For the Brand

by Ralph Compton

  “That’s all? Are you feeling all right?” Slim teased. He was a human bean pole with a rare trait for a saloon owner—he never indulged in the liquor he sold.

  “I’m nursin’ Abe’s wife today, not cows,” Willis explained, “and she thinks poorly of buckboard drivers who reek of hard spirits.”

  “Beer it is, then.”

  It had been so long, Willis’ mouth puckered at the first sip. Swishing the beer in his mouth, he savored the taste, then plunked down a coin and limped over to his fellow Bar T punchers. “It must be nice to be takin’ the year off.”

  Timmy Easton, who found more excuses to spend time in town than anyone at the ranch, chuckled. “Believe it or not, we’re workin’.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Willis said.

  Jim Palmer’s handsome features creased in a grin. “He’s right. Reuben sent us in to keep an eye out for strangers.”

  “Strangers?” Willis said, and remembered the tallies. “Oh. Did he twist your arms or were you saddled up before he asked?”

  “That’s a good one,” Jim Palmer said, and pushed an empty chair out from the table with his boot. “Join us, why don’t you? We’ll tell you about the new girls Slim has workin’ here, and you can tell us all about the pretty does and owls you saw up in the high country.”

  At that, Timmy Easton roared. “Pretty does and owls! Jim, you’re a hoot.”

  “The ladies think so.” Palmer wasn’t bragging. He was stating fact. Females flocked to him like she bears to honey. “Have a seat, Will.”

  “In a minute.”

  Johnny Vance did not look up from the cards when Willis sank into a chair opposite him. “I heard yuh were minglin’ with people again,” he said in his thick Southern drawl.

  “I heard you were involved in a corpse-and-cartridge occasion,” Willis mentioned.

  About to place a black nine on a red ten, Vance swore. “Some longhairs just don’t know when to sheathe their horns.”

  “I’m surprised you came back to Cottonwood,” Willis said. “There can’t be much for you to win except when the Bar T boys blow in. How do you stand the peace and quiet?”

  “There’s a lot to be said for tranquillity,” the gambler remarked, “for not havin’ to worry that the next gent who ambles through the door isn’t out to shoot you in the back.”

  There was a rumor—Willis tended to believe it—that Johnny Vance came to Cottonwood so often because it was the one place Vance felt safe. Apparently the Reb had made a few enemies in his travels, both poor losers and Yankees who resented any hint of Southern pride. “How long are you here for this time?”

  Johnny Vance shrugged. “Another week or two at the most. I’ve had a hankerin’ for Creole food, so I might pay New Orleans a visit.”

  “I envy you,” Willis said.

  “That’s fittin’ since I envy you.”

  “Did a bullet crease your noggin? What is there about to envy me, a crippled, used-up buster?”

  “A man envies what he doesn’t have,” Johnny Vance said. “You spend almost all your time up in the mountains without a care in the world.”

  “There’s no shortage of cares. Believe me.” Willis was thinking of the mountain lion and the two dead horses.

  Just then hooves drummed out in the street. Riders came to a stop at the hitch rail. Saddles creaked and spurs jangled. The batwing doors were thrust wide and into the Lucky Dollar strode four dusty men in wide-brimmed hats and slickers. Two were burly and middle-aged and looked enough alike to be brothers. The third had wispy corn silk hair and a wispy mustache and was dressed all in gray. The last was the runt of the bunch. Scrawny and bucktoothed, he glared at everyone and everything as if daring the world to make fun of his size.

  All four, Willis observed, wore revolvers. Nothing unusual in that. But the way their hands hovered near their hardware was not ordinary, as was the constant darting of their eyes to the right and the left.

  Jim Palmer and Timmy Easton had sat up and were scrutinizing the newcomers with keen interest.

  “What will it be, fellas?” Slim asked.

  “Monongahela,” the runt said, thumping the bar, “and don’t water it down or there will be hell to pay.”

  “I never water my drinks,” Slim said, insulted. “Ask anyone.”

  The man in gray turned so he faced the door and rested his elbows on the edge of the counter. “Any chance of gettin’ a mint julep, suh?”

