For the first time in many days, Val relaxed. They were pleasant, easy-going people. They had come from the mountains in Virginia, and they were headed west to try ranching. Pa Bucklin had been a horse trader, and occasionally had driven stock to the eastern cities for sale. Cody and Dube had been west before; they had hunted buffalo, and had taken part in two of the early cattle drives.
“They tell me there’s good land in Colorado,” Pa Bucklin said. “Me and the boys figured to git ourselves some while the gittin’s good.”
“Holding it is harder than getting it,” Val said.
Tardy Bucklin smiled at him. “We get it, we hold it,” he said, “don’t you worry your mind about that. We got to get cattle, too, and horses. We figured to round up ‘some wild horses to start off with. Cody says it can be done.”
“Fact is,” the old man said, “we got ourselves a claim staked out. We got ourselves a place. Cody an’ Dube, they scouted the country when they were buffalo huntin’, and they found us a spring with a good flow of water. We’re a-headin’ for it now.”
“Mind if I ride along?” said Val. “Might lend a hand in case of Indians.”
“Welcome,” Pa Bucklin said, and that began it.
For three slow days they traveled down-country, three wonderful days. The Bucklins were good-humored and hard-working. Val did his part of the work, and tried to do a little more, and in the meanwhile he was thinking.
“This water hole now,” he said. “Is it just sitting there?”
“It’s Comanche country,” Duhe said, “and not many will hanker for it, but we built ourselves a soddy and Uncle Joe stayed on to sort of see after it.”
They rode up to the springs on the late afternoon of an overcast day. Dust devils were stirring among the short grass, and worrying the trees around the spring—a small but sturdy grove of cottonwoods and willows. Cody and Dube started ahead to scout the layout. Val swung alongside them.
“Uncle Joe, now,” Dube said. “He should be expectin’ of us, I reckon.”
There was no sign of smoke, no sound of axe. They spread out a little and, rifles in hand, rode closer. Then they saw the body, a dark patch on the slope of the hill, away from the trees.
Cody swung wide, circled warily, and approached the body. Then he rode back to them quickly, his face white with anger. “It’s Uncle Joe. He was shot, drug, an’ left to die.”
They closed in swiftly on the soddy. It was a low but solidly built sod house with a pole corral next to it. As they approached the door they could see a sign on the door.
THIS LAND CLAIMED BY DIAMOND BAR. STAY OFF!!
“Well,” Dube spat. “He might have talked us out of it, but he began the shootin’.”
“Maybe your uncle shot first,” Val suggested mildly.
“Uncle Joe? Not him. He was half blind. He couldn’t see well enough to shoot at anything that wasn’t close up to him, and he didn’t hold with shootin’, unless set upon.”
“His rifle is gone,” Cody said.
“We’ll know the rifle,” Dube said. “One time or another we’ll come upon it.”
The sod house was empty, but it had been rifled, the food thrown in the dirt for the wild animals and the ants to eat.
“You tell Pa, Dube. Val an’ me, we’ll sort of set tight.”
When Dube had gone, Cody said, “Pa will be upset. Uncle Joe was the only kin of my mother, an’ Pa and him thought a lot of one another. I reckon we’ll have some huntin’ to do.”
“You may be outnumbered.”
Cody turned cold eyes on Val. “No Bucklin is ever outnumbered, young feller.”
The wagon rolled in, and the girls began to make the little house comfortable. They slept in the soddy, the men slept outside.
The next day they began work on enlarging the house. They also dug rifle pits on the hills close around, and a man stayed on watch all the time. At night there was another on watch—the dog, a powerful beast, friendly as a puppy among the family, but deep-voiced and ready to be fierce to anyone who approached from the outside.
“We got to round us up some horses,” Bucklin said the first day, “and hunt us some meat.”
“You ought to run cattle,” Val suggested. “You can’t sell many horses, except to the Army, and the Indians will steal them.”
“A body does what he can,” Bucklin said grimly. “We got nothing but our milk cow.”
