CHAPTER TWENTY
Cabot appeared to be about the same age as Keenan Malone, a veteran cowman who had been in Montana for a long time. He was stockier, clean-shaven, and had an even redder face than Malone. He wore a brown suit and hat, rather than the range clothes Malone preferred. Cabot might look like he’d be more at home sitting at a desk rather than in a saddle, but his eyes, set deep in pits of gristle and dark and hard as agate, told that he was plenty tough.
Stovepipe did a quick survey of the five men accompanying Cabot. He didn’t see Dax Coolidge among them, although several of the men looked vaguely familiar. Likely, he had seen them in the Silver Star on the day of that brawl. They were obvious hardcases, all wearing holstered guns.
Cabot was frowning as he rode up to the train station.
From Stovepipe’s vantage point, he could see the owner of the Rafter M rein in, but after that he lost sight of Cabot. “Reckon I’ll take a pasear into the depot,” he said to Wilbur.
“I’ll come with you. Those punchers can get along without us for a few minutes.”
By the time they reached the lobby, shouting was coming through the open door of Helton’s office. A couple Rafter M men stood nearby. The others were over by the door.
“—rightfully belong to me!” Stovepipe heard someone yell inside the office. The voice was considerably deeper than Helton’s, so Stovepipe assumed it belonged to Mort Cabot.
“Now, take it easy, Mr. Cabot,” Helton said, confirming the guess. “Actually, those aren’t the cars you reserved. They’re extras that were diverted here from other locations along the line.”
“They’re the next ones that showed up after I made arrangements with you! I have a right to them, not that damned Malone!”
“But you don’t have a herd in town right now, and by the time you do, more cars will be here. You won’t be delayed in the slightest.” Helton’s argument, logical though it was, didn’t satisfy Cabot.
Stovepipe hadn’t expected it to. As he and Wilbur drifted closer to the open door, Cabot’s men moved to block them.
“Get out of here, cowboy,” one of them said, scowling. “This is no business of yours.” The man’s thumbs were hooked in his gunbelt, so his hands were in easy reach of the holstered revolvers on his hips. His stance was casually arrogant, which matched that of his companion.
“Didn’t say it is, but this is a free country and a public place, last time I checked,” Stovepipe said.
With a sneer on his face, Cabot’s man said, “You’re one of those Three Rivers riders, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. Not lookin’ for trouble—”
“Then stop trying to eavesdrop on our boss.”
Before Stovepipe could deny the accusation—which was, of course, exactly what he and Wilbur were trying to do—Cabot stomped out of the stationmaster’s office.
“If you won’t do anything about this, I will, by God!” he flung over his shoulder.
Helton hurried out after him. “Mr. Cabot, please don’t do anything rash.”
Cabot jerked his head toward the platform. “Come on, boys. We’re going out there to those pens and put a stop to this.”
The man who had confronted Stovepipe and Wilbur straightened. His hands swung closer to his gun butts. Tight-lipped, he asked, “You gonna try to get in our way, cowboy?”
“Nope.” Stovepipe backed off and motioned with his head for Wilbur to come with him.
Cabot stalked past, trailed by all five of his men.
“Blast it, Stovepipe,” Wilbur said. “Hell’s gonna pop out there.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But if it does, we’re behind those fellas now, where we can get the drop on ’em.”
“Oh,” Wilbur said, understanding dawning on his freckled face.
“Anyway, I got a hunch certain things have been hangin’ fire long enough. Might be time for ’em to pop.”
They left the station and hurried along the platform to the steps at the end. They crossed the tracks between two of the cars and saw Cabot and his men heading along the tracks toward the loading chutes. That took them toward the wagon where Vance and Rosaleen were sitting.
One of the Three Rivers punchers saw the Rafter contingent coming and hustled to tell his boss. Keenan Malone left the chute where he was working and strode toward the wagon. Several of his cowboys followed. With the two forces converging on them, Vance and Rosaleen looked back and forth. Vance seemed a little nervous, but Rosaleen was angry as she glared at Cabot and his men.
