Border Lords and Armstrong's War

by Lee Pierce

  “Manuel, you must get plenty of rest. You can talk to Señor Butler sometime later. Go to sleep.” Before Manuel could protest, the woman grabbed Jim by the arm and whisked him outside.

  Once they were in the open air, she introduced herself to Jim. “Señor Butler, I am Conchita Consuelo Maria Lopez de San Martin. I am the housekeeper for Mr. Armstrong at his big rancho. Please call me Maria.”

  “Howdy, Maria. Since you have such an important job with Mr. Armstrong, and you also seem to be well respected here at this village, I bet you know pretty much everything that goes on in these parts.”

  “Señor Butler, do not waste your flowery compliments on this rose. I have more thorns than you could ever imagine.”

  Jim laughed at Maria’s candor. “I apologize, ma’am. You caught me in the watermelon patch.”

  “Who are you, and why are you here, Mr. Jim Butler?”

  The questions caught Jim flat-footed, and he jerked his head back. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “Was my English so poor that you did not understand what I just said, Mr. Butler?”

  “No ma’am, you kind of caught me off guard is all.”

  “Do you have something to hide, señor?”

  Jim felt like he was under investiga­tion for a crime. “Ma’am, Maria. I was just passin’ through this country when I chanced upon them fellers harrassing Manuel and the others. I tried to be a Good Samaritan and help out a wounded man. Why are you question­ing me like I committed a crime?”

  “Very well, Mr. Butler—if that is your name, and I feel that it is not. I have certain powers, or visions. Intuition, you might call it, but that would be incorrect. Sometimes I can see into a man’s heart and even his soul. I do not know you, Mr. Butler, but I know of you. I had a vision of a large man coming back into this country. He seemed a stranger to all, but he had lived here many years ago. Although he did not know it at the time, he was meant to be the savior of this land.”

  “Whoa, there, Maria. You’re givin’ me goosebumps. I think I better ­skedaddle out of here right now before you spook me real good. You sound like a bruja, a witch.”

  “Señor Jim, at one time you were called Badger because you would never give up. I pray that you are the man I think you are. Mr. Armstrong needs your help. His health is not good. His bones no longer support his body. The time is not so far away when he will cease to walk. Please, por favor, help us save the ranch.”

  “Maria, I don’t know what to say, except you’ve got me all wrong. I’m just driftin’. That’s all.”

  Jim quick-footed it outside and swung into his saddle. He tipped his hat to Maria, and dug heels into the steel dun. The big mare took off at a fast trot away from the Mexican village.

  Chapter 5

  Early the next morning Mort Quarry rented a buckboard and drove out to the Double-A-Slash. His reason for going was to get word to his spy at the ranch, but since he had to make the trip anyway, he decided to make Bale Armstrong one final offer. If the old fool didn’t accept the deal, he would put himself in harm’s way. It wouldn’t start today, but tomorrow Mort Quarry would turn his men loose. He had over a dozen hard cases working for him, each one picked for his prowess with a six gun. All Armstrong had was a bunch of cowboys. Quarry did not expect much competition.

  Chris Armstrong and Dude Miller rode alongside the buckboard. Quarry didn’t expect trouble, but he was prepared for anything that might happen.

  “Dang your sorry hide, Valentine. You’re the laziest son-of-a-gun I ever worked with. If we don’t get this fence fixed today, Mr. Armstrong will have our behinds.”

  “Rusty Puckett, how many times I got to tell you, don’t call me Valentine. Val is my name, and I ain’t lazy; I just like to work real careful like so I don’t have to come back and do a job twice.”

  Rusty started to reply when out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of movement down by a ranch gate that was a quarter mile from where they were working.

  “Look yonder, Valentine. Can you make out them hombres over by the gate?”

  “Why sure I can. I got eagle eyes. Let’s see, that looks like.” He paused for a moment. “One of them riders is Dude Miller, the other one is Chris.”

  “Them two,” said Rusty, “means Mort Quarry must be drivin’ the rig.”

  “Yep, Rusty, there ain’t no mistakin’ that big old galoot. Wonder what they’re here for.”

