For the Brand

by Ralph Compton

  Willis would as soon shoot the Nargents dead but Abe might want them alive to do it himself, and then there were the townspeople to think of. They had a stake in the outcome, too. “We’ll try alive.”

  “Why take the risk?” Charlie asked. “Sneak in with our rifles and it’s all over. The best part is we won’t have any new holes where we shouldn’t.”

  “Stay if you want.”

  “That was uncalled for, pard.”

  Willis dismounted, looped the reins around a limb, and slid the rifle from the saddle scabbard. It was a Spencer. He had never fired one but they were supposed to be reliable. He wondered if it was loaded. The trigger guard, as he recollected, worked the same as a Winchester lever. He experimented and fed a round into the chamber.

  Charlie and Bob Ashlon had climbed down and were checking their Winchesters. Charlie bent and began removing his spurs.

  That was a good idea, Willis thought. The slightest jingle could give them away. Leaning the Spencer against the tree, he took off his spurs. He was going to put them in the saddlebags but they were not his saddlebags. He settled for leaving them next to the tree and reclaimed the Spencer.

  “I can circle around to cut off their escape,” Bob Ashlon volunteered. He had his spurs off, too.

  “Can you do it quiet?”

  “If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t ask. I won’t shoot unless I have to.”

  “We’ll give you about fifteen minutes to get into position.”

  When the undergrowth had swallowed Bob, Willis crept toward the bowl, carefully placing his boots so his bad leg would not buckle, until he had an unobstructed view of the Nargents. By his inner clock there were five minutes to go when he eased onto his stomach behind a log.

  Charlie sank beside him.

  “Yes?” Willis whispered when his friend stared at him as if he had his head on backward. “Somethin’ on your mind?”

  “How fond are you of this filly?”

  “I don’t kiss and tell,” Willis whispered.

  “You’ve kissed her?” In his excitement Charlie nearly sat up. “And she let you? You still have all your teeth?”

  “Most of them,” Willis whispered. “Now hush. We have to be ready for when Ashlon is in place.”

  “You’re not gettin’ off that easy. We’ve been through too much together. I’ve cleaned up after you’ve had too much to drink and made a mess of your clothes. I practically carried you that time our horses were spooked by wolves and your knee gave out. Want me to go on?”

  “No.” Willis owed him a lot more than that. “All I say is that she seems to like me. But we haven’t had a baby yet, if that’s what you’re wonderin’.”

  “She has money, you know. Lots of money. I heard it from Reuben and he heard it from the Tylers.”

  “I don’t care how much she has or doesn’t have,” Willis said. “It’s her that’s important. Who and what she is.”

  “She’s a woman.” Charlie smirked. “What more do you need?”

  “I need you to shut up.”

  “Does she have a sister?”

  “Not that I know of. She has a brother but you might not be his type.” Willis smiled at his cleverness.

  “What does she look like under that veil? I saw she had it off when we spotted the two of you by the pool but she put it back on before we got there.”

  “She has eyes and a nose like everybody else.”

  “Is she pretty though? Plain is fine but pretty is better. But not so pretty that she’ll draw other men like honey draws bears.”

  “I wouldn’t have to worry there,” Willis said.

  “Damn, you’re one lucky coon.”

  Thankfully for Willis, Charlie fell silent. They lay and watched the Nargent brothers. Tote poured coffee into tin cups and gave one to Thatch. Thatch added enough sugar to make ten pies, stirred it with a stick, and gulped.

  “I want to hear what they’re sayin’,” Willis whispered. “You stay here.” Holding the Spencer in front of him, he crawled around the end of the log and on through the high growth, avoiding twigs and dry leaves.

  It was his hope the Nargents might mention where the other two were. Willis rated Varner Wilkes and Mason as much more dangerous. Varner was the brains of the gang, and Varner was deadly, but he was nowhere near as deadly as Mason. Which was strange, since of the pair, Varner struck him as more vicious. Mason was good at killing, which wasn’t the same thing. But when a man was on the wrong side of the law, the distinction didn’t much matter.

  Willis slid his right elbow forward and then his left and then his right again. A patch of high weeds separated him from the bowl. Parting them, he saw the brothers and their horses and the weary cows.

