Now he wasn’t so sure about it.
I stood up, the thumb of my right hand restin’ on my belt buckle, the fingers just inches from the butt of that gambler’s gun.
“Let Rusty take the bum, Mike,” a puncher said.
Mike smiled. “I guess you’ve got first dibs, Rusty. He did dump you in the street.”
But Rusty didn’t appear all that eager. Not that he was afraid, for I didn’t believe he was. I think he was just a pretty good ol’ boy who’d got caught up in a bad deal.
“You realize I can put you in jail for bracin’ me, don’t you, Rusty?”
Mike sneered at me. “That badge supposed to make you a big man, saddle bum?”
“No. But it does make me the law.”
Everybody in the place, except for the lady and rusty, thought that was real funny. That woman kept starin’ at me, like she was tryin’ to figure out where she’d seen me.
“Sheriff,” she said. “Did you ride for the Hilder-brant outfit up in Montana Territory a few years back?”
“Yep.” I did not take my eyes off of the cowboy named Rusty.
“Thought it was you. I seen you brace them three Reno Brothers in that boom town just south of the Little Belt Mountains.”
“Yeah. Knowed I’d seen you somewheres.”
All them hardcases in the room was listenin’ real close.
“I helped take up the collection to bury all three of them boys,” the woman added softly.
Any steam that Rusty might have built up left him a hell of a lot quicker than it come to him. His face got sudden sweaty and he come up out of that gunfighter’s crouch, his mouth hangin’ open.
“You better shut that trap, cowboy,” I told him. “Flies is bad for this early in the season.”
His mouth closed with a smack.
“Your name cotton?” the woman asked.
“Yep.”
All of a sudden there was a lot of ol’ boys lookin’ in ever’ which direction . . . not at me. Like I said, I wasn’t unknown when it come to gunslickin’. I just never made no big deal out of it.
“Heard of you,” Big Mike said. “But I think I’m better.”
“One way to find out.”
But Mike was real careful to keep his hands away from his guns.
I killed my first Injun when I was ten years old, a Blackfoot, if I recall right. A whole bunch of ’em was tryin’ to bust into our cabin, and the west wall was mine to protect. I killed my first white man when I was about thirteen. he was tryin’ to steal our milk cow. Fever got my folks shortly after that. My brothers and sisters was farmed out to neighbors, but I took off, and I been on my own lonesome hustle ever since. I reckon I have picked up the name of gunfighter, but it wasn’t nothin’ I went lookin’ for.
Rusty looked like he was comin’ down with something terrible contagious. He backed up, his hands relaxed, palms up.
“Take him, Rusty!” Big Mike shouted. “That’s an order.”
“Hell with your orders! You want him so bad, you take him. come to think of it,” the red-head said, “I ain’t never seen none of your graveyards.”
“You insolent yellow pup!” Mike slapped him, the blow knocking the smaller man to the sawdust.
The kid had sand, I’ll give him that. He come up off that floor and took a swing at Big Mike. ’Bout like a gnat tryin’ to fight a mosquito hawk. Bit Mike hit him once, a hard straight right, and Rusty hit the floor and didn’t move.
Big Mike dug in his pocket and tossed a handful of silver coins to the floor and on Rusty. “Let’s ride!” he barked. Then looked at me. “I’ll see you around . . . Sheriff.”
That ‘Sheriff’ bit was greasy. “Yeah, I imagine you will, Romain. ’Cause you gonna screw up, and when you do, I’m gonna put your big ass in jail.”
“You’ll play hell ever doing that!” he blustered.
“Then I reckon I’ll just have to shoot you, Romain. Why don’t we settle it now?”
“Mike!” a woman squalled. I recognized the squall. The same woman who wanted me rode down.
“Saved by a woman. You a lucky man, Romain.”
That got next to him. I really thought he was gonna jerk iron. But he just turned his big butt to me and walked out, his punchers trailin’ along behind him.
Kneeling down by Rusty, I noted that he was gonna have a shiner for a few days.
“I’ll get him a beefsteak,” the woman said. “Couple of you boys haul him up and sit him over there.”
The barkeep leaned over and dumped a pitcher of water on the puncher. Sputtering and shaking his head, rusty sat up, allowing the boys to drag him to a table and sit him down.
