by Hall, Billy
Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
By the Same Author
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
It was a good bet the horses were stolen. It was equally certain a cautious man wouldn’t say so. They were obvious hardcases, all.
The four men sat their horses easily, ranged around the thirty or so head of horses, keeping them bunched. The obvious leader of the four, hands folded on his saddle horn with the reins between them, chatted amicably with the rancher.
‘I don’t recognize any o’ them brands,’ the sun-bronzed rancher offered. ‘They ain’t from around here.’
‘Naw, they ain’t,’ the horse trader agreed. ‘We been tradin’ for a good piece a’ready. We started out north o’ Laredo with seven good mules. We worked our way up through the Indian Nation, swung over into Colorado, along the east slope o’ the mountains, there. We been on the trail for pertneart a year.’
‘Uh huh,’ the rancher fretted. It was obvious he was uncomfortable. ‘What’re you askin’ for ’em?’
‘If you can use the whole bunch, we’ll let you have ’em for fifteen dollars a head. If you just wanta pick out some, they’ll be twenty.’
‘Uh huh. They all well broke?’
‘Yup. Some better’n others, naturally. Some of ’em are good workin’ horses. Some are rideable, but ain’t been taught much. Them two roan geldings are right good ranch horses. They got a lot o’ cow in ’em. The sorrel stud ain’t so good for workin’. He tends to be pretty studdy, but he’d make a fine stud for buildin’ a herd. Them three paint mares are gentle, but two of ’em are a mite lazy. Over all, it’s a good bunch o’ horses. We’ll sell ’em for cash money or trade, if you got some you’re wantin’ to get rid of, or just want some new blood in your remuda.’
None of the four had failed to notice the half dozen ranch-hands that seemed to be drifting aimlessly around the ranch yard. As they appeared to be attending to various chores, they had positioned themselves so that they formed a large half circle. The horse traders and the small herd they were proffering were well covered, should a confrontation develop.
Watching his crew from the corners of his eyes, without appearing to, the rancher became more confident enough to broach what he considered the most important question at hand. He said it as a statement of fact, but it was an undisguised question. ‘I ’spect you’ve got bills o’ sale for all of em.’
The horse trader grinned as if there were no implied accusation in the question. ‘Sure thing. And I’ll sure give you a bill o’ sale on any or all of ’em as well. They’re sure clean.’
‘They’re clean, but they ain’t yours.’
The words shot through every man in the ranch yard like a bolt of lightning. All eyes swivelled as one to the speaker.
As if he were an apparition from out of nowhere, he stood facing the leader of the horse wranglers. Nobody present had ever seen him before. Nobody had seem him approach. That, in itself, seemed impossible, but there he stood.
His pale blue eyes were hard and flat. His posture was deceivingly casual. His left thumb was hooked in the front of a cartridge belt. It, in turn, held a well-worn Colt .45, tied low on his right thigh. His right hand hung relaxed just by its grip.
The leader of the horse wranglers moved his own hand nearer his gun butt. ‘Whatd’ya mean, they ain’t mine? I got a bill o’ sale for every one of ’em. Who are you, anyway?’
‘If you got a bill o’ sale, you wrote it yourself,’ the newcomer accused in a conversational tone, as if commenting on the weather or the price of beef. ‘Them roan geldings and two o’ the pinto mares belong to my boss. They was stolen two weeks ago. I been trailin’ you since.’
The horse trader glanced nervously around at the other three of his comrades, assuring himself they were well situated and ready for whatever action might be necessary. He turned back to the intruder. ‘Are you callin’ me a horse thief?’
The answer was as cryptic as it could possibly have been. ‘Yup.’
The horse trader’s hand gripped his pistol and started to pull it from the holster. It had scarcely moved enough for the cylinder to clear the top of the holster when he was knocked from the saddle by a slug from the newcomer’s .45. Nobody had seen him draw it, any more than they had seen his arrival. It was just there, in his hand, a tendril of smoke drifting lazily from the end of the barrel.
That Colt had already swung to cover the nearest of the other three. Hands on their guns, the trio looked around in rising panic. Half a dozen guns were suddenly trained on them. Slowly, each released his grip on his pistol and raised his hands.
The rancher turned to the newcomer. ‘Who’re you? I didn’t even see you ride up.’
Without taking his eyes from the surrendering wranglers, he said, ‘I rode up behind the barn and walked from there. You was all pretty intent on watchin’ one another. I been tailin’ these boys since they drove off horses from the outfit I work for.’
The rancher digested the information a moment, then addressed the nearest of the dead man’s companions. ‘Where’s them bills o’ sale you boys got?’
The man swallowed hard, then said, ‘They’re in Red’s saddle-bag I think. That’s where he usually kept ’em.’
Without averting his eyes, the rancher called one of his hands. ‘Clint, come take a look.’
One of the ranch-hands holstered his gun and walked to the dead man’s horse. He lifted the flap on the left saddlebag and rummaged briefly through its contents. His hand emerged with several pieces of wrinkled and dirty paper. ‘Would this be them?’ he asked.
‘Bring ’em here and we’ll see.’
