Border Lords and Armstrong's War

by Lee Pierce

  Maria’s brow furrowed as she cut her eyes toward the red-headed cowboy, who ducked his head and averted his eyes. She winked at Jim, reached out, and took his hand. Her flesh was so warm that Jim flinched from the touch. She led him and his men into the big, sprawling kitchen. Bale Armstrong sat with his back to them, drinking coffee.

  “Señor, we have visitors,” said Maria, pausing for a moment. “Your son is here to see you again.”

  Bale Armstrong whipped around and leaped to his feet. He was face to face with Jim before it sunk in, what Maria had meant. “I thought I told you lyin’ piece of trash to get off of my property.” The old man began a frantic search for his cane. Maria, still grasping Jim’s hand, reached out with her other hand and grabbed hold of Jim’s father’s hand.

  Bale, Sr., started to protest, but Maria held on tight. She took both of the men’s hands and placed them one upon the other. Jim stood still. Bale, Sr., ­continued to struggle, but couldn’t shake loose from the Mexican woman’s grip. Gradually his opposition to Maria’s hold lessened. Bale Armstrong looked into the eyes of the man whose hand was touching his, and found Jim’s gaze fixed upon him. All at once, he stopped struggling.

  “Badger,” he said. “Bale, Jr.—you’re alive.”

  Then he fainted.

  Rusty and Hack lifted Bale, Sr., and carried him to his bed. The rest followed, with Maria fetching water and some clean cloths.

  “Your father must rest, Señor Bale. He is not a well man and the truth that you are alive and here at home has been a great shock to him. Even a curandera would need all of her powers to heal such a sick man.”

  Jim squinted as he stepped outside into the bright sunlight. “Boys,” he said to his three friends. “We got us some hard riding to do. I’ll tell you on the way what the plan is.”

  Mort Quarry was concerned about how much Melissa might have heard of his conversation with Dude. He knew she wouldn’t break his trust, but still it troubled him. He decided to take a ride up into the hills. Long rides alone always cleared his mind and helped him to think straight. Without telling anyone, he went down to the livery, saddled his favorite horse, and took off for the countryside.

  Many hours later, Mort stood under a thick, leafy cottonwood tree and watched a storm roll in from the north. He had ridden all day, enjoying being outdoors. It had been a long time since he had ridden on his ranch property. He was proud of his land, his cattle, and the mansion he had built for his wife.

  Sarah had been such a simple person. She had never liked the house; she said it was too big and a waste of money. Mort smiled at the thought of Sarah and money. Frugality was a way of life for her, while Mort liked to spend freely. In their last argument, she had said that she was sick and tired of his grandiose ways. Grandiose, her exact words. Mort hadn’t realized she even knew what the word meant. That had been the last straw. Mort had known it was time to terminate his relationship with his wife. It had been easier than he expected, and now Melissa was the apple of his eye.

  He looked up at the darkening sky. The leaves in the cottonwood above him had begun to whip like thousands of miniature green flags. The roar of the wind whistling through his ears invigo­rated him. He turned his face to the heavens and yelled out like he was speaking to God Almighty himself. “I did it all for you, Melissa, I did it all for you!”

  The riders had been on Quarry land for about fifteen minutes when Jim raised his hand for them to halt. They sat four abreast staring down at the Rancho Bonita complex. There was still enough daylight to make out the buildings. The main house was massive. It was built in the majestic style of the Old South. Four white pillars stood on the porch that ran the width of the house. Three bedrooms crossed the front of the second story, each with its own private balcony. Hanging baskets of multi-colored flowers, sea-green ivies, and delicate-looking ferns decorated the front porch.

  The rest of the buildings consisted of a barn, bunkhouse, blacksmith’s shop, and a smokehouse. Every building was painted bright white, even the pump house. The buildings were unusually close together.

  “Whoo-ee, I ain’t ever seen a place this fancy before,” said Rusty.

  “Yeah,” said Shank, “and don’t nobody live in that big house anymore, either. Ever since Quarry’s wife passed, him and his daughter have stayed in town.”

  “How did his wife die?” asked Jim.

