Rancher's Law

by Dusty Richards

  “I better get home,” Stran said, acting uncomfortable about Reed’s presence. “See you at the pens in a week or so.” Quickly, he finished his beer, and with a wary eye on Porter’s back, he rose, then quickly slipped out the bat wing doors.

  Left to his own devices, Luther wondered why the brand inspector wanted no part of the drunk at the bar. There had to be a reason. An inspector held as much authority as any lawman, though their primary task was checking brands, crediting the owners of lost and strayed stock that got mixed with others. For some reason, he didn’t want to be around Porter. Had they had words? Or did the man’s condition bother him? No answer.

  Porter turned and with his elbows hooked on the bar to support him, blinked his eyes at Luther. Unsteady, he tried to straighten, weaving until at last he found his balance.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  “A man minding his own business.”

  “You got that outfit out there?” Porter tossed his head toward the pens.

  “That’s my crew.”

  “We don’t want no more crews in this basin.” He made a wide swing of his arm. “You hear about them got hung?”

  “I have. Why?” Luther turned his ear to listen. Did this man know who hung them? Was he drunk enough to talk about it?

  “You ain’t got no gawdamn—”

  “Easy, Mr. Porter,” Earl said to quiet him. Another man in a suit came through the green curtain from the back. In his forties with a thin mustache, he looked like an owner or someone in charge.

  “I’ll handle this. Reed, you’ve had too much to drink. Why don’t you come in the back room and take a little nap?” He took Porter by the arm. “Sorry, mister. He never meant nothing. Just a little too much old barley corn. You know?”

  “I understand,” Luther said, and turned his attention back to his beer. What was eating Porter? He needed to know, but how could he do it? Porter, steered by the man, went through the green cloth door and disappeared. The whole time, the drunken rancher mildly complained, but his host was not taking any of it for an answer.

  After Luther finished his beer, he left the Texan and went by the mercantile to check on Bones’ progress. He found him scratching his belly and looking in dismay at the goods stacked upon the counter.

  “About got it, boss.”

  “Good.” Then, with both hands on his hips, Luther looked in wonderment at the array of things. “How’re we getting all that on two mules?”

  “Need four, I guess.”

  “My boss ain’t buying two more mules.” Luther shook his head in disapproval. One more problem.

  “We need a wagon.”

  “Hard enough to keep up with mules in this country.”

  “Naw, I can make camp every night with a wagon.”

  What next? Luther looked at the man for the longest while, considering his next course of action. Finally, he drew a deep breath. Allen said he couldn’t use a chuckwagon. Bones, who came recommended as a good camp cook and experienced about the basin, said they could use one. He better find one.

  “You know of a wagon we can rent?” he asked.

  Bones grinned big. “Yeah. It won’t cost much.”

  “Rent it and get loaded. We haul out at daybreak. Them boys will need supper tonight and breakfast in the morning. You need help getting it shaped up, put them to work.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Haskell!” Bones said, with so much enthusiasm that Luther frowned at him.

  “I’ll be back to pay you when he gets done,” Luther assured the storekeeper.

  What really disturbed him the most was Porter and his veiled threat. Get out of the basin. Was it a threat or a drunk’s warning? First time that notion had crossed his mind. Did Porter mean get out of the way? He went outside on the porch and studied the pines on the dark rock outcropping across the hillside. Porter knew something; something more than he had said. Damn. Luther had cattle to gather, a crew, and getting a wagon to worry about. A quick check of the storefront, and he nodded to himself—differ—ent than being a U.S. deputy marshal. With a badge, he could have taken Porter in or at the least interrogated him. Up here, he had no excuse or real authority without exposing his identity. With a rueful shake of his head, he hoped those mules were broke enough to harness and pull a wagon.

  “Where did you get that dog?” Ute asked him after supper.

