Hell Hath No Fury

by Charles G. West

  “Just where is this ranch house they’re supposed to be living in?” Monroe asked.

  “Damned if I know,” Thomas answered. “I’ve never had a reason to look for it before. That fellow Barfield doesn’t seem to be the friendly type. At least, none of the other men I’ve talked to have ever seen much of him and his two boys. Pete is the only one of our crew that’s talked to him.”

  “Sounds to me like nobody knows what size herd this fellow has,” Monroe suggested, “or if he came here with any cows at all.”

  Scanning the valley back and forth while the brothers talked, Hawk’s sharp eye picked up some movement in a stand of fir trees near the bottom of the slope. He watched it closely for a few minutes before interrupting the conversation. “There’s a bunch of cows in those trees down there.” He pointed to the spot.

  Both brothers stared at the stand of trees for a few moments before they were able to see what had caught his eye. “You’re right,” Thomas said. “There’s something moving in those trees. Let’s go take a look.”

  After moving down closer, they could actually see a small gathering of about thirty-five cows that had most likely sought the shade of the trees to settle in for the night. Now, with the sun climbing in the morning sky, they had begun to make their way toward a stream on the other side of the firs. The three riders rode into the trees and began to inspect the brands. All were branded with the same RPB, save one. That one wore the brand, but it was different from the others because of the broken leg on the R and the ragged bottom on the B. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Monroe muttered while staring at the obviously altered brand. He glanced up at Hawk. “Looks like you were right. A six-year-old could have done a better job than this. I guess it’s time we paid a little visit to our new neighbor.”

  Since no one of the three knew where Randolph Barfield’s ranch headquarters was, it seemed the logical step would be to follow the stream. So that’s what they did, and after a ride of about a quarter of an hour, they passed through a lower band of firs to emerge onto a wide-open plain where they saw a couple hundred cows grazing. Sitting close by the stream was one log cabin with a small barn built beside it. “I reckon we’ve found the RPB ranch,” was Monroe’s droll announcement.

  “Appears that way,” Thomas responded, equally as cynical. “It’s not much of a base, is it?”

  Hawk refrained from adding to the sarcastic remarks, thinking instead that the simple cabin and barn looked like some outlaw camp more so than the initial stages of a cattle ranch. Maybe the occupants of the cabin had set out to start in the cattle business. But based on the altered brand they had just seen, they intended to build their herd at the expense of the Triple-P and the other ranches in the Bitterroot Valley. They ain’t gonna like it, he said to himself, thinking of the visit he and the Pratts were about to make. He unconsciously reached down and loosened the Winchester in his saddle sling.

  * * *

  “Somebody’s comin’,” Lorena Barfield announced. She turned away from the window to address the three men seated at the table. “Three men, ridin’ this way,” she said, and stepped aside when her father got up and came to the window.

  “Ain’t nobody I’ve ever seen before,” Randolph Barfield said after studying the three riders approaching the cabin. “Most likely some of our fine neighbors come to look us over,” he decided.

  “Ain’t that nice,” Clint snarled. “They coulda waited till after breakfast, though.” He got up from the table and went to get his holster from a peg on the wall by the front door. After strapping it on, he took a second gun belt off another hook and tossed it toward the table. “Come on, Jake, get your tail offa that bench.” The thrown weapon landed in the middle of the table, knocking his coffee cup off and causing his brother to jump backward to keep from getting a lap full of hot coffee.

  “Damn you, Clint!” Jake blurted as he tried to keep from stumbling over the bench he had knocked over when he jumped back. “I oughta knock some sense into your head.”

  “You oughta try,” Clint responded. “Put that gun on, you might need it.”

  “You damn fool,” Lorena cursed. “I reckon you expect me to clean that up off the floor. Well, I ain’t gonna do it. Me and Ma ain’t got no intention of cleanin’ up after you two hogs.”

  Clint chuckled. “Hell, it ain’t gonna hurt them rough boards. It don’t need to be cleaned up. Ain’t that right, Ma?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t always be goin’ after each other,” Pearl Barfield complained. It was an oft-repeated lament from the tired-out, sad-eyed woman, only one month past her forty-third birthday, but looking as if approaching sixty.

