer’s legs as he fled into the trees. The sumbitch had cut h
im, too. That steer didn’t belong to Ted Dikes or those other two. Sure he understood the brand laws in the territory, but that two-year-old had to come from one of his older Texas cows to carry that much longhorn blood. It was stealing, by damn, in his book. With all that he had invested, all the cattle he owned, some upstart with only a long loop shouldn’t be able to come in here and take his living away from him and his family. Something had to be done about it.
By noon tomorrow, something would.
Overhead, the sun produced a blinding glare. Nothing stirred the air. No one spoke. Except for the occasional snort of one of their horses on the picket line stretched between two saplings, there were no voices. The ring of a spur rowel pealed like a schoolhouse bell when someone moved a foot. A crow called and another answered. The men sat around with their backs to pine tree trunks or squatted on their boot heels. Some whittled, others just whiled away the time.
Matt decided there wasn’t a hell of a lot to talk about. When he glanced uphill, he could see Randy seated on his butt, dozing part of the time. Matt had told the boy coming over what they intended to do and why. Told him straight out that his very livelihood and future depended on ending these rustlers’ reign. This was a real man’s work and you never told anyone, your maw or anyone, by God.
“Someone’s coming,” Charboneau whispered, and stood up. He brushed the dirt and pine needles off the seat of his pants. “Could be them.”
“Nope, it’s a wagon,” Porter said, and looked relieved as he settled back down to the ground. “Probably one of them Mormon families from Goose Creek.”
Matt agreed. A string of them had small farms along that waterway. Clannish, they ran a few cows and kept kinda of to themselves. They were no great threat to his ambitions for the basin. In time they’d probably all move on. They were more farmers than ranchers, and it was damn sure a hardscrabble way of life at this elevation to miss the late frosts with their spindly little apple orchards and food plots.
It took a long time for the wagon to pass through on the road just over the rise from where they waited out of sight. Matt could hear the children screaming and playing. They must have stopped at the ford to let the team drink and to wade in the cold water. He fretted, hoping that they soon moved on, in case the three rode up while they were there.
At last, to his relief, the wagon left. He had food in his saddlebags that Lana had packed for him, but no real appetite. So close to having his plans completed, he worried the three might not show. It would be hard to get everyone together again. Some of them, like Porter, might change their minds. Word could get out to those three rustlers. No, it had to work this time.
“They’re coming,” Jakes said, ambling down the hillside on his high boot heels, collapsing his telescope. “I recognized that purple silk scarf that Dikes wears.”
The time had come. Men began getting to their feet, pulling up their masks, and checking their rifle chambers. No one said much, only a few short words were exchanged.
“Come on, let’s get this over with.”
A nod, and everyone spread out. Matt motioned for Randy to stay with him. They slipped through the junipers. This made the best place to ambush them. Plenty of cover. Jakes carried the ropes, all made up. The nooses on the ends looked official enough.
Matt shifted the Winchester to his left hand and dried his right palm on the butt of his pants. He regretted still wearing his bat wing chaps, but they planned to head for the rim afterward. That meant some tough country to cross and to circle through coming back. He would need them to protect his legs. Still, the leggings stifled his movements.
The cedar aroma filled his nose. When he glanced back, Randy’s face looked flushed. The boy swallowed hard, then nodded he was coming.
“Hold it right there!” Charboneau said. “Get them hands high!”
“What the hell—”
Matt charged out of the brush in front of them with his Winchester ready. His tightened chest only let him use half of it for air. A lack of oxygen made him feel light-headed. The threesome had their hands high.
“Boys, we ain’t got much money,” Dikes said through his handsome grin. His frisky sorrel pony danced around under him.
“Get his horse.” Matt motioned to Randall, who wore a bandanna over his face.
“We don’t want your money,” Matt said, taking charge as the others held their rifles on them. “Get their guns.”
Crain, wearing a flour sack mask with holes, cautiously jerked the rifle out of Burtle’s scabbard and sent it to the ground. Then he stepped in and took the man’s handgun from its holster.
The whole time, the Texan Burtle wore a cross look on his face, like he planned to bolt out of there. Matt read it. “Git a hold of that other bridle, too,” he said to Randy.
“What’re you boys fixing to do here?” Luke Steam asked, frowning in disbelief as they relieved him of his Colt. “Hell, boys, we’re just on our way to the schoolhouse dance. We ain’t—”
“Shut up and get off those horses,” Matt ordered.