  Full of Bones’s rich cooking, his crew lounged around the camp fire in the twilight. Luther felt better after the crew had snubbed each mule to one of their horses and brought them and the wagon out to the camp on the edge of town. The green wagon and harness looked reputable and only cost ten dollars to rent. Burtle’s heirs could afford that.

  “I got Ben in a trade,” Luther said, recalling the first time he put him the fat pup in his coat pocket. He wasn’t much bigger than two coffee cups. “Rode in my saddlebags for months.”

  “I never seen one like him,” Tag said.

  “Lots you ain’t seen,” one of them quipped.

  “Hey, bulldogs ain’t real common nowhere that I’ve been out west.” Luther tousled Ben’s ears. “But if he has his way, half-breed ones will soon be more popular.”

  The boys laughed and Ben sneezed for them. The conversation went on to how the deputies investigating the hanging had at last left for Prescott. His new crew was close-mouthed about the lawmen, and the conversation waned.

  “They never learned a damn thing either,” Pyle said, and looked away.

  “Someone knew something about it,” Luther said.

  “Mr. Haskell, it’s better for your health not to know a damn thing about them lynchings,” Jason said, and the other heads bobbed around the fire.

  “You boys know them three?”

  “Teddy Dikes?”

  Luther turned to look at Pyle. “You reckon he was rustling?”

  “Wouldn’t matter what I thought, now, would it?”

  Luther nodded in agreement. “No, but you have a notion.”

  “He learned how to rope, Mr. Haskell. He was a real hand with one, and he told me there were enough mavericks in the basin to make him a rich man.”

  “Mavericks?”

  “Mavericks. But some folks think they own them, Mr. Haskell.”

  “Unbranded yearling past cattle?”

  “Yeah. Unbranded.”

  “You boys chase mavericks?” Luther looked across at them in the growing darkness.

  “Can’t. Our families don’t have any stock in this basin.” Pyle shrugged and looked away. “They won’t allow it.”

  “Who’s they?” Luther used a stick to scratch in the dirt.

  “Big outfits. They said the brand law won’t let you maverick where you don’t have cattle on the range.”

  “You boys get threatened?”

  “Matt McKean made a circuit over a year ago and handed our folks a copy of that law. Says we could get five years in prison if we got caught.”

  “Pyle, you reckon he had words with Dikes over that?”

  The boy looked around, then said in a low voice, “A couple of times.”

  “You reckon McKean was there?”

  “I’d bet a month’s pay he was.”

  “Hell, Pyle,” Jason said. “Him and his wife were at the dance when word came. I saw them myself. He went out and helped cut them down.”

  “Damn it. They could’ve hung them—God knows what time they was hung. Afterwards they could’ve ridden a big circle and come back.” Pyle’s voice sounded angry and defensive. He glared at the other boy.

  “You don’t know that,” Tag said, wagging his head with an edge of fear in his voice.

  “Well, just who else would have rode in here and hung them?” Pyle asked, then clapped his hand over his mouth.

  Luther tossed a handful of small sticks on the red-hot coals. Simple question. And a damn hard thing for him to prove.

  “Anyone got a fiddle?” he asked. “This talking is getting too damn serious.”

  “Tag has.”

 
“Good. Tag, entertain us.”

  The boy about blushed as he rose and went to the wagon for his instrument. Then, from the hands of youth came the waltzes that Luther recalled from his own boyhood. Made a knot rise in his throat when he recalled Tillie. Had she received his letter? He’d wasted his time and a two-cent stamp on his last-ditch attempt to get her to come join him. He might as well give up. She wanted no part of being his or anyone else’s wife. What a waste.

  And Porter, if he ever caught him drunk enough, he could find out if the rancher knew who lynched those men. A gut feeling said he did. Luther stared deep into the red glow on the underside of the alligator juniper log. Waves of heat distorted it and blue flames leaped up like figures, fading in and out of his vision. Someone knew more than they were telling about the hanging. But how was he ever to find out?