  “I hope you’re right,” Thatch was commenting. “I hope he doesn’t get mad.”

  “What right does he have?” Tote responded. “We’re grown men. We can do as we damned well please.”

  “But he said not to go near the herds while he was away. He made it plain, and you know how he gets when he’s crossed.”

  “We’re his kin. He won’t lift a finger.”

  Thatch took another gulp from his cup of sugar with coffee added. “I wouldn’t put anythin’ past him, brother. He’s snake mean, that cousin of ours. Hell, he shot his own pa, didn’t he?”

  “His pa asked for it. Took him out to the woodshed and raised welts on his back, and it wasn’t the first time.”

  “Our pa beat us but we never shot him,” Thatch said.

  Tote puffed out his chest like a drunk spoiling for a fight. “Quit your frettin’, damn it. You’re worse than a woman. Varner will be glad we rustled more head. Now we have more to sell.”

  “Too bad about the one that busted its leg.”

  “If you’d kept a closer eye on them like I told you, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “You always blame me for everythin’,” Thatch complained.

  “Don’t start. All we should be thinkin’ about is gettin’ back before Varner and Mason. He’s less likely to be mad.”

  “See? You’re as worried as I am.”

  “Damned if I am!” Tote snarled, but there was an element of uncertainty to his tone that suggested his brother was right. He glanced at the cows, then rested his forearms on his knees. “I’ve got a proposition for you, brother.”

  “I’m listenin’.” Thatch was also adding another spoonful of sugar to what was left of his coffee.

  “What would you say to the two of us goin’ our own way?”

  Thatch nearly dropped the spoon. “Break up with Varner? Why in tarnation would we want to do that? We’ve had it pretty good with him.”

  “Have we?” Tote said. “He always takes a bigger cut, doesn’t he? He always has us do most of the hard work while he sits back and takes it easy. Then there’s the whole business with Mason.”

  “I never did savvy why Varner keeps that Reb around if he hates him so much.”

  “He keeps him around because Mason is better with a gun than all three of us put together. And he’s scared of him, I think.”

  “Varner?” Thatch snorted. “He’s never been afraid of anyone or anythin’ in his life.”

  “Maybe so. But he doesn’t like sass, yet he didn’t do a thing the other day when Mason sassed him about shootin’ that good-lookin’ cowboy.”

  “What was it Mason said?” Thatch’s broad brow furrowed. “Oh. Now I remember. He said, ‘Why don’t you do it yourself? Or can’t you shoot a rifle as well as you flap your gums?’ ” Thatch laughed. “That took sand.”

  “But it wasn’t very smart. If Mason keeps ridin’ our cousin, then as sure as shootin’, our cousin is goin’ to shoot him. I’d rather not be around when that happens. Mason might think we had a hand in it.”

  “You reckon Mason will buck Varner out?”

  “If Varner is dumb enough to try it facin’ him, sure. But as Varner likes to say, he’s never yet met a man who isn’t easier to kill from the back than the front.”

  Willis
felt a sharp jab in his side and twisted to find Charlie beside him. “I told you to stay put,” he whispered.

  “Good thing I didn’t. Or is he supposed to wait forever for you to quit daydreamin’ about your filly?” Charlie pointed across the bowl.

  Bob Ashlon had made it around to the other side and was waving at them from behind a tree.

  Willis gestured, and Ashlon stopped waving. “I’ll go right,” he whispered. “You go left. When you see me stand, you do the same.”

  “This better work. I’m not ready to die yet.”

  “Who is?” Willis whispered at Charlie’s retreating back. What he had said surprised him so much that he lay there for half a minute before he started to crawl to the right.

  One of the brothers had fished jerky from a saddlebag and they were both chewing hungrily.

  “We’ll let these cows rest an hour, no more,” Tote said. “Then we drive them until they drop or we reach the meadow.”

  Willis crawled twenty feet. Thirty feet. He coiled his good leg under him and looked to his left but did not spot Charlie. Wedging the Spencer’s stock to his shoulder, he pushed up off the ground. “Move and you’re dead men!”