Stovepipe and Wilbur continued to drift along behind the group from the Rafter M.
Malone came to a stop at the rear of the wagon, planted his feet solidly, and said in a loud, clear voice that carried over the racket of the cattle, “You ain’t welcome here, Cabot. You might as well turn around and go back where you came from.”
Cabot waved a hand at the rolling stock lined up along the tracks. “Those are my railroad cars, damn it! You don’t have any right to be loading your sorry beef into them.”
Malone sneered. “The cars are here, my herd’s here. Seems like I got every right to be usin’ those cars. If you don’t like it, go talk to Helton. He’ll tell you about the special deal I got with the railroad.”
“Special deal, hell! You’re a thief!”
A little muscle jumped in Malone’s tightly clenched jaw. “I’d shoot most men for sayin’ a thing like that to me, but you ain’t worth wastin’ a bullet on, Cabot.” Malone grinned. “You’re just mad ’cause your dirty little trick didn’t work.”
“I don’t know how you did it, but you’re crooked. Crooked as a sidewindin’ rattlesnake!”
Everybody was tense. Men on both sides had their hands hovering over their guns, ready to hook and draw. It wouldn’t take much of a spark to set off an explosion of gunplay to rival the blast that had taken place the night before.
In that breathless atmosphere of impending violence, Stovepipe sidled around until he was close to the wagon. One of Cabot’s men stiffened, but Stovepipe held up a hand, palm out, to demonstrate that he wasn’t trying to start the ball. In a quiet voice, he said, “I reckon this has gone just about far enough, Vance. You might ought to put a stop to it.”
Rosaleen stared at Vance.
“I . . . I can’t”—he took a deep breath—“but if they start shooting, Rosaleen will be in danger, too.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’,” Stovepipe said.
She frowned. “What in the world?”
Vance stood up. “Mr. Cabot.”
Everyone’s eyes jerked toward him. Moving deliberately so no one would think he was trying some sort of trick, Vance climbed down from the wagon and moved toward the back of it where Cabot and Malone had been glaring at each other.
“Who in blazes are you?” Cabot demanded.
“Kid, stay outta this,” Malone said. “Look after my daughter—”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.” Vance faced the owner of the Rafter M. “Mr. Cabot, if you want to blame somebody for this, you should blame me, not Mr. Malone. I’m the one who had those cattle cars brought here.”
“You?” Cabot and Malone said at the same time, in astonished unison.
“I don’t know you,” Cabot said, “but you look like a saddle tramp to me.” With a contemptuous look on his face, he ran his gaze over Vance, from the run-down boots to the patched range clothing to the battered old hat.
With a warning edge in his voice, Malone said, “Don’t go gettin’ too big for your britches, Brewster. I appreciate a man who rides for the brand, but you’re stickin’ your nose in somethin’ that ain’t your business.”
“Actually, it is,” Vance said, a little pale but calm. “Or rather, it will be someday . . . when I own the Three Rivers.”
“By the Lord Harry, you’ve gone too far!” Malone said. “You think because you’re sweet on my daughter—”
“That’s not it at all,” Vance interrupted him. “This has nothing to do with Rosaleen. The reason I
say I’ll own the Three Rivers someday is because my father is Alfred Armbrister.”
Malone’s eyes widened. He pulled back like he’d just been punched in the face.
Rosaleen spoke first in response to Vance’s statement, exclaiming, “Armbrister! But he’s—”
“The fella who owns the Three Rivers,” her father said, finding his voice again. “Or most of it, anyway.”
Vance nodded. “Eighty percent, I believe. He has a couple partners who own ten percent each, just like in the steel mill he owns in Pittsburgh.”
“So your name ain’t Brewster.”
“No, it’s Armbrister. Vance Armbrister.”
From the wagon seat, Rosaleen said, “So that means you’re a liar.”
Vance turned toward her and lifted a hand. “No, wait, I wasn’t really trying to deceive anyone—”
“Why should we believe you, when you’ve been lying to us ever since you rode in?” She leaned forward on the seat, her face set in taut, angry lines. “Or are you still lying? Are you actually the saddle tramp you seemed to be, trying to fool everybody into thinking you amount to something?”
