Buck and the Widow Rancher (2006) (4 page)

The first sign was cow pies that were starting to dry out, two maybe three days, he thought. The breezes that sprung up nearly every evening as the sun went down and things cooled would, he reckoned, have wiped most all hoofprints out. Scouting around, he soon found other piles of dried cow dung. This gave him a direction if not a clear trail to follow. Slowly, ranging side to side, he followed what sign he found, often no more than a wisp of brown hair snagged on a twig or the odd hoofprint protected by a low-lying bush.

The sun was getting close to dropping behind the
mountain
range far out to the west when the ears of the big black stud flicked forward and his head came up. ‘What is it?’ he asked, not really expecting an answer. ‘It’s been a long dry march so far, so the chances are good that you got a smell of water. Let’s see what we can see. Maybe, old friend, we won’t have to drink that warm canteen water tonight.’ Squeezing his knees a little, Buck let the horse have its head and sat back, ready for anything.

Before finding any indication of water, Buck caught a faint smell of smoke. Reining the big horse in, he stood in the stirrups and took a long look ahead. Nothing was seen in the failing light, but the breeze coming toward him once again had the smell of wood burning. He decided to take it easy and investigate the land ahead.

Pulling his mount to the side and up a small rise, he stopped before reaching the top and dropping the reins to the ground, made his way to the ridge. Keeping below the skyline and removing his hat, he carefully crawled forward. Below, in a small hollow, a bunch of cattle was clustered together by what looked to be a single rope corral. A small forest of willows on the far side was a sure sign of water. Probably a small spring. On this side, a short distance from
the corral, a small fire was burning and two men were huddled around a hogtied critter. Buck had seen enough of these kinds of operations to recognize what it was – a couple of rustlers were working a brand using a running iron.

Settling back a bit, he watched as the calf, no more than a yearling, was released and herded back into the gather. As one of the men kicked the fire apart, the other rode around the corral, keeping his horse at a slow walk. Probably, Buck figured, making sure the corral was secure for the night. The horse was a bay with three white stockings, the off back leg being a darker color. From where Buck was, he couldn’t make out anything distinctive about the rider, just another cowboy wearing typical cowboy gear: leather chaps to protect the rider’s legs from brush and thorns; a weathered wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat, and a once-colorful kerchief around his neck. In the fading light he couldn’t make out what color the neck scarf had once been, it could have been red or blue but now looked almost black.

As the light died away, Buck took in as much as he could, trying to decide what to do. These could be, he knew, simply hands from a nearby ranch, doing the job they were paid to do. He didn’t know where the nearest ranch would be. Then again, these could be rustlers with a small bunch being held awhile for the brands to be reworked, or, if unbranded young stuff, for a new brand to be applied.

Trying to make up his mind, he saw the other man climb on to the back of a saddled horse and the two head out. Buck watched as they disappeared over a ridge far to the south-east. ‘Now, don’t that beat all,’ he mumbled to himself.

Back in the saddle, he rode down into the swale in a circle, keeping the herd between him and the remains of the branding fire. Close up, he saw that about twenty or so head were penned up and that the cowboys had left the corral large enough so the cattle had room to spread out a bit.
Most, from what he could see in the early starlight, were yearlings and maybe a few unweaned calves and their
mothers
.

Tying his horse with a slipknot to the rope corral, Buck walked around to the fire. Pulling the iron out of the coals he saw that it was a common running iron, a long straight rod with a curve at the heated end. Finding a stick of half burned wood, he blew on the hot coals until he got a flame and lit the end of the stick and used it like a torch.

He didn’t have to go into the corral to see that one mother cow, standing protectively beside her calf, had a different brand than the little critter. He didn’t recognize the new brand but the heifer was carrying the Rocking C mark. The rustlers were playing it smart. They’d brand the unbranded stock and then drive them to the railhead. Before getting close, the mother cows would be cut out and chased away. From the size of the calf, though, Buck thought it wouldn’t be long before it was weaned and wouldn’t need its mother anymore.

Stubbing out his burning branch, Buck took his horse around to the spring. After letting him drink, he climbed back into the saddle and thought about what to do next. The only thing to do, he decided, was to ride after the rustlers. It was only right, he thought, that he attempt to return the running iron.

The riders were long out of sight, but from what Matilda had told him Buck figured he was somewhere east of Coulter’s Landing. It was likely that was where the two men were
heading
.

As late as it was, Buck wasn’t surprised when he found few lights in the businesses along the main street. Most of the businesses along the street had probably closed before nightfall and the street, with the exception of two saloons, was dark and quiet. Lights from both of the taverns, one at the far end of the street and the other just down from the restaurant, spread out weakly over the wood plank sidewalk The only other light showing was a faint lantern in the stable back the other way. Riding at a walk he passed first one and then the other saloon.