  Johnny Vance turned his chair half around. The scrape drew the attention of the man in gray, and they locked eyes. “Perhaps you will indulge me in a card game later, suh.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” the man in gray said. “Whereabouts did you get that accent? Macon, Georgia, for me.”

  “Atlanta,” Johnny Vance said.

  The runt with the buck teeth grunted and smacked the man in gray on the arm. “Share your whole life, why don’t you, Mason?”

  “Don’t touch me, Varner.”

  “Or what?” Varner demanded. “Me and my cousins are gettin’ mighty tired of your airs. You ain’t no better than we are. It’s time someone knocked you off your high horse.”

  The man called Mason stepped away from the bar and swept back his gray slicker, revealing a matched pair of Griswald and Gurnison revolvers with ivory grips, worn with the grips forward. “Start knockin’.”

  Varner glanced at the burly twosome for support but his cousins were not interested. “Let’s not make a spectacle of ourselves.”

  “You started it,” Mason said. “Always on the prod. Always lookin’ for trouble. One of these days you’ll get more than you bargained for.” He moved to the bar and stood facing his companions. “Let’s get our drinks and get back to work.”

  Jim Palmer called across the intervening space, “Just what is it you boys do for a livin’?”

  Varner glared suspiciously at the Bar T’s handsomest cowpoke. “Who wants to know—and why?”

  “The outfit I ride for, the Bar T, is lookin’ for new hands,” Palmer answered, which was a bald-faced untruth. “If you gents are any kind of cowhands, you could hire on.”

  “I’ve worked cows,” Varner said, “but it’ll be a long day in January before I do it again.”

  “Somethin’ wrong with bein’ a puncher?” Timmy Easton threw in.

  “Nothin’ that a konk on the head won’t cure,” Varner responded. “It’s damn hard work. In the saddle from sunup to sunset. Havin’ to put up with dust and flies and critters that try to run off. No, thanks.”

  “So what do you do for a livin’?” Jim Palmer inquired as politely as could be.

  “Right now we’re between jobs,” Varner said, which was no real answer, “on our way to Utah.”

  “You’re Mormons?” Timmy Easton blurted.

  “Hell, do you see eight wives waitin’ on me hand and foot?” was Varner’s reply. “We just heard there’s work there, is all.” He turned to the bar, signifying their exchange was over.

  Johnny Vance was playing solitaire again. Speaking so softly Willis barely heard, he said, “Palmer told me about the missin’ cattle. I’d say those four are prime candidates.”

  “Could be,” Willis said, “but there’s nothin’ we can do unless we catch them in the act.”

  “Go heeled,” the gambler said. “They’re a gun outfit, as sure as shootin’. And the cure for that isn’t a konk on the head. It’s a necktie social.”

  “Whoever it is will be hung, for sure,” Willis said. Wyoming ranchers as a rule did not bother lawmen and judges with minor nuisances like rustlers.

  “Yes, suh,” Johnny Vance said, and he was grinning, “rustlin’ is as low as a man can go. The only thing lower is a Yankee rustler.” He glanced pointedly at Varner.

  Chapter 7

  Willis had been raised to treat women with respect. Most of the time, he did. The incident with Marabelle and the whiskey bottle had been when he was a lot younger, and booze blind; it was the only stain on his record with regard to females. So he was as sur
prised as anyone when he looked Elfie Tyler in the eye and bluntly said, “It’s a bad idea, ma’am. I’m against it.”

  Elfie was out front of the general store. She had made more than a dozen purchases and Willis had dutifully deposited them in the bed of the buckboard and tied them down. While doing so, he made the mistake of mentioning the four men at the Lucky Dollar.

  Now, her eyebrows arched in indignation, Elfie said, “You’re against it, Mr. Lander? And since when do you make decisions about the Bar T?”

  “It’s not my place, true,” Willis sheepishly admitted, “but we should check with Abe first.”

  “I’m positive he would say the exact same thing.” Elfie stared across the street at the Lucky Dollar. “Go bring them right this instant.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Willis said, blaming himself and his big mouth. He limped back over. Varner and his two burly cousins were still at the bar. They hardly gave him a glance as he hobbled past and over to the table where Jim Palmer and Timmy Easton were working on their bottle.