“You can wear them damn masks,” Burtle said, obeying and stepping off his pony. “I know who the hell all of you are.”
“So you do,” Matt said. “We represent justice, and you better be making peace with your God. Get their hands tied.”
“Whatever for?” Dikes screamed, holding the men back with his outstretched hands.
“You three have done your last rustling in this basin,” Matt informed him.
“Rustling! I never took any cattle that wasn’t legal mavericks,” Dikes protested as they forcefully tied each man’s hands behind his back. “This ain’t a court of law! You can’t do this!”
“When the law isn’t enforced by the authorities out here, then Judge Hemp takes over,” Matt said, seeing that their hands were bound. He set his Winchester down. “Get those nooses on that limb. You boys be thinking what you want to say to your maker.”
“This isn’t justice!”
“Ain’t going to do no good, Teddy” Burtle said. “These rotten bastards done got their minds made up.”
“Why did you have to throw in with ’em?” Porter asked.
“Throw in with them?” Dikes asked, nearly hysterical. “That you, Reed? Gawdamn, I never took nothing that wasn’t fair. You tell Margie that I love her.”
“Well, I’ve got proof says different,” Matt said quickly. He couldn’t afford a breakdown with Porter and have all of them thinking Dikes might not be guilty. His plan was too damned close to fulfillment. “Get them over under that tree and bring their horses.”
When he turned back, he frowned, seeing Randy on his knees puking up his heels. Matt scowled. That damn chicken. He went and jerked away the reins from the boy and with disgust, gave him a swift kick. “Next time I’ll bring a damn man.”
On all fours, the boy moaned in protest and lurched forward to vomit some more. The sour stench ran up Matt’s nostrils as he dragged the three ponies up to where the rustlers stood.
Jakes had the hemp strands slung over the thick branch and the nooses dangled in place. The men quickly loaded the rustlers in their saddles. The ropes placed around their necks were drawn tight and the ends tied off. Somewhere, a noisy magpie scolded them. Matt searched up and down the two dusty ruts for sight of anyone or anything. This needed to be over quickly in case some others came along.
Time to wind this down. He stepped over to Stearn’s pinto. The noose looked to be set right around the man’s throat. The long knot was beside his left ear, so when the horse was driven out from under him, the fall with the weight of his body would snap his neck. The main thing was to get this done with, and fast.
He spoke to Steam with his hand on the pony’s rump. “You have anything to say to God or us about your crimes?”
“Innocent. God’s damn sure going to punish all of you for this.”
Next, Matt went to Burtle’s horse, examined the hangman’s knot, and satisfied it was proper, asked him the same.
“I’ll see
every one of you fuckers in hell for this,” the Texan snarled.
Ignoring the tough man’s comments, he stepped over and stopped beside Dikes, dreading the words that the kid might spout.
“Want mine? You boys are making the biggest mistake of your lives. I just hope that God forgives you.”
Matt moved back. Each rancher held a coiled lariat in his hand. At his nod, they busted the horses on their butts. The mounts charged away. The unmistakable snap of spines cracked like gun shots. Two of them. Burtle’s noose failed, and he danced in midair gurgling and strangling. The rustler fouled his pants and the stench filled the air.
Porter’s eyes flew open. “Do something!” He fought off the mask. “Don’t let him suffer like that.”
Matt shook his head. “He won’t for long.”
The ring of the rustler’s spurs sounded like school bells as his dying body fought to stay alive. With a flat hand to Porter’s shoulder, Matt forced the distraught man toward their horses. They still had to cover their tracks. He had no sympathy for that tough bastard and his talk about seeing them in hell. Let him strangle forever.
They trudged over the hill, with Porter still glancing back and looking white-face scared. Matt forced him to go on. He wasn’t having anyone breaking their ranks, not even the weak-kneed Porter. At their horses, the men tightened their cinches and took down the picket rope.
“God, Matt. Can I go back and do something for him?” Porter pleaded. “One of us should have shot him. Put him out of his misery.”
Filled with impatience, Matt motioned for his foreman to go check. Jakes rode to the top of the hill, looked over at the three rustlers, and turned his pony around. He nodded that it was over. His actions gave Matt some breathing room. Next, he must disperse them so they didn’t draw any attention.
“We need to spread out after we ride up the creek. Everyone needs to go their separate ways. Act normal. Not a word about this can ever leak out. Our lives and our families depend on it. Don’t tell a soul.” Matt looked for each man’s solemn nod, then swung up in the saddle. “See you all at the dance tonight.”
Rancher's Law Page 3