  Both brothers moved. Tote leaped to his feet. Thatch dropped his coffee cup and clawed for his revolver but froze when Charlie rose on the rim farther down and Bob Ashlon stepped into the open and hollered, “Don’t you dare!”

  Tote was furious. “Damn!” He glowered at each of them. “Damn! Damn! Damn!”

  “What do we do?” Thatch asked him.

  “Unbuckle your gun belts and let them fall!” Willis commanded. “Keep your hands where we can see them and you’ll live a while yet.”

  Tote was no fool. “Only until you stretch our necks! And I don’t aim to end my days gurglin’ on a rope!” He went for his pistol.

  Chapter 14

  Willis had Tote Nargent in the Spencer’s sights. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger. But when he did, nothing happened. There was no booming report or kick of the stock. Disbelief rooted him in place as Charlie Weaver’s rifle blasted and Bob Ashlon joined in from the trees across the way. But Tote did not go down, and both he and Thatch returned fire on the run. They were making for their horses, weaving madly to avoid taking a slug.

  A lead hornet buzzed past Willis. He stopped staring dumbly at the Spencer and limped quickly toward a tree. Belatedly, he remembered someone telling him once that Spencers had to be cocked before they were fired. Sure enough, the hammer was down. Hastily thumbing it back, he sought to take a bead on the brothers. But they had reached their mounts. Tote was already in the saddle and firing to cover his brother, whose mount had shied.

  Charlie was cursing fiercely. There was no sign of Bob Ashlon.

  Anxious to prevent their escape, Willis banged off a shot. He knew he had missed even as he squeezed the trigger. Jacking the lever, he cocked the hammer and fixed the sights on Thatch, who was now half on the frightened horse, clinging to the saddle horn. He fired again, but just as he did the horse bounded forward. Again he missed.

  “Let’s go!” Tote Nargent bawled, and spurred his horse toward the woods.

  Still clinging to his saddle, Thatch somehow got his mount to follow. Or maybe it bolted on its own.

  Boiling with frustration, Willis got off one more shot just as the vegetation closed around them. He thought he saw Thatch jerk but he could not be certain. Then they were gone and the sudden silence rang in his ears like the peal of the church bell in Cottonwood.

  Boots pounded the earth, and Charlie was at his side. “That sure went well! We couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn if it was sittin’ on us.”

  “We got the cows back,” Willis said.

  “Only because those polecats didn’t think to run the critters off.” Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Say, where’s Ashlon?” He cupped a hand to his mouth. “Bob! Are you all right? Where did you get to?”

  When they did not get an answer, Willis hobbled into the bowl. The slope was not that steep but he nearly slipped on his way down. Charlie ran on ahead and was about to the campfire when Bob Ashlon appeared on the rim, his right hand pressed to his left arm.

  “You’re shot!” Charlie exclaimed, making it sound like an extremely stupid thing to do.

  “One of the buzzards winged me,” Ashlon said, descending.

  A twinge of guilt stabbed Willis. He was the one who had insisted they go after the rustlers—all to prove to a certain lady from Texas he wasn’t the complete waste of manhood he tended to think he was. “How bad is it?”

  It wasn’t bad at all. The bullet had barely broken the skin but there was plenty of blood. The shock of being hit had brought Ashlon to his knees, where he stayed until he heard the brother galloping off.

  “Now I know why I’m not a lawman.”

  “You and me, both,” Charlie said. “I’d rather be stung by flies than bullets any day.” He examined the wound. “We need to clean you up. I have a canteen on my horse. I’ll be right back.”

  “Bring all of them,” Willis said.

  Charlie gave him a strange glance and hustled off.

  “We were lucky,” Bob Ashlon said.

  Willis nodded. His grandpa used to say that the only reason idiots lived to old age was because the Almighty had a soft spot in His heart for them.

  “It sure hurts,” Ashlon complained. “You would think I’d been kicked by a mule.”

  “Sit and rest,” Willis advised. Now that it was over, he had a powerful hankering to return to the north valley as fast as they could, but he had to be practical. “Charlie won’t be very long.”

  “I never gave much thought to dyin’ before,” Bob Ashlon commented, “but I reckon I’d rather die lyin’ in bed than lyin’ in the dirt.”