  “Back so soon?” Jim Palmer said. “I’ll pour you a tall one.”

  “Can’t,” Willis said. “I’m on official business. Abe’s cow bunny wants to see you, and I’m sorry as hell, boys.”

  “Mrs. Tyler wants to see us?” Timmy Easton repeated, brightening and adjusting his bandanna.

  “Kids,” Willis said.

  Elfie was waiting by the buckboard, impatiently tapping a foot. She got right down to it. “Mr. Palmer, Mr. Easton, Mr. Lander has told me about the four newcomers, and voiced his suspicion they might be the rustlers responsible for our missing cattle.”

  “They could be, ma’am,” Jim Palmer said, “but all we have to go on is a hunch and you can’t hang a man for that. Well, not usually, anyway.”

  “Your hunch is good enough for me,” Elfie said. “Good enough, at any rate, that I would like for the two of you to trail them when they leave and see where they go.”

  Willis brought up his main objection. “That could be dangerous, ma’am. They’re not friendly sorts, and they don’t wear their hardware for bluff or ballast.”

  “Are you afraid?” Elfie asked Palmer and Easton.

  If she had been Willis’ wife, he would have kicked her. There was no surer way to get a man to do something he shouldn’t do than by questioning his courage. He quickly said, “I’m sure they’re not, ma’am.” But the harm had been done.

  “Why, yellow ain’t hardly my favorite color,” Timmy Easton bragged. “If you want those coyotes trailed, then by God, we’ll trail them. Won’t we, Jim?”

  “If that’s what Mrs. Tyler wants,” Jim Palmer said reservedly. He was older and had more sense.

  “Be careful,” Elfie cautioned. “Don’t get too close. Follow from a distance, and if they lead you to their camp and our cattle, head for the ranch and don’t spare your horses.”

  “We can do that,” Timmy Easton said.

  Elfie bestowed a smile. “With a little luck, we can dispose of these rustlers before Laurella Hendershot arrives. The sale would go that much more smoothly.”

  Inwardly, Willis cursed the sale and cursed his boss for marrying a woman who always thought she was right and cursed the four newcomers for showing their faces in Cottonwood. But most of all he cursed his leaky mouth.

  “I’m counting on you,” Eflie said, then amended, “We’re counting on you, my husband and I. It would mean a great deal to us, and I would be eternally grateful.”

  Timmy Easton had yet to learn that a woman’s eternal gratitude usually lasted a day, if that. “You can count on us, ma’am.”

  “Good.” Elfie bobbed her chin and smiled sweetly. “Off you go then.”

  Jim Palmer glanced at Willis with a pained expression but he did as she had told them.

  “You’re makin’ a mistake, ma’am.” Willis would not let the matter drop.

  “It’s mine to make. We’ll see what Abe says when we reach the ranch. In the meantime, find something to occupy yourself for another hour or so. I have a few people to see and a few more items to buy.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Willis said, and if it was possible to make those two words convey his belief that she was an idiot, he did it.

  “I can’t say as I like your tone, Mr. Lander. Abe told me you can be crotchety, what with your leg and all, but I should think you would know which lines you can cross and which you cannot.” She walked off in a huff.

  Willis let out a sigh and placed his hands on the buckboard and bowed his head. He toyed with the notion of going over to the Lucky Dollar and telling Jim and Timmy not to do as Elfie had instructed them but that might make Abe mad and he owed Abe too much. Damn, he thought, what a pickle.

  “Are you holdin’ up that buckboard or is the buckboard holdin’ you up?”

  Willis had rarely been so glad to see anyone. An idea occurred to him, and he grinned at his genius. “Marshal Keever!”

  “Either you have a female problem or you need some prunes,” the big lawman said with a smile. “Nothin’ else could make a man look so miserable.”

  “How are you at keepin’ secrets?” Willis asked.

  “It depends on the secret. If you’re in love and don’t want me to tell anyone, fine and dandy. If it’s the prunes, and I’ve had enough coffin varnish, I might joke about it in public.”

