Border Lords and Armstrong's War

by Lee Pierce

  One of the cowhands, a scruffy-looking puncher, nodded in agreement. The other two glanced at each other, saying nothing.

  “You’re sure ’nuff right about that one, Chris,” said the nodding cowboy, punctuating his statement by launch­ing an enormous glob of stringy tobacco juice that hurtled through the air in the general direction of the Mexicans.

  “Señor Armstrong,” said one of the Mexicans, “We do not kill this cow. It was dead when we found it. The neck was broken, maybe from a fall into this arroyo. We did not want the meat to go bad, so we butchered as much as we could carry to our families. We would have told El Patron when we saw him next. This is verdad, señor. The truth, I swear it.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” said Chris Arm­strong. “You stinking bean eaters ain’t worth the spit in my mouth. Get your sorry carcasses into that cart yonder and head out toward our ranch house. When my daddy finds out about this he’ll make sure you heathens get to dance on the end of a short rope. I heard you boys love to dance. Ain’t that right?”

  The scruffy cowboy laughed like he thought his boss had said about the funniest thing he’d ever heard. The other two sat stone-faced.

  “Say, Chris,” said the larger of the two silent cowboys, a barrel-chested man with a gray bush of a beard. “See the way that old steer’s neck is all twisted back. That sucker’s broke clean. Maybe these fellers are levelling with you?”

  “Shank Halsey, how long have you worked for the Double-A-Slash?”

  “Chris, you know I was with your daddy when he rode into this country. Shucks, son, I’ve been here forever.”

  “If you want to stay here, old man, you had better shut your mouth.”

  The last of the riders, a lanky mass of freckles named Rusty Puckett, started to say something, but Shank nudged him, and he backed off.

  From his perch above the scene, Jim watched with growing concern. He had known Shank Halsey and Rusty Puckett all of his life. He wanted to speak up, but decided to watch some more before committing himself.

  “Señor,” said the Mexican who had spoken before, “what about Manuel? We must get him to a doctor. He is bleeding too much. He might die here.”

  “Bleed to death or hang, it don’t make any difference. He’s going to die anyway,” said Chris. “Didn’t I tell you to get in that wagon, Mex? Now, go!” He turned to the scruffy rider. “Val, you make sure these boys get to the house in a hurry. I’m going ahead to tell Bale what we found and to get the ropes ready.”

  Not waiting for an answer, Chris Armstrong dug his spurs into his horse and took off at a gallop toward the headquarters of the Double-A-Slash ranch. Seconds later, Shank Halsey headed out in the same direction.

  Jim waited until all the men were out of sight, climbed aboard his steel dun mare, and worked his way down the embankment to the arroyo. When he got there the wounded Mexican was still breathing, but the man had lost a lot of blood. Jim rummaged through his saddle-bags until he found a pint bottle of whiskey and a clean shirt. He wrapped the shirt around the wound to staunch the flow of blood. He then gathered up a few pieces of wood and started a small fire. After putting a pot of water on to boil, Jim looked over at the unconscious man. The Mexican farmer’s breathing was coming in shallow, ragged gulps. Jim had removed more than his share of lead chunks in the last fifteen years, but never from a man this close to death.

  “Amigo,” said Jim, “I don’t hold much chance of you living through the night, but I’ll do my best to fix your wound. Then it’ll be up to the man in the sky to decide whether you live or die.”

  Jim unsheathed the knife he wore on his belt and placed it by the fire. He cleaned the wound with hot water. Then he poured some of the whiskey over the knife blade. Straddling the still unconscious man, using great care, Jim probed into the bullet hole.

  I think I feel it, amigo,” said Jim. He was sweating but not from the heat. He reached the tiny piece of lead and, with a little effort, popped it out.

  “You’re lucky, pardner,” he said. “It doesn’t look like the bullet hit any vitals.” Afterwards, he packed the wound and wrapped it with strips torn from his clean shirt.

  Jim reckoned he was two hours north of Two Bucks City, Texas. He had planned on reaching the town by early afternoon, but the shooting of this Mexican farmer had altered his plans. He couldn’t leave the wounded man, and moving him was out of the question. He unsaddled his horse and picketed the big mare over a large patch of green grass. He arranged his gear on the ground and checked on the Mexican. The man’s breathing had become more regular since the bullet had been removed. He seemed to be resting.

