by J. T. Edson
Even if he was guilty of the heinous crime of cattle stealing, Chisum gave no sign of concern as he faced the three grimfaced men across the boundary stream. Shoving back his hat, Chisum mopped his brow with a cheap red handkerchief and then nodded a greeting.
“Howdy, John,” he said. “Can I ride through the water?” Normally the Cattle King would not have thought of asking permission even as a matter of basic courtesy. However, he knew he faced one man who the might of the Long Rail did not frighten or worry in the least.
“Just you,” Slaughter answered.
Slowly Chisum rode through the water, at its deepest part it rose only as high as the level of his boots. On reaching Slaughter’s shore, the Cattle King drew his horse to a halt.
“You waiting to be neighborly?” he asked.
“We’ve come for them,” Slaughter answered, getting straight to the point without any fancy frills.
“Who?”
“That hundred head of my stock that’s mixed in with your herd.”
“Oh, them.”
“Them. I’m taking them back.”
“Now just a doggoned minute there,” Chisum yelped in a tone of injured innocence. He dug a hand into his hip pocket and extracted a sheet of paper, handing it to Slaughter.
Taking the paper, Slaughter read,
To whom it may concern. I, Samuel Smith, Lazy S Ranch, Blantyre County, Texas, do sell one hundred (100) head of cattle to John Chisum, Long Rail, Bosque Grande, New Mexico Territory, for the sum of $3.00 (three dollars) a head. Both parties to this knowing the said cattle to be culls sold to me by my neighbor, Texas John Slaughter, and bearing his unvented brand. Signed, Samuel Smith. Witnessed, Base Conlon and Thomas Hatcher.
“See,” Chisum said in an aggrieved tone. “I bought them cattle in good faith from one of your neighbors.”
“You’re no fool, Chisum,” Slaughter replied. “And don’t try to make me out one. There’s no Lazy S in Blantyre County and no rancher called Samuel Smith.”
“Are you telling me I didn’t buy them cattle—?”
“Sure you bought them. But you damned well knew they weren’t culls, and you sure as hell ought to have known there was something wrong with the cattle when you got them for three dollars a head.”
“That bill of sale—” Chisum began.
He did not get chance to finish his words. The bill of sale he held might pass as legally binding in the rough-and-ready courts of the west, especially when pushed by a man as rich and powerful as Chisum. Only it was not Slaughter’s way to argue dubious legal points when he had right on his side.
“I’m taking them back,” he said.
It was neither a question nor a request, but a plain, straightforward statement of fact.
Twisting in his saddle, Chisum looked to where his herd approached the stream. Soon he would have his full force of “warriors” on hand, better than fair backing against three men, even three such men as Slaughter and his hands. So Chisum elected to show his defiance and prove once and for all who was Cattle King.
“You and who—” he snarled, swinging to face the three Texans.
Removing his unlit cigar, Slaughter pursed his lips and gave a shrill whistle that chopped off Chisum’s words and answered them unsaid. Suddenly men began to appear behind Slaughter. They came into view from the shelter and cover of rocks and trees, or popped up momentarily from holes in the ground, appearing in places where they could pour lead down at the stream, rake it from side to side, yet offer poor targets for men trying to return the compliment. Each man who appeared held a rifle in his hands, made his presence known, then dropped into cover once more.
“It’s your choice,” Slaughter pointed out, after his men had shown themselves present then disappeared again. “Either we cut out my stuff easy, or we do it the hard way. Only you likely won’t have much of a herd left by the time the shooting stops.”
Chisum was licked and he knew it. Although he never wore a gun and had successfully avoided joining either side during the war, he had a fighting man’s eye and knew when a position was so impossible that surrender must be the only answer. Knowing his men, he doubted if they would try to force a crossing in the face of the J.S. rifles; even if he risked giving the order and chanced his herd being stampeded and scattered to hell-and-gone during the shooting.
“Cut ’em out as they cross!” he spat out and his face twisted in anger. “And if you see that runty, scar-faced cow-thief, tell him to dig himself a big hole and bury himself afore I find him.”
