Brothers in Blood

by Dusty Richards

  “Let’s say how he saw it was deserted and moved in figuring the owner would not be back and he could use it for free.”

  “How long has he been there?”

  “Three years, I suspect, from what his man said to me.”

  “Where up north is your ranch?”

  “Preskitt Valley, Hackberry, Camp Verde, and up on the rim east of there.”

  Craft paused and nodded. “You are not an ordinary cowboy then.”

  “I’m down here with a secret task force to halt the crimes committed south of here near the border. I work for US Marshal Blevins.”

  “The new man?”

  “He’s pretty serious about putting a stop to it.”

  “He obviously has a man who knows how to find them.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No, thank you. We will see what Weeks wants to do next.”

  “Wire me.”

  Chet left the office. Cole was squatted on his boot heels in the shade, with both horses switching flies. He got to his feet. “How did that go?”

  “He’s inviting Weeks to a meeting here at two p.m. on Friday.”

  “He thinks that he’ll move?”

  “I doubt it, but we can learn what he thinks, if he shows.”

  They rode south and didn’t arrive in camp until late that night.

  When he woke the next morning, Roamer had a short telegram for him.

  CHET

  THERE IS A DEATH THREAT ON YOUR LIFE.

  ONE OF MY DEPUTIES HEARD ABOUT IT ON

  THE BORDER. HE COULD NOT FIND A SOURCE,

  BUT WANTED ME TO PASS THAT ON TO YOU.

  BE CAREFUL.

  BLEVINS

  “The word is out on you.” Roamer shook his head.

  “Talk’s cheap.” Then he explained what the lawyer said and where they would start on the eviction notice.

  Roamer, JD, and Ortega planned to make a round down to a suspected outlaw hideout in the Huachuca Mountains and struck out the next day with a packhorse. That left Shawn, Cole, and Jesus to guard him so he could attend the meeting in Tucson on Friday.

  After they left, a telegram from Bo arrived.

  CHET

  WE HAVE AN OPTION FOR FORTY THOUSAND

  DOLLARS, IF AND WHEN THE SQUATTERS ARE

  DRIVEN OFF THE LAND. YOU HAVE FULL

  AUTHORITY TO DISPOSE OF THEM. I DON’T

  KNOW, BUT THAT IS DIRT CHEAP LAND. BO

  Chet sent one back to him.

  BO

  SEND RUSSELL CRAFT THAT INFORMATION AT

  JENSEN CRAFT AND ROSEWOOD ATTORNEYS IN

  TUCSON A.T. PRICE IS RIGHT IF WE CAN WRESTLE

  THE LAND AWAY FROM WEEKS. YOU DID GOOD.

  CHET.

  “That’s a helluva price,” Cole said when he showed him the message.

  “That’s a helluva dry place, too.”

  “What did JD call it? Rancho Diablo?” Jesus asked.

  “Right. He called it that himself.”

  “You can make it work. I truly believe you can.”

  “Good.”

  They went back to Tucson on Thursday and Chet learned that Weeks and his lawyer were coming to the meeting.

  “His attorney has some land claim he’s bringing that shows Weeks owns those ranch quarters.”

  “I doubt the owner of the land would have bought it and made that setup without a survey.”

  “Whatever, we’ll need to have it surveyed.” Craft drummed his fingers on the desk.

  “We can do that, but if he’s wrong, I want to charge him pasture fees. That way, if he’s bluffing, he might not be so insistent on staying.”

  “Oh, he’s blustery. I imagine we’ll have a confrontation in my office. But we must be lawful, unless his threat is real.”

  “I totally understand. I will be here at two p.m. tomorrow.”

  “Yes, and we shall see. This lawyer, Townsend, talks a lot, too.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Chet and his men went back out to Jesus’s aunt’s place and spent the night. He’d brought a lot of food from the open market, and they held a big fiesta with some of the neighbors. His aunt was very excited and thanked him for the treat.