  “Amigo,” said Jim, “you survived my butchering well enough; you just might make it after all. I made camp and I’ll stay with you through the night. I can’t promise anything beyond that. It’s been a coon’s age since I had me a fresh beefsteak, so I believe I’ll carve me a big ol’ hunk of this steer and cook it for my dinner. I’ll save some to make a broth for you, if you make it.”

  Chris Armstrong charged up to the Double-A-Slash ranch house like the devil himself was chasing him. He jumped off of his horse before the animal stopped, bounded onto the porch, and stomped inside.

  “Dad!” he hollered. “Dad, are you here?”

  An answer came from the kitchen. Chris entered the room to find his father sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee. Maria, the Mexican cook, was washing dishes.

  “Señor Chris, would you like some coffee?” said Maria. She wiped her hands on her apron and started toward the coffee pot sitting on a potbellied stove in the corner.

  Chris ignored the offer and ripped into his father. “Dad, I told you, letting those greaser farmers squat on our land would cost us. Well, now they have gone and killed a steer and tried to butcher it. I’m going to teach all of those Mexican peons a lesson.”

  “Whoa, there, Chris,” said Bale Arm­strong. The chair under him protested, squeaking loudly, as Bale tried to straighten his bent frame up to face his irate son. “Calm down. Sit here, get you a cup of coffee, and tell me what’s going on. That’s a pretty strong accusation you just made. Did you see these Mexicans kill the steer?”

  “No, I didn’t see them, but they did it. They had already killed it and were butchering it when we got there.”

  Maria’s slender body stiffened at the accusations. “Excuse me, Señor Bale, but I must go to the henhouse for a few minutes.” She didn’t wait for Bale Armstrong’s answer.

  Throwing a tattered shawl around her narrow shoulders, the old woman hurried outside. The screen door banged shut behind her. Bale looked up as she left, and then back at his son. His eyes were hard.

  Placing both hands on the table, using great effort, Bale pushed himself to a standing position. His worn-out legs creaked like rusty hinges as he stood. “Was anybody with you when you found the steer?”

  “Shank and Rusty were with me. Val Rose was there, too.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Bringing in the rustlers. I’m going to hang them. That ought to keep the rest away from Double-A-Slash livestock.”

  “Hang ’em! That’s a little bit harsh, isn’t it?”

  “Bale, those greasers have got to learn once and for all who is boss around here.”

  Bale looked Chris in the eye. “You had better not forget who is boss around here, either, Chris. I don’t like it when you call me by my first name. It shows disrespect. Ever since you started hanging around with that Quarry bunch, son, you have been making some mighty poor decisions. You know Mort Quarry wants this ranch, and he will stoop to anything to get it.”

  Chris opened his mouth but nothing came out. He sat for a moment, and then stood up. “I don’t have time for this. I’m going to the barn for some rope. I’ve got a bunch of Mexicans to hang.”

  Before Chris could go out, Shank Halsey strode into the room. He stood in the doorway blocking Chris’s exi
t. Chris tried to go around him, but Halsey stood his ground.

  “Boss, we got to talk, and I’d just as soon Chris be here to listen to what I’ve got to say.” He shot a withering glance toward the younger Armstrong. Chris backed up against the cabinet and stood silent.

  “I’m sure you already got the story from Chris, boss, but I want to make sure he didn’t leave nothin’ out.”

  Bale Armstrong looked at Chris and back at Shank. He cocked his head to the side and motioned for the old wrangler to continue.

  “Boss, them farmers was butcherin’ that steer when we came up on ’em. The dumb thing was in the arroyo with its neck all twisted back. They said they found it there with a broke neck, and they was just tryin’ to save some of the meat. One of ’em said he was goin’ to tell you, next time he saw you.”

  “Is this true, Chris?” said Bale, narrowing his brow.

  “They said that, but everybody knows a Mex would rather tell a lie than eat tortillas and chilli peppers.”

  “That ain’t all, Boss,” said Shank, in a low voice. “Chris shot one of ’em. The feller didn’t have no gun, either.”