When Vance seemed unable to answer, Stovepipe said, “He’s tellin’ the truth, miss. He’s really Vance Armbrister.”
Vance looked puzzled about how Stovepipe knew that, but he said, “It’s true. My father has a lot of business holdings, not just the steel mill and the Three Rivers. I’ve been going around and working in all of them under false names. He wants me to learn all I can about each of them, from the ground up, so I can do a better job of running them when I take over. I wasn’t sure about the idea at first, but it’s been a wonderful experience. And this . . . my time on the Three Rivers . . . has been the best so far, Rosaleen, because of—”
She didn’t let him finish. She grabbed the reins, slapped them against the backs of the team, and cried out to the horses. The startled animals surged forward, causing the men on both sides of the confrontation to leap out of the way and scatter. Rosaleen whipped the team with the reins and had them galloping along the railroad tracks, away from the loading pens.
“Blast it!” Malone yelled. “The girl’s gone loco!”
“No, she’s just angry with me,” Vance said, “and I don’t suppose I blame her. I did lie to her. I lied to all of you, although it wasn’t my intention to cause any trouble.” He took a deep breath and turned back toward Cabot. “So you see, Mr. Cabot, this is my doing, so if you want to be upset with someone, it should be me.”
“I still don’t believe it,” Cabot snapped. “How could you—”
“I sent a telegram to my father yesterday, and he contacted the general manager of the railroad. You think a man who runs a business so dependent on steel wouldn’t be happy to do a favor for the man who owns the biggest steel mill in Pittsburgh?”
Cabot’s ruddy face was still set in a furious scowl, but he didn’t look like he disbelieved Vance’s claim anymore.
“I don’t care who you are. This still isn’t right,” Cabot said.
“Everything is perfectly legal. If you and your men try to interfere with the loading of these cows, I’ll appeal to the sheriff for help.”
“You’d threaten me with the law?” Cabot’s voice was full of contempt and loathing.
“If I have to.”
“Yeah, you’re an Eastern businessman, all right. A yellow little weasel who hides behind the law!”
Vance stiffened. His hands clenched into fists, but he controlled the obvious impulse to take a swing at the older man. “You can think whatever you want, Mr. Cabot. But you can’t stop this herd from being shipped out today.”
“Go to hell!” Cabot turned to his men. “Come on. Let’s go up to the Silver Star. I could use a drink to get the foul taste out of my mouth.”
The bunch from the Rafter M walked off, casting hostile glances behind them. Malone and the small Three Rivers crew returned the hostility in spades until Cabot and his men crossed the tracks and went out of sight on the other side of the cattle cars.
Malone turned to Vance. “I’m like Rosaleen. I don’t cotton to bein’ lied to.”
“I didn’t mean to cause a problem, Mr. Malone. I just wanted to learn how the ranch was run.”
“Your pa could’ve told me you were comin’. You’d have been welcome—”
“That’s just the problem. You would have welcomed me, all right. You’d have looked out for me and made sure I never even got my hands dirty, let alone did any actual work.”
“You wouldn’t have been out tradin’ shots with rustlers, that’s for damned sure!”
Vance nodded. “Exactly. Now I know firsthand some of the problems and challenges facing you. That’s the only way to find out how things really are in a business.” He paused. “And one thing I’ve learned is that a ranch isn’t just a business. A lot of the men seem to regard it as a home, and the rest of the crew is their family.”
Malone nodded grudgingly. “Fellas get to feelin’ that way when they’ve rode for the same spread a good long time.”
“I never would have known that if I hadn’t come out here and ridden and worked beside all of you.”
“All right, all right.” Malone waved a callused hand. “I reckon I see your point. Good luck gettin’ Rosaleen to understand that easy, though. Once she gets a burr under her saddle, it’s mighty hard to get her to calm down again.”
Vance sighed and nodded. “I’ll have to try . . . but it might be wise to wait and let her cool off a little bit first.”