Chewing on the butt of his cigar, Slaughter watched Chisum start to turn the horse towards his approaching herd.
“Stay here, Mr. Chisum,” he said. “Just to keep things friendly.”
Again he ordered instead of asking and again Chisum obeyed. Whether he planned trying anything in an attempt to break the deadlock is a matter of conjecture. One thing was for sure, John Slaughter had no intention of giving the Cattle King a chance to get among his men and make any trouble.
While watching the two wagons roll across, Slaughter gave a thought to the Cattle King’s description of the man who sold him the cattle. There was only one small, scar-faced man in Blantyre County; or only one who Slaughter reckoned would have the gall to make such a play. Scar Taggert. He and his two brothers ran a cap-and-ball spread to the east of Slaughter’s ranch. Already the Taggerts had had their warning to keep their hands off the J.S. stock and for slow elking. It looked like they had not needed Slaughter’s words. They could be left until after the recovery of the cattle had been completed, but then Slaughter figured it was time he paid the Taggerts a visit.
Leaving their boss to take care of Chisum, and following his orders, Trace and Alvord turned and rode back through the line of their watching friends. They disappeared over a rim and after a couple of minutes four more of the crew rode down to the edge of the stream, splitting into pairs and halting their horses facing each other on either side of where the Long Rail herd would come ashore. None of the men held their rifles now, but sat relaxed in their saddles. One thing each man had in common was that he rode a fine horse, one that showed an alertness and intelligence in the very way it stood.
Slowly the herd came down the slope on the southern shore and entered the water. The stream had a gravel bottom at this point and flowed briskly, though not enough to give the cattle any fears about wading through. One advantage to the spot, from both the trail boss and Slaughter’s point of view—though for different reasons—was that the herd could be brought across in line instead of each succeeding bunch needing to be hazed upstream to avoid the mud stirred up by the preceding animals as they waded through.
On drinking their fill, the cattle came ashore on the J.S. range, passing between the two pairs of watching cowhands. The Long Rail riders cast scowling glances first at the J.S. cowhands, then towards their boss as he sat his horse at Slaughter’s side. Every man of the Long Rail crew guessed what was to happen. It seemed that Slaughter’s men were fixing to cut the herd.
While Chisum insisted that every trail herd which crossed his land be cut on entry and before leaving, the Long Rail crew never expected the same thing to happen to them. It was considered something of an insult to cut a trail herd even once; implying as it did that the men on the drive could not be trusted. That fact had never stopped Chisum, nor did it appear to be worrying Slaughter unduly.
Although Slaughter had already booted his rifle, Chisum did not appear to be eager to take advantage of the Texan’s relaxation. Instead Chisum sat hunched in his saddle, looking as mean as hell. If his face habitually wore such an expression, Chisum would never have duped so many folks into trusting him.
Nothing happened for a time, except that the cattle came across the stream and passed between the watching men. Slaughter’s hands lounged in their saddles and studied the passing animals, reading the brand each bore on its body. The Long Rail showed plain, a half-blind man could have seen it. Yet some of the cattle carried other brands. From what the f
our J.S. men saw, at least one in thirty of the Cattle King’s herd had never seen his Bosque Grande range.
Suddenly one of the men touched his horse’s flanks lightly with his heels. The horse needed no further instructions, it moved forward, heading into the herd. Swinging his horse alongside a red and white steer, the rider twitched its reins and the horse started to move into the steer, crowding it gently but surely out of the crush around it. Once clear of the herd, the steer showed a desire to get back in again. Each time it swung around, the steer found the fast moving horse between it and its goal.
There were few more attractive sights than a well-trained cutting horse performing its work; nor better examples of teamwork between man and beast than existed between a cowhand and his cutting horse. Actually apart from showing the horse which animal he wanted cutting from the herd, the rider had little to do, for the horse handled the rest. Of course a man needed to be a rider of the first water if he aimed to stay a’fork the swiftly moving and turning horse and not be a liability to the animal’s working capabilities.