  Midday on Friday, they were back at the lawyer’s office. A big red-faced man in a brown suit, and wearing a new Boss of the Plains silk-wrapped-brim hat, was introduced to him as Buster Weeks. They didn’t shake hands.

  “Byrnes, next time, come see me. Don’t threaten my foreman.”

  “Next time, don’t squat on a ranch I’m buying.”

  “You may be a big man in the north. You ain’t shit down here.”

  “Gentlemen,” interjected Mr. Craft, “we are here for a discussion, not a fight.”

  “I think Mr. Weeks had an appointment here,” Jarman Townsend, his lawyer, said.

  “Everyone sit down,” Craft said. “Now, Jarman present your claim for the land.”

  The gray-haired man who looked a little red-eyed from a bout with a whiskey bottle the night before cleared his throat and handed Craft a paper. “Here’s the property you are talking about.”

  Craft went to his wall map and read the description. “This calls for sixty acres.”

  “That’s where the gawdamn ranch is located. North of that Krueger property,” Weeks said.

  “A surveyor can settle this,” Craft said.

  “We don’t need a gawdamn surveyor. They can’t find their ass in this country. Some greasers built those damn buildings on the place I bought from Santos. That bunch Krueger sent didn’t know where they were at setting it up years ago.”

  “Survey it then,” Chet said, already weary of this mouthy sumbitch.

  “Do you know what those bastards will charge you to do that?”

  “I don’t care. They will find you are way south of his northern line and you can pay for the survey and also three years’ pasturage.”

  “Hell, I ain’t agreeing to that.”

  “You know you’re wrong, so go on. We will have it surveyed. Then we’ll meet you in court.”

  “You’ll find I’m right. I intend to fight you. I own those ranch headquarters.”

  “Gentlemen, let’s sit down again,” Craft said. “Jarman, does your client intend to refuse negotiations at this time?”

  “Yes, we believe that the ranch headquarters are not located on Krueger’s land.”

  “Then we will survey and see you in court.”

  Chet knew that would take time—as much as six months’ litigation, but in the end they would win this case. Still, it involved a lot of money, but he had the place bought at the right price to afford some litigation.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” Craft said, and Townsend and Weeks left. The latter looked like a snarling dog going out the door, but Chet had no fear of him. He still couldn’t place if he’d really met him before; some thread of the man niggled him, but no memory came forth.

  After talking with Craft about their plans, he and his men headed back to Tupac.

  “How long will the survey take?” Cole asked.

  “Oh, two months. I bet nothing is ever in a hurry down here.”

  “Will we be there when they do the survey?”

  “We may. Craft has a copy of the original plat, which included the points of reference the surveyors made when they surveyed it for Krueger in 1867. Craft felt they were valid. He wasn’t sure how Weeks had been able to buy sixty acres in such obscure country. Our attorney also mentioned that might be a doubtful deed. He plans to investigate it closer.”

  “What do you think?” Cole asked.

  “I was thinking Weeks may have a partner who figured all this out and he’s only the front man.”

  “Oh, who would that be?”

  Chet turned up his palms. “I guess that is for us to find out.”

  They got back to camp late that night. JD was still up and eager to hear the results of the meeting.

  Busy stripping out the wet latigo leather on his cinch, Chet considered the meeti
ng he’d had several hours earlier. “Weeks is a windy Texan with lots of bluff. He wants to fight us in court.”

  “So how long will that take?”

  “I figure six months at least, but we’re in for the whole thing.”

  “Nothing is easy.”

  “Nothing. You ready for the wait?” Chet asked.

  “Hell, yes.”

  “Good. It may shred all our patience. Tomorrow, I’ll send Bo a telegram and tell him our results.”

  “I bet he’s anxious, too. Oh, you got a telegram today.” JD scrambled to go get it.

  “From who?”

  “Your banker. He’s collected four more months’ cattle deliveries.”

  “That’s great news.” Whew, that really was good news. The total operation was moving forward.

  “I thought so, too.”

  Jesus took Chet’s horse to put him up.