A weathered sign reading simply SALOON hung from the porch over the double doors of the saloon furthest down the street. Buck draped the reins of his black to the far side of the three horses already tied to the rail. Taking a minute to look the horses over in the weak lantern light, he slipped the running iron into the saddle-bag hanging from the bay horse. None of the horses paid any attention and remained standing on three legs, obviously asleep.

Settling his heavy gunbelt to its usual position, he pushed through the doors and waited for his eyes to adjust to the
sudden light. The polished wood bar ran along one wall and was backed by a large oil painting and shelves of bottled whiskeys. A beer barrel stood at one end, guarded by a portly bartender wearing a round-topped derby. Across the mahogany from the barkeep was a man who, from his
clothing
, a white shirt with the sleeves held up by black armbands and flat-heeled leather shoes, Buck took to be a
shopkeeper
. Possibly, he thought, a store clerk just sharing the day’s gossip and having a sociable drink before ending his day.

Tables of various sizes took up the rest of the barroom floor, each with chairs haphazardly along its side. Other than the two men at the bar, the only occupants were a couple of cowboys sitting at one of the smaller tables, a whiskey bottle and glasses in front of them. After looking the newcomer over and not recognizing him, everyone but the bartender went back to their drinks.

‘Evening,’ the bartender came down to where Buck had stopped, leaning his left arm on dark wood bar. ‘Get you a drink?’

‘A nice cold glass of beer would be welcome,’ he smiled. ‘And some information would be even better.’

‘Well, the beer is two-bits. I don’t know about the
information
. Guess it depends on what you’re looking to find out.’ After pouring a tall heavy glass beer mug and swiftly knocking off its foamy head, he stopped across from Buck and waited.

Buck looked around at the other customers and then, motioning to the barkeep, smiled again. ‘Let’s start off with your name, barkeep.’

‘Well, you’re about the only man in town that doesn’t know Henry, the owner of this fine establishment,’ the tubby man said laughing.

‘Henry. Now I’ll tell you. I’d appreciate it if you’d wipe off the top of the bar,’ he said, his voice quiet and tinged with a
hardness that wasn’t matched by the smile. The bartender frowned.

‘I don’t know what you mean, stranger. The bar don’t need wiped off.’

‘Henry, in a minute I’m going to ask my questions and when I do I’d feel better if both your hands were visible. Now, holding a bar rag is one way to do that, wouldn’t you say?’

Henry glanced quickly at the shopkeeper and then over to the other men. None of them was paying attention to anything but the drinks in front of them. Slowly, his eyes back on Buck’s cold smile, he brought both hands and folded them on the bar top.

‘Thank you, Henry. Now remember, any quick movement might not be advisable.’ Taking a sip of beer, Buck let his voice grow a bit louder.

‘Yeah. It’s clear the herd is the work of some brand-
changing
skunks.’ Now all eyes were on Buck. ‘We came across them just about dark, a little after. Saw a coupla gents riding away and, as we hadn’t had any supper, thought we’d use the fire they’d left behind.’ The two men at the table exchanged glances and then turned their chairs to face the bar.

‘Now I’m pretty much a stranger in these parts, but I did recognize the Rocking C brand on one cow in the bunch that was corralled by the spring.’

‘So what?’ one of the two men at the table asked with a sneer. ‘The Rocking C is a big spread. Their stock is
probably
all over the place.’

‘Yep, I reckon,’ Buck agreed, taking another sip of beer. ‘The only problem is that the calf that was suckling this cow was wearing a different brand … a fresh brand.’

‘Hey, there was some talk the other day about rustlers hitting the Randle ranch,’ the shopkeeper down the bar said. ‘Their foreman, Hank, was in town and mentioned it.’

‘Well,’ Buck nodded, ‘I’d say this may just be the work of
the bad guys. I left my crew there and came on into town to see what I could find. Guess I’ll drop on out to Mrs Randle’s place tomorrow and let her know what we found.’ He had turned so he could see the two cowboys as well as the bartender. ‘What I’m really wondering, Henry, is who belongs to that bay outside, the one with three white
stockings
? That looks a lot like the horse we saw leaving the little spring as we rode in.’

‘Hey, now, wait just a minute. That bay out at the rail is mine, stranger. And I don’t take to anyone calling me a rustler.’ The man with the red kerchief tied loosely around his neck was now standing.

‘Oh, I didn’t call anyone anything,’ Buck said, still
standing
relaxed but letting one hand drop to the butt of his Colt. With his thumb he flicked off the thong that held the gun in its holster. ‘However, the gent that was seen riding that bay away from the fire was wearing leather chaps and a
darkcolored
neck scarf.’

