Rancher's Law

by Dusty Richards

  “We owe him a lot.”

  “You seen this Haskell fellow works for Allen?” Matt asked.

  “Yes. He was here.”

  “What the hell for? Asking questions?”

  “I think he knows about that lynching.”

  “Oh. What the hell is that?”

  She shook her head and pushed her hair back from her face. “You tell me.”

  “How the hell should I know?” He pushed past her, opening and closing his fists to control his anger. In another second, he would have beat her within an inch of her life. Between his sharp-talking wife and lame-brained son, he had no allies in that house.

  “You learn anything in the valley?” she called out.

  “Yes. They’re coming with cattle.” He reached the liquor cabinet, threw open the cupboard doors, and grabbed a bottle. Cork in his teeth, he splashed bourbon into a goblet, spit out the cork, and downed the liquor. The rush of the bourbon in his throat burned and set his ears afire. He needed some escape, and soon.

  The load of all this on his shoulders had reached staggering proportions. Why couldn’t that big outfit stay away? He soon would have this basin to himself without Dikes and those cowboys. Charboneau and Crain would never get bigger, and they’d eventually fade away. Porter would drink himself to death. Another niggling thing: Lincoln told him when he came through Fortune about Porter’s drinking binges in town and how he had forced him in the back room to silence his tongue. Damn. Damn! He poured more bourbon into the goblet. The sharp fumes ran up his nose.

  “You planning on getting drunk?” she asked.

  He ignored her words and considered the glass in his hand.

  “You know he never draws much money.” She waited for his reply, and when he didn’t speak she went on. “We owe him five hundred.”

  He nodded that he’d heard her. “Pay him.” The old sumbitch was running out when he needed him the most. He had nothing to say to him. “Take it down there and pay him.”

  “You don’t—”

  “I don’t care if I ever see him again!”

  “Well, I owe him more than that,” she said, and with a swish of her dress, headed for the front door.

  Yeah, Jakes saved your shiny ass from being exposed to everyone. He wished he had those paintings to blackmail her with. Might have made her act civil. He turned at the sound of crutches clattering on the floor. His stupid crippled son had come inside. In disgust, he turned his back to him and downed the liquor. Lots to do.

  The dust churned up and the sun bore down on him as they came over the last pass. The major sat beside the young Mexican driver on the spring seat. He could see in the distance the cluster of adobe buildings and few cottonwoods along the Colorado River that marked Yuma. He twisted around and looked at the prim Miss Hmm in the rear seat.

  “That’s Yuma, according to Jose.”

  “I will believe it when we arrive,” she said haughtily.

  He nodded that he heard her and turned back. She was right. It could be a mirage. Enroute there, they’d seen enough of those shimmering ghost lakes. In Yuma, he could wire Sterling and learn if any of his men needed anything. Maybe Haskell had found out something worth while, but it was early.

  Whew. He decided the temperature must be way over 110. The blistering sun high overhead proved relentless. That place ahead reminded him of hell. Ideal place for a prison, and that brought him back to his mission: to find the thieves. How long would that take? He hoped to make his tour of duty in Hades as short as possible.

  Outside the stage office, Miss Hmm stood straight-backed in the oven breath wind. The driver swung their bags from the spring wagon.

  “Well, Gerald, I am in your debt. I would never have survived the trip, save for your bravery.”

  “Nothing,” he said, removing his hat. “Is there anything you need?”

  “No. I must go find the lawyer in charge of my inheritance and see about it.”

  “I’ll be staying at the Alhambra Hotel a few days, if you need anything.”

  A whimsical smile crossed her face. She nodded, then looked hard at him. “I haven’t kissed a man since I was in pigtails.” Her eyes looked moist. “I did it because I meant it, sir.”

  “I believe you.”

  She started to say something else, but must have decided better. With her dusty skirt in hand, she went inside, giving the agent details about her luggage’s care. The major tipped his hat to her when she came out.

