Brothers in Blood

by Dusty Richards

  “My land man had that story. But the remains of corrals say it probably happened.”

  “Oh, yes, and these horses are not scrubby mustangs. I would say some good stallions escaped, and those horses over there have more Barb blood.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “When do we go?” Ortega beamed.

  “Day after tomorrow, if we have no problems.”

  “I will be ready.”

  No telegram came and Chet left the camp in Roamer’s hands who Bronco was teaching to braid a riata cut from a whole steer hide. Chet and the others left before dawn with two packhorses. Their horses, fresh from their rest, struck out on the move.

  Chet was behind Ortega’s horse when he reined up. He followed the man’s pointing finger. A large mountain lion loped along the ridgeline. Too far away to shoot. Chet nodded. “That was a big old tom.”

  “Yes, he could kill a horse.”

  “Or me,” JD shouted at them.

  Chet agreed and they moved on.

  On the pass, they rested their horses and then settled into the steep decline. On the less steep trail, JD rode up beside Chet.

  “You say the route in here from Tucson is flatter?”

  “Yes, for all purposes, it’s flat and you can see for miles up and down this land.”

  “Good. These damn mountains would be tough to get in or out of here.”

  “The way down to Mexico is also an open door for rustlers.”

  “That makes it interesting, don’t it?”

  “Could be a tough place to ranch.”

  “No tougher than the Verde place was when you bought it.”

  “It is still a challenge to make a profit. But we’ll have steers to sell this fall.”

  “Where could we sell these cattle?” JD asked.

  Chet shook his head. JD understood some of the problems they’d face building a ranch out here. He’d not seen a dry cow pie near any waterholes, and that meant there was no maverick population like they found on Reg’s operation. But they hadn’t seen the entire ranch on that first trip.

  Ortega swung them south to a small natural lake fed by a spring where they’d leave their packhorse and gear and set up camp. Jesus remained to set up things for cooking. They rode on, eating some burritos Maria sent with them.

  When Ortega found some fresh horse apples, Chet was pleased. In a short while he had his glasses out scoping the herd they’d found. A large blue roan stallion was the monarch of the herd of brood mares with many great looking colts. He passed the glasses around.

  Ortega nodded. “They are good horses.”

  “How many bands are here?”

  “I don’t know, but I have seen this stallion, and there are others.”

  “It would be interesting to cut off the colts,” JD said.

  Ortega agreed. “But there must be a bachelor herd of males he has cut away from these mares.”

  “Right. Have you seen them?” JD asked.

  “Only their heels.”

  “Interesting, huh, Chet?”

  “Yes. That’s why we came to appraise this place.”

  “You have any ideas?” JD asked.

  “Water worries me.”

  “The stud uses the lake. Where is there more?”

  “Maybe south,” Ortega said, and they rode in that direction.

  After a few hours in the saddle, Chet saw through his glasses palm trees in the heat waves. Palms had been planted by the Spaniards centuries ago. They showed up in many places in the southwest desert around water sources. That meant water, so they headed that way.

  Obvious, too, was the smell of smoke on the wind. When they arrived at the source, they found people who were probably squatters on the property. Dust-floured and hard looking, some pregnant, the women came out of their canvas hovels with small children around their tattered skirts.

  Ortega rode in and told them hello. They nodded, but their faces were solemn.

  “Where are your men?”

  The women’s turned-up palms were his answer.

  “Are all of you dumb?” he asked in Spanish.

  Chet noticed they’d grown some corn and crops in the past summer season.

  “Ask if they have food,” Chet told him.

  He did and one woman said, “Poco.”

  Chet gripped his saddle horn and nodded. “I heard her. They don’t have much.”

  Ortega rode back to them. “What can we do?”

  “We’ll send some food back to them tomorrow.”

  He swung his horse around and told them they would send them some food. The women nodded at his words and crossed themselves.

