This Calder Range

by Janet Dailey

  “Lorna isn’t that kind,” he snapped.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Shorty protested. “You been in the brush too long. You’re as prickly as a cactus.”

  Benteen took the last drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt into the dying fire. “We’ll be headin’ out of here in the next couple of days. Soon as we got that last penful, we’ll join up with Willie and the main herd and head for Fort Worth.”

  Within a week, the cattle were thrown together and pointed toward Fort Worth. The first few days of the drive were critical, getting the herd trail-broken. The cows’ natural instinct was to return to the brush country that had been their home. The drovers were kept busy turning them back and keeping them moving in the right direction.

  Some trail bosses believed in pampering the animals, taking it slow the first few days. Benteen elected to push his mixed herd of cows, steers, and bulls—young to old—so they’d be tired when they were bedded down for the night and less inclined to become restless and stampede. Those first days, they averaged better than fifteen miles a day.

  Luck seemed to be on Benteen’s side. The herd was only a few miles from Fort Worth and there hadn’t been a single stampede. Herds had been known to get into the habit of stampeding on a daily basis. But if stampedes could be avoided the first ten days, a herd was normally easy to handle on the remainder of the drive.

  Benteen was riding with Spanish Bill on the left point. A long-legged brindle steer had assumed leadership of the herd, striding out in front of the others.

  A bareback rider on a big horse crested a rise in the prairie ahead of the herd. Benteen sat straighter in the saddle, ready to curse the slim rider if he spooked the herd. The big chestnut horse was reined in the instant the rider saw the herd strung out before him. Benteen relaxed a little when the horse and rider made a big sweeping arc to approach from the side.

  Without appearing to do so, Benteen kept a close eye on the young rider as he approached. The chestnut had a lot of draft horse blood in it to give it that size, and the lanky kid on its back looked as though he had ridden straight off the farm.

  It seemed there were more farmers showing up each year, plowing up the range grass and fencing in land. That was all the more reason to be leaving Texas, as far as Benteen was concerned. He’d heard about that new barbed wire, and he didn’t like the sound of it.

  “Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Calder?” the boy asked as he rode up. His voice had made the transition to manhood but the body hadn’t grown into itself yet. He reminded Benteen of a gangly colt, all arms and legs, with a skinny body.

  “You’re looking at him.” He slowed his horse, letting Spanish continue on without him while the boy came alongside.

  The big horse was plow-reined into a walk, giving Benteen a better look at its rider. Hatless, the tall, lanky boy had a mop of dark brown hair, cropped close to his neck. He tried to appear older than he was, but Benteen guessed his age was somewhere in the vicinity of fifteen.

  “I heard you had a herd to take north this year.” The boy studied the animals walking by with what was supposedly a critical eye. “Look like they’ve been travelin’ good.”

  “Yeah.” Benteen had been away too often to know who the boy’s family was, but there were a lot of new farmers moving into the area.

  “It occurred to me that ya might be needin’ some more drovers.” The remark was delivered with only a mild expression of interest, but the eager glance he sent Benteen ruined his cool pose.

  “Could be,” Benteen admitted. “What’s your name?”

  “Joe. Joe Dollarhide,” he said quickly. “I been raised with animals all my life. I know everything about ’em. I’m a hard worker. You can ask anybody. An’ I learn fast, too.”

  “Your folks have a farm around here?” Benteen let his hands rest on the saddle horn and swayed loosely in rhythm with his walking horse.

  “Yes, sir.” It was a reluctant admission.

  “And you wanta be a cowboy?” he guessed.

  “I’ll make a good one,” the boy named Joe Dollarhide insisted firmly. “I already know about cows and horses. I can ride. And I’m a good shot. I been huntin’ since I was seven.”

  “Seems to me your pa could probably use a strong boy like you at home.” Most of the time Benteen kept his attention on the herd, only occasionally letting his glance stray to the kid.

  “I got six brothers and sisters at home. They’re most all old enough to help.” First, he assured Benteen that he wasn’t needed at home, “‘Sides, it’s time I was strikin’ out on my own an’ makin’ my way in this world.”

