Border Lords and Armstrong's War

by Lee Pierce

  Chapter 9

  Doc Withers held the door open. “Come on in here, son. Stretch is in the back room. He’s lost a lot of blood, but the bullet didn’t hit any vital organs. He ought to be okay with some rest.”

  “Doc, they say Chris shot him in cold blood. Is that true?”

  “That’s what I was told, Badger, but I don’t know for sure.” Doc Withers pointed to a chair. “Sit down, son. I was just about to have a cup of coffee. I’ll fix you one, too.”

  The doctor poured two cups of the steaming black liquid and handed one to Jim. He stepped around behind a worn maple desk and sat down with a groan.

  “Bale Armstrong, Jr.,” he said. “What in the world are you doing here? I see the rumors of your demise were premature, so I won’t even get into that. You look a little different than the last time I saw you. What was it, twelve, fifteen years ago?”

  Doc Withers took another sip of his coffee, and Jim got a chance to talk. “How did you recognize me, Doc?”

  “When I flashed the lamplight on to your face I knew you looked familiar, a face from out of the past. I raised the light up to get a closer look and you shaded your face with your left hand. I recognized the barbwire scars across your palm; that’s when it came to me. You were ten years old when that old mossy horn steer knocked your horse down and butted you into that barbwire fence around that pond up by Panther creek. You remember that? Boy, you were cut up all over the place. Thank God the only bad cuts were on your hand. It took a right smart of stitches to close that up if I recollect right.”

  “Yes, sir, it did. Are you sure Stretch is gonna be okay?”

  “He’s got the best doctor in these parts. ’Course, he’s got the only doctor in these parts.” Doc Withers chuckled at his attempt at humor.

  Jim felt he could trust the old doctor; he really didn’t have much choice since he had been recognized. He told Doc Withers what was happening to his father and how Mort Quarry was tied into it. Doc sat silent, cradling his cup and listening. When Jim finished, the sawbones got up and poured himself another shot of coffee. Jim declined.

  “Badger,” said Doc, his face grim, “I’ve been watching this problem develop for some time now. Your father is a tough man, but he’s also an old man. He fought his wars forty years ago, and he shouldn’t have to fight again.

  “When the railroad bypassed us for Amarillo, the future of this county looked grim. Mort Quarry came to Two Bucks City, and we all hailed him as a savior of the town. He brought money, established a bank—as well as other businesses—and had some innovative ideas on how to put the town back on the map. He loaned ranchers money, renovated the local church out of his own pocket, brought in his daughter to teach school, and, most importantly, he gave the community hope.”

  “What changed everything?”

  “Mort Quarry bought a couple hundred acres of land. He even paid cash. Said he wanted to start a small herd, and hired a bunch of men to work the place. After a while, ranchers started losing cattle; a few at first, then whole herds began to disappear into the night. Supposedly, Quarry even lost part of his herd. Before anybody realized what was happening, all of the ranchers in these parts that had notes at the bank got behind. Turns out the fine print in the loan contracts stated that if the note payment became three days late, the bank could foreclose. And that’s just what happened.”

  This time Jim said yes to another cup of coffee. Stretch groaned in the back room and Doc Withers walked back to take a look. Jim mulled over what he had just been told. After a moment, Doc called him from the back room. Cassidy was awake.

  “He heard your voice and wanted to talk to you, son. He’s weak from the blood loss, so you can only talk a couple of minutes.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Jim knelt down by the bed and stared at the wounded man. He thought Stretch was asleep. Jim started to rise when the saloon owner spoke. His voice was shallow but clear.

  “Jim, Jim, I’ve got to know. When you backed down from those two gunnies, were you scared or was it another reason? I can’t believe you’re yellow, Jim.” Stretch struggled to finish what he had to say. “You’ve got something else in mind. Am I right?”

  Jim wasn’t sure what to say. He nodded his head. Stretch reached up and with a feeble grasp closed his massive hand around Jim’s. Bony fingers dug into Jim’s wrist, then the hand went limp and fell back to the bed. Jim looked up at the doctor, his eyes wide with apprehension.