  “Shut up, all of you!” Randolph commanded, still peering out the window at the approaching riders. “Let’s see who this is nosin’ around.” He was especially interested in the broad-shouldered one with a feather in his hat. He was joined at the window by his two sons, both armed now.

  “We could pick ’em off right out the window,” Jake suggested, halfway serious. “Then I could finish my breakfast.”

  “That would be really smart,” Lorena chided. “You ain’t got the brains God promised a tick.”

  “Shut up, I told you,” her father scolded. “Come on, boys, let’s go see what they want.” He went to the door. His two sons trailed outside after him, and Lorena and her mother moved to the window to watch as their visitors pulled up before the cabin.

  “Morning,” Monroe said, and started to dismount.

  “I ain’t invited you to step down,” Barfield replied, ignoring Monroe’s attempt to start things on a polite note. “What is your business here?” He glared at Monroe while frequently shifting his gaze to the man with the feather in his hat, having already sized him up as the most dangerous of the three.

  When Clint Barfield moved a few yards to the right of his father, Hawk reined his horse over to the side to continue facing him. Following his lead, Thomas pulled his horse over when Jake put some space between him and his father, resulting in a three-on-three face-off. There followed a brief silence before Monroe recovered from the surprise of the rude greeting. He had expected at least a show of neighborliness. “I guess you’d be Randolph Barfield,” Monroe finally went on.

  “I be,” Barfield replied. “And this is my land. I asked you what business you have here.”

  “Well, seeing as how your attitude is so damn neighborly, I’ll get straight to the point,” Monroe said. “It seems like some of my cattle have wound up over here in this valley. My place is on the other side of this mountain range, so it’s mighty unusual for my cows to wander all the way over the mountains to this valley.”

  “If I see any of your cows on my range, I’ll head ’em back over the mountains,” Barfield said. “So I reckon that takes care of any business we have to talk about. Now, you and your friends can ride on back to where you came from.”

  Another silent void followed, this one with a deadly cloud of apprehension hanging over it. The six men stood, eyeballing one another, ready to act at the first sign. When Monroe seemed hesitant to push the stand-off further, Hawk decided that it was necessary to call the old man’s bluff. “’Preciate your cooperation, neighbor. Now we’ll take a look at those cows back near the foot of the hills on our way out—just in case you and your boys ain’t had time to notice some of our strays mighta mixed in with ’em.” He said it with a polite smile on his face, but his gaze was focused on the younger son facing Thomas. “Your son seems mighty fidgety with his hand brushin’ back and forth over that gun he’s wearin’. I’ve seen men accidentally shoot themselves gettin’ careless with a handgun. That’s why I’ve always been partial to a rifle.” He drew the Winchester from his saddle sling so smoothly that no one had time to realize he was going to, and there was no time to react. He held it up for them to see. “You have to cock it before it’s ready to shoot,” he said as he cranked a cartridge into the cylinder. “Now, when I shoot it, it won’t be on accident.” He lowered his rifle casually toward Barfield.
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  “Hold still, Jake,” Barfield barked, lest one of his sons make a move. “Both of you,” he cautioned, totally aware that Hawk’s rifle was aimed at him. Realizing that he had just been bamboozled, but still defiant, he said, “I don’t know nothin’ about your cattle. If there’s any on my land, then they strayed here on their own. I’d advise you to keep ’em on your own range and I’d advise you and your hired gunman to stay the hell off my range.”

  “Good advice for both of us,” Monroe spoke again. “I don’t expect to lose any more cattle and that’s a fact.” Following Hawk’s example then, he and Thomas backed their horses away slowly, keeping a steady eye on the three men of the Barfield family. Once he thought it a safe distance, Hawk turned the buckskin and loped toward the hills, leaving the perplexed Barfield men to stand and gawk.

  “Damned if that son of a bitch didn’t buffalo us good,” Clint complained. “I can’t believe we just stood here and let him get away with it.”