  Chet ate some fruit—red bananas and citrus—then went off to find some sleep in his bedroll. Made him more homesick than ever, but he slept hard.

  A man came in the morning to tell them about a bloody ranch raid made by bandits and offered to take them there. Dallas Gabbert rode a rough-looking bay gelding. He hadn’t shaved in some time and his clothes were threadbare, but he sounded real and concerned. Chet, Roamer, and Cole rode with him to the site.

  “Did anyone contact the sheriff?” Chet asked him while on the way.

  Gabbert shook his head. “I don’t know. I heard about you and your men and figured you could do more than he could.”

  “I don’t compete with sheriffs.”

  “Hell, I been hearing all kinds of reports how you been getting them bandits.”

  “We have gotten some.”

  “Well, by God, they killed Nellie Justice, her boy, and the hired man. She never hurt no one.”

  When they got there late in the afternoon, the scene was grim. Gabbert had drug their bodies inside the jacal to save them from buzzards. He’d even covered her naked corpse with a blanket. The bloody sight of her body that Chet saw under the candle lamp was ugly. A small woman in her thirties who looked tough. The boy of ten had his throat cut, and the Mexican man was shot in the back of the head, execution style.

  If only he’d brought Jesus to track.

  “Three horses rode out,” Cole said. “One had a Chet-broken-shoe.”

  Chet chuckled. “I was thinking we needed Jesus.”

  Cole shrugged and smiled. “I knew we had to find their tracks.”

  “Good job. I think we need to contact the sheriff in Nogales for Santa Cruz County. I met him once. I think his name is Garcia.”

  Gabbert nodded.

  “Roamer, you ride in there and find him or his man and have them bring the coroner out here. I’ll make a map of the crime scene and send that with you for him.”

  “We’ll leave you some signs,” Chet said to Roamer. “We’ve got some jerky and should find food along the way. You do the same.”

  “You going to try to track them?” Roamer asked.

  “If they left a track.”

  “I’ll find you.”

  “Fine.” Chet wasn’t certain how Gabbert and the sheriff got along. Why did he ride clear to their camp to report a crime that happened in the jurisdiction of a sheriff? That was why he chose Roamer to go see the chief law official.

  Roamer left for Nogales. In the late afternoon, Chet, Cole, and Gabbert headed east. He had concerns that the outlaws wouldn’t go far, but Gabbert had a notion they were going to a hideout in Nogales.

  “There’s a ranch over there where lots of them bandits hide out. It’s easy for them to slip off into Mexico from there.”

  Chet yawned. “Thanks, you can guide us. We’ll chance catching them.”

  The darkness of night finally made their traveling dangerous. They slept a few hours in their bedrolls, ate some more jerky, and washed it down with canteen water. In the predawn, Chet decided he needed to find out more about their guide. Several things about the man and his part in the raid vexed him.

  “Gabbert, why don’t you level with me? I think you know who murdered those folks.”

  “I never lied to you.”

  “No, but I don’t have all the story.”

  Cole listened close as they stood by their horses under the stars.

  “I never killed her.”

  “I didn’t say you did. Tell me the entire story.”

  “Me and that damn sheriff had our outs.”

  “Outs? What’s that mean?”

  “I traded for a horse someone had stole. He came to arrest me for stealing it. I got in a fight and was arrested. I never stole nothing. I was having an affair with her. He knew that. I figured that was why he’d accuse me of the crime.” The man was crying by then.

  “Gabbert, tell me about these men that we’re headed for.”

  “Aw, they raped her about six months ago. I ain’t no hand with a gun. She begged me not to go over there and kill them. She wouldn’t tell the sheriff, either.”

  “They raped her?”

  “They were drunk and rode over there and raped her the first time. I just hoped they didn’t do it again. I was drunk that night and didn’t go see her. Yesterday, I rode out there and found them dead. I figured the sheriff would arrest me for doing it.”

  Gabbert was still crying. “I don’t know why she put up with me. But she was a good woman.”