  They rode on and an hour later they shot two buck deer. They loaded them on their horses and rode back. The women came out looking shocked and his men hung the carcasses up on some cross arms for the women to butcher.

  “Can you dress them?” Ortega asked them.

  “Oh, si, gracias, gracias. God bless you all.”

  Chet nodded and they headed back for camp. The range had lots of forage, but water was the weakest part. Windmills were expensive to drill and set up. Plus this much land would require hundreds of them. And he’d bet all of this land didn’t yield well water. He had lots to think about. How many other squatters were out there, besides those desperate women and children?

  “Where were their men?”

  “I have no idea. They must be off working in the valley up by Hayden’s Ferry.”

  “Could they have starved before they got back to them?”

  Ortega nodded grimly.

  Chet shook his head. The notion made him sick, thinking of those small children starving. It reminded him of the Indians they’d helped at Camp Verde when the Indian agent was starving them. And of the breeds on the Verde they fed until Marge’s church took over.

  During the ride back to camp, the women’s situation rode hard on his thoughts. He couldn’t settle all the problems in this world, but he didn’t have to stand by and let such things continue, not if he could help it.

  Back in camp, Jesus was glad to see them and had plenty of food cooked and a Dutch oven cobbler. He got the acclaim of all the crew when they finished eating.

  Chet told him about the squatters, and he agreed to take them half a sack of beans and as much flour as he wouldn’t need before they returned to camp. Ortega drew him a map on an envelope.

  “I’ll get them the food tomorrow.”

  “They appreciated the two deer we gave them, so they’ll like what you have to give them, too.”

  “I’ll find out where their men are, too. Maybe a poke in the ass would help them, huh?”

  Chet laughed. “It wouldn’t hurt them none.”

  It had been a long day. Lots of country, but not much water. That was why that German never used it but once. Chet didn’t want a one-time experience. He’d had enough of them in his life.

  His mind was on his wife, full of a baby or two. Life would be back to normal by summer again. Maybe they could even use the Oak Creek place. He hoped Leroy and Betty Lou worked it out up there. And Reg, he’d go see him on the next trip home. Not that he thought he and Lucie couldn’t run the ranch—simply be nice to see them again. He fell asleep wondering about the cattle drive to Gallup.

  The next day, they rode three abreast up the valley. Jesus was going to take the supplies to the women, and they were going to look over the north section of range.

  By midafternoon they approached some buildings and corral. Smoke came from a rusty stovepipe—probably a cooking fire. There had been cattle signs for over two hours, but they didn’t see any.

  “Is that on your map?” Ortega asked. “I have never been up here. I didn’t know these were here.”

  There was an X on the map about where they were, but it was unexplained. A stock dog barked and a man armed with a rifle stepped out to squint at them.

  “We may have trouble. Be careful,” he warned.

  “Who the hell are you?” the rifleman asked.

&n
bsp; “I could ask you the same.”

  “This is Buster Weeks’s ranch. I’m the foreman, Larry Masters. What’cha want anyway?”

  “He owns this ranch?”

  “You hard of hearing? I said this was the Buster Weeks’s ranch.”

  “I talked to Hans Krueger of Los Angeles, California. He says he owns this ranch.”

  “Well, he fed you a line of bullshit. Buster Weeks owns it lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “How many acres?”

  “Hell, a section, I guess. I’ve been down here two years looking over his cattle. Ain’t no Hans Krueger ever been around.”

  “How many cows does Buster own?”

  “You the damn tax collector? Count them yourselves.”

  “Mr. Masters, you don’t understand. I’m a US Marshal and I’m asking you how many cows he has out here.”

  “About two-fifty.”

  “Thanks. How long will it take for you to round them up and get your ass off this ranch?”

  “You crazy? Marshal or not, I’m not leaving here till Buster Weeks tells me to.”

  “Does he live in Tucson?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Because I’m going up there and tell him what to do, so you’ll have to do it.”