Val threw his saddle into place, cinched up, and stood staring at the rolling hills. These were good people, poor but solid, and they were workers. Maybe he was a fool, but Will had always taught him that character was the most important element in judging horses, dogs, or men. And women, too, he supposed.
“Mr. Bucklin,” he said, “I am of a mind to talk business.”
Pa looked at him, surprised at the sudden change of tone. Cody looked at him, too.
“Are the boys all here?” Val said. “Let’s sit down together.”
They came in, those tall, quiet young men, Dube, Cody, and Tardy, and the two girls.
“You don’t know me any better than I know you,” Val said, “but I like the way you work together and the way you handle yourselves. I can feel you’re honest people, and I think you’re going to make a success of ranching.” He hesitated, then took the plunge. “I want to buy in. I want a partnership. I won’t be here much of the time—I’ve got to go east, and I’ve got some looking around to do. In fact, I’ve got to find a couple of men … three, in fact. That’s why I can’t work with you much of the time.”
“What you figurin’ on?”
“You need cattle. I will put up the money for six hundred head if you can get them for ten dollars a head.”
“We can buy cows for four to five dollars in Texas,” Cody said. “You got that kind of money?”
“Yes,” Val said. “I inherited it from my uncle, and I can get more.”
They looked at one another, and Val could see they were doubtful. He opened his shirt and took out one of the money belts. Opening the pockets he took out two thousand dollars in gold and greenbacks. “There you are. When you’re ready, we can ride south and east and buy cattle.”
Cody heaved a great sigh. “Well, Pa, there she is. More’n we ever hoped for. I say we go partners with him.”
Bucklin rubbed his jaw. “You want half?”
“One-third … you do the work, I put up the money for the cattle. You take that, buy what you can. I’ll come in with more later.”
“Don’t see’s we could do better, nohow,” Bucklin said. “We’re with you, son.”
After that several days passed, during which they scouted the range in every direction, riding in pairs for self-protection, with always one man on watch at home. The grass was good, and despite the claims of the Diamond Bar, they saw no cattle wearing any brand at all.
They did see a small herd of buffalo, numbering not over sixty head. One, grazing off to one side, they shot for meat. There were numerous antelope, and once, far off, they glimpsed a wolf.
Water holes were scarce. The one by which they had settled had a strong flow, but it was the only water hole in several miles. Its value was immediately apparent. Whoever controlled that water would control about forty square miles of range. A longhorn steer would walk three days to get to water, though cattle weren’t going to fatten up much unless water was easier of access.
About a hundred yards from the soddy, they dug out a low place, shaping the sides and lining three sides with stones, to form a crude tank. Into this they directed the runoff from the spring.
“Pa,” Cody said, “I don’t like it much, about Uncle Joe. He was a kindly man.”
“Maybe we ought to fetch it to them,” Dube suggested.
“No,” Pa Bucklin said, “we’ll wait. We settled in this country of our ownselves. We aim to stay here, so we ain’t goin’ to push no fight. They started it, an’ they’ll come a-huntin’ us soon or late. Meanwhile, we got to think about cattle, mostly about breedin’ stock.”
&n
bsp; He glanced at Val. “You know anything about beef cattle, boy?”
“A little. I’ve worked on the range a mite, and I’ve sat and listened to the cattle buyers talk deals by the hour. I’ve waited a lot in hotel lobbies and I’d hear them talking the fine points. When Will and I punched cows a little, we worked with a very canny cattleman who used to tell us what was wrong with this one or that one. Yes, I know a little.”
“None of us knows too much, when it comes to that. No more than a sight of others who are choosing land in this western country. Son, you, Cody, and me, we’ll ride up to town.”
“How about us?” Boston asked. “Western and me, we’d like to see the lights.”
“Ain’t many lights where we’re a-goin’,” Cody said. “You all saw that town. It’s a one-street town of weather-beaten shacks, mostly saloons.”
“You stay,” Pa said. “There might be trouble. There might also be trouble here too, but you two can handle rifles good as any man.”