  “It sure ain’t no social call. Val, I’ll stay and work on this fence. You fork your bronc and beat it to the ranch house. Mr. Armstrong needs to know them polecats are comin’.”

  Val Rose didn’t hesitate. He hit leather and was gone.

  Jim Butler sat horseback high on a tree-covered knoll and watched the Double-A-Slash rider take off in the direction of the ranch house. Jim rode in a zigzag pattern down through the trees, never losing sight of Val Rose or the buckboard and its two outriders. He watched as the buckboard slowed down and stopped. The driver got down and walked over behind an ancient pecan tree. In a moment, the massive man climbed back aboard the rig, and resumed his journey.

  Jim started to continue on when the actions of the Double-A-Slash cowhand stopped him cold. Instead of riding straight to the ranch, the man veered his horse to the tree where Mort Quarry had been just minutes ago. The puncher dismounted and also went behind the huge pecan. In a moment he reappeared with a note in his hand, which he shoved into his shirt pocket. Then he was back on his horse and riding again.

  Quarry drove the buckboard up to the front door of the ranch house. He pulled a handkerchief from an inside pocket, wiped the sweat from his face, and brushed the dust off his clothes as best he could.

  “Dude, go knock on the door and see if anybody’s home.” Quarry laughed at his little joke. Bale Armstrong was always home. Too many hard falls from breaking wild horses had crippled him up.

  Dude leaped to the ground and sauntered to the house. He banged on the heavy wooden door. “Anybody here?” he yelled. “Hey, open up.” He slammed his fist against the door over and over again. “Come on and open this door before I bust it to kindling.”

  Maria jerked the door open. Hate and anger smoldered in her eyes. “You people do not belong here. You must go, now.”

  “Now, now, Maria, control yourself,” said Quarry. “If you want to keep your job when I take over this ranch, you are going to have to show my men and me a little respect.”

  “I spit on your respect,” said Maria. “Hombre, you have much money and power, but other people have power, too. You are crossing a line that should not be crossed. If you live, it will be with many regrets. You have angered the wrong people. The spirits do not lie.”

  “Don’t worry about her babblings, Mr. Quarry,” said Chris Armstrong. “She’s about half crazy. The Mexicans think she can tell the future. I think it’s a lot of bunk.”

  Mort was about to tell the woman off when Bale Armstrong appeared beside her. He was carrying a double-barreled twelve gauge shotgun.

  “Quarry, you and your trained monkey get off my property.” Armstrong leaned on a heavy wooden cane. His face distorted with the pain that wracked his body; his eyes shone with another kind of pain. “Chris, son, get down and come in and let’s talk.”

  “I ain’t got nothing to say to you that hasn’t already been said.” Venom dripped from Chris Armstrong’s words. “I work for Mr. Quarry now, and when he takes over the Double-A-Slash, I’ll be run­ning the outfit. Then you’ll see how a ranch ought to be run.”

  Dude Miller stood like a rock, staring at the twelve gauge shotgun, ready to shoot Bale Armstrong if he tried to pull the triggers. His face twitched when Chris said he would be running the Double-A-Slash; otherwise, he was a statue.

  “Hold on now, Bale,” said Mort Quarry, smiling. “There’s no need to go waving a weapon around and threaten­ing anyone. We are here to plead with you to sell us your ranch.
Be reason­able, man. You are in no shape to run a property like this, and you aren’t getting any younger. One of your sons is dead, and the other one has left you. Who are you saving this ranch for, the Mexican squatters over by Panther Creek?” An ugly laugh escaped through Mort Quarry’s chunky lips.

  “I swear on my dead son’s grave,” said Bale, his face white from the pain. “I will blow you to kingdom come if you don’t ride out of here right now.” He wavered and almost fell, lowering the shotgun as he struggled for balance.

  Chris Armstrong leaped from his horse and ripped the twelve gauge from his father’s weakening grip. As he glowered down at the shell of a man, pity and disgust enveloped his mind, but fear showed in his eyes. Bale Armstrong had always seemed inde­structible; now he seemed so small and insignificant. Chris hated him for his roughshod ways, but he loved this man as only a son could. He stood transfixed, shotgun in hand, his mind racing. Had he made the wrong decision leaving his father? He was beginning to see Mort Quarry for what he was, a ruthless, greedy monster. Was it time to go back to his father?