  “Who are these men we’re going after?”

  “Joe Guzman. Theo somebody, and Anthony Diaz.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Small crimes.”

  “She have any money?”

  “Not much.”

  “Guzman the leader?”

  “Yeah, he’s in his thirties. Them other two are maybe twenty.”

  “Women and kids there?”

  Gabbert nodded and wiped his nose on a dirty sleeve.

  “What now, Chet?” Cole asked.

  “How far away are they?” Chet asked the weeping man.

  “Two miles.”

  “I know you’re sad and I believe your story, Gabbert, but we’ll need evidence that they were there.”

  “I saw they took both her dresses.”

  “Huh?” Chet asked, ready to mount up.

  “They took both her dresses. She only had two. One was her working dress, the other her good one. She didn’t have no dress on when I found her. Both were gone.”

  “We’ll find them, and we’ll have a good case.”

  By the time the sun started to rise, they rode up to the place with their guns drawn. Gabbert, of course, didn’t want a gun.

  “Guzman, come out empty handed. The law’s here,” Chet yelled.

  A woman screamed and Cole jerked his horse’s head around and fired a shot in the ground to stop a half-naked man attempting to run away. “Get the hell back here.”

  The younger man stopped and raised his hands. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.”

  Another young one wearing only his pants came around with his hands in the air.

  “Watch them.” Chet decided Guzman must have run out the back and he charged his roan horse around the jacal. He spotted the near naked man headed for the chaparral riding bareback. He fired a warning shot in the air and the man stopped his horse.

  “Get your hands high. Now, dismount, and don’t move or you’re dead.”

  Chet stepped down and took handcuffs from the saddlebags. The man’s hands shackled behind his back, he headed him back and led his horse.

  Cole had the other two seated on the ground. Gabbert held a Mexican woman in her teens who kicked and thrashed around.

  “This is Nellie’s dress she has on and the other one is inside.”

  “Good. Where is the money?” He punched Guzman in the back.

  “She didn’t have any money.”

  “No, you found some money. That’s why you killed her.”

  “How do you know that?” Guzman acted insulted.

  “Hell, you raped that woman befor
e and didn’t kill them. It was over money, wasn’t it?”

  “It was all his idea,” one of the younger men said.

  “Shut up.”

  “I want the money,” Chet insisted.

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “I want an answer, and my time is short.”

  “How did you find us?”

  “Gabbert showed us the way.”

  “That old drunk. I should have killed him, too.”

  “Now show me the money.”

  Chet shoved Guzman ahead of him into the house where the outlaw nodded at a large jar. When Chet looked inside, he saw a sack. He lifted the heavy sack onto the table and opened the drawstring. It was full of coins and bills and a letter inside that he took out and opened.

  To Who Reads This: If I die this money goes to my

  friend Dallas Gabbert to raise my son Abraham.

  Nellie Justice

  “What does it say?” Cole asked.

  “Gabbert is out of debt. She left all this money to him to raise her boy. Make that woman get out of that dress. It’s evidence.”

  “We may have to take it off her.” Cole looked at him with a frown.

  “We can do that. Let me talk to her.”

  Chet turned to Gabbert. “Close up that bag and letter and take good care of it.”

  “Yes, sir. This is some mess.”

  Chet nodded curtly and went outside. He told the woman in Spanish to take off the dress or they’d take it off.

  She acted indignant, but she stomped inside, undressed, and flung the dress at him. “There, you bastardo!”

  He swept it up, ignored her nakedness, and went outside. Laughing to himself, he gathered that dress and the other one Gabbert found. The man was seated on the ground, crying again.

  “Quit feeling sorry for yourself. Did she own that place where she lived?”

  “Yeah, she owned it. Why?”

  “Well, I bet the judge will give that to you, too. She left a will of sorts for you to take care of her son.”

  “He was killed.”

  “You still look like her heir. I’ll help you settle it. It was something she wanted.”

  “Damn those bastards. What are we going to do with them?”

  “Take them to jail and see they hang.”