Before the light came the next morning they were riding the short-grass plains toward town, startling the rabbits, which ran off a ways and then sat up, ears pricked. They rode with their Winchesters in the saddle boots, and spurs jingling.
They came into Cross-Timbers, and the first thing they saw was a Diamond Bar wagon and two Diamond Bar ponies standing three-legged at the hitch rail in front of the Cap-Rock Saloon.
The street was lined with eight buildings and a corral—there were four saloons, two general stores, a blacksmith shop, and an eating place.
They tied their horses and went into the saloon, letting the batwing doors swing behind them. Pa and Cody, they walked up to the bar, but Val did what Will Reilly had always done, and stayed inside the door, looking into the darkest corner to get his eyes accustomed after the glare. He did not drink, anyway, so he sat down at an empty table near the door.
There were four cowhands and a teamster in the saloon, as well as a couple of men in broadcloth suits at the bar. With them was a man who looked as if he might be the blacksmith.
Pa ordered a drink and then looked over at these men. “Beggin’ your pardon gents,” he said, “but I am in the market to buy cattle.”
For a long moment no one spoke, although all turned to look at him. Then one of the cowhands at the table spoke up. “You picked the wrong country, friend. There’s no range around here, not for miles. This here is Diamond Bar country.”
“Seems a mighty spread-out place for one outfit.” Pa spoke mildly. “Anyway, we’ve settled in on a nice water hole over west of here. We like it there.”
“That water hole was posted by the Diamond Bar.”
“I noticed that,” Cody said quietly, “and they murdered an almost blind old man to mark their sign.”
For a moment there was dead silence, and then the cowhand said, “That old man was armed.”
“That old man was not armed,” Cody said flatly. “He was my ma’s oldest brother, and he couldn’t see across this here saloon.”
The cowhand’s face tightened. “You callin’ me a liar?”
“If you were there, and shot that man, I am callin’ you a liar and a murderer,” Cody said coolly. “If you just heard the story told, I am tellin’ you whoever told you that story was a liar and a murderer.”
One of the others spoke up. “You’d better say that easy, cowboy. The man who told us that was Chip Hardesty.”
Val interrupted. “Cody, sorry to butt in like this, but Chip Hardesty belongs to me.”
They all looked at him, and the teamster snorted.
“Kid, you keep your mouth shut. Hardesty is a mean man, and the fastest one around.”
“You can tell him for me that he is a murdering skunk. He killed that old man. He also killed another man, he and two others, with shotguns, without warning as he came out of a door in the dark.” Val sat facing the men at the table, and he fixed his eyes on the teamster. “And you, mister, you take a long time thinking before you tell me to shut my mouth again.”
“Don’t you talk to me.” The teamster was shaking with anger. “You ain’t dry behind the ears yet.”
“This gun is,” Val said, “and it speaks plain language. You just put a hand on that gun you’ve got and I’ll write my initials in your belly.”
The teamster’s fury was suddenly penetrated by a cold arrow of caution. The boy was young, but the gun could be just as deadly, and the distance between them was less than fifteen feet. In any event, it wasn’t his fight unless he was foolish enough to make it so. Let Hardesty do it. That was what he was getting paid for.
“You settle it with Hardesty,” he said. “Like you said, he belongs to you. And I’ll tell him,” he added, with deep satisfaction. “He’ll be huntin’ you before sundown.”
Val looked at him. “Mister, you get on your feet right now. You ride right to where Hardesty is, and you tell him to come on in. I’ll be waiting … right here.”
The teamster got to his feet, very carefully.
“You go with them,” Val said to the cowboys, “just in case they don’t believe him. And you tell the boss of the Diamond Bar he can stay in this country just as long as he’s willing to stay off our backs. We want no trouble, and we aren’t going to cause him any.”
“Except for them that killed Uncle Joe,” Pa Bucklin said. “You tell your boss to hang them before night falls or we will hang him within thirty days.”
“You’re crazy!” the teamster cried. “Plain crazy!”