  “You don’t know Buster Weeks. He’ll blow your damn head off. He owns this place.”

  “He may own a place close by, but this is not his ranch headquarters.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Where in Tucson does he live?”

  “Got a ranch up north at Oracle Junction. He’ll damn sure straighten your wagon, mister, about who owns this land.”

  “I doubt that.”

  They turned their horses to leave. The place was respectable enough and if it supported two hundred fifty cows, they could sure start there. There was a small lake lined by gnarled tall cottonwoods. So the supply of water had been there to keep them alive, and a good spring piped through a number of large round rock and mortar tanks.

  Out of hearing, JD rode in beside him. “You really think this is on Krueger’s property?”

  “Yes, and that makes sense. Weeks, I bet, figured out he was gone from the territory and moved in to use it.”

  “You know him?”

  “No, but I will in the next by and by.”

  “What next?”

  “I’m going to hire a lawyer in Tucson that specializes in land cases and start there. I’ll have Bo get an option to buy the land from Krueger, contingent on removal of all squatters, and for him to give me permission to move against them. That might shake him, if he fears lots of lawsuits will lower the value of this place.”

  JD laughed. “That dumb cowboy back there didn’t know who he was dealing with, did he?”

  Chet shook his head. “How many vaqueros can we get to gather Weeks’s cattle and drive them to Tucson?”

  “A hundred enough?”

  Chet shook his head. “Oh, that’s way too many.”

  Ortega mimicked him. “Oh, they are cheap workers.”

  “He might sell them to you cheap?” JD threw in.

  “He might just do that,” Chet agreed.

  “I’ve heard about Weeks from somewhere,” Cole said. “I wish to hell I could recall where it was at.”

  “I thought the same, but I couldn’t name the place.”

  “I bet it was in Texas. I’m sure he was in some big deal back there before we left.”

  Chet tried to put Weeks name with different things to try to recall any past association. Weeks Cattle Company? Weeks Freighting? Weeks Commission Company? None fit, but he knew that name from somewhere in the past. He’d get to meet him, since he’d thrown the gauntlet down with his ranch foreman.

  “Reckon he has any vaqueros working for him?”

  “Oh, I am certain he does. I do not know them.”

  “Ortega, if you rode up here tomorrow and stayed out of sight, could you talk to some of them away from the house?”

  “No problem. If they ride out, huh?”

  “I think they do. What does he pay them?”

  “Twenty a month, maybe.” Ortega shrugged.

  “You can pay them a few dollars for them to tell you how the ranch operates.”

  “How many you want?”

  “Two or three. But tell them not to worry, when we get the ranch they’ll have work.”

  “I can try.”

  “They can use a few spare pesos?”

  “Ah, sí. That will work.”

  “You’re thinking now, Chet.” JD chuckled. “Boys, he covers every bet he makes. I’ll bet we’ll own the Rancho Diablo in no time at all.”

  “We calling it that?” Chet asked.

  “Damn right. And I hope the Fernandez brothers will all come work for us.”

  “Oh, I imagine we will,” said Ortega. “Maybe only two of us. One can run our place at Tubac, no?”

  “I’d say so. How many cows do you have now?” Chet asked.

  “Two dozen.”

  “I’ll make you a loan to get your count to a hundred. Then you will have some income for the one that runs it.”

  “That would be generous of you. What will you do next?”

  “Ride to Tubac tomorrow to get hold of Bo. Go to Tucson and hire that lawyer and find out about this Buster Weeks.”

  “How are we splitting up?” JD asked.

  “Jesus can cook and ride with you two. Cole can go with me, so my wife doesn’t bitch, and you three can make contact with those vaqueros. Then you three come back to Ortega’s ranch. We may be back from Tucson by then and have the whole thing rolling.”

  “I believe we’ll have another big Byrnes ranch operation here,” JD announced.

  “You good at laying adobe bricks?” Chet asked him.