  “She fell out of a carriage and broke her neck,” said Shank. “It was an odd thing. No one was with her when it happened. Quarry had expected her in town, and when she didn’t show up, he rode out to check on her. He’s the one who found her dead.”

  Jim took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “So boys, do you think we can do this? That storm yonder is gonna be right on top of us when we stampede those Quarry beeves across the ranch headquarters. It’s not gonna be a picnic.”

  “Aw, Badger, we can do this with our eyes closed, but there’s somethin’ I need to ask you.” Shank Halsey had ridden with a burr under his saddle ever since he learned of the plan. “Badger, I know most of them punchers down there in the bunkhouse; shucks, I’ve even rode with one or another of ’em in the past. For the most part they’re good men. They work Quarry’s cattle, and they ride for the brand, but they ain’t gunmen. They don’t get involved with what goes on in Two Bucks City. They don’t have no doin’s with Quarry’s bunch of gunnies. Son, will you let me ride down there and warn ’em to get out or face the consequences?”

  Jim thought about it for a moment. “Shank, you’ve got fifteen minutes before we start those beeves to running. That doesn’t give you much time, but that’s all you’re gonna get. Tonight I’m sending Mort Quarry a message he won’t soon forget.”

  Shank nodded and took off toward the bunkhouse at a gallop. Jim and the others started east toward Quarry’s largest herd of cattle.

  Chapter 18

  The Irish Kid knew he wasn’t going to kill Doc Withers, but he was unsure about how he was going to get out of it. One thing he did not want was a bunch of Quarry’s men with him when he went to the doctor’s office. “Shucks, Dude,” he said. “I don’t need no help takin’ care of one old man. It’ll be quieter and cause less of a ruckus if I go by myself.”

  “Come on, Kid,” said Pete Allday. “We just want to see you work. It would sort of be an honor to watch a shootist like you take care of business. Right, boys?” The few men listening to the conversation voiced their agreement. Some of them, however, believed the Kid wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. They hadn’t seen him do anything since the boss hired him but strut around and brag about his prowess with a gun or with the ladies. Some of them hoped he would fail at this task.

  “We’ll go and clean up after this one-man cyclone, Dude.” This came from a man named Quint Mullins, who had been a part of the Quarry bunch for almost a year. Most of the men considered him to be the best man with a gun in the gang, even quicker than Dude. Then the Irish Kid came along and stole his thunder. Mullins was ripe to see the Kid shown up as the four-flusher he was.

  “I don’t see a problem with a few of the boys going along to watch the fun,” said Dude Miller. “Maybe, it’ll stop some of the grumblin’ about who is and who ain’t a master gunfighter.” He stared at Quint Mullins the whole time he was speaking.

  “Mullins, you go with the Kid. Pete, Andy, Carlos, you boys tag along, too. But there is one thing I will make doggone clear. The Kid does the killin’. After that, you boys can get rid of the body, and while you’re at it, trash the place real good. Make it look like somebody was tryin’ to rob the doc. Now, Kid—go on and get it over with.”

  The Irish Kid sighed and headed out of the saloon in the direction of Doc Wither’s office. His entourage followed close behind. He had no idea what he was going to do, but he knew, somehow, that these men with him could not leave the doctor’s office alive.

  The wind was picking up and blowing out of the no
rth as the five men ambled down the street. Dust devils swirled about, and tumbleweeds bounded through the air like giant hollow balls of twine. A Blue Norther was coming, bringing hammering rains with it. Great frosty globules of water splattered onto the dust-blown street as the Kid and his followers reached the doctor’s office.

  Doc Withers arose with a start when the bunch of disheveled men tromped into his office. Just as quick, he sat back down and placed his hands on his desk.

  “What brings you boys in here on such a stormy night?” he said. “If you’re looking for shelter from the storm, I have a pot of coffee on the stove. You’re sure welcome to some. Here, I’ll get up and find you fellas some cups.”

  “Shut up and stay sittin’ down, old man,” said Quint Mullins. “We might have us some of that coffee after we take care of your lyin’ hide.”

  “What are you talking about, young man? I am not a liar.”

  “You was the one that told the undertaker Chris Armstrong was killed by a bullet to the head, not by them stampedin’ cattle. Well, old timer, that was just a flat out lie, and we’ve come here to make sure you tell no more filthy stories about Mr. Quarry.”