  “It’s not prunes,” Willis said in mild exasperation, and proceeded to relate the details of the missing cattle and the four men at the Lucky Dollar and Elfie’s interference. The lawman listened with interest, and when Willis was done, he thoughtfully rubbed his square jaw.

  “Well, now, maybe I should have a look at these gents. Could be they’re wanted, and if I have circulars on them, it would solve your problem, wouldn’t it?”

  “That it would,” Willis heartily agreed.

  Marshal Keever scoured the street. “Now where did that deputy of mine get to?” He shrugged his big shoulders. “Oh, well. I doubt I’ll need him. Tag along if you’re inclined.”

  Willis wouldn’t have missed it for all the whiskey in the saloon. He limped in the lawman’s shadow, tingling with glee at his brainstorm.

  The lawman went through the batwing doors as if they were not there. Keever paused just long enough to let his eyes adjust, then made a beeline for the bar, the badge on his vest shining with authority.

  Willis hung back. The four might get the notion he had gone to fetch the lawdog, and that might not sit well. He saw Varner tilt a glass and glance in the mirror and see Keever. Instantly, Varner lowered the glass and started to spin, but he caught himself and whispered something to his cousins. Mason was over near the end of the bar, watching Johnny Vance and a townsman play poker.

  “Gentlemen!” Marshal Keever said in that big, friendly voice of his. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He did, while studying the faces of Varner and the cousins. “Do you plan to be in Cottonwood long?”

  “Not long at all, Marshal,” Varner said. “In fact, we’re about ready to ride out.” He displayed his buck teeth in a lopsided grin that had all the warmth of a coyote baring its fangs.

  “Come a long way, have you?” Marshal Keever asked. Ordinarily it was close to a sin for anyone to pry into another’s affairs. But the lawman’s badge gave him that privilege.

  “Long enough,” Varner replied edgily.

  “Where from?”

  The tip of Varner’s tongue appeared under his buck teeth and he gave the lawman a strange look. “You sure are a curious jasper.”

  “I’m paid to be,” Marshal Keever said, and tapped his badge. “It’s the only job there is where a man can be a busybody and not be shot for it.” He paused. “So where are you from, again?”

  “Nebraska,” Varner said. “Me and my cousins are from near a small town called Lexington. We were raised on farms but farm life was borin’ as hell, so we took to driftin’.”

  “Farm life is short on excitement,” the lawman agreed.

  Willis marveled at how easily Keever got the small
man to talk about himself and share details Varner would likely as not never share with anyone otherwise. It was part of what made Keever such a good lawman—he used friendliness to do what other lawmen had to threaten to find out.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Varner was saying. “If I’d had to plow one more field or shuck one more ear of corn, I’d have blown my brains out.”

  “How have you been makin’ ends meet?” Marshal Keever asked.

  “Oh, however we can,” Varner said. “We worked at a ranch near Sterlin’ for a spell but ranchin’ ain’t any more excitin’ than farmin’. So we drifted to Denver.”

  “I’ve been there a few times, back before I wore a badge,” Keever said. “The whiskey is fine and the women are finer.”

  Grinning, Varner nodded. “I’d still be there now if it were up to me. I landed a job as a hog reeve but that didn’t last long. I’d had enough of hogs on the farm. So then I hired on as a freighter but the hours were too long and the work about killed my back.”

  “You’re a hard man to please when it comes to employment.”

  “I have my principles. I don’t like takin’ orders from bossy know-it-alls. I don’t like sweatin’ to make another man rich. And I don’t like bein’ paid pennies.”

  “I reckon that leaves everything out except winnin’ a lottery and robbin’ banks,” Marshal Keever commented.

  The man called Varner seemed to tense, then chuckled. “Lotteries are a fool’s proposition. Most are rigged.”

  “That leaves banks.”

  Cocking his head, Varner looked up. “How stupid do you think I am, Marshal? The only quicker way to the gallows is rustlin’.”

  “Speakin’ of which, some cows have gone missin’ of late up to the Bar T,” Keever said. “Maybe the rustlers reckon the Bar T has so many cows a few won’t be missed but Abe Tyler keeps a tight tally.”

  “Is that a fact?” Varner asked, sounding uninterested.