I got me another beer and one for Rusty. The woman—she introduced herself as Mary—brought a beefsteak out and Rusty held it to the side of his face.
“How old are you, Rusty?” I asked.
“Twenty.” He grinned and I liked him immediately. “And for a minute there, Mister Cotton, I didn’t think I was gonna get much older, neither.”
“How’d you get tied up with Circle L?”
“Signed on to shove beeves around. Then the word come down about six months back, that anyone who wanted to ride for the brand had best be ready to fight for it. Some left, I stayed, figuring the fightin’ wages would come in handy.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I was gonna quit come payday anyhow.”
“How good are you with them hoglegs?”
“Better than average, I reckon. But not near’bouts in your class.”
“You ain’t worried about what people’s gonna say?”
“’Bout me backin’ down?”
I nodded.
“Hell, no! I’m alive!”
I returned his grin. “That’s your money layin’ over yonder on the floor.”
Mary got her swamper to pick up the money. He laid it on the table and Rusty shoved a dollar at the old man.
And I liked that gesture. Even though the old swamper would surely spend it on rotgut.
“What are you gonna do now, Rusty?”
“I don’t know. Drift, I reckon. When Big Mike fires someone, it ain’t wise to hang around. Only two I know of that’s still around is De Graff and Burtell. They pretty salty ol’ boys. Mike’s got this hang-up about ropin’ and draggin’ folks.”
“So I heard. How much was he payin’ you at the brand?”
“Fifty and found.”
“I’ll give you seventy-five and one meal a day and a place to bunk.”
His eyes widened. “Doin’ what?”
“Totin’ a deputy’s badge.”
His grin was infectious. He stuck out his mitt and I shook the work-hardened hand. “You done hired yourself a deputy, Sheriff.”
“Who’s this woman that was ridin’ with Mike Romain?”
The middle of the afternoon, next day. Rusty had been sworn in by George Waller, and we’d spend some time cleanin’ up the office and findin’ out where things was. It had been quiet so far. We’d made a visit to all the businesses and introduced ourselves. Now we was relaxin’, sittin’ on a bench in front of the office, talkin’.
“I thought you knew?”
“No.”
“That’s Joy Lawrence, A.J.’s daughter. She and Wanda Mills think they’s queens of the valley.”
“Circle L and Rockinghorse that big?” I hadn’t had the time to ride out and inspect for myself. Something I needed to do.
“I should say! They’re two thirds of the Big Three, as they’re called around here. Circle L, Rockinghorse, and the Quartermoon. Matt Mills owns the Rockinghorse, Rolf Baker owns the Quartermoon. One lies at the western edge of the county, one to the north, and the other to the east.”
“And lots of little spreads caught up in the middle, hey?”
“You got it, Sheriff. Between the three of them, they must control close to a million acres. But don’t nobody really know for sure. You see, the nesters and small ranchers is stringin’ wire. They want to know exactly what they own and so forth. Lawrence
and Mills don’t want that. They want free access to the water like they’ve always had. But the Quartermoon ain’t bad. Baker ain’t pushin’ for no more land or water; he’s got the best water and graze of ’em all. But Rockinghorse and Circle L . . .” He shook his head. “There’s gonna be a lot of blood spilt.”
“And just the two of us standin’ in the way of it, Rusty.”
“I give that some thought last night, Sheriff. I shore done it.”
“But you still here.”
He grinned. “I like it when things get to jumpin’.”
I laughed at him. It was the same old story, and I’d been caught up in similar situations before. Some people get a lot, and they want more, and they get to feelin’ that they’re kings. It had been that way up in Montana Territory when I’d been ridin’ for Hilderbrandt. Williston got him six feet more land. That was right after I dropped them Reno boys.
“I heard about them Reno Brothers,” Rusty said softly. “I heard they was real fast.”
“They wasn’t fast enough. Well, one of ’em was, I reckon. He beat me to the draw but he put his first bullet in the dirt. Rusty, how come the Sheriff’s don’t last long in this county?”
Rusty grunted. “I hope you ain’t thinkin’ that I had anything to do with any of that mess, Sheriff.”