  “No, he’s not dead, Badger, he just needs a lot of rest.” Doc Withers sipped his ever-present cup of coffee. “You better get out of here, Badger, before someone else decides to check on Cassidy. Don’t worry, he’ll be safe here. I’m the only doctor for a hundred miles, and Mort Quarry knows it. He won’t mess with me.”

  “Thanks, Doc, I appreciate your help. I will be going now.”

  “Badger, one more thing. Have you talked to your father? Because you two were estranged when we thought you had been killed, he took your death real hard. Never was the same after that. Now with Chris messed up, I don’t know what will happen to him. Go to your dad, son. If not for you, then do it for him. He deserves to know you’re alive.”

  Jim nodded and stepped out into the darkness. He was about to round the corner of the building when a voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned to see Melinda Quarry approaching from across the street.

  “Mr. Butler—I mean, Jim. Hello. Remember me, Melinda from the bank?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I remember you, Miss Quarry.” Jim had drunk three cups of coffee, and, yet, his mouth was as dry as the Sonora desert.

  “I saw the doctor’s light on and thought I would check on poor Mr. Cassidy. How is he, Jim?”

  Jim Butler shuddered every time Melinda Quarry spoke his name. He was experiencing a strange feeling that he had not felt before. Jim fought back the urge to stutter as his brain had difficulty forming words.

  “Doc says he will live. He’s a lucky man. If he hadn’t have been so tall, the bullet would’ve hit him in the head.”

  “Oh, I am so glad to hear that. Mr. Cassidy seems like such a good man. It is so unfortunate that he was shot in his own place of business.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jim struggled for words. He needed to get out of town to clear his head. “That was a terrible accident, Stretch getting shot like that. Liquor can do outlandish things to a man.”

  “My father said it wasn’t an accident.”

  “What do you mean, Miss Quarry?”

  “Call me Melinda, and I will tell you, Jim.”

  Jim took a deep breath and let it out slow. “Melinda,” he said, trying to smile.

  “My father says Chris Armstrong shot Mr. Cassidy because his father and Mr. Cassidy were having a feud. First thing in the morning the sheriff is going to put a posse together and search for Chris. When they find him they will hang him.”

  “Hang him without a trial? They can’t do that.”

  “My father says it will send a message to Mr. Bale Armstrong and the other bad men in this county that we are tired of all the rustling and killing. In order to maintain law and order, sometimes you have to take the law into your own hands.”

  “That’s what your father says, huh? You agree with him, Melinda?”

  “My father is never wrong, Jim. But enough of this morbid talk. I am pleased that Mr. Cassidy is going to recover. Let’s celebrate. The cafe is still open. I will let you buy me a cup of coffee and a piece of their wonderful pie.” Melinda held out her hand.

  “No, ma’am.” The words surprised Jim as they came out. “I have something important to do. I will see you tomorrow, maybe.” He reached out and shook Melinda’s hand, and he was gone.

  Jim walked back to his horse, mounted, and rode out of town. He let the mare have her head to run while his mind raced through the recent happenings. This night had succeeded only in muddying up the water. Jim did not believe the story abo
ut the feud between his father and the saloon keeper. Chris was a hot-headed kid, but he wasn’t a murderer.

  Melinda Quarry believed her father was perfect. How could a beautiful, intelligent girl be so naive? And those weird feelings… was he in love with her? He fought to clear his head as he rode toward the Double-A-Slash.

  Chapter 10

  Brilliant sunlight decorated the hillside as it filtered down in curious patterns through the broad blackjack leaves. The grass stood tall after a shower of morning dew. Jim Butler shivered from the early chill and rolled over in his blankets. As a rule, he was up well before dawn and off about his business. This night he had slept little, his mind churning thoughts concerning the coming day. He was anxious about the forthcoming meeting with his father. Fifteen years had been a long time. He had left as a headstrong boy. He returned as a man who had experienced both the good and the bad side of life. Now, he felt like he was somewhere in the middle with no direction to go.

  Jim made a small, quick fire and boiled coffee. While the bitter black grounds rolled in the bubbling hot water, he tended to his horse’s needs and struck camp. The coffee ready, Jim drank two steaming cups so fast he burned his mouth. Throwing out the remainder of his breakfast, Jim smoth­ered the fire and secured his coffee pot and tin cup in his saddlebags. He threw a leg over the steel-dun mare and turned her in the direction of the Double-A-Slash ranch house.