  “How old are you?” Benteen had already made his guess, but he was curious what the boy’s answer would be.

  “Seventeen,” he said quickly.

  Amusement lurked in Benteen’s dark eyes, but he didn’t confront the boy with his doubt. He used a more subtle tactic. “I remember the first time I got a job workin’ somebody else’s cattle. ’Course, I was only fifteen,” he declared, then looked straight at Joe Dollarhide. “It was really somethin’, gettin’ paid to do work that my pa had been havin’ me do for free,” he drawled. “How old did you say you were?”

  The boy bit at his lower lip, then admitted, “I’ll be sixteen in April.”

  “That’s old enough to draw a man’s wages, don’t you think?” Benteen asked with a half-smile.

  “Yes, sir.” The boy grinned, then tried to contain his excitement to be sure he understood. “Does that mean you’ll hire me?”

  Benteen didn’t say yes or no. “We’re gonna be holdin’ this herd outside of Fort Worth for about a week while I get supplies and take care of a few personal matters. I’ll be needin’ some extra help to spell the boys. They’ll have to be dependable.”

  “You can depend on me. I can do whatever needs to be done,” the boy promised eagerly.

  “It wouldn’t be easy,” Benteen cautioned.

  “Work’s never easy. I can handle anything, though,” Joe Dollarhide boasted.

  “Have you got a saddle?” His pointed glance drew attention to the chestnut’s bare back.

  “No,” he admitted on a grimly reluctant note, then asserted, “But I’m gonna buy me one when I draw my first pay.”

  “I think you’re gonna need something in the meantime,” Benteen murmured dryly. “It’s kinda hard holdin’ on to the end of a rope when there’s an eight-hundred-pound steer on the other end who doesn’t want to be there.”

  “I’ll manage,” the youngster insisted, determined not to lose his chance at the job.

  It was a fool’s brag, but Benteen let it slide by without comment. “I’ll give you a try for a few days. If you work out, I’ll sign you on for the rest of the drive. Does that sound fair, Joe Dollarhide?”

  “You bet!” he exclaimed. “You won’t be sorry. I promise.”

  “If you stay on, I’ll pay you thirty dollars a month and found. But you can’t cowboy without a saddle. Until you get your own, I better see if we can’t find a spare one for you to use.” There was an old one in the barn, if Benteen remembered right. It was the worse for wear, but better than nothing.

  “I’ll pay for the use of it,” Joe Dollarhide insisted proudly.

  “Ride on home and get your possibles together. I’ll expect you right after daybreak tomorrow morning,” Benteen stated. “If I’m not here, report to Jessie Trumbo. He’ll tell you what to do.”

  Joe Dollarhide pushed his hand to Benteen to shake on the agreement. “I sure do want to thank you for considerin’ hirin’ me to go north with the herd. I’ll do good for you. It’s time I was seein’ somethin’ more of this world ’sides Texas.”

  A smile pulled at the corners of Benteen’s mouth as he shook hands with the boy. That thirst for excitement and adventure ran hot in the young. Despite Joe Dollarhide’s inexperience, there was something about the boy he liked.

  Dollarhide started to turn the draft horse’s head and ride off, then seemed to remember somet
hing and kept the animal parallel with Benteen.

  “I meant to say that I was right sorry to hear about your pa, Mr. Calder.” There was a stiffness to his words as he tried to show proper respect.

  Benteen’s eyes narrowed to become hard and probing. “My pa? What do you mean?” He had a way of looking at a man that made him wish he was somewhere else, just as the boy was wishing now.

  “Just that … him fallin’ over dead was so suddenlike and all.” The movement of the boy’s shoulders was an uncomfortable gesture.

  Benteen showed nothing in his face, but the blood inside him ran quick and cold. A heaviness pushed on his chest until he couldn’t breathe.

  Dimly he heard Dollarhide say, “I’ll be here at daybreak.”

  The nod of his head was automatic, and the kid dug his heels into the broad sides of the big chestnut horse and rode away. For several more minutes Benteen struggled with the icy unreality of the news. There was a mix-up. The kid hadn’t meant his father. Everything in him fought against accepting it.