The rancher looked over the writing on the several pieces of paper carefully. ‘Now there’s a real surprise,’ his voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘Every one o’ these bills o’ sale seem to be written by the same hand.’
He addressed the man he had spoken to before. ‘Maybe you can tell me how six different bills o’ sale, signed by six different names, can all look like they have the same man’s writing.’
The man’s face had paled in increments as the rancher spoke. From a visage almost devoid of color, he said, ‘I don’t know. Red, he took care of all that stuff.’
The rancher turned to the newcomer. ‘What’s your boss’s brand?’
‘Rafter J.’
The rancher nodded. ‘I spotted that brand on a couple at least.’
‘I’d guess you’ll find a Flying R, and a Rocking CJ too. They’re two more outfits close to us that lost some horses about the time these boys rode through.’
One of the ranch-hands called out, ‘I see two with the Rocking CJ.’
Another chimed in. ‘There’s a Flying R on a couple geldlings, and a Rafter J on the stud.’
The rancher turned back to the wrangler. ‘You boys wanta come clean?’
The three looked at one another, then back at the rancher. Their choices were reduced to three, all equally devoid of any probability of survival. They could whip their horses around and run, hugging close to their animals’ necks, hoping to escape pursuing bullets; they could try to shoot their way clear, or they could submit meekly to a noose.
They chose to go out fighting. All three grabbed their guns.
Instantly a roar of gunfire erupted from the newcomer’s weapon. It happened before any of the ranch-hands could squeeze a trigger. It ended before any of the horse thieves’ weapons had cleared leather. It was all over before anyone but him had time to react. Three reports from the hunter’s .45 blended together into one continuous sound. Three horse thieves slumped, then toppled from their saddles. Dust blossomed from beneath each of them as they sprawled on the ground at almost the same instant.
Every ranch-hand’s head swivelled to stare at the newcomer. Jaws hung loose as if each had witnessed the impossible. The stranger casually ejected the spent brass from his .45, replaced each with a fresh cartridge, and dropped his pistol back into its holster. He addressed the rancher, still in that conversational tone, as if discussing the weather. ‘I’ll be cuttin’ out my boss’s horses, and the others I know belong to our neighbors, if you folks don’t mind.’
After waiting a couple heartbeats, the rancher said, ‘You might take a look at the other brands, too. Spread the word on your way back that they’re here, if their owners want to come an’ claim ’em.’
The man’s eyes were expressionless as he nodded. He turned and walked back to the side of the barn where his horse patiently waited his return. It, too, bore a Rafter J on its left shoulder.
CHAPTER 2
Carefully, Sam looked over the house and yard. He could see it all well from his vantage point on the high knoll. The dozen head of horses busily took advantage of his allowing them to stop; they ripped off great mouthfuls of the tall grass, chewing and swallowing greedily.
The house looked well-built and solid, though small. Its log walls were well chinked. Its roof was straight, covered with thick shakes against whatever weather might prevail.
Twenty yards from the house, the corral fronted a modest barn. It was more of a cowshed, actually, than a bonafide barn. It offered some measure of shelter, but was open on the side that became part of the corral.
It was the outhouse behind the house that made him smile. The path to it was lined with some hardy variety of flowers, blooming bravely against the barren image of the rest of the yard. The same flowers ringed the outhouse, in three neat rows. ‘I bet they don’t help it smell none better,’ he muttered past his smile. ‘Especially in hot weather.’
After a moment he glanced again at the westering sun. It promised that fingers of darkness would enfold the land within the hour. He spoke aloud to his horse: ‘Well, Dan, let’s see if we can put up there for the night.’
He clucked to the small herd of horses, pushing them down the hill toward the open gate of the corral. They entered it reluctantly, clearly smelling the enticing cold water of the stream that ran fifty yards beyond.
Sam dismounted and set the bars in place across the gate of the corral. He turned to find himself faced with an extremely attractive woman, nearly his own age. He noticed the rifle cradled easily in the crook of her right arm before he was captivated by the rest of her features.
She stood half a foot shorter than he, but seemed to look him squarely in the eyes nonetheless. Her eyes were strikingly green, but her hair was nondescript, mousy brown. Unbidden, the thought leaped into Sam’s mind, ‘Eyes like that ought to have red hair.’
He whipped the hat from his head. ‘Evenin’, ma’am,’ he greeted her. ‘My name’s Sam Heller. I got this bunch o’ horses I took back from some horse thieves. They stole ’em from my boss down in the Indian Nation. I wondered if I might water ’em in the crick over yonder, then keep ’em in your corral overnight, so I can get some shuteye.’
The woman scanned the horses briefly, then brought her eyes back to his. As if without thought, she also shifted the rifle slightly, moving it to a more quickly ready position. Her question was both pointed and challenging. ‘You work for three different ranches?’ she asked.
Sam grinned. ‘You read brands quick, ma’am. No, I work for the Rafter J. Hap Harvey owns the spread. The Flying R and the Rocking C J are neighbors of ours. They lost horses the same night we lost our best stud. I headed out trailin’ ’em. I caught up with ’em a ways yonder, tryin’ to sell ’em to the Mill Iron ranch.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Them who?’