  “There weren’t nothin’ we could do about it without gettin’ shot,” his father said. “We mighta got him, but if he had pulled that trigger, I’d be a dead man. He’s mighty slick to get one over on me like that. More’n likely he’s some gunman the Pratt bunch brought in here to stop the rustlin’. And I figure that’s who they are, the Triple-P.” He thought about it for a moment, then said, “Saddle the horses. Maybe we can catch up with ’em while they’re lookin’ over our cattle. We can sure as hell shoot ’em for tryin’ to rustle our cattle.” Both sons ran to do his bidding, in hopes of getting a shot at the three riders.

  Up ahead, about a quarter of a mile from the cabin, Hawk and the two Pratt brothers rode up a grassy draw to come out near the upper part of the stream where they had first seen the cows. There were about thirty cows still grazing close to the water. “Whaddaya think we oughta do?” Thomas asked Monroe. “It’ll take a little time to look at all the brands. I don’t know if we can risk doing that.” He was thinking about the possibility of being chased.

  “I hate to leave here without taking what belongs to us,” Monroe said.

  “You and Thomas drive the whole bunch back up toward the top of that mountain,” Hawk said, pointing toward the lower slope in the range. “I’m gonna ride back a ways and keep them from catchin’ up. I expect it didn’t set too well with ol’ Barfield, lettin’ us get away clean like that.”

  “We don’t know how many of those cattle are ours till we get a chance to look at the brands,” Monroe said.

  “That’s up to you what you wanna do,” Hawk said, getting impatient now. “You can drive the whole bunch up that mountain, look ’em over, and drive Barfield’s cows back down. Or keep ’em all. Hell, he probably owes you more’n what’s in this pocket. Just get goin’.” With time running short, he wheeled the buckskin and galloped back toward the cabin.

  One thing Hawk felt certain about, Barfield was not about to sit tight and let three people get the word out that he was building a herd at his neighbors’ expense. The only choice he had was to kill the three of them before they spread the word to the other ranches in the Bitterroot Valley. And if he could catch them while they were on his range, he could probably get away with accusing them of rustling his cattle. Hawk’s thinking was right on the money, for Barfield and his sons were already saddling their horses. They knew for a fact that there was a loosely formed association of the cattlemen in the valley and Barfield could not afford to have all the owners stirred up against him. He had hoped to continue to get away with rustling cattle randomly from each of three ranches within twenty miles of his place. But now, with that plan endangered, he would not hesitate to commit murder to keep from losing the operation he had started.

  Hawk could still hear the bawling of the cows Thomas and Monroe were pushing up the slope behind him when he tied Rascal to a stunted pine tree in a band bordering a wide trench. He took his rifle and dropped down into the trench to await the arrival of his pursuers. It would be better if Barfield thought they were still inspecting all the brands, cutting out only those that had been altered. He turned to look up toward the top of the slope behind him, hoping to see the two brothers drive the cattle over the crest. There was no sign of them yet, so it looked as if he was going to have to hold the Barfields longer than he had anticipated. He looked down toward the cabin before taking another look up toward the mountaintop. This time, he spotted the herd of cattle crossing over the treeless grassy top. Good, he thought. Now, if I can slow these boys up, Monroe might have enough lead to get those cows to the Triple-P. He rested the barrel of the Winchester on the edge of the gully and waited.

  Within a few short minutes, he heard the pounding of horses’ hooves approaching the stand of pines between him and the cabin. A couple of seconds later, the first rider could be seen coming through the trees, the other two in single file behind him. Even at that distance, Hawk recognized the leading rider as the son who had squared off in front of Thomas and had shown signs that he was thinking about going for his handgun. For a brief moment, Hawk hesitated, thinking how young the boy was, sixteen or seventeen, he estimated, a pup bred from a no-good sire, but a pup nonetheless. Damn, he cursed himself for his reluctance. He’ll kill you if he gets a chance and most likely think nothing of it. The riders thundered toward him, almost out of the trees now. Hell, he cursed again, shifted the front sight of his rifle away from the center of the young man’s chest, and squeezed the trigger.