  “Take mine to the hotel,” he said to the dark-skinned youth who was dressed in rags, standing ready for his word.

  The youth staggered under the load, but refused his assistance. When they walked inside the lobby, the air was still hot, but out of the breath-taking wind and solar blast, it felt better.

  After the major checked in, the boy carried the bags into his room. When he tipped him a dime, the grateful youth said, “Gracias,” and hurried away.

  Nothing to keep him in that stale room with its barred window open on the alley. He locked the door, pocketed the key, and set out to make the rounds of the bars. No place held more information than these fraternal-like bases for the male population from the top to bottom of the social order.

  Darkness inside the first bar forced his eyes to dilate. Olive-skinned girls wearing low-cut blouses and full skirts that swished about them served drinks. Their open laughter filled the air and a few men pawed them in passing, which caused cries of shocked protests from the females. But they cried out only for effect, not innocence, and to tease their tormentors. Two musicians played trumpets and one a guitar making the striking music he had heard in Mexico. Soon, one of the girls began to clack castanets and dance, which added to the shouts and cheers of the drunks. Midday and the Grande Cantina was alive.

  With a place at the uncrowded bar, the major ordered a beer and was surprised at the coolness of the foamy brew. The bartender, a short Hispanic, smiled.

  “So, señor, you are new in town?” The man wiped imaginary spots with a cloth-wrapped finger from the deep polished surface.

  “Yes.”

  “You are here on business?”

  “Yes, I have a sawmill at Prescott. I understand they’re building a big prison here?”

  “Oh, you need to see Senor Swopes.”

  “Oh, is he the contractor?”

  “No, señor, but he is the one who sells all the lumber to the warden. You have to go though him to sell anything.”

  “I see.” The major toasted the man and took another swallow of the beer. In town less than five minutes and he already had learned who sold the material to the warden. He quickly thought up a ploy that might work to trick the warden into admitting guilt. But did this Swopes know everyone who had a sawmill in Prescott? Chances were good he did. The territory was so sparsely populated, not much happened that could be kept a secret for long.

  He left the man a dime tip and hurried to find the warden’s office. His next move might be a confrontation with Hiram London. An ex-Indian agent, according to Sterling, the man was a political appointment forced on him by the party. Obviously if London knew how to steal from the Indian Bureau, this job was a plum. His low regard for the Indian agents he had dealt with during his military career made the major strongly suspicious of any former one.

  On his way to the prison site, he heard the ring of hammers and several creaking carts pulled by dull oxen delivering adobe bricks.

  He entered the new prison headquarters, and a young man in a blue wool uniform seated behind a desk addressed him. “Good day, sir.”

  “Good day. Is Warden Hiram London in today?”

  “Do you have an appointment? The warden only sees people by an appointment.”

  “When is the next one?”

  “Next week, I am afraid.” The clerk looked over a schedule before him.

  “I will have one right now. Tell him that John Sterling sent me.” The major started past the protesting youth.

  “You can’t go in there—”

  H
e tried the knob; locked. Then he used his shoulder to force the door open. The latch gave. The door swung back and a shocked man holding a young Latin girl on his lap looked up. She screamed at the sight of the major, forcing down her skirt hem and leaping to her feet.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “The man who’s firing you! Touch that desk drawer and you’re dead.” The major drew his Colt and scowled at the hysterical girl, who had backed to the window. “Shut up.”

  She obeyed. By this time, London was on his feet hollering for guards at the top of his lungs. With the gun barrel, the major directed him to sit down. The girl rushed out of the office.

  “Now see here—” the red-faced warden began.

  “No. You see here. You’re under arrest until the books of this prison are examined.”

  “What are the charges?”

  “Dereliction of duty, for one.”

  “There’s no law—”

  “London, there’s lots of laws that I can and will charge you with. You better start talking.” Two uniformed guards with rifles rushed in the room.

  “Arrest this man,” London shouted.

  “Unless you want to spend time as an accomplice in jail with your boss, get the hell out of here and go get the sheriff, if there is one in this town.”