  “We never know when and where,” Willis said. A few days ago he hadn’t much cared. Now he found that he did. He cared very much.

  It gave him more to ponder on their way back. All of a sudden everything had changed. Changed so drastically that he wondered if maybe he wasn’t setting himself up for a hard fall. It had been so dreamlike until the rustlers. His innermost longing had been answered, and it seemed too good to be true.

  The cows plodded slowly along. Willis swore he could limp faster. But they were worn-out and pushing them would only make matters worse.

  Charlie had been to one side to keep any from drifting but now that it was obvious they were too tired to act up, he came over alongside the claybank. “I thought your thumb was broke and you forgot to tell me.”

  “You saw?” Willis said, braced for a teasing.

  “You looked as if you were layin’ an egg,” Charlie mentioned. “Good thing you’re a cowherder.”

  “Can we keep it between ourselves?”

  “For my own sake,” Charlie said. “If I told the story, I’d have to tell how we fired close to twenty shots at those polecats and they still got away. We would never hear the end of it.”

  “We’re not gun hands,” Willis said.

  “Thank God. As poor as we are at it, we wouldn’t last a week. But we got the cows. Abe should be right pleased.”

  With all that had gone on, Willis had forgotten about his boss and his boss’s wife. Suddenly he was glad the cows couldn’t go faster.

  “I’ve been meanin’ to ask you,” Charlie said. “Does Miss Hendershot happen to have a sister? Or a cousin? I’m not fussy. So long as they aren’t too ugly, because, Lord knows, I’m no prize myself.”

  “Pick another subject.”

  “Hell, if they are, I can always put a potato sack over their heads,” Charlie said jokingly.

  “That’s not funny. Not one little bit.”

  Charlie was watching the cows and did not notice Willis’ expression. “Marryin’ a pretty girl can give a man fits. Other men are always lookin’, and then there are those who have to test the waters to see if they get a nibble. I’d like as not end up in prison for shootin’ some fool who couldn’t read the no-fishin’ sign.”


  “I don’t care if a woman is pretty or not,” Willis said.

  “Seems to me you did that time in Cheyenne. That gal with the wart on her nose didn’t appeal to you one bit.”

  “It wasn’t the wart. It was her breath. She was too fond of raw onions, not that I have anythin’ against onions. I just don’t cotton to suckin’ on a tongue that tastes like one.”

  “You suck on their tongues?” Charlie was flabbergasted. “Kissin’ their lips is enough of a challenge. Some have terrible teeth. Remember Iowa Sue? Hers were brown.”

  Willis shuddered. “I’d as soon not remember her, thank you very much.” He had been drunk. Very drunk.

  “If your Texas gal doesn’t have a sister, that’s all right. There’s always Gerty. Did I tell you how nice she hums?”

  A cow picked that moment to stumble and nearly fall, and Charlie gigged his mount to check if it was hurt.

  The best thing to do was rest the cows awhile. The Nargents had pushed the animals so hard, they were near exhausted. But Willis hesitated. He yearned to be with Laurella. Then another cow stumbled, and his responsibility to the Bar T could no longer be denied. “Hold them up!” he shouted, and when his companions complied, he announced his decision.

  “You want me to go on with Bob and leave you here alone?” Charlie said uncertainly. “Is that wise?”

  “Your job is to see to it that Miss Hendershot gets back to the ranch house. Explain to her why I had to stay, and explain to Abe so he isn’t mad enough to fire me.”

  “I’ll stick with you,” Bob Ashlon offered.

  “That’s damned decent of you but a sawbones has to look at your arm,” Willis said. Gunshot wounds were notorious for becoming infected.

  Charlie wasn’t satisfied. “Bob and Rafe can take the Texas gal back. I’ll keep you company.”

  “I want you to see to her personally.”

  “You’re a stubborn cuss,” Charlie said, but he smiled in understanding. “I’ll leave her with the Tylers and bring every spare hand I can to help you get these critters back.”

  “Only if I don’t show up by noon.” Willis figured it would take him three hours once he started out. If he started at first light, he would reach the north valley by nine.