  The uncertainty was intolerable. He wheeled his horse around and cantered it back along the herd to where Jessie Trumbo was riding flank. Reining his mount in, Benteen kept the tension on the bit and the horse skittered along in a dancing walk.

  “I’m riding to the Cee Bar,” he informed Jessie without explanation. “You’re in charge till I get back.”

  “Sure.” Jessie eyed him with sharp curiosity. Trouble was always riding nearby in this land. His instinct sensed its closeness now. He’d seen that look in Benteen’s face a few times before, and it never meant anything good.

  A twist of the reins and the goad of a dull work spur sent Benteen’s horse bounding into a gallop, veering away from the herd. Benteen kept the mustang at a run, driven by a sense of urgency. When the ranch buildings came into sight, a tightness wound inside him like a clock spring.

  His horse was snorting and blowing hard as Benteen pulled it down into a slower gait and approached the house at a cantering trot. A bad feeling ran along his spine. It didn’t get better when Benteen spotted the roan horse in the corral. A Ten Bar brand was burned in its hip.

  He started to ride over to the corral for a closer look, when the front door opened and a man stepped onto the porch, a rifle held at the ready. Benteen swung his horse around to face the man.

  “You’re trespassing on private property, Benteen.” The man’s voice rang out harsh and clear.

  “Since when is this Ten Bar land?” Benteen challenged. He thought he knew most of Boston’s riders, but this bearded man was a stranger.

  “Since Mr. Boston said it was.” The rifle was shifted to turn its black muzzle on Benteen. “I got orders to shoot trespassers if they won’t move on.”

  “More of Boston’s orders?” There was nothing reasonable in Benteen. He was all cold and reckless inside as he walked his horse straight at the rifle barrel. “You know who I am—and you knew I was coming.”

  “I was told to expect you, Calder.” The man with the rifle didn’t waver. “This ranch belongs to the Ten Bar now. Mr. Boston felt you might need some convincin’ of that.”

  “And how did he convince my pa?” Benteen demanded, flicking a cold glance at the rifle. “With that, too?”

  “Can’t say.” There was a small negative move of the man’s head, but he didn’t take his eyes off Benteen for even a fraction of a second. “No more talk. I ain’t paid to talk. Ride out, Calder.”

  Benteen felt a hard, raw desire to charge the man and ram that rifle barrel down his throat. He never took kindly to a gun pointed at him. He liked it even less now.

  But it would have been a stupid move. He stopped the mustang. It grated hard on his pride to turn his horse away and ride out of the yard. But there were too many questions unanswered. Benteen swung his horse onto the road to Fort Worth.

  5

  Benteen’s herd wasn’t the only one being held outside of Fort Worth that early spring. The cattle town was crowded with rowdy cowboys and trail outfits stocking up with supplies for the drive north when Benteen rode in.

  There was a leaden anger inside him as he slowed the mustang to a stop in front of the Pearce house. Dismounting, he tied the reins in a half-hitch on the post ring and walked to the front porch. His footsteps sounded heavy as he crossed the board floor and knocked twice on the door. When it opened, Benteen let his hard gaze search Lorna’s face.

  After an instant of startled recognition, she went white. “You know,” she whispered.

  “Pa’s dead.” His voice was flat as he read the confirmation in her expression.

  Lorna nodded once, her lips parting, but no words came out. Benteen lowered his gaze to the door’s threshold, physically numbed to the fact. He clenched his hands into fists, trying to accept the truth of the words he’d said, but protest raged inside him.

  “When?” The one-word question rumbled from a deep pit within himself.

  “The first week of January.”

  Benteen shut his eyes briefly, barely conscious of the rustle of her long skirt. He stiffened at the touch of her hand on his arm, the quiet offer of sympathy. Briskly he moved to reject it.

  “Come inside,” she invited.

  He brushed past her to walk inside, burning with a raw kind of energy. There was a noise from the dining room. Benteen turned and saw Lorna’s mother. She took one look at him and didn’t have to be told a thing.

  “Come into the kitchen, Benteen, and have some coffee,” she invited calmly, as if this visit from him were no different from any other.

