For the Brand

by Ralph Compton

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t and I won’t,” the Flour Sack Kid said.

  “We might die!”

  “I said a good reason.” The Kid came to their horses and angled to the left so he was behind them. He pointed a Colt at the ground, then seemed to reconsider and went up to Willis’ zebra dun and took hold of the reins and brought the zebra dun over to Willis.

  “Better hold tight,” the Kid said. He returned to where he had been and suddenly let out with a whoop worthy of a Sioux warrior on the war path while simultaneously firing three shots into the dirt. It had the desired effect. Nickering in fright, half the horses bolted and the rest took that as a hint they should do the same. The Kid added two more shots as further incentive.

  “No!” Harvey Stuckman wailed, and made as if to run after them but he stopped dead when the Kid fixed the other black-handled Colt on him.

  “Back in line. If you’ve trained your horse right, all you have to do is whistle and it will come back.”

  “No one trains a horse to do that,” Stuckman said.

  The Flour Sack Kid tilted his head back and trilled like a meadowlark. The brush crashed and crackled and into the clearing trotted the Appaloosa, truly as fine a specimen of horseflesh as Willis had ever set eyes on. Backing toward it, the Kid hooked a boot in the stirrup without taking his eyes off the posse members and, with a graceful swing of his other leg, forked leather and holstered his left Colt so he could unwind the reins from the saddle horn. “Be seein’ you around,” he baited them. Then he looked at Willis and one of the green eyes under the flour sack winked. “I left you your horse because I’m feelin’ charitable today.” He laughed and rode into the trees.

  Willis had never hated anyone so much. Except maybe himself.

  Chapter 5

  A strange thing happened when Willis set eyes on the Bar T. It was the first time in months and he expected to feel as he always did. At the sight of the corral, his insides would churn and his blood would boil and he would curse the fate that made him a mockery of a man. That was how he always felt since the day that forever changed his life. But this time was different.

  It was late morning when Abe Tyler and Willis came to a broad valley nestled in the heart of the range. The home valley, as the hands called it. Lush with grass, as always, watered by a tributary of the Snake River. Cattle dotted the valley floor. More cattle, Willis knew, grazed in adjoining valleys.

  Abe drew rein and smiled. “A beautiful sight, isn’t it? To think. Twenty years ago this was nothing but wilderness.”

  “You’ve done yourself proud,” Willis said. He could not resist adding, “Yet you’re sellin’ it off.”

  “Don’t start. We’ve been all through that. Yes, I’m selling the Bar T, and yes, I’ll have regrets, and yes, I’ll miss it. I’ll miss it terribly.”

  “I don’t see how you can,” Willis said.

  “Some of the boys blame Elfie,” Abe said, and held up a hand when Willis went to speak. “I know they do and I don’t resent it. But the truth is, Will, I’m not getting any younger. I have more gray hairs every year. It’s harder to do some of the things I used to take for granted. Fetching you, for instance. I’m so sore, I won’t be able to sit down for a week.”

  “You’ve still got plenty of years left.”

  “Maybe I do,” Abe said. “If so, I’d like to spend them enjoying more of life than I get to enjoy working twelve hours a day every single day of the year. I’d like to sit back and relax and not have to worry about the thousand and one things a rancher has to worry about.”

  “I hope Saint Louis turns out to be all you want.”

  “Thank you. Coming from you, that means a lot.” Abe clucked to his mount. “Some of the others aren’t as forgiving. Gus told me that he thought I was a traitor for turning my back on him and the others.”

  Willis was amazed. Gus, the cook, had been with Abe almost as long as he had. “That old goat said that? He called you a traitor?”

  “His exact word,” Abe confirmed. “It stung. It really did. I tried to reason with him but he said if I cared about the Bar T, I wouldn’t sell it for all the gold in the Rockies.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “You’re welcome to try. But Gus has announced he’s packing up and leaving as soon as the sale is final. I understand five or six others have said they intend to do the same, and more might join them.” Abe paused. “What will you do?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “That’s honest, at least.” Abe looked at him. “All I ask is that you give Laurella Hendershot a chance. Who knows? You might even like her. It’s not as if she’s an amateur. She knows ranching and she knows cattle and she’ll run the Bar T as it should be run.”