“You tell him that,” Bucklin said. Then he turned to the others. “Let’s go eat. Be an hour or more before he can get here.”
Chapter Eleven.
It was a quiet meal. Nobody felt much like talking, Val Darrant least of all. He had said what he wanted to say, but now he would have to back it up. He had never met any man in a showdown gun battle, least of all a veteran killer like Hardesty, but Hardesty was one of those who had killed Will Reilly.
Pa and Cody were quiet, too. Only toward the end did Cody speak up. “They may bring an army, Pa.”
“Then we’ll have to take care of an army,” Pa said shortly. “Let’s stay under cover until we see what they look like.”
“I’ll go out,” Val said, “I’ve got this to do.”
They were silent for a few minutes, and then Cody said quietly, “Val, you’re a good friend or I wouldn’t say this, but you bein’ a boy and all, I—”
“Thanks, but I told him what I could do. I’ve got to put up or shut up. This is my proposition.”
“You ever been in a gun fight before?”
“I’ve fought a couple of times,” Val said, “but never man to man, like this.”
“Then you make the first shot count. Don’t give no worry to being fast. If he shoots first, you got to face it, but take your time and put that first one where it can be the last one.”
“Thanks.”
There was nothing elaborate about the saloon. It had a bar fifteen feet long at one side. There were four square tables, each surrounded by four chairs, the kind called captain’s chairs. The bar had obviously been shipped in, as had the chairs; the tables had been made in the town.
The stock of liquor was not large, but was adequate for men who liked strong drink and cared little about age or flavor. Several dog-eared decks of cards were on tables, and idly riffling one, Val noticed that somebody had been marking them with a thumbnail—clumsily, too.
One of the men at the bar, dressed like a western man who had been east more than a few times, came over, drink in hand. “Mind if I sit down?” He smiled. “I promise to get out of the way before the shooting starts.”
There was something familiar about the man, and Val, who had been taught to remember, recognized him as the quiet-faced man who had been present when he had the showdown over the twenty-dollar gold piece.
“You travel a lot,” Val commented, and the man smiled at him. “Sit down,” he added.
“You mentioned buying cattle. Do you plan to start ranching?”
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“We have the ranch,” Val said; “now we need cattle.”
“I might be interested in investing a little, if you come out of this all right.”
“Thanks, but we have all we need.”
“My friend over there,” the man said, “is a cattle buyer. He occasionally sells, too. And sometimes we grubstake a good outfit.”
Val made no comment, but he was curious. Will Reilly had taught him never to accept men at face value, and he did not. He knew that there are all kinds of men appearing in all kinds of guises.
“I am Steve Kettering,” the man went on. “My friend over there is Paul Branch.”
Val introduced Pa and Cody, and waited. This man was building up to something, and it might be interesting to know what it was. “What’s the matter with your friend?” he asked. “Isn’t he the sociable type?”
Kettering turned. “Paul, come on over and meet these gentlemen.”
Branch came over and sat down. “I am sorry, gentlemen,” he said, “I’m not in the best of moods. I came into town for a poker game and Kettering promised me one. If I am a bit restless, please forgive me.”
“What do you play for?”
They looked at him. “I mean,” Val said, “do you gentlemen play for money, or for cigar coupons?”
Branch reached down in his jeans and pulled out a thick roll of bills. “I play for that,” he said, “and there’s more where that comes from.”
It looked to Val like what was known as a Kansas City bankroll, a couple of tens wrapped around a thick wad of ones, or even around brown paper.
This man Kettering had seen him before, seen him drop a gold coin on the floor, and now he heard him trying to buy cattle, and needing no backing. Which Val knew would be evidence enough that he had money.
“Would you boys be interested in a little game?” Branch asked. “I mean, you have some time to kill, and I thought—”
How many times had Val watched the routine? Reilly was an honest gambler, and roped nobody into a game, but he had often pointed out such developments to Val, who was amused at how clear the pattern was.
Reilly's Luck (1970) Page 10