After cutting out the red and white steer, the rider left it clear of the herd and headed back for more. Already two of his pards were driving J.S. branded animals from the herd and the fourth man’s horse working yet another out. Time after time the cowhands cut into the herd and fetched out one of the missing hundred head. The bunch on the flank of the herd grew and a couple more of Slaughter’s hands came down to take charge of them. The four cutters gave a masterly display of their work and even Chisum had to give them his grudging admiration.
While his men worked, John Slaughter watched and counted each head that came from the herd. The Long Rail crew kept their cattle moving, for their boss gave them no orders to the contrary. They passed through the cordon of J.S. rifles and, if aware of the fact, caused no trouble or raised no objections. While the Long Rail men took fighting pay, they much preferred that any fighting they became involved in offered as little risk of getting injured themselves as could be arranged.
The point of the herd went, then the swing and flank, each part contributing to the stolen hundred. At last the drags rolled by and the cutters brought out the remainder of their ranch’s animals.
“One hundred and nine,” Slaughter said quietly, looking at Chisum.
“I didn’t count too careful last night.”
“Reckon you didn’t,” Slaughter agreed and looked towards his men. “Take them to the petalta, ii boys.”
“Yo!” replied one of the hands who held the cut-out stock.
The four hands who had done the cutting out were allowing their lathered horses to cool down. No man who owned a well-trained cutting horse ever neglected it. Leaving the other two men to move off the recovered cattle, the four cutters walked their horses, they had done their part and now it was up to the rest of the ranch crew.
“How about the money I paid for them cattle?” Chisum yelped, watching his illegal gains walk away from him.
He was given scant consolation by Slaughter. The Texan started to turn his horse and replied, “That’s your problem. They always say let the buyer beware.”
Slaughter turned his horse and rode towards his men, following the hundred head away from the Long Rail’s herd. While he did not think Chisum would make anything of the incident at that time, Slaughter had not failed to notice the vicious scowl on the Cattle King’s face. If ever a man looked murder, Chisum had as he watched the J.S. reclaim and drive off its cattle.
With that thought in mind, Slaughter headed to where his men gathered. The J.S. hands were laughing and discussing the way they had put one over on Chisum’s Long Rail. None of them had doubted but what their boss would succeed in collecting his own, but they had not expected it to be so easy. While most of them regretted that Long Rail did not make a show of their much-vaunted toughness, the J.S. hands agreed that they could tell a good story against the other outfit. When word of what had happened got out, Long Rail would be a laughingstock throughout the range country.
“We sure showed Long Rail, boss,” whooped one of the hands eagerly as Slaughter rode up.
“You did well, real well,” he replied, for he never forgot to praise good work. “Let’s get back to work.”
Slaughter knew how the rest of the range country would treat the news of Chisum’s downfall. It would not make the Cattle King feel any better disposed towards the J.S. ranch.
A signal brought Burt Alvord to Slaughter’s side and the dark youngster sat silent, listening to his boss give orders few men would have liked to handle.
“Trail Long Rail, Burt,” Slaughter ordered. “See them well out of our area. Stay after ’em for a couple of days if you’ve got anything to eat.”
“Got some jerky,” Alvord answered. “Enough to last me two, three days.”
That figured, happen a man knew Burt Alvord. He usually carried a supply of jerked meat in his saddle pouches ready for emergency. While jerky looked like old leather and didn’t taste like steak cooked by a French chef in a fancy restaurant, it was nutritious and would keep for a fair time. Given water to drink, jerked meat to eat, and a couple of blankets which were strapped behind the saddle cantle, Burt Alvord was all set to follow the Long Rail herd for two or three days and by that time they would be well clear of Slaughter’s area.
None of the other men thought of asking why Burt Alvord should be riding away from them at a time when all hands had more than enough work on their plates. While he helped with the cattle work, Alvord’s main duties were in the capacity of scout. So the other men understood that should anything in that line crop up, Alvord would leave the cattle work and ride to handle it. After what had just happened down by the stream, all hands figured that Alvord might be better occupied watching Long Rail than helping them to gather cattle into the petalta.