  “She’s a woman.”

  “So? Don’t tell me you’re one of those who thinks females are born inferior? You do recall, don’t you, that Wyoming Territory was the first to give women the right to vote and run for political office if they want?”

  “I recollect it just fine,” Willis said. It had been a contentious issue. He had voted on the side of the women, mainly because he remembered how sad his mother was that she could not cast votes in elections. “All I’m sayin’ is that I never heard tell of a woman rancher before.”

  “Women can do practically anything men can do,” Abe declared, then laughed lightly. “I would have loved to see the faces of all those snobby Easterners who look down their noses at cowboys and cows when we gave women the same rights as men. We’re supposed to be so ignorant, so backward. Yet it was cowboys who did what all those snobby Easterners couldn’t or wouldn’t.”

  Willis wondered how much of that was Abe and how much of that was Elfie but he did not say anything.

  By then they were near enough to see the ranch buildings: the two-story house with a wide front porch; the long, low bunkhouse; the cook shack, where Gus ruled the roost; the sheds and other outbuildings; the stable and the corral.

  It was the corral that always made Willis’ gut churn. But not this time. All he felt was a peculiar emptiness, as if he were a waterskin that had been drained dry. Images flashed through his mind: of the stallion caught in the north valley; no one knew where it came from or how it got there but it had run wild and free for so long that it fought the ropes every foot of the way, and when it was placed in the corral, it tried again and again to break out. Another image: of Joe Sennet, his helper, going into the corral to snub the stallion to the post, a task Joe had performed countless times, and performed well. But the stallion reared and Joe tried to turn, and slipped. A flailing hoof caught him on the crown of his head and crushed it.

  Man killers were routinely put down. Once a horse killed, it was liable to do so again. But something about the black stallion, about the way it stood straight and defiant and proud, stirred Willis deep down, and he had gone to Abe and asked that the stallion be given another chance.

  Abe was against it. He pointed out the risk. He offered to shoot the stallion himself. But Willis said that it would be a waste of a good animal, that just because man killers were usually killed didn’t mean they always had to be killed. Abe, reluctantly, gave in.

  Looking back, Willis often wondered what in hell he had been thinking. The next day he had taken his rope and gone into the corral, speaking softly and soothingly to show the stallion he meant it no harm. He wasn’t one of those busters who believed in breaking a bronco by brute force. Gentle but firm was how he tamed a horse.

  A lot of the other punchers were on hand to watch. Some shouted encouragement. Charlie Weaver hollered for him to watch himself.

  Willis had glanced at Charlie and smiled. He heard the thud of hooves and whirled. The stallion was almost on top of him. He swung his rope to shoo it off and the stallion turned aside. Quick as a darting snake, Willis had flicked his wrist and the loop sailed out and over the stallion’s head and settled around its neck. He dug in his bootheels as the stallion reared and strained.

  The next step wa
s for him to snub the stallion to the post and hobble it. Willis had started to take up slack as he maneuvered the stallion to the post. All had gone well and Willis had the stallion where he wanted it when the stallion snorted and plunged. He sidestepped but the stallion’s shoulder caught him and he was spun like a top and lost his hold.

  Charlie and some of the others had yelled a warning. Willis looked up, and there was the stallion, rearing over him, a mountain of muscle and fury determined to do to him as it had done to poor Joe Sennet. He had thrown himself to the right as the heavy hooves crashed down. Somehow his legs became entangled in the rope, and he sprawled on his stomach.

  Punchers sprang to help but they could not get close. Willis had rolled to escape the flailing hooves as they thudded down again and again. Then he rose to dart behind the post. Only he never made it. A blow to his left leg crumpled him. Pain exploded like a keg of powder, and there were other blows—terrible, brutal blows—and the next he knew, it was a week later and he was in his bunk, bandaged from head to ankle, and Abe and the doctor were next to the bunk and he heard the words that seared into his being like a red-hot branding iron.