  Jolted by the sudden impact of the .44 slug in his shoulder, Jake Barfield was knocked from his horse, almost before the sound of the Winchester’s harsh report rang out. It was followed by three more quick shots that sent Clint and his father scurrying back into the trees to find cover. Hawk drew the rifle back from the edge of the gully to keep them from pinpointing his position and waited. He watched the wounded boy as he got up on his hands and knees and crawled back toward the trees. It would have been an easy shot to finish Jake off, but Hawk felt no temptation to do so. He was hoping that wounding the boy would discourage the father from pursuing the issue, but it was sure to force Barfield to take some action. He was either going to have to choose to fight, or choose to run. Hawk hoped that Barfield would decide it best to run before the rest of the ranchers in the valley rose up to come after him. It took the wounded boy several minutes to reach the edge of the pines. Hawk saw no sign of the other two until he spotted an arm motioning from behind a tree, encouraging Jake to continue. Once he disappeared into the stand of pines, Hawk withdrew from the gully and crawled back into the trees. Moving back through the firs, he untied Rascal’s reins and led the buckskin carefully up the slope to take up a position higher up.

  Closer to the top of the mountain now, he found another gully that afforded him concealment and protection while providing an overall view of a good bit of the mountainside below him and the gully from which he had ambushed the three of them a few short minutes before. If Barfield was set on coming after him, Hawk figured he’d choose to circle around the gully, using the trees to hide his movements. The only question was, in which direction? Right or left? So with his horse tied out of sight at the edge of an open pasture above him, he concentrated his gaze on the slope below him.

  He was almost of the opinion that Barfield had decided against coming after him when he caught a glimpse of a white shirtsleeve as one of his stalkers passed by a small opening in the trees just below the left side of the gully he had just vacated. He had to search his memory to recall who was wearing a white shirt, the father or the son, then told himself it didn’t matter. He shifted his gaze to the other end of the gully, but saw no movement there until finally he saw Barfield suddenly spring out of the trees to charge the gully. As if on signal, Clint sprang up from the other side, his rifle ready. Hawk fired three shots in rapid succession that kicked up dirt between the father and son and caused them to dive into the gully. To make sure they kept their heads down, Hawk fired a couple more rounds to kick up more dirt from the rim of the trench. Then he waited and watched, knowin
g they weren’t likely to get out of their trap without his seeing them. A quarter of an hour passed, then another with no sign of any attempt to escape.

  * * *

  Lying as flat as he possibly could, Clint Barfield spit the last of a mouthful of dust he had gulped when he dived into the shallow gully. “You reckon that jasper is fixin’ to set up there all day, waitin’ for us to come out?”

  “I don’t know,” his father replied. “Maybe.” He grunted in pain as he reached under his belly in an effort to move a sizable rock he had dived on, being careful not to raise his body above the rim of the gully.

  “It’s been a long time,” Clint complained. “Maybe he’s gone.”

  “I don’t know. I think he just wants to keep us pinned down long enough for his partners to get those damn cows back over the hill.” They waited for another lengthy period spent hugging the ground that was heating up with the sun now high overhead.

  “Reckon Jake’s all right?” Clint asked. “He said he could make it back to the cabin all right, but he might notta made it.”

  “He oughta have. He got hit in the shoulder. Ought not be nothin’ wrong with his legs.” The awkwardness of their situation began to irritate Barfield’s nerves. “I ain’t fixin’ to lie in this dust all day,” he finally declared. “I bet he’s done snuck off and left us layin’ here in the dirt like a couple of lizards.” Still not completely convinced he was right, he decided to find out cautiously. He pulled his hat off and placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Then he raised the rifle barrel very slowly, about an inch at a time, until only a couple of inches of the crown rose above the rim of the gully. It was immediately knocked off the barrel with the snap of a rifle slug splitting the air over his head. Barfield dropped his rifle and clawed the ground frantically. “The son of a bitch is still there,” he blurted.