  “Mr. Quarry!” The doctor was looking straight at his mortality, and the odds weren’t in his favor. “Why, I never said a thing about who was responsible for that boy’s death. I haven’t a clue who shot him. Now you ruffians get out of here while you can, and I won’t report this to the authorities.”

  “We’re Quarry men, Doc,” said Pete Allday. “We are the authorities.”

  The obscene laughter of the gunmen put Doc Withers on edge, but he was a long way from being afraid. He had been through the War Between the States, and there wasn’t much he hadn’t seen.

  The Kid took advantage of the jawing to edge closer to the doctor. By the time the conversation had just about played out, he was almost parallel to the seated man and facing the four gun hands.

  “Okay,” said the Kid, “that’s enough rattlin’. It’s time to take care of business. I told you boys I didn’t want you comin’ with me, but y’all were too stupid to listen. Now, I’m gonna have to kill you.”

  Doc Wither’s head jerked up like it was spring loaded.

  “Dang it,” said Quint Mullins, “I told you knuckleheads he wasn’t with us. There was somethin’ fishy about him from the start. You’re with that Butler feller, ain’t you, Kid?”

  “Me and him are like brothers,” said the Irish Kid. “You know, Mullins, you’re not as dumb as you look. You might’ve had a pretty good future ahead of you. It’s a shame I’m gonna have to end it tonight.”

  “They’s four of us, Kid, give it up,” said Pete. “Quint’s as fast as you, and me and Carlos are almost as fast as him. Andy ain’t no slouch, either. You’ve got one chance, Kid. Why don’t you walk out of here and ride while you still got time? Ain’t no man alive that could beat four to one odds when it comes to gunplay.”

  “How about four to two?”

  The Quarry men looked up to see a sawed-off ten gauge Greener shotgun staring them in the faces. Stretch Cassidy had been asleep in the back when the men had barged in. He had quietly dressed and waited for the right moment to appear. No man likes to look down the barrel of a loaded shotgun. The four Quarry men began to squirm around like they were standing in the middle of a red ant bed.

  “Hey, now, Stretch,” said Pete. “You just be careful with that Greener. We ain’t fools. We’ll back on out of here and let this sleepin’ dog lie.”

  “The devil we will,” said Quint Mullins under his breath, and he clawed for his six-shooter.

  By the time Mullins cleared leather, the Irish Kid’s pistol was spitting flame and death. Two holes popped open in Quint’s chest. He stumbled backwards until he hit a wall, sliding down to the floor in a sitting position. At the same instant, Stretch triggered both barrels of the Greener. Pete Allday took the full force of the shotgun in his middle. There wasn’t much left between his chest and his knees but a whole lot of daylight. Part of the shotgun blast tore into Andy’s right arm, blowing his six-gun out of his hand. He screamed in pain and fell to his knees. Carlos managed to snap off a shot in the Kid’s direction, but the slug flew high. The Irish Kid’s next bullet blew out Carlos’ heart. The Mexican gunman was dead before he hit the floor. In less than a minute, two men were dead, two were dying, and one more was wounded.

  Cormac ejected the spent cartridges and reloaded fresh ones as he walked over to what was left of Quint Mullins. Mullins was looking at the tiny holes in the middle of his chest. He raised his head and stared into the Kid’s eyes.

  “I thought I could beat you,” Quint said. “You really was as good as you said.”

  Cormac shook his head. “Some people got to learn things the hard way, Mullins.”

  The doctor’s office was a mess. It stank of gunpowder, blood, and human waste. Carlos and Quint were dead, Pete was blown to pieces. Andy had stopped screaming. He lay on the floor shivering like he was freezing. He was in shock and he was bleeding to death from his shredded arm. Doc Withers had seen Stretch go down, and he was in the bedroom tending to the man’s wounds. Stretch was cussing a blue streak.

  “By durn, if that don’t beat all,” said the wounded saloon owner. “I got shot in the same place as before. I’ll be a dad gum prairie dog’s uncle if this ain’t the dangdest thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ll swear.”