  18

  “Why are we stopping?” she asked in the major’s ear. “Aren’t those lights up there a stage stop?”

  “I think so.”

  The weary horse bobbed his head and he finally blew exhaustedly into the dust. The major jerked it back up. Was the single lamp a sign of welcome or should they take caution in consideration?

  “Why aren’t we going down there?” she insisted with a sharp edge in her voice.

  “What if those bandits are down there?”

  No reply.

  “I want to be certain it’s not a trap.”

  “Yes,” she said in defeat. “May I dismount?”

  “Sure.” He let her grasp his arm and set her down easy. But she collapsed. He bounded out of the saddle and swept her up in his arms.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “A little light-headed is all. You can put me down. I’ll be fine.” She said it so dreamily, he knew she would never stand without help. In the starlight, he looked around. There was nothing but the sand of the road and silver looking low bushes. No place to set her down.

  He decided he would set her on the dusty road rather than risk some cacti that might exist off the tracks. On his knee, he gently lowered her to the ground.

  “You all right?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to be so weak.”

  “No need for concern. I’m going ahead and see if the stage stop is safe.”

  She twisted her head around and quickly spoke. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

  “Then you get in the saddle and I’ll lead the horse.”

  “Do you think—”

  “I have no idea, but to be careful.”

  “Major?”

  “Yes?”

  “Help me to my feet, I can ride now.”

  His hands under her armpits, he raised her. She felt light as a feather as he steadied her. Then with determination, she reached for the stirrup and put her foot in it. He gave her butt a good boast and she settled in the seat.

  “All right?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He took the rope reins and started toward the beacon, his eyes dry and gritty, as the yellow lamp shown like a lighthouse. Through his boot soles, he could still feel the day’s heat in the dirt. The dread that they were walking into another trap preyed on his mind.

  He paused in the road to reload and straighten out his handguns. They had gouged him in the gut long enough. He handed her back her pistol and she dropped it in her bag. Then he tied the Navy by the leather strings to the saddle, lacking any way to reload it.

  The cylinders still loaded in his own Colt, he spun the cylinder around to the empty one and laid down the hammer. Holstered, he pushed on. The place still looked as far away as when they first noticed it. Obviously the clear desert air made it appear closer.

  Trudging along, he thought about Mary and his wonderful bed at home. She would be sleeping at this hour, the soft murmur of her night breathing like a lullaby, while he walked this oven of hell, and wondered if there would be any safety when he finally reached the next port.

  “Stay here. I’m going to scout the place,” he said when he could make out the pens and mud hovels in the starlight.

  “Be careful,” she said, and reined in the horse.

  He nodded and hurried to check the corrals first. Colt in hand, he made his way through the low brush. Inside the yards, horses snorted in their sleep and stomped. None looked like the Mexican mustang that the outlaws rode in on. He went to the side of the building where light shone from a window and looked in the small pane.

  A man under a filthy sombrero sat drinking from a bottle wrapped in wet burlap. He looked harmless enough. A woman slept in a hammock. A wave of relief swept through his shoulders; they were safe.

  He tracked around the building and entered the door.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Huh!” The old man started.

  “The stage was robbed. The driver is dead. I have a woman passenger out here.”

  “Oh, come in, Señor,” the man said, struggling to get to his feet. His woman, sleepy-eyed, came out of the swing and asked about her.

  “I’ll get her,” he said, and went out to call to her.

  She made the pony trot the last hundred yards. Bouncing like a sack and holding the saddle horn, she arrived and he helped her down.

  “We’re safe?” she gasped.

  “Yes. We’re safe.”

  She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. His eyes flew open and for a moment he felt unsure what to do.

  “That’s for being so damn brave,” she said with a sharp nod, then she turned with a new spring in her walk and headed for the lighted doorway.

  “Ah, the señora, she is muy grateful.”

  “I guess,” the major said, and rubbed the back of his alkali-tasting hand on his mouth. No figuring out women.