  It seemed automatic to follow her into the scrubbed freshness of the kitchen. His blank gaze watched her pour a cup from the metal pot on the wood range. She set it on the table.

  “I don’t imagine you’ve eaten anything, have you?” Mrs. Pearce guessed.

  His hand lifted in a vacant gesture that said food wasn’t important. “What happened?” Benteen continued to stand, making no move to sit in the white enameled chair at the table or drink the coffee.

  Behind him, he heard Lorna’s footsteps as she entered the kitchen. His mind wasn’t able to think about her, perhaps because his heart was incapable of feelings at this moment. He had to keep them shut out.

  “The doctor said it was his heart,” Mrs. Pearce replied with a somber attention to the fact without embellishment. “By the time the doctor arrived, it was already too late to help him.”

  “Where was he when it happened?” Benteen questioned.

  “He had come to town for supplies—to my husband’s store,” she answered, being more specific.

  “Was your husband with him when he died?” He jumped on the information. Instinct told him that Judd Boston had played a role in his father’s death, and Benteen was determined to find out how significant it had been.

  “Well, not exactly.” Mrs. Pearce displayed patience in the face of his sharp cross-examination. “Your father had given my husband a list of the items he wanted. Arthur thought your father didn’t look well, so he suggested that your father use his office in the back room where he could sit and rest while the order was being filled.”

  “Then he was alone?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “He’d taken a cigar and told my husband to include it on his bill. Arthur said your father was in the back room only a few minutes when he heard a loud noise—like something had fallen. When he went back to see what had happened, your father was lying on the floor by his desk. Arthur immediately sent someone for the doctor, but of course it was too late.”

  “Did he say anything about Judd Boston?” There was a cold cynicism in the question.

  Clara Pearce showed a trace of unease at the question. “It wasn’t until later that we learned Mr. Boston’s bank had instructed the sheriff to serve a foreclosure notice on your father’s ranch … for nonpayment of notes that were due.”

  “And Pa didn’t mention anything about it to your husband?” The ridgeline of his jaw stood out sharply.

  “I …” She hesitated
, then reluctantly said, “I believe my husband did make a comment about the amount of ammunition your father wanted. He jokingly asked if he intended to start a war. Your father smiled and said only a small one.”

  Turning his face from her, Benteen swore savagely under his breath. He’d known the day was coming when his father’s situation would come to a head, but this wasn’t the way he had expected it to end.

  “Please sit down and drink your coffee, Benteen,” Mrs. Pearce urged. “It’s getting cold. You’re probably hungry, too. Let me fix you something to eat.”

  “No.” Impatience thinned the hard line of his mouth. He was irritated with her female belief that food could solve things and provide solace to something that was inconsolable.

  An inner rage made him leave the kitchen and the feminine attempts to comfort him. He didn’t want a soothing hand to ease the hot grief burning away his numbness. A seed of anger was growing inside him, and he wanted to feel it. Again he walked past Lorna as if she wasn’t there, and kept going until he reached the parlor.

  Lorna had expected Benteen to be upset, but not like this. She would have been shocked if he had cried, yet she thought he would show more emotion than that cold anger. Instead he’d built a wall around himself that shut her out. It hurt to think he didn’t want her, and that’s the impression he was giving. They were to be married. She was to be his wife. It was her duty to be at his side during times like these, to try to ease his pain.

  “What’s wrong, Mother?” Her bewildered voice was quietly pitched. “He looks right through me and he was rude to you.”

  “Do you remember the puppy you had when you were little?” The understanding that came from experience and maturity was in her mother’s gentle expression. “It was kicked by a horse, and when you tried to help it, the puppy was in so much pain that it bit you. The puppy didn’t mean to hurt you but it didn’t know what it was doing.”

  “Are you trying to say that Benteen is like a wounded animal?” Lorna was taken aback by the suggestion.

  “I’m trying to say that his pain runs very deep,” her mother explained. “Men seem to think they have to hide such feelings—that we’ll think less of them if we see they can be vulnerable, too. Benteen doesn’t want to admit it, but he needs you, Lorna.” She silently encouraged her daughter to go to him.