  The half-mile ride down a gentle slope took Jim past the edge of a corral. Three men were working there. Two replaced worn boards where the horses had eaten through them, while the third was whitewashing the new boards.

  “Gosh durn it, Rusty, if you can’t hold these boards straight, I’ll get the new feller to help me, and you can do the paintin’.”

  “Well, Shank Halsey, my old granny is ninety-seven years old and she could hammer a nail better than you.”

  The third man, a new hire named Hack Bonner, looked at the men and shook his head. “Say, boys,” he said, “we got company.”

  “You two ain’t changed one bit when it comes to gettin’ along. Folks that don’t know y’all would think you two old boys don’t much like each other.” Jim grinned down at his old friends. “Rusty Puckett, how in the world are you doin’?”

  “My goodness gracious, son, look at you,” said Rusty. “You done all growed up. I’m fine, Badger, now that you’re here. I was in the saloon the other night when that ruckus broke out between you and Hack over there and your other compadre. You sure had us fooled, Badger.”

  Shank Halsey broke into the conver­sation. “Hack told us all about your plan, Badger. Me and Rusty are with you all the way. Most of the other hands will be too when they find out you’re throwin’ in with the Double-A-Slash. When are we gonna go and run that Quarry bunch out of the county for good?”

  “Hold up there, Shank. We don’t have any concrete proof that Quarry is running a crooked outfit. We’ve got to catch him or his men in action.”

  “Me and Rusty would’ve done called Quarry’s hand, but Bale works us so dang hard, when we ain’t workin’, we’re restin’.”

  “Boys, I’d like to jaw with you, but I have a chore I’ve got to get done.”

  “You goin’ to see your daddy?” asked Hack.

  “Yep, I am.”

  “He wasn’t goin’ to hire me, but the señora that takes care of him talked him into it. She said she had a vision about savin’ the ranch and I was a part of it. I ain’t afraid of no man, but she made my skin crawl. You be careful, Jim.”

  Jim nodded to his friends and rode up to the ranch house. He dismounted, tied his horse, and walked up to an ornate wooden door. Taking a deep breath, he knocked three times. In a moment, the massive door swung open. Maria stood in the doorway.

  “Buenos dias, Señor Butler,” she said, “please, come in. Mi casa es su casa.”

  “Thank you, Maria. I need to speak with my fath… uh, Mr. Armstrong, please.”

  “Most certainly, señor, come and sit in the parlor. Mr. Armstrong is in the kitchen. I will get him. And, please, be gentle with him; he is not well. ­Comprende, jefe?”

  Jim flinched, almost dropping the hat he held in his hands. “I understand, Maria, but why did you call me boss?”

  “Are you not Bale Armstrong, Jr.?” Maria smiled, revealing perfect ivory white teeth. Then she was gone.

  Jim stood stunned. How did this woman know his true identity? Was she a real bruja, a Spanish witch? He pondered what he was going to say to his father when the thump-thumping of a wooden cane announced Bale Arm­strong’s arrival.

  The owner of the Double-A-Slash had once been a powerful man, both physically and politically. At one time he had controlled most of the land in Deaf Smith County and all of the politicians. Bale Armstrong had lived past his time. People had died; times had changed. Now he faced an uncertain future.

  “I hired a man yesterday, and I don’t need any more hands,” he said, his voice still oak-strong. “I reckon you made the ride out to my ranch for the exercise, son. I thank you for coming. Goodbye.” The old man started to turn toward the kitchen.

  “I’m not here for a job.” Jim fought to control his intense emotion. “Papa, it’s me—Badger. I’ve come home.”

  Bale Armstrong’s face turned to stone. He stared at Jim, eyes filled with hate and just a little sadness. “Maria!’ he hollered. “Get Shank and that new man, Bonner, in here right now.”

  He hobbled closer to Jim, holding his cane like a club. “Mister, my son, Bale Armstrong Jr., has been dead and buried for a long time. He was killed in Arizona; I saw his grave. I don’t know if Mort Quarry sent you or what, and I don’t care. But if you don’t get off of my property this minute, I swear to you, you will be buried here.”