  “How many robbers were there?” the man asked.

  “I don’t know. Several. I shot one.”

  “Good. You should have killed all of them. They killed Billy, huh?”

  “The driver? Yes.”

  The man’s next words were in Spanish and the major recognized most as swear words. It drew a small smile on his face at the anger the old man showed. This tough hombre would not have left the other robber alive.

  “When’s the next stage west bound?”

  “Be tomorrow night.”

  The major nodded. Perhaps they could sleep some. He could use a lot of it. Nothing out there but the distant, sawedged mountains and another coyote talking to the quarter moon.

  “Can we tell the law?” he asked the man.

  “Sí, when you get to Yuma.”

  The major closed his eyes. By then those rascals would have ridden back into Mexico. No wonder Arizona needed his marshals.

  “You have a couple of saddle horses?”

  “What for, senor?”

  “I’ll track those robbers down.”

  “But, señor, you don’t know the desert.”

  “The stage line could loan me some driving horses to ride and to catch them?”

  “I guess.”

  “You have a saddle?”

  “It is an old one.”

  “That’ll work. Need some jerky, some water, and a rifle. You have one I can borrow?”

  “Why don’t you wait for the sheriff?” The man’s face looked vexed by the major’s demands.

  “To come in a few days? No, they’ll be in Mexico by then.”

  “I can’t believe this,” she said from the doorway. “You can’t—”

  “You’re safe here.”

  “But—”

  “I’m going after those killers.” His next course of action set deep in his mind as he looked to the east. With two fresh saddled horses to use in relay, he could catch them. Another coyote howled and he nodded.

  You better find a hole, you border riffraff. A territorial marshal is coming after you.

  Jinx Carter’s big frame took three fourths of the spring seat and that left Tillie one fourth, but she wasn’t about to complain. Her head tied in a scarf, she wondered how sunburned her
face would be by the time they reached Fortune. Her fingers gripped the small iron rail beside her while she feverishly hoped she didn’t fly out. His high-pitched yell sounded like a charge of banshees, then the long-maned team shot out of Winslow. Their wild run through the streets sent cur dogs and half-naked brown children running for their lives as he headed for Fortune.

  The initial fear inside her began to ease and her upset stomach settled some. Carter handled the team with an expertise that impressed her. He might be wild, but he controlled the fiery animals in the harness. Nothing stretched for miles beside the dirt road but the waist-high brown grass and an occasional light blue sage brush. No matter. She was going to find her man. The only concern that needled her was whether he was safe. Plenty of lawmen were shot in the line of duty. Many deputies for Parker came home in a wooden box in the back of some wagon, and she could recall the loud report of those twenty-gun salutes. One of the sisters would say, “Another brave man is being planted.”

  “You have kin down here?” Carter shouted over the clatter of hooves, huff of the horses, and ring of the wheels.

  “My husband-to-be.”

  “Ah, bless you, girl. Can I dance at your wedding?”

  “I guess,” she shouted back. The buckskin fringe on his sleeves waved in her face as he swung the team around a turn and set out on the straightaway again. It would be all right to invite folks, she guessed. Never getting married before, she couldn’t think a decent girl wouldn’t be generous enough to ask a man doing her such a big favor by taking her to her fiancée.

  At times, her new role frustrated her. If Luther were there, he could tell her how to do things, but he wasn’t. So she had to imagine how she needed to act and hope it didn’t disappoint him.

  The mountains drew closer. She could see the darkness on them that Carter said would be pines when they got closer. All day, she’d hoped to see trees again. She took them for granted all her life, but since she left St. Louis by train and reached Kansas, she found trees began to thin, there was only waving grass as far as she could see.

  Carter was respectful enough for a frontiersman. She’d known others like him. Grizzly as any bear about fighting and carrying on, but downright dainty toward a woman. They made frequent stops and he showed her places where she could find some privacy for a moment.