Rancher's Law

by Dusty Richards

  Inside, he searched the room. The stained feather tick was rolled up on the end of the cot. Couple of old riatas on the antlers. Broken, short, or too old and rotten was why Jakes left them. The room smelled sour and moldy. Dog-eared calendars decorated the walls. A couple of cracked nude girlie pictures were concealed underneath the framed racehorse ones. But he knew where they were. Then, on the floor under the table, he found the old spur strap with the initials S. J. carved on it.

  That would do. Where would he find Porter at this time of day? He better ride that way. Watch out to be sure no one could pin the man’s death on him, and get it over with.

  That left Randy, and he’d impressed Taneal enough to have her keep his mouth shut. Where had that worthless boy gone? Made no sense where he would go on crutches, but for the moment he had other things to worry about. He should have known from the start Porter was too weak for such an undertaking. That old man Yancy Porter, he’d hung his share. But Reed had no guts, none whatsoever. He’d have even less before sundown.

  Matt stepped in the stirrup and before his right foot found the other one, the buckskin exploded.

  “All I needed. All I needed,” he kept repeating, fighting the horse’s bogged head upward with little success. Half a mile from the ranch, he finally got him into a lope. The worthless cull. He lashed him from side to side with the reins to run faster.

  WILL SEND A NEW WARDEN A.S.A.P. PLEASE STAY IN CHARGE AND GET IT ALL STRAIGHT DOWN THERE. STERLING.

  The major put the telegram on his desk. Here he sat in the inescapable heat of the fiery furnace, and all Sterling could say was stay there. When was he sending the new warden? As soon as—oh, it would not be quick enough. He looked up, and with a new white parasol came Miss Hmm through the door. She wore a rather colorful peach dress. A new one, he suspected. He blinked, for her black hair was done in long spiral curls and she wore a very fashionable wide-brimmed straw hat.

  “I need some advice,” she said.

  “Well, you look very nice,” he said, and gave his head a bob to the side in approval.

  “My thanks. I have my rig outside. If you wouldn’t mind going for a ride with me?”

  “Of course.” He drew down the flat-crowned panama straw that replaced his felt one from the hat rack. Too hot for his usual felt in this place. “I’ll be back,” he said to his secretary.

  Outside, he blinked at the fancy two-seat rig with matching black horses and a uniformed driver.

  “I see you have found your inheritance,” he said, and helped her up as the driver made certain the top shaded the rear seat for them.

  “Yes. My uncle was a great adventurer. A scallywag and, I am told, a whoremonger. He died here two years ago, leaving his estate to me. I had three years to claim it. The will said I must come in person or the estate would go to a monastery.

  “None of my family was ever Catholic.” She made a displeased face at him. “Why my crazy uncle threatened me with that I don’t know. Besides the fact he had been in the desert too long, we will never know. His lawyer kept the estate together. But he was never to divulge the amount until I personally came to Yuma to claim it.

  “Needless to say, I suspected to inherit a black box full of rotten eggs.”

  “And he left you … ?” The major hung on for her words as the carriage rumbled down the caliche street.

  “Three hundred thousand. A ranch in New Mexico and a mine near Prescott. A gold mine.”

  “Quite a sum. But what can I do for you?”

  “I know you work for the governor, but would you oversee my gold mine, too?”

  “Well.” He dabbed his forehead with his kerchief. “What if the mine’s worthless?”

  “Then close it. I shall leave that to you. I know you won’t spend good money after bad. You are too damned honest, Gerald Bowen. That’s why I am offering you five hundred a month to oversee the mine manager up there and the operation.”

  “That’s lots of money. Why, you could hire—”

  She placed a hand on his arm. “I don’t want anyone else.”

  He shrugged, trapped. How could he turn down such a lucrative proposition? No way.

  “So you will do it?”

  “I reckon.”

  She grabbed him, kissed him on the mouth, and then shouted, “Hot damn!”

  “Ann, you can’t kiss me like that. I have a wife.”