“I don’t. George Waller said you was a good boy that just turned briefly down the wrong road.”
“Good way of puttin’ it, I reckon. The lawmen? Well, one of them was ambushed. Another got roped and drug to death. Next one quit. Another got killed. And so on. Why? ’Cause Mills and Lawrence don’t believe no law applies to them. Or none of the hands. You see, Sheriff, the range of the Big Three spreads kinds makes a half circle on the top of the county, connectin’. Man, you oughtta see the main ranch houses of Lawrence and Mills—them folks live like kings and queens!”
“So they’ve been here a long time?”
“Lawrence and Mills and Baker was the first white men in this area. To settle, I mean. I think Preacher might have been the first white man to roam around here.”
“I heard of him.”
“You know Smoke Jensen?”
“Not personal. But I seen him work one time. That’s the fastest man with a gun anywhere. Left hand or right hand.”
“So I heard. Anyways, Baker and Mills and Lawrence come in as young men. They all married at about the same time. All their kids is about the same age.”
“This Joy . . . she playin’ with a full deck?”
Rusty laughed. “She’s just natural mean, Sheriff. Just like her brother, A.J. Junior. They’re spoiled and they’re cruel. They ain’t never wanted for nothin’. And Junior is fast with a gun, remember that. He’s good. But he likes to hurt people—’specially women. He’s raped more than one.”
“Why hadn’t someone hung the bastard?”
“Between the two ranches, Rockinghorse and Circle L, Sheriff, they can mount a hundred and fifty men.”
“Guess that answers my question.”
“Mills and Lawrence had them kids tutored, the teachers brung in from overseas, French and English. Baker’s wife was a well-educated lady herself, with money of her own. She taught her own younguns, Pepper and Jeff. They right good kids.”
“Pepper’s a girl?”
“And how! Just lookin’ at her makes a man wanna go run rabbits and howl at the moon. I know, I done some howlin’ myself one night.”
“She must be a sight to behold.”
“Purtiest thing you ever seen in all your life, Sheriff, and Big Mike wants her bad. Goes courtin’ her. But she won’t have nothin’ to do with him.”
She come up a whole lot in my eyes with that statement.
Rusty said, “Now then, right in the middle of that half circle I tole you about, is the fly in the soup. Maggie Barnett and Jean Knight. Their husbands was kilt fightin’ the Circle L and Rockinghorse—nobody could prove it, but ever’body knew who done it. That happened some years ’fore I come down here. So them gals, they just up and joined spreads and formed the Arrow band. Little spread; ’bout seventy-five thousand acres. And them two gals is tougher than wang leather, let me tell you that right now. And cuss! Lord have mercy!”
“How do they ride?”
Rusty rolled his eyes. “Astride. Plumb indecent. The Arrow hands ain’t young, by no means, but they’re salty ol’ boys. And Miss Maggie and Miss Jean can ride like men, work like men, and shoot just as good as any man.”
I looked up and down the main street. At the far end was a church. At the other end, a schoolhouse. And in the middle, three saloons. The Wolf’s Den, the Dirty Dog, and stuck back, almost in an alley, was Juan’s Cantina.
“Odd to find a Mex joint this far north.”
“Sheep to the south of us,” Rusty explained. “The sheepmen gather at the cantina. The crews from the Big Three gather at the Wolf’s Den. The smaller ranchers and nesters gather at the Dirty Dog. Small ranchers and farmers are bandin’ together for protection. First time I ever seen that.”
I thought for a moment. “What is today?”
“Friday, Sheriff. Box social night at the school. Dancin’ and all that, too.”
“Like you bid on lady’s dinner boxes?”
“Yep.”
“Lots of folks turn out?”
“Near’bouts ever’body in the whole area. Some left at dawn just to get here. I’ve only been to a couple of them. Punchers is said to be too rowdy for the good folks.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yep.”
We both grinned at that.
“I just might make that social tonight, Rusty.”
“Should be interestin’, Sheriff. Big Mike never misses one.”