  “Why?”

  “Your wife is not going to want to live in a hovel out in nowhere.”

  JD nodded slow like. “I guess I can sure learn how.”

  They laughed at his reluctant reply.

  “Hell, I called it Rancho Diablo. It may be that for me, huh? But if I have to, I’d learn how to lay adobes.”

  “If you need a builder, I can get him and an army from Mexico to build it,” Ortega promised.

  “Saved by the man,” JD shouted, and stood up in his stirrups. “Thanks, partner.”

  “No problem. I want some of those unseen bachelor horses to break,” Ortega said.

  “When they are ours, you can pick them.”

  “Good enough.” The older brother’s smile filled his face.

  They made camp and Jesus reported the women were in disbelief that Chet would do all that for them besides the two deer, and thanked him.

  “You missed it,” JD said. “We’re in the process of buying the whole damn place. And we have squatters on some real good headquarters, running their boss’s cattle.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Buster Weeks.”

  Jesus shook his head.

  “We don’t know him, either.”

  But we will run him off. Chet knew he faced a large fight, but it could be won. And he had a few good hands in the fight—Bo for one. And he had the money to move it. A tough lawyer came next.

  CHAPTER 29

  Marge asked their lawyer in Preskitt to recommend one in Tucson, then sent Chet a telegram with the name of Russell Craft. And that’s why Chet found himself in the law offices of Jensen, Craft, and Rosewood.

  The office walls were lined in walnut paneling and the man behind the desk was in his forties. Despite the warm temperature, he wore an expensive suit, with a tie and starched white shirt.

  “What can I do for you today, Mr. Byrnes?”

  “Do you represent, or does your firm represent, Buster Weeks?”

  “No, but I know the man. Why?”

  “I’m in the process of buying some property that he’s squatting on.”

  “And you want him removed?”

  “Him and three hundred cows, plus calves, yearling horses, and
people.”

  Craft leaned back in his expensive rollback leather chair and tented his fingers. “Have you ever met Buster Weeks, sir?”

  “No, and I don’t care if I ever meet him.”

  “They say he has a violent temper.”

  “I’m not here looking for advice on my personal safety. I’m here to talk to you about what I can do to evict him.”

  “Do you own the property involved?”

  “I will have an option from the seller on it shortly and the right to evict any squatter.”

  “May I ask where this land is?”

  “Southern Pima County.”

  “You are certain this man is squatting on this land?”

  “No doubt.”

  “How much land is involved?”

  “Close to forty-eight thousand acres.”

  Craft frowned. “My God, man, that is an empire.” “Eight sections, you figure it.”

  “And the current owner?”

  “A man named Krueger.”

  “I have some roll-down maps. Let’s look at it on one of them.” Craft went over and pulled down the map. He soon located the land. “Here is the property. Where is Weeks squatted?”

  “See that X? Right there is where he’s headquartering his operation.” Chet used his finger to show the spot.

  “You have not spoken to Weeks?”

  “I spoke to his foreman down there, Larry Masters. He told me to go to hell. He said Weeks owned the place.”

  “It is obvious the X was there to mark the headquarters of that plot of land.”

  “There isn’t any doubt.”

  “Would you like to speak to Mr. Weeks about amicably talking this over in my office?”

  “We can start there. I should have a telegram within the next two days giving me authority.”

  “I will invite him here, say Friday at two p.m. Where do you live, Mr. Byrnes?”

  “Right now down at Tubac. But my ranches are at Presksitt.”

  “Oh, isn’t that inconvenient?”

  “If he can’t make it, wire me at Tubac.”

  “Very well. This may all be settled out of court.”

  “I’m not a betting man, but I’d bet you ten he won’t agree to leave.”

  Craft laughed. “You may know more than I do about this man.”

  “No, I haven’t met him, either, but I got the impression from his man that was not his way.”

  “Let’s say it is all a mistake and he thought he really did own it?”