“I can’t argue with you there. Now, we got to get back to loadin’ those cows. They ain’t gonna climb in those cars by their own selves.” Malone started to turn away, then paused and looked back at Vance. “I’m obliged to you for your help, Mr. Armbrister. If you hadn’t stepped in, I reckon this rollin’ stock wouldn’t be here.”
“Please, keep calling me Vance. As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Armbrister is my father, and I’d like to keep it that way for a while. I was glad to pitch in and do whatever I could. I have a stake in the Three Rivers’ success, too.”
“A considerable one, I’d say.” Malone gave him a curt nod and went back to the loading chutes.
Stovepipe and Wilbur started to follow him, but Vance put out his good arm to stop them. “Hold on there a minute, you two. I have a question for you, Stovepipe.”
“I reckon I’ve got a pretty good idea what it is,” the lanky cowboy said.
“How in blazes did you know who I really am?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Stovepipe and Wilbur looked at each other, then at Vance. A long moment ticked by.
Seeing that the young man was determined to get an answer, Stovepipe said quietly, “Well, to tell you the truth, Wilbur and me ain’t exactly who we been pretendin’ to be, either.”
“Who are you? Lawmen?”
“Of a sort. We work for an outfit called the Cattlemen’s Protective Association. They send us in whenever and wherever there’s bad trouble goin’ on involving spreads that belong to the Association. Happens the Three Rivers is a member in good standing.” Stovepipe shrugged. “For that matter, so’s the Rafter M, but it wasn’t Malone nor Cabot who asked the CPA for help. Those old pelicans ain’t the sort to do that. They’d rather stomp their own snakes, even if it means a likelihood o’ gettin’ bit.”
“Then who did hire you?”
“Your pa. He could tell from the reports Malone sent back to him that bad things were goin’ on, and he asked the Association to send somebody to have a look into it.”
“Then he didn’t send you here to watch over me?” Vance sounded upset if that were the case.
Wilbur said, “Nope. We’d never even heard of you when we rode into Wagontongue and got riding jobs at the Three Rivers.” He chuckled. “Once you showed up, though, it didn’t take Stovepipe long to catch on that you weren’t who you were pretending to be.”
“You done a good job of actin’ like a cowboy most of the time,” Stovepipe said, “b
ut there were little things that made it seem like you were more of a greenhorn than somebody who’d been ridin’ the chuck line for years. Your accent was off a mite, too. I’ve knowed fellas who came from back east, and you reminded me of them now and then.”
“But you didn’t know I was Alfred Armbrister’s son.”
Stovepipe shook his head. “Not at first. Didn’t know Armbrister even had a son. But when you slipped up and promised Miss Rosaleen you’d do somethin’ about the railroad and then went right off to send a telegram, I knew you had to be connected to somebody mighty important, somebody who’d have a lot of influence with the line. I knew Alfred Armbrister owned a steel mill and had his fingers in plenty of other pies, too, so I sent him a wire myself and asked him flat-out if you were related to him.”
“Blast it,” Vance said. “I fooled everybody else—”
“Don’t feel bad,” Wilbur said. “Nobody can fool Stovepipe for very long. He can see through a phony story and figure out what’s really going on faster than anybody I’ve ever run into. Reckon that’s why we’re in the line of work we’re in.”
“What do you even call the job you do?”
Stovepipe said, “I reckon you can call us range detectives. We started out as genuine cowboys but kept gettin’ mixed up in one conundrum after another, so we finally decided to make a career out of it.”
“Conundrums with gunplay,” Wilbur added. “They seem to follow us around like clockwork.”
“Anyway,” Stovepipe went on, “your pa wired us back and admitted you were out here pretendin’ to be a cowboy. He, uh, asked us to look after you while we were goin’ about our other chore.”
Vance frowned and shook his head. “I don’t need anybody looking after me,” he declared. “I’ve handled myself all right so far, haven’t I?”
“Mostly,” Wilbur said. “You’ve got to admit, though, it was a good thing Stovepipe was keeping an eye on you when you had that run-in with Coolidge.”
Hang Them Slowly Page 14