  While he stood there bewildered, Dude Miller made his move. “Shucks, this old man ain’t worth the air he’s breathin’,” said Dude. “I’m gonna solve everybody’s problem. I’ll just kill him right here.”

  Dude started toward Bale Arm­strong when a screaming chunk of lead tore his hat from his head. Dude dropped to one knee and ripped his pistol from its holster. “What in blazes is going on?” His voice was shrill, filled with fear.

  Chris Armstrong pulled iron and crouched beside his father. Maria ran to Bale and tried to shield his body with her own. Mort Quarry made no movement toward shelter. He sat immobile in the buckboard.

  “Put your guns away, boys,” he said. “Whoever is shooting at us intended that shot as a warning.” He turned to scan the area where the gunshot had come from. “Come out and show yourself, friend. I believe there is a misunderstanding here.”

  Another bullet burned in inches from Mort Quarry’s hand, burrowing into the side of the buckboard, slinging splinters in every direction. The horse started to buck, but Quarry got the animal under control.

  “Dude, Chris,” he said, “mount up.” He turned and looked out toward the tree-lined ridge that edged across the west side above the house. “I hope we meet again, my friend. Perhaps next time, I will have the upper hand.”

  Quarry turned the buckboard around and headed away. The horse taking off at a brisk trot. Dude Miller mounted his horse, gun in hand, and rode after his boss. Chris Armstrong stood look­ing down at his father.

  “Chris, your father—he needs you,” said Maria. “He cannot live without you on the ranch. Please stay, Chris, por favor.”

  Chris stared at his father with blank eyes, confusion tearing through his mind. He took a deep breath, then turned and mounted his horse. He rode away without looking back.

  Chapter 6

  Jim forked the steel dun and headed off in the direction of the mystery tree. Things were happening too fast. He had begun developing a plan as soon as he’d found out what was going on in the Two Bucks country. He now realized there was not enough time to implement his scheme. Drastic mea­sures would be needed without delay. He rode along rethinking everything until he cleared a rise that was above the stand of pecan trees. Scouring the countryside and discerning no move­ment, Jim trotted his horse down into the Bosque.

  Mort Quarry was furious. He swung the buggy whip and popped blisters on the back of the buckboard horse as they made their way back to Two Bucks City. His plan to take over the Double-A-Slash ranch had been fool­proof. Things had been falling into place like stacked dominoes. Now a wild card had been thrust into the mix.

  Quarry had an idea that the man who’d buffaloed Dude Miller was the same one who fired from the ridge today. But who was this stranger? If it really was the gunfighter Quick Jim Butler, where did the man come from, and what were his motives for protect­ing Bale Armstrong and his ranch?

  Dude Miller rode in front of the buckboard; Chris Armstrong brought up the rear. Dude slowed his horse down, allowing the wagon to catch up with him. He sidled his mount over close to Mort Quarry.

  “What do we do now, boss?” he said.

  “I’m thinking about that right now, Dude. I figured that old fool was too proud to hire protection. Looks like I underestimated him.” Mort Quarry considered Bale Armstrong in a new light. “Let’s assume Jim Butler is on the Double-A-Slash payroll.”

  “Let me have him, boss.” Dude had lost a lot of respect from the Quarry men after the beating Jim had given him. “I owe that gunslick a whippin’. He caught me off guard when I’d drunk too much of that snakehead whiskey Stretch Cassidy peddles in his saloon. I’ll bust him up good, then I’ll kill him.”

  “Hold your horses, Dude. There’ll be plenty of time for Butler. What bothers me right now is there might be more gun hands coming in to join him. It doesn’t seem likely that Armstrong would hire just one man.”

  “I hear tell he’s a cheap old bird, boss. Maybe he figures one hombre is enough.”

  Quarry ran a thick finger up and down the side of his nose. “Yes, maybe so, but the man has enough money to hire a considerable army if he chooses to.”