  “Don’t leave!” London pleaded. “He’s all wrong.”

  “I’ll send someone after the sheriff, sir,” the sergeant of the guard said. The two men left and a slow grin of satisfaction spread over the major’s face.

  “They must know about the corruption going on here. Now, London, start telling me all about it. First I want to hear about Swopes and his part in this deal.”

  “I swear this is a—”

  With a wary head shake to cut off the man’s plea of innocence, he holstered the Colt. “No, I want the whole story. I know about Swopes. Now you can tell me all about him.”

  Past dark, he left the telegraph office. The message he sent to Sterling simply said: Your warden and four subcontractors are in the Yuma County jail on various charges. Please send a new warden, as the underwarden, T. Frailey, fled to Mexico earlier today.

  The heat still radiated from the adobe building walls. He could only imagine what the prison would be like. In full darkness with only an occasional light shining into the street, he headed for the music. Those same trumpets and guitar tunes carried on the night air. Another cool beer or two and he could perhaps sleep later on if some of the heat in his hotel room evaporated. He really missed the cool nights of the high country and Mary. Oh, Lord, it would be weeks before a replacement could arrive. He shook his head. One thing he felt certain about, hell itself couldn’t be a worse place than Yuma in the summer.

  22

  Tillie thought she could see forever when they topped the rim in mid-morning. The peaks and mountains were covered in a carpet of tall pines. The thin, sharp-scented air was heady enough to make her feel dizzy. She didn’t dare fall out of the seat because Jinx driving was a no-nonsense navigator, and he used the daylight hours to push hard. The horses acted rested and ready to run. Earlier, before she left Jules’s place, she invited the goat man to her wedding.

  With no family of their own out here, what could it hurt to have some nice people come to it? Everyone so far had treated her like a real lady, so perhaps she was making a good coverup of her past. She looked up at the azure sky through the needles and boughs over her head. Thanks, Lord. Whew, she’d have to become a real church-goer if all this worked out. Whether another person would screw things up for her was all she worried about. It would have to be someone else’s fault if that happened.

  Mid-morning, Jinx reined up on a grassy flat to rest his sweaty, hard-breathing team.

  “We’ll take fifteen minutes,” he said, and pointed to the cover. “Take your time. There should be some fresh water a little ways up that draw where you can wash your face, if you like.”

  “Thanks.” She put her slipper on the footstep and jumped down, well accustomed to boarding and unboarding the rig by herself. Skirt in hand, she hustled around to the back. After taking a Turkish towel from her bag and slinging it around her neck, she undid the scarf and freed her hair. With her fingers she tried to fluff it. Must look a sight. She had brushed it hard earlier, but the tight scarf was not good for it. Busy thinking how fine the cool water would feel on her dry face and lips, she skirted around some brush to push her way up the draw. Soon she saw a thin stream of liquid in between the worn round rocks. Must be a bigger hole of it around the bend. She glanced at the tall sides of sedentary gravel and dirt cut through by previous floods.

  She could appreciate the force of heavy rains in the past, and was grateful the sky was clear. Then she saw the large pool. Heavenly, though not deep enough to bathe in. She gathered her dress up and dropped to her bare knees on the edge. The first application of water on her face felt so good. If she could only wallow in it. A close report of a shot broke her train of thought.

  Her heart stopped. She listened. Jinx had never fired his pistol before at anything on a stopover. Was something wrong? The cutting edge of her front teeth bit into her lower lip. What should she do? No weapon. She studied the steep walls and saw no way to escape. Dropping the towel, she quickly rose to her feet. If it was a holdup man, she needed to sneak back and see if she could help poor Jinx.

  He would have shouted to her by this time, had it been a wild shot. No. He treated her too nice not to have yelled. She ran over the round rocks until she spotted a crevice she thought she could climb through to reach the top of the bank.