  “Good Lord, Chris,” said Bale, his face blanching white. “You shot an unarmed man?”

  “Come on, Dad, it was a stinking Mexican.”

  Bale looked at Shank. “Is the man dead?”

  “Don’t know, boss; Chris made us leave him there and bring the rest of ’em here to hang.”

  “Where are the rest of the men who were doing the butchering, Shank?”

  “Rusty and Valentine are bringin’ ’em in. They ought to be here any minute, now.”

  “Shank, you get Maria to take a wagon, and you two hightail it back to the arroyo. If that man is still alive, bring him back here.”

  Bale Armstrong turned to his young­est son. “Chris, you tell the boys to let those Mexicans go and tell Rusty to escort them back to their homes. I’ll go out there tomorrow and apologize to them. And boy, you had better hope that man you shot isn’t dead.”

  Chris looked at his father, disbelief covering his face. “You tell them, Bale. I’m done working here. Mort Quarry offered me a job, and I’m going to take it. He knows how to treat his men, and he always needs another gun.” He turned toward the door. “Get out of my way Shank, or you’ll be the next man I shoot.” Shank stepped aside, and Chris stormed out of the kitchen.

  Shank looked down at his boss and old friend. “He’ll come back, Bale. He just ain’t quite growed up yet. Maybe him bein’ away for a while might help, it sure can’t hurt. I’ll get one of the hands to hitch up a wagon, and, on our way out, I’ll tell Rusty what to do with them farmer fellers.”

  Shank headed for the front door. Bale Armstrong dropped into his chair and bowed his head.

  Chapter 2

  Jim was moving to check on the wounded man when the clatter of an approaching wagon caught his atten­tion. Standing up, he loosened the thong on his .44 and stood relaxed as the wagon pulled up to the edge of the arroyo. Shank Halsey rode beside the wagon, and Jim was surprised to see a woman driving the rig. As the woman pulled the team of horses to a stop, the big puncher reined his horse in to her left.

  “Howdy,” said Jim. “Sit and rest a spell, coffee’s hot.”

  “Gracias, señor,” said the lady.

  “Usted son Mexicana?” said Jim.

  “Yes, I am, but I speak English.”

  “Good,” said Jim. “Maybe you can help me, señorita. There is a Mexican man here. He has been shot. I took the bullet out and did my best to help him, but I don’t know if he will live or not.”

  Maria hopped down from the wagon seat and scurried over to the wounded man. “It is Manuel, por Dios, he is alive.”

  Shank glared down at Jim. “I know you from somewhere,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Most folks call me Jim Butler. What’s your handle?”

  “It don’t matter who I am. What’s your interest in this hurt feller?”

  “No special interest, I was just ridin’ by, looked down into this arroyo and noticed the steer. When I rode down, I saw the wounded man. The rest you know.”

  “You had a fire. Did you cook up some of that animal?”

  “Well, him being dead and all, just wasting away… Yes, sir. I did have me a big chunk of beef. It sure was good, too.”

  “You’re on Double-A-Slash land, feller. That steer belongs to Bale Armstrong.”

  “He must be the big ‘he coon’ around here, then.”

  “Has been for thirty years and will be for another thirty,” Shank said. “You the Jim Butler who was involved in that little ruckus up in Oklahoma about a year ago?”

  “Yep, that’s me.”

  “You got yourself a reputation, Butler. We don’t need no more two-bit gunfighters around these parts. You saddle up and shuck it for somewheres else.”

  Jim smiled at the old cowpoke. “You people sure ain’t too friendly around here, amigo.”

  Before the conversation could heat up anymore, Maria called out, “You two quit wasting time and help me get Manuel into the wagon.”

  Jim looked at Shank, winked, and turned to help Maria with Manuel. Shank sat his horse, his hand resting on the butt of his six-gun, and watched.

  With the wounded man loaded and settled in as best could be expected, Maria clicked her tongue and the horses started off toward the ranch headquarters. Shank stayed behind with his eyes on Jim, until the wagon was thirty feet away. He started to turn his horse to follow, when Jim spoke.

  “Shank, hold up a minute. I want to talk to you.”

  Shank Halsey stopped cold. Turning his horse back around, he rode to within spitting distance of Jim. There was a puzzled look on his face.