  “Sounds like you’ve said about every swear word there is already, Stretch.” Doc Withers was smiling. “Now be still and let me clean this bullet hole. The slug went all the way through, so I don’t think I’ll have a problem patching you up again. But, son, you have got to stop getting shot.”

  Stretch launched again into another cussing tirade, but he sat still enough to let the doctor work.

  The Irish Kid looked Andy over to see if he had a chance to survive. If he did, there wasn’t much a one-armed man could do.

  Andy had quit shivering and lay still. The Kid figured the man was almost gone. “So long, amigo,” he said. He had liked Andy. “You were a good cowboy in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Chapter 19

  The Irish Kid helped Doc Withers get Stretch back into bed. The lofty man protested some, but the adrenalin from the shootout had begun to wear off, and he was feeling the effects of his new wound. After Stretch was made com­fortable, the two men walked back into the doctor’s office.

  “Care for some coffee, son?” said Doc, seeming oblivious to the ordeal that had just taken place.

  “Uh, yeah. Sure, Doc,” answered the Kid, surprised at the casual tone of the medico’s voice. “What about these dead men? You want me to take care of the bodies?”

  “No, sir. You leave ’em be, right where they are. After I drink me some of this black magic elixir I’m brewing, I will stroll on down to Mordecai Burns’ house and tell him what happened. He’s the mortician, and he’ll take care of removing the bodies.”

  That sounded good to Cormac. He didn’t like to kill unless he had to, and he sure didn’t have any taste for taking care of the corpses afterwards. He accepted the hot black liquid from the doctor and raised the cup to his lips.

  Mort Quarry had made it to Rancho Bonito in time to beat the storm. He sat in his expansive study and gazed down at the twelve-year-old bottle of Scotch whiskey that rested on a table beside him. He reached for the bottle, handling it as one would handle a newborn child. He put the crown of the whiskey bottle against the lip of a tall crystal goblet and poured the pale amber liquid down the side of the glass. He had sworn to his daughter that he wouldn’t drink anymore, but he felt like having just one. It wouldn’t hurt him to have a small glass of the Scotch nectar.

  He raised the glass to his lips. “Here’s to you, Bale Armstrong, you old codger. Within a fortnight, I will have your land and all that comes with it.”

  Jim reckoned Shank’s fifteen minutes we
re up. He and his compadres raised their six-guns and fired into the air at the same time. The herd, already skittish from the approaching storm, took off at a dead run in the direction of the Quarry compound. The storm broke loose before the cattle had gotten a hundred yards.

  The rain was coming down in sheets, and Jim Butler had lost sight of his companions. They had become sepa­rated right after the Norther hit. Jim was on the right flank of the herd riding for all he was worth. Visibility had been reduced to only a few yards, and Jim wanted to stop, but he feared the cattle would trample him and his horse. He kept riding and hoped for a break in the storm. All of a sudden, a rare bolt of ball lightning charged across the sky illuminating the whole horizon. The flash only lasted for an instant, but Jim could see a group of white structures a short distance ahead.

  He dug his heels deep into his horse’s sides, and leaned forward in the saddle. The blue mare reacted with a sudden burst of speed. The big horse was gaining ground on the herd’s frantic leaders when a slingshot stab of lightning struck a giant blackjack tree directly in her path. The ancient oak splintered into a dozen airborne pieces. Jim stood up in his stirrups and yanked back hard on the reins. The mare was running flat out when Jim jerked her head back. She reared straight up in the air, her hoofs flailing at the black void in front of them. The panicking horse lost her balance and tumbled over backwards. Jim went flying through the air straight into the path of the storm-maddened cattle. He hit the ground hard but rolled to his feet and came up running in the direction of his horse. The crazed beast had regained her footing and, before Jim could reach her, she took off into the night.

  Jim almost panicked for a moment, but he didn’t stop running. Regaining his wits, he began to frantically look about him, searching for a safe haven from the charging herd. A large chunk of the lightning-split tree lay right in his path. He leaped over the massive slab of wood and squirreled himself down behind it. The maddened cattle tramped around and over the log, showering him with dirt and rocks. Jim Butler squeezed his eyes shut, and for the first time in a long time, he prayed.