  Bale Armstrong made a move like he was falling. Jim reached out to catch his father, but the old fox was faking. As soon as Jim’s hands were in the air, Bale hit him across the face with his cane. Jim staggered backwards, tried to maintain his balance, and dropped to one knee. He looked up just in time to see the cane flailing at his head again. Blackness enveloped him and he was out.

  Dude Miller made his way through the briars and the creosote bushes up to the old line shack. He rode to within ten yards of the rickety tar paper hovel when a hail from the inside brought him to a halt.

  “Who’s out there?” The caller’s voice was shrill and high-pitched.

  “It’s Dude. Charley Pratt, you idiot, I’m comin’ in.”

  “Okay, okay, Dude. Come on.” Charley turned to the other two men there. “It’s okay, boys. It’s my pardner, Dude Miller.”

  Dude stepped down from his saddle, loose-wrapped his horse’s reins, and stomped inside the small one-room building. The place reeked of human filth and tobacco. Three bedrolls lay about in a haphazard manner. An old rickety table was pushed against one front corner. Two men sat on empty whiskey crates at the table. Chris Armstrong lay bound on the floor by the back wall. Charley Pratt stood in the middle of the room.

  “What in the devil is that boy doin’ tied up?” Dude had to do a little play acting.

  “But, Dude,” said Charley, “I thought Mr. Quarry wanted him tied ’til we decided what we was gonna do with him.”

  “Charley Pratt, you can’t do anything right. You are the biggest foul-up I know. You other two boys are relieved. Go into town, have a couple of drinks on the boss, then get some rest. We got somethin’ big comin’ up, real soon.”

  The two waddies grabbed up their stuff and high-tailed it out of the shack. Charley Pratt hung his head and hurried over to untie Chris Armstrong.

  Chris sat up and rubbed his wrists and ankles. He tried to stand, got his legs tangled up, and fell. On his hands and knees, Chris wretched his guts out.

  Dude watched the boy puke and laughed. “Charley, pick up our hung- over friend here, and help him to the table. Then you clean up the mess he just made.�
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  With Charley’s help, Chris managed to stagger to a whiskey crate and sit down. “What’s goin’ on, Dude?” Chris’s voice squeaked when he talked. “Why was I all trussed up like that? Somebody better be quick with some explaining.”

  “Charley made a mistake, Chris. Mr. Quarry told him to bring you up to this old line shack and keep you hid out until we see if Cassidy kicks the bucket or not. Heck, old Charley ain’t all there sometimes. He just made the wrong decision, that’s all.”

  “I’m plumb sorry, Chris,” said Char­ley, sticking out his hand.

  Chris glared at the little man but made no move to shake his hand. Charley shrugged and dropped it to his side. Dude patted Chris on the back while motioning with his head for Charley to go outside. Once the little gunman had gone, Dude sat down opposite Chris.

  “Chris, the boss thinks a lot of you. We got a big deal comin’ up and he wants you to ramrod the whole shootin’ match.”

  “Why me?” Chris said. “What have I done to make him think I can run anything?”

  “Aw, Chris, you know he’s always liked you. He knows your old man never gave you a fair shake. How would you like to be runnin’ the Double-A-Slash?”

  “I will be someday.” The bile-coated words escaped from the bitter young man’s mouth like evil spirits. “My father’s too old and feeble to run the ranch much longer. Soon it will be mine. Then, maybe I’ll partner up with Mr. Quarry, and we can share the biggest spread in the panhandle.”

  “Yeah, yeah, now you’re thinkin’, Chris. That’s just what Mr. Quarry wants, except he’s not a patient man. He doesn’t want you havin’ to wait a year, maybe longer, for your ranch. He wants you to have it now. That’s why he wants you to lead our next job. It’ll be the biggest one yet.”

  Dude had the boy right where he wanted him and he knew it. The kid’s greed would be his own downfall. “Charley!” Dude hollered. “Quit your eavesdroppin’ and come in here and fix us a pot of coffee. Me and your new boss got a heap of talkin’ to do.”