The buckboards started rattlin’ in about four-thirty that afternoon, a lot of them trailed by heavily armed outriders. I didn’t think they was there ’cause of Indian trouble. It’d been four years since the Little Big Horn fight and the following Injun wars. There was still a right smart among of Injuns around, but this area was so populated, Injuns mostly stayed away. The Crow, Blackfeet, Flatheads, and Cheyenne’s was north of us, mostly up in Montana Territory.
No, I had me a hunch that all this gun totin’ didn’t have nothin’ to do with Injuns.
I said as much to George Waller. Rusty had wandered off somewheres.
“Yes, it’s coming, Sheriff,” he admitted. “The lid could fly off the pot anytime.”
I shoved my hat back and stared at him. Must have made him uncomfortable. He fidgeted some and said, “The cattlemen want the sheep out. Sheepmen say they’re staying. Two of the Big Three want the nesters out. Nesters say they’re here to stay.”
“And the Arrow spread?”
“Right in the middle with prime land. Good graze and good water. Circle L and Rockinghorse want that land bad.”
Was that it? Was that all this was about? For sure, men have died for less. The lust for power does strange things to people sometimes.
I nodded at George and walked out to the boardwalk.
Strangest damn town I’d ever been in.
Takin’ my time, I walked the boardwalk toward the schoolhouse, tippin’ my hat and smilin’ at the ladies, noddin’ to the menfolk.
“Coming to the social tonight, Sheriff?” a man inquired, friendly-like.
“I’ll be there.”
Walkin’ on up to the school, I seen a gaggle of womenfolks spreadin’ tablecloths out on long made-up tables. They was a-gigglin’ and a-carryin’-on like they do. They give me the once-over and some of ’em started whisperin’ amongst themselves and sneakin’ looks at me.
I done a quick about-face and got the hell gone from there.
Tell you the truth, womenfolk make me nervous. A sashayin’ and a-twitchin’ around. And you don’t never know what they’re thinkin’, neither. Give me a good horse and a good gun anytime. A dog is right nice to have around, too. A man can depend on them. And a good watch. I wanted me a good watch—one of them gold railroad w
atches, with a nice fob.
Matter of fact, I seen some watches down at Waller’s Store. Come payday, by God, I’ll just get me one.
Walkin’ back, I stopped mid town and stared at the comin’-up parade. There they was, comin’ in east by north, so it had to be the Circle L and Rockinghorse bunch. My, but they was makin’ a grand entrance. Like some of them East Injun Pootentoots I’d read about. I wasn’t real sure what a Pootentoot was, but I figured it was somebody who thought more of hisself than other folks did.
I had to take me a second look to see for sure if that was the same woman that’d hollered like a whoor to have me run down day before. It was. But this time she was sittin’ in a surrey, and she was all gussied up in a fancy gown and was a-twirlin’ a little pink parasol.
I leaned agin a post and watched the parade. Best shot I’d seen since I was a kid up on the Yellowstone and old lady McKinny got her dresstail caught in the door one windy day. Took it plumb off. She wasn’t wearin’ nothin’ under the gingham neither. I never saw such a sight in all my nine years of livin’. I run home and told my pa and he like to fell down he was laughin’ so hard. I told Momma and she whupped me.
Took me years to figure that out.
That older man sittin’ beside Joy—he wasn’t that old, maybe forty five—that had to be her pa, ol’ A.J. hisself. I wondered if the J. stood for Joy? If so, his middle name was as strange as my last name.
And there was Big Mike, sittin’ up on that big black of his, lookin’ like hell warmed over.
And then I seen the outriders, and knew right off that the hundred and twenty-five I was getting’ was some short.
Gave me sort of a funny feelin’ in the gut.
Rusty joined me by the hitch-rail. “You know any of ’em, Sheriff?”
“Most of ’em. And there ain’t a one there that’s worth a damn for nothin’ except gun-slingin’.”
And I was speakin’ the truth. There was Lydell Townsend, Tanner Smith, Dick Avedon. There was the Mexx gunfighter, Sanchez, riding a horse with a Rockinghorse brand. Jim Reynolds, Hank Hawthorne, Joe Coyle, Little Jack Bagwell, Johnny Bull, and Tom Marks. There was some others that I couldn’t right off hang a name on . . . except Trouble-Hunter.
Blood Bond 9 Page 18