‘The horse thieves.’
‘They’re dead.’
‘Did you kill them?’
‘Yes, ma’am. They didn’t leave me no choice. The owner of the Mill Iron looked over their bills o’ sale and saw they was all as phony as a three dollar bill. They figured out they was about to get hung, so they opted to go out with their guns a-blazin’ instead.’
‘And did they?’
‘Well, no ma’am, they didn’t. They wasn’t quick enough to get any of ’em unlimbered afore they checked out.’
She studied his eyes for a long moment more, then nodded. ‘Go ahead and take them over to the crick and let them drink,’ she said. ‘They look like they could use it.’
Sam nodded. ‘They’ve been pushed pretty hard. I’d like to let them fill up on that tall grass, too, before I corral ’em for the night, if you don’t mind.’
‘Go ahead,’ she agreed.
‘Thank you,’ he offered, as he turned to remove the poles that constituted the corral’s gate.
The horses responded instantly, filing out of the gate behind the big stud that led the way, heading directly for the alluring scent of fresh water.
As Sam mounted his own horse to follow, the woman said, ‘When you get them corralled, come on over to the house. I’ll have some supper ready.’
‘Why, thank you,’ Sam replied. ‘That’s mighty good of you. I could use a square meal.’
She nodded and turned back toward the house without replying.
Sam frowned after her as she walked away, trying, but failing, to keep from watching the swing of her hips as she walked. ‘I wonder where her husband is,’ he muttered, then added, ‘I wonder if she greets everyone with that rifle.’
Two hours later it was fully dark. The horses were watered and fed, though they would have gladly spent half the night gorging themselves on the lush grass. When the others were corralled, he watered his own horse, then picketed him where he could have ample access to the grass the rest could now only envy. Then he looked toward the house. The windows shone brightly yellow with lamplight, glowing against the darkness. Their glow wakened a longing for home in him that he hadn’t felt for a long time. He stood a long moment, studying the picture, pondering the ache it aroused in him. Then he shook his head against the distraction and strode toward the front door.
There he paused, uncertain whether he should make some kind of noise and wait, knock, or just open the door and announce his presence. He couldn’t ever remember being that uncertain about what to do before. The uncertainty made him uncomfortable, and made the knock he decided on more timorous than he intended.
Instantly the woman’s voice responded, ‘Come on in.’
He opened the door and stepped in, sweeping his hat off his head as he did so. ‘I, uh, didn’t see a washstand out there,’ he apologized. It was apparent he had removed all the trail dust he could at the creek, nonetheless.
The woman motioned toward a pitcher and wash basin, with a clean towel laid out beside it. ‘It’s right over there,’ she pointed.
As he laid his hat down and washed up, the aroma of the meal she had prepared made his stomach cramp and his mouth water with hunger. As he dried his face, he was surprised by a young boy’s voice. ‘Did you shoot them horse thieves, Mister?’
‘Billy!’ the woman remonstrated. ‘Mind your manners.’
‘I was just askin’, Ma,’ the boy defended. ‘I was listenin’ while you two was talkin’. He said they all got shot, but he didn’t say who shot ’em. I was just wonderin’.’
‘You don’t ask questions like that,’ his mother stressed.
‘Why not? I just wanted to know.’
‘Sometimes
it’s best not to ask too many questions,’ Sam interjected. ‘Some folks take it kinda personal when you do.’
Without giving the boy time to respond, he said, ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Billy.’
‘Is that short for William.’
‘Yeah, I guess it is.’
‘But folks call you Billy anyway, huh?’
A sudden mischievous glint flashed in the boy’s eyes. Trying to speak without grinning, he said, ‘Sometimes, but that ain’t what they always call me.’
‘It isn’t?’
‘Nope. Ma, she mostly calls me “Billy, don’t!” But Pa, he just mostly called me, “Dammit Billy!” ‘
‘Billy Bond, you know better than to talk that way!’ his mother scolded as she cuffed the back of his head smartly.
Billy ducked away from her hand, giggling. Sam struggled mightily to keep from laughing.
‘Please sit down,’ she offered. ‘Supper is ready.’
As they took their seats, she stared pointedly at the boy. Accordingly he folded his hands and bowed his head. Taking his cue, Sam bowed his head as well, as the woman said a brief grace. In the instant she said, ‘Amen,’ Billy said, ‘Pass the biscuits, please!’
‘Billy!’ she remonstrated again. ‘Company is always first.’
‘How come? I’m hungry!’
Sam picked up the plate filled with steaming biscuits. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he suggested. ‘You grab a couple, then I’ll take some.’
‘Thanks, Mister!’ the boy said as he hurriedly grabbed a biscuit with each hand. One went immediately to his mouth; he bit off a large chunk of it as he put the other one on his plate.
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologized to Sam. ‘Billy seems to think he can get away with anything since his father was.…’
The sentence hung in the air, as if she were unable to speak the words.
Billy had no such reticence. ‘My Pa got shot,’ he announced between mouthfuls.
Sam shot a glance at the woman, holding his fork with a bite of food half way to his mouth. ‘I’m plumb sorry, ma’am. How’d that happen?’