  She settled back down and adjusted her hat. “I surely won’t ever embarrass you again. I simply couldn’t help myself either time I did it.”

  He twisted and frowned at her.

  “I know.” She held out her hands defensively. “I am only hiring your services as an overseer.” Eyes closed, she lay back on the patent leather. Then she shook her head in disbelief. “Your wife is a very lucky woman. Hope she knows that.”

  “Oh, she does.” And she’s very lucky, ’cause she’s in Prescott. Where it is a helluva lot cooler than this buggy ride. He took off his panama and wiped his forehead again. Whew.

  24

  The sound of the cattle bawling carried a long way. Luther could hear them over the drum of his horse’s hooves pounding the hard-packed road. He had informed everyone about the meeting at Alma Crossing. That completed, he hoped that his crew was safe and had no bad wrecks during his absence. He had a lot to be pleased about. Tillie came to Arizona to marry him. He also stood a good chance to get someone to talking about the lynching if he had to pry it out of them.

  When he drew near, he could see the herd size. His boys had made a large gathering early that morning and also moved the B Bar herd westward. As far as he could see stretched a sea of cattle. Be lots of cutting to do from this herd. Perhaps they should push the B Bar cattle they had already gathered to the rented pasture, then make another drive. Burtle had branded several head. He put the current count at over three hundred, but so far the brands on them looked real enough, none of them were worked over. The man had been busy to brush out that many head. Of course, he might have bought or traded for some, too. They didn’t all come from mavericking.

  Hirk came trotting toward him. The man reined up and let reins drop on his horn. His horse looked worn down enough to snort in the dust and stand hip-shot.

  “You did real good this morning.”

  “Good enough. Funny thing. Once or twice earlier I’ve seen that Randy McKean and some girl riding with him. Following or spying on us. They had two pack horses with them.”

  “Who’s she?” Luther asked, recalling the boy on crutches. He wanted to ask Randy some more questions without his mother present.

  “Don’t know, but they sure acted plumb interested in our business.”

  “Never rode down to the herd or anything?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Maybe Pyle talked to them. He knows Randy, don’t he?”

  Hirk agreed. The two rode into camp. Luther saw Pyle taking a fresh horse and changing saddles. He hurried over to him.

  “Oh, it’s you, boss man,” Pyle said, as if startled by his presence.

  “I heard Randy McKean was tracking you boys this morning?”

  Pyle nodded and quit cinching his mouse colored horse. He shook his head, buried his face in his arms on the seat, and began to cry. “It was them! It was them, boss. Randy came down and told me all about it. He couldn’t stay here any longer. Him and that girl, Lana, they’re leaving the country. Says his paw headed the whole thing. Jake’s left, too.” Pyle’s shoulders shook and tears streamed down his tan checks.

  “That’s who lynched them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who else?”

  “Charboneau, Crain, Porter, Jakes, Randy’s dad. They was all in on it.” Pyle whipped off his kerchief and wiped his wet eyes. “Gawd, we all loved that Teddy. He made a hand, boss. He could have bought this whole gawdamn country. His folks have lots of money.” Pyle blew his nose. “He wanted to build it himself. Son of a bitch, I ain’t never cried in my life about nothing. Nothing. Why did they do that?”


  “So Teddy couldn’t build that ranch.” He clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Pyle, get hold of yourself. Do the others know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’ve got to keep it quiet till I get back. I need to be certain Porter stays alive. With Randy gone, I’m going to need a witness, and Porter is my best bet.”

  “You knew?”

  “I suspected. I’ll tell you the truth when I get back. Right now I’ll tell you I’m not a real cattle buyer, I’m a territorial marshal working undercover.”

  “My gawd. You fooled me.”

  “But I may have overplayed my hand. That’s why I figure Randy ran off.”

  “Randy said that Jakes left the country this morning, too.”

  “You couldn’t fool that old man. Let me have that horse,” Luther said. “I need to ride.” He turned around as the anxious Ben jumped on his leg. He patted the dog on the head. “And keep Ben here.”