“Wash,” Slaughter went on as Alvord rode off on the scouting mission. “Mr. Chisum allows to have bought our cattle from a runty, scar-faced gent.”
“Does, huh?”
“Sure.”
“How many men, John?”
“I figure you and I can tend to it, especially as I want the petalta cutting as soon as possible.”
The fact that they were riding to face odds of three to two, and against a trio who would as soon shoot a man as look at him, did not appear to worry Trace or deter him from following his boss. Back just after the war, when Carpetbag Davis’s corrupt Reconstruction administration went under, Washita Trace had rode with John Slaughter in the Texas Rangers, helping clear up the mess left by Davis’s evil State Police and wipe out the criminal element Davis’s men never even tried to hold in check. During their time as Rangers, Slaughter and Trace had smelled plenty of burned powder and felt bullets slap the air around them. Trace reckoned there was no other man he would rather have at his side than Texas John at such a moment.
Anyways a man looked at it, the lead was liable to fly when they reached the Taggert place. Cow thieves hung when captured; and the Taggert boys were unlikely to surrender without a fight. The Taggerts knew their necks were headed for a rope should they be taken in. Too many folks in the area had lost cattle, although so far the Taggerts managed to avoid having any connection with the disappearances brought home to them.
Without thinking of it, Trace dropped his right hand to feel the handle of his long-barreled Colt and he cast a glance at the butt of his rifle in the saddle-boot. If trouble came, he had the means and the ability to handle his end of it.
Slaughter told his other men to ride back to the petalta and do whatever Tex Burton decided was necessary. Then he swung his horse and his eyes met Trace’s.
“Let’s go see the Taggerts,” Slaughter said.
Chapter Five – The Mending of the Taggerts’ Ways
At one time the small ranch which the three Taggert boys bought in on had been a pretty fair little spread, and could have been again if its owners cared to put time and some hard work into it. However, the Taggerts never cared for hard, or easy, work if it coul
d be avoided; and in all truth did not buy the place with any intention of taking up permanent residence.
The Taggert brothers possessed one good quality that many people much better favored in other ways failed to show. They never out-stayed their welcome in any area. Which same meant the brothers had become tolerably well-travelled men, for any locality which was fortunate enough to be braced with their presence damned soon got around to demanding their absence. Not that the brothers often stuck around long enough to give their neighbors time to start making demands; which quite possibly accounted for how they come to stay alive for as long as they had.
On their arrival in Blantyre County, the Taggerts looked for an ideal place to temporarily set down their roots. They wanted something not too large, reasonably central and not too well kept up by its previous owners. In this they were lucky and found an ideal place just begging for them to snap it up and put it to use. The spread’s previous owner had been a footloose drifter who preferred listening to hound dogs making trail-music to working cattle. In the end, after a few years of mismanagement, the man took his pack of redbone and blue-tick hounds and pulled up stakes, heading somewhere, anywhere, that his talents for hunting down stock-killing bears or cougar would be appreciated. He left behind him a rickety log cabin, a sun-warped, dilapidated barn, a couple of partially standing corrals, a scattering of branded scrub beef and a mortgage with the local banker.
When Scar Taggert made an offer for the property, the banker jumped at the chance. The way he saw it, the hound-dog man would not be back and he hoped to retrieve some of his bank’s money out of the business. It said much for Scar Taggert’s powers of persuasion that he managed to obtain the place by putting down only a small deposit. Of course, the banker had not seen the Scar’s brothers, Bill and Zeke, when he made the agreement.
That had been six months back and already the Taggerts agreed that for once they had made a mistake in selecting a center of operations. Sure they found an outlet for selling either cattle or butchered beef without too many embarrassing questions being asked about ownership. The ranges around had plenty of cattle on them, although little of the stock carried the Taggerts’ brand. Not that a minor detail such as brands ever bothered the Taggerts—or had not until they settled the Blantyre County range. Mostly they took what they wanted, made their sales and pulled out before public opinion reached the point where it started to think of ropes and cottonwood hoedown with the brothers as guests of honor.