  “How come you know my name, Butler? Where’d we cross trails?”

  “Shoot, Marion Charles Halsey, why shouldn’t I know your name, you old mossy horn?”

  Shank jerked back, almost falling off his horse. “Ain’t nobody around these parts knows my Christian name. Who are you?”

  “Get down off that hay burner, and have a cup of Arbuckle’s with me. The coffee’s been on the fire for a couple of hours so it ought to be just the way you like it.”

  Jim dug a tin cup out of his saddlebags, filled it with the strong, hot brew, and handed it to the big cowboy. He took off his hat and ran a rough hand through his bushy hair. “I’m Bale Armstrong, Jr., Shank,” Jim said. “I’ve come back from the dead.”

  Shank’s face turned to chalk. The tin cup dropped from his limp fingers and clattered across the hard-scrabble ground. He stood motionless, staring into the cobalt-blue eyes of Jim Butler. “By the Lord Almighty, you are Bale Armstrong, Jr. Badger, it’s you!’

  “Nobody’s called me Badger in fifteen years. It sounds strange, but it sounds pretty good. How are you, old compadre?”

  Jim Butler stuck out his right hand, and Shank grabbed it, jerking it like a pump handle. Both men briefly embraced, and then backed off. Shank kept on shaking his head.

  “Doggone it, Badger, the old man told us you was dead; it was nine or ten years ago. He said you got killed in some sort of gunfight down Arizona way. Why, he even went down there to see your grave. What in tarnation happened?”

  Jim smoothed out his hair and put his hat back on. “Let’s get over yonder next to the fire, and I’ll tell you a little bit about it.”

  They hunkered down, and Jim began his story.

  “When Poppa kicked me off the ranch, I drifted south into Mexico, and ended up throwin’ in with some rough hombres. We ran cattle back and forth across the border and raised Cain on both sides. One night in Tombstone, one of the gang came out second best in a disagreement with Doc Holliday.”

  “Holliday kill him?” asked Shank.

  “Yep, that’s when I got the idea.”

  “Idea for what?” />
  “Back then, I was still mad at my father. I had some papers on me that said who I was, and when nobody was looking, I slipped them inside the dead man’s coat. The undertaker buried Bale Armstrong, Jr., the next day. I took the name Jim Butler after James Butler Hickok—Wild Bill—and that’s what I’ve gone by ever since.”

  Jim got up and stretched his legs. He took his hat off and raked fingers through his hair. Telling his story to Shank had brought back unsettling memories.

  “By durn, Badger,” said Shank, rising to his feet, “everybody knows about Quick Jim Butler. Some say you’re the fastest man with a handgun that there is. I heard you killed over a hundred men. Is that right, Badger?”

  “No, it ain’t right, Shank. I’ve killed some men, but only when there was no other choice. I hope I’m through with killing. That’s one of the reasons I came back home. I want to settle down on the ranch, if my father will let me.”

  “Say, Badger. We got to get on back to the ranch and tell Bale you’re alive. Man, I can’t hardly wait to see the look on Rusty’s ol’ freckled face when he hears the news.”

  “No, Shank, I don’t want anyone else to know I’m back—at least not yet. I was up on that ridge yonder, and I saw what happened with those Mexicans. Something’s not right.”

  “Badger, it’s that dad gum Mort Quarry and his bunch. They’re tryin’ to get your daddy’s ranch, and they don’t pay no never mind how they do it. Quarry owns most of Two Bucks City already, but that ain’t enough for a greedy crook like him. He wants it all.”

  “Shank, what happened to Chris? He shot that man for no reason. Since when has it been a crime to butcher an animal that was already dead?”

  “Aw, Badger, over the last year, Chris has turned into somebody I don’t know any more. He’s been hangin’ out with that Quarry gang, and not hardly doin’ anything to help on the ranch. A little while ago, he told Bale he was quittin’ the Double-A-Slash because Bale wouldn’t let him hang them farmers.”

  Jim rubbed his hand down his mustache. “Shank, I’m going to ride into Two Bucks City tomorrow as Jim Butler. I don’t want anyone else to know who I am. As far as I’m concerned, right now, Badger Arm­strong died in Tombstone. I’ll let it be known who I am when I’m ready.”