  “You’ll need your saddle. My stirrups are way too short.” Pyle took off at a run for the bay.

  Hirk rode over frowning, then watched the boy carrying the saddle to him. “What’s Pyle so upset about? He’s been crying?”

  “Long story, pard. Can’t say yet. We may have company soon, so act like everything is all right. I need to go get a man.” Luther stripped the boy’s rig off the gelding.

  “Who’s coming?” Hirk asked.

  “Charboneau, Crain. Hold them here as long as you can. I’ll be back.”

  Then Pyle arrived with his saddle, set the pad, and tossed it on. Working on each side, they adjusted the cinches and Luther drew them up tight. The whole time the bulldog climbed up on him to get his attention.

  “Ben, you can’t go. But you will never guess who’s in Fortune. No, sir, you’ll never guess. Tillie’s there, pard.” He scratched the dog’s ears and then with both hands tossed him across Hirk’s saddle. “Take care of him. Pyle, you tell Hirk what we know and keep the rest a secret until I get back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Whatever you do, be careful!” Hirk shouted after him

  “I will.” In a bound, he was in the saddle and charging across the flats before he even had his other foot in the far stirrup. Pyle’s gray horse could sure run.

  Where would Porter be? In town drinking, at his ranch, or coming to the camp on the Alma Creek Ford. Luther charged the horse on. Before this afternoon was over, he might regret how hard he had to run the pony. Nothing small about his heart, anyway.

  No one on the road but some farm families. When he stopped them and asked, none had seen Porter in Fortune during the day. Luther decided to check his ranch first. Since his sister never said where he was, he might even have been doing ranch work. He whipped the horse to go faster.

  It was before noontime when Matt left his ranch. He was still in a fury over his wife and stupid son, but his thoughts were on his biggest problem and how to solve it. Reed Porter would be drinking in that line shack all afternoon. Since the last trouble in town and his warning, Porter promised to not get drunk again in Fortune. So the drunk ordered copious quantities of liquor and hauled them by pack horse to his hideout near the rim. The best way, Matt felt, to do this job was to coax him out of the cabin and kill him where the body and the spur strap could easily be found.

  Matt spotted Luther coming in time to get off the road. When the troublemaking cattle buyer rode by him, he had stayed hidden in the brush and watched Haskell go on his way to the Alma Creek Ford and the meeting he had planned. He had some bad news for that sumbitch—Porter wouldn’t be at his party tonight.

  Matt wiped his sweaty hands on his leggings. What a temptation to have shot that worthless ranny, but Haskell soon was gone east to his cow camp. Should have killed him. Might have to before this was over anyway. No matter. He’d do what he had to do to preserve his ranch.

  Ready to move on again, Matt booted the buckskin out of the brush and on toward the Porter place. He needed to stop close by the house and check to be certain Porter wasn’t at home, to save the ride up to the cabin. And not let that girl see him either. Good-looking heifer, too. That Teddy Dikes was probably dipping in her. Matt’s memory came back of how she squalled like a pig under a gate when the word came in he was hung. She could do a lot better than that rustler. Her old pappy would have never let Dikes put his boots under their table. Porter had no guts.

  He came up the back way to Porter’s headquarters, tied his horse in the pasture, and used the brush along the small branch for cover. No sign of anyone. He dropped to his knee behind the barn and caught his breath. In a minute, he’d slip inside to see if Porter’s saddle was there.

  At the back walk-through-door of the barn, where they turned horses loose into the pasture, he raised the bar with a string hanging on the outside. Then like a cat he slipped inside the shadowy interior. It smelled of sour horse piss. Slow and steady, he moved past the empty tie stalls until he reached the tack room and swung the door open.

  Porter’s saddle was nowhere in sight. He drew a deep breath and leaned against the frame. This would make it so easy. He’d find Porter at the line shack, probably facedown on the table passed out. Filled with newfound confidence, he eased out of the structure and made his way to the cover. In a few minutes, with his shirt soaked in sweat despite the cool breeze feeding off some afternoon shower, he was aboard his buckskin again and headed up the trail for the shack.