  The way proved hard. Her soles slid on the steep incline and she had to grasp a bush to save herself from falling. Her heart’s heavy pounding under her breastbone sounded like a sledgehammer. It made her ears ring. She felt faint. The things she grasped to pull herself up with hurt her palms and fingers. At last, with her breath whistling through her nose, she reached the top.

  On her hands and knees, she fought to recover her short breath. Still no call from Jinx. Had he shot himself? Oh, God, how could she ever drive those wild horses?

  “Give me strength,” she said, and got to her feet. With a handful of skirt, she walked her way carefully through the junipers toward the wagon. Then, realizing how loud her footsteps sounded, she began taking softer steps.

  At last she could see a man’s back. It wasn’t Jinx. Too thin a build and the wrong hat. This hat was black and Jinx’s was dirty brown. He turned, as if listening, and she could see his left eye was blind. She stepped back, hoping he had not seen her. Where was Jinx? She closed her eyes. Was he dead?

  She bellied down on the needles and sharp burrs. Finally through the boughs, she could see Jinx’s buckskins. Poor man. He lay on the ground holding his side. She grimaced. His hand looked bloody. Oh, no, he was shot.

  “Where did she go?” the robber asked in halting English.

  “Run off. How should I know?”

  “Kill you soon if you don’t call her back.”

  Kill him? No. She began to wiggle backward to escape. That rotten devil wasn’t killing Jinx for him not calling her. Out from under the boughs, she picked up a two-foot-long stick and worked her way around the juniper.

  Using the screen of the boughs, she made her way closer. At last, she rose to her feet and charged with her weapon held high. The robber reached behind and drew a gleaming blade from his belt. It flashed in the sun and he stepped past the sprawled Jinx.

  A scream left her throat and she ran at him with all her force and strength. She could see his snowy eye. The blank one glared at her. He crouched down, the huge knife ready.

  “Ah,” he cried. “Kill you now!”

  She never stopped her charge, raising the stick higher and higher. The cry came from deep inside her. She drew closer. Then one of Jinx’s boots swung out and swept the robber’s legs from under him. An instant later, she crashed the club on his head. Then again and again. Blow after blow, she battered him with both hands, grasping the stick u
ntil lightning pain ran into her shoulders and the club slipped away.

  Her throat on fire, she fell to her knees and crawled to Jinx side. “You all r-right?”

  “One little bullet ain’t going to kill me, darling.” He made a pained face that hurt her, but he was alive. “We better get to Fortune, though.”

  “What about him?”

  “Hell, he’s looks bad enough off that they can send some of the men back to get him.”

  “Who is he?” she asked, getting under his shoulder and helping him toward the wagon.

  “I never seen that one-eyed renegade before.” He tried to pull himself up on the buckboard. She put her shoulder under his butt and drove him upward.

  “Obilged,” he grunted, sprawled across the wagon’s floorboards. “I better ride here.”

  “But,” she protested. No time for that, she ran back picked up the outlaw’s handgun and knife, and tossed them in the wagon box. Then she quickly tied his horse to the back of it. Without a ride, if he did come to, he wouldn’t go far. She raced around, climbed on, finding a place for her feet beside Jinx’s bulky form.

  “You surely ain’t going to die on me?” she asked, undoing the reins with shaky hands.

  “Not me.”

  “Good. Hee-yah!” She threw the lines at them and the horses spooked away.

  “How far is it?”

  “An hour or two.”

  “Good. We’ll make it in one,” she promised, looking down at him and wondering what else she should have done for the big man’s comfort and health. Nothing to do but drive.

  Too late, she missed reining the flying team around a corner. The wagon lurched over the rut and the horses tore through some junipers. Prickly pear cactus pads went flying in the air. Tossed all over the seat, she finally regained her place. Grateful the cutoff proved flat, she soon reined them between two junipers and back onto the road.

  “Took a shortcut,” she said to him and quickly looked up to see the way. Things could happen fast, and she had to be aware of them. Those crazy running horses would go anywhere unless she guided them. She planted her feet on the dash and drew them around the next bend in a flurry of dust.