  “I’m sorry, Abe, but he’ll never be able to walk again. Oh, he can get around, but he’ll never have full use of his left leg.”

  “Dear God,” Abe had said. “How about riding?”

  “I’d have to say his days of living in the saddle are over.”

  Now, staring at the corral where his life had been destroyed, Willis swallowed and blinked and wished, for the umpteenth time, that the stallion had killed him. He became aware Abe was talking to him.

  “—up to the house and have supper with Elfie and me? She would be delighted to have you.”

  Willis wasn’t sure his ears were working. Sure, he had worked for Abe for decades and they were friends, but he had not been invited to the main house since Abe married. “Today?”

  “No, you infant, next year.” Abe chortled. “Of course today. This evening. Say, about six.”

  “All right,” Willis said, but he was anything but sure about why the invite had been extended. Elfie had never been all that fond of the cowhands. It showed in how she looked at them and how she talked down to them. “But I can’t make it into town and back in time.”

  “What do you need in town?”

  “New clothes. I’ve worn these so long they’re a mite ragged,” Willis said. “And I can do with a haircut and a bath.”

  “Your clothes are fine as they are,” Abe assured him. “As for the haircut, have Charlie clip it if you feel you need to. And the tub is right where it’s always been. Not that many of you use it all that much except Timmy Easton and he only uses it because he’s so young and so fond of petticoats.”

  They were almost to the stable when who should come strolling out but Elfie, herself. She had on a pretty blue dress and a pretty blue bonnet. She had nice sandy hair and a nice smile but the smile seldom touched her brown eyes. “Abe! You’re back!” She came to meet him and they embraced. “I was expecting you back yesterday morning.”

  “The Flour Sack Kid ran off our horses and Will had to round them up,” Abe explained. “They were scattered to hell and back.”

  “The Flour Sack Kid?” Elfie said in concern. “Please refrain from using that kind of language. Remember, you’re married to a lady.”

  “Sorry,” Abe apologized, chastised. “I’m tired and hungry and not myself.”

  Elfie bestowed her cold smile on Willis. “And how are you, Mr. Lander? Has my husband invited you to supper tonight?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Willis said, his puzzlement growing.

  “Good. Very good,” Elfie said, linking her arm in Abe’s. “We have something very important to discuss with you.”

  “You do?”

  “Now, now,” Abe said. “The proper time and place is this evening. Remember, promptly at six. My wife is cooking the meal herself and she doesn’t like it when her soup grows cold.”

  “I’ll be there on time,” Willis promised. As Elfie and Abe walked happily off toward the ranch house, he stiffly dismounted, and stretched. His left leg was paining him but what else was new? He led the zebra dun into the stable. Familiar smells rekindled more memories: the odor of the hay, of the horses, of droppings and urine. He breathed deep as he brought the zebra dun to a vacant stall.

  “My eyes must be playin’ tricks on me! It can’t be I’m booze blind because I haven’t had a drink since last Saturday.”

  Willis smiled and turned. “Reub, you son of a bitch, how the hell are you?”

  Reuben Marsh was the ranch foreman. He was tall and rugged and no one in Wyoming Territory was better with cows or could run a ranch more smoothly. He had the respect of every hand on the Bar T, and he had it because he had earned it a thousand times over. Thrusting out a callused hand, his spurs jangling, he advanced down the straw-strewn aisle. “I wasn’t sure Abe could talk you into comin’ down from your roost.”

  “He didn’t leave me much choice.” Willis shook warmly, and Reuben clapped him on the arm.

  “Damn, it’s good to see you. We had us some great times in the old days, didn’t we? You and Charlie and Hank and me.”

  “That we did,” Willis agreed. “Where are they, anyhow?”

  “Hank is due back from ridin’ line sometime tomorrow or the next day, and Charlie is down in the south valley countin’ head but should be back anytime now.” Reuben paused. “I reckon you’ve heard about the new owner?”