  An hour later, he reached the wood-framed building. When he burst in the door, he found Porter sprawled on his back on the cot. Good, Matt decided, and lifted the open bottle on the table to his mouth. He studied the snoring Porter and swallowed a deep swig. The sharp liquor cut off his breath and he coughed up a spray of it that hurt his throat. Tears ran down his face and he set the bottle down. Damn.

  Next thing he needed was to find Porter’s horse and throw his carcass over it. Tie him on so he didn’t fall off. No rush. He heard the thunder coming over the rim high above the shack. Better wait to go for the horse until the shower passed, then he’d load him and go down to the main road.

  His mouth crawling for another swallow, he lifted the bottle and this time took a smaller drink. It went down, but hurt his throat where the big one had exploded. Rain began to drum on the shingles and a leak in the roof forced him to move his chair back. It would be over soon.

  Luther made the trip back in record time, riding into the yard at the Porter ranch on his lathered horse. He slid Mouse to a stop, looking for someone. Clouds up on the rim had begun to build into storms. He shrugged, dismounted, and headed for the front door. Porter’s welfare filled his every thought.

  “Hold it right there,” Margie ordered. Armed with a shotgun, she blocked the front door.

  “I don’t have time to argue, ma’am. Is your brother here?”

  She shook her head, then reiterated the threat with the muzzle of the shotgun aimed at him.

  “We may not have much time. Your brother’s life is at stake.” He tried to see past her.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I think someone’s going to try to kill him.”

  “What for?” She frowned hard.

  “Over what he knows about the hangings.”

  “He …” Her face paled. “He knows nothing—”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but all this hard drinking he’s been doing—it’s because he was there.”

  “You lie!” she screamed, and threw down the shotgun.

  He shuddered when it hit the floor, but it didn’t go off. “Where is he?”

  “At the line shack,” she said in defeat. Thunder rolled across the sky and Luther looked around to see the first drops fall.

  “Ma’am, I hate to ask you, but could you tell me the way?”

  She stood there, a look of indecision set deep on her worried face.

  “I’m a lawman. Territorial marshal, sent up here by the governor to solve this hanging business. I don’t want your brother hurt. But the sooner he’s in my custody, the safer h
e will be.”

  “I’ll show you the way.”

  “It’s started raining.”

  “No matter. I can take you there. You’d probably get lost.”

  From the wall pegs, she took down a rubber slicker and hat and quickly donned them. Then she ran out of the house for the barn. He followed her, leading Mouse. Inside the alleyway, he offered her assistance. She refused. He took down his own slicker as she saddle her own horse.

  Mounted, she lashed her bay out of the barn into the rain. “Let’s go!” Luther followed on his, ducking his head at the nearby grave digger that went zigzagging off through the sky. Damn. He sure hated lightning.

  Despite the rain and mud, she flew to the back of the pasture. He dismounted to open the Texas gate, let her and Mouse through, closed it, and remounted. She had already disappeared into the timber.

  He ducked the wet boughs, pushed his horse, and soon caught sight of her. Their horses scrambled on the wet rocky pathways. Leather creaked and cinches strained. The way proved straight up the mountain, and Luther kept checking over his shoulder in the torrential downpour to see if they were being followed. Blasts of blinding lightning made him edgy and thunder unsettled him more. This timber was not where he wanted to be in such a storm.

  The trail broke out into a flat meadow and he was forced to whip Mouse to keep Margie in sight. The rain let up for an instant when he finally caught up with her and reached out for the reins to stop her.

  “Let go of them!” She struck at him with her fist.

  “We can’t simply ride in there. Someone may be with him. It could be dangerous.”

  “Who? Who are you talking about?” She finally stopped her mount

  “I ain’t sure, but I know that things have gone from bad to worse today for some reason. Two of the men involved in the hanging have ridden out of the country.” He swung his horse in closer to talk to her. They turned them away from the driving rain that beat on his canvas coat.

  “Who was there?” she asked pointedly. “You keep saying they. Who are they?”