  Quarry didn’t like being in the dark about his opposition. He needed information from his man on the inside at the Double-A-Slash, and he needed it now. Out of sheer anger, he jerked the buckboard reins back hard, causing the horse to rear up and fight the pressure of the bit tearing at its mouth. Crazed with pain from the whipping Mort Quarry had administered, the poor animal squealed in agony, bucking and fighting to break free from the restrain­ing harness. Quarry bounced all over the buckboard seat like a rag doll. His knuckles whitened as he held on tight to the reins to keep from getting hurled to the ground.

  “Shoot the stupid beast, Dude!” Quarry yelled. “Shoot it!”

  Dude Miller peeled his six-gun from its leather pocket and blasted six chunks of lead into the crazed horse. One slug pierced the animal’s brain. It dropped to the ground, quivered for a moment, and lay still.

  Chris Armstrong reeled in his saddle, a look of horror masking his face. He had just witnessed the execution of an animal whose only fault was being scared and in pain.

  “Filthy, evil beast,” said Mort Quarry, spitting blood from where he had bitten his tongue during the commotion. He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the scarlet residue from his lips. Tossing the soiled cloth aside, he removed a small notebook and a pencil from an inside coat pocket and scribbled out a message.

  “Dude,” he said, “take this paper to the tree. I’ll ride double with the boy and we’ll meet you in town. Chris, bring your horse over here and get off. I will ride in the saddle, and you can get on behind me.”

  Tight-lipped and shaking, Chris rode over next to his boss and lurched to the ground. Mort Quarry swung his con­siderable bulk aboard Chris’s mount. When Chris climbed up behind him, the horse shuddered at the extra weight. Quarry kicked the horse’s ribs, and the animal bolted forward toward Two Bucks City.

  When they reached the edge of town Quarry dismounted. “Chris,” he said, “go to the livery stable and tell Old Man Parker where he can find his buck­board. And Chris, tell him that the next time I rent a rig from him, it had better have a decent horse.”

  Quarry walked to his office building next to the bank and checked for messages. Upon finding none, he stepped into his private office and sat down behind his desk. He was pondering the Armstrong ranch prob­lem when his thoughts were interrupted by a faint knock on the door.

  “Come in, Melinda,” he said, smiling. Melinda Quarry danced through the door. “Daddy, how did you know it was me?”

  “Melinda, my dear. I can always tell by your knock that it is you. You have the soft, unobtrusive ways of your mother, God rest her blessed soul. What can I do for you today, angel?”

  “
I brought you the documents that you asked for on the Double-A-Slash property, and there are some loan papers that need your approval also.”

  “Excellent, Melinda, you are becom­ing quite an astute businesswoman. Anything else new?”

  “Why, yes, there is. We had a new depositor today, a new young man in town. His name is Jim Butler, and he is quite attractive in a cowboy sort of way. Although I doubt he is a cowboy. He transferred five thousand dollars from New Mexico to our bank.”

  “Young, handsome, and with money. My goodness, daughter, I had better meet this fellow and see what his intentions might be. He could be after my most precious asset.”

  “Oh, Daddy, you are such a silly. I just met Jim.”

  “Jim, is it? Well, well, now I know I must meet Mr. Butler. Is he staying in town?”

  “I have no idea where Mr. Butler is staying, and I don’t care.” Melinda said, looking flustered by her father’s response. “I have too much work on my desk to be gossiping with you, Father. If you need me, call.” With that, the young lady made a rapid exit.

  Mort Quarry rubbed his chin as his daughter stomped out of the room. “Yes,” he said. “I will check out Mr. Jim Butler.”

  Late in the afternoon, Jim rode into Two Bucks City. He was dusty and near worn out. After settling his horse into the livery stable, he walked to the Quarry hotel and got a second-story room. He ordered a bathtub and lots of hot water to be sent up to the room. Waiting for the tub, he lay down and took a short nap.

  Darkness lay like a shroud over Two Bucks City; dense cobalt-blue clouds rolled in, promising much needed rain. Jim Butler, all clean and spiffy after his bath, stepped out of the Calico Kitchen restaurant and breathed in the cool, damp air. Inhaling brought about a chill that started in his lungs and ricocheted throughout his whole body. He shiv­ered. The shiver was not entirely caused by the liquid night air. Jim’s father was in a tight situation, and it was going to take all of Jim’s cunning and resource­fulness to pull him out. Chris was setting himself up for trouble, also.