  “Have you met her?”

  Reuben nodded. “I talked to her for about ten minutes. She wanted to know all there was to know about the Bar T, and let me tell you, that gal knew which questions to ask. She didn’t miss a thing.”

  Willis began removing his saddlebags and bedroll. “Have you decided whether you’ll stay?”

  “I’m leanin’ toward stayin’ if she’ll have me,” Reuben said. “The thing is, she’s a bit hard to get along with.”

  “How so, exactly?”

  “Crusty, you might say,” Reuben said. “I’d better let Abe and Elfie explain. They know what’s best.”

  Now Willis was certain the Tylers were up to something and it involved him. “It’s not like you to keep secrets.”

  “Nice try.” Reuben folded his long arms and leaned against the stall. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Is it personal?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Then no.”

  “What do you plan to do with your life?”

  Willis looked at him. “Whatever happened to manners? First Abe, now you. Abe I can savvy because he’s always been a nosy cuss but you’ve always had the sense not to pry where you shouldn’t.”

  “It’s our future at stake,” Reuben said.

  “And my future is my own, thank you very much,” Willis testily remarked. “I’d as soon everyone would stop bringin’ it up.”

  “You are havin’ supper with Abe and his wife tonight, aren’t you?” Reuben asked.

  “What does that . . . ?” Willis began, and frowned. “Hell in a basket. What in blazes is that woman up to now?”

  “I have work to do,” Reuben declared, and made for the open double doors. “We’ll jaw some tomorrow, after.”

  “After what?” Willis called out but the foreman merely waved and left the stable as if his britches were aflame. “Damn.” He reached down to undo the cinch. “If I had any sense, I’d run.”

  Shortly, with his saddlebags over his right shoulder and his rifle in his left hand, Willis limped toward the bunkhouse. He avoided gazing at the corral. More familiar odors, and a familiar sight, greeted him when he pushed open the bunkhouse door. The hands were off working. All the bunks were neatly made, and the floor had been swept clean. Some outfits had bunk-houses that looked as if a tornado had ripped through them but not the Bar T. Abe was a stickler for tidiness, and Reuben saw to it that whatever Abe wanted done was done.

  Since he had been staying at the line shack, Willis no lo
nger had a bunk of his own but several spares were always available toward the back for grub-line riders and the like, and he chose one at random.

  The washbasin was out back. Willis examined his reflection in the mirror and was shocked at how drawn and haggard he appeared. “I’d give that Texas gal nightmares,” he told the mirror.

  A bucket of water was always kept handy, and soon Willis had shaved and snipped the hair around his ears. He considered filling the metal tub and taking a long overdue bath but after sniffing under his arms decided he did not really need one. He did spruce himself up, though, even going so far as to slick his cowlick down so when he took off his hat later it would not stick straight up like it usually did.

  “That should do it,” Willis said, and vowed then and there to stop talking to himself. It was all right to do up at the line shack, where he only had himself for company, but if he continued to talk to himself at the ranch, the other punchers would brand him as peculiar.

  Willis donned his hat and went back into the bunkhouse. He was pleasantly surprised to find two hands had shown up while he was out back. “Well, look at this!” he declared. “They’ll let anyone cowboy at this outfit, I reckon.”

  Charlie Weaver and Sam Tinsdale greeted him as if he were long-lost kin.

  “You ornery varmint!” Charlie happily exclaimed. “When did you get in? I’d heard the boss went to fetch you and figured you would hide in the woods until he tired of waitin’ and came back down.”

  “Now why didn’t I think of that?” Willis grinned.

  Sam Tinsdale was another of the older hands who had been with the Bar T almost from the start. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, hoss. You’ve been gone too damn long, and that’s a fact.”

  More memories flooded through Willis: of days spent tending cattle when there were no horses to break; of nights spent in Cottonwood drinking and playing cards; of living instead of dying; of being a man instead of half a man. “So you missed me, did you?”

  “Why wouldn’t we?” Sam rejoined. “You were a great friend until you took to feelin’ sorry for yourself.”