Red kerchief let his body hunch a little, moving his right hand to rest on the butt of the gun that had been shoved behind his belt. From where Buck was standing, it looked like a Remington, probably either a .44 or maybe even a .40 caliber six-shooter.

‘Stranger. I think you’d better make your words clear and if you’re naming me a rustler, well, that’ll be the biggest mistake of your short life.’

‘Oh, gosh.’ Buck’s smile grew colder causing Henry to move slowly down the bar a ways. ‘I wouldn’t want to point any finger at an innocent man. I’m sure your momma didn’t raise any cattle-thief, that is if you had a momma. But I’ll tell you what. Let’s take a look at your gear. Most cow-thieves I heard about all carry some kind of iron for reworking brands.’

Thinking about it, red kerchief slowly relaxed and smiled. Glancing down at his partner, he looked back at Buck. ‘I’ll
tell you, stranger, what I’m gonna do. First we’ll look at my saddle-bags and then I’m gonna shoot you. You’re packing iron. It’ll be a fair gunfight. My partner here will make sure of that, won’t you, Lew?’

‘Sure. Sure I will.’ Pushing back his chair he stood beside red kerchief.

Nodding, Buck motioned toward the door. ‘Then let us all retire to the hitch rail. Henry, would you mind bringing along that Greener you got somewhere behind the bar? I want to make sure old Lew here is as fair as he wants to be.’

No longer smiling, and careful not to let Buck get behind them, the two men moved to the doors and pushed through. Stepping off the boardwalk, red kerchief went around his horse and stopped.

‘What do you have to say now, mister?’ Buck demanded. He had followed the two men off the walk and stood to one side facing them. As red kerchief drew the running iron from his saddle-bag, his face turned white.

Turning to look at Buck, standing ready, he knew he’d been taken in.

‘Damn you!’ he cursed and, throwing the iron away, reached for his revolver.

Buck’s draw was smooth and slightly behind the other’s and his was the second shot heard by those still on the
boardwalk
. Red kerchief’s first shot, fired too quickly, raised dust in front of Buck’s feet. Buck’s shot hit true, centered on the third button of the man’s shirt. Thrown back by the bullet, red kerchief knocked his partner’s arm, making him drop his half drawn six-gun. Reaching to pick it up, he stopped and looked up to see the black end of Buck’s Colt aimed at him.

‘Go ahead.’ Buck smiled thinly. ‘There were two men riding away from that herd and one of them is dead. What do you have planned?’

‘No. Don’t shoot. I don’t know anything about it. It was all his idea and I don’t know anything about any rustling,’ Lew’s words were fast and almost running together.

‘Here, what’s going on? What’s the shooting all about?’ the call from down the street asked. Buck kept watching as Lew stood up and moved away from his pistol, as Sheriff Holt, pulling one suspender up over a blue and white striped nightshirt came running up. ‘What’s this all about? I’m the law here and we won’t have any gunfights. Not in my town.’

‘Why, good evening, Sheriff,’ Buck said, his smile now calm and relaxed. Slowly he pushed the spent shell from his
Colt and replaced it with one from his gunbelt.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Frowning at Buck he turned to the men on the plank walk. ‘Henry? What’s this shooting all about?’

‘Well, Sheriff, it seems this man was right. He claimed he’d seen that fellow there in the dirt ride away from a branding fire. Called him a rustler and when we found a running iron in his saddle-bags, well, he drew his gun. Too slow, I’d say.’

Holt walked around and bent over so he could see the fallen man’s face. ‘Anybody know him?’ Nobody moved. Buck looked at Lew who was standing with both thumbs hooked in his belt. Lew didn’t speak.

‘You,’ Sheriff Holt demanded, pointing at Buck. ‘You come into town talking about a man you shot and now you’ve killed another man. What you do outside my town, I don’t care, but I won’t have gunplay on my streets.’

‘Uh, Sheriff, this man didn’t draw first. He was just protecting himself,’ the storekeeper said.

‘Clyde, you take care of the hotel and leave the sheriffing to me. Now you,’ he said, pointing his finger once more at Buck’s chest. ‘I don’t want your kind in town. Get your horse and ride.’

‘Be careful, Sheriff, that your finger doesn’t go off and get you in trouble.’ Turning to the storekeeper he went on, ‘You run the hotel?’ When the man nodded, he added, ‘Well then, let’s go sign the book. I could use a night’s sleep in a soft bed.’

Not giving the sheriff another glance the two men started walking off only to have Buck stop and turn to Lew. ‘I’d suggest you do as the sheriff said. Get your horse and ride. And I think it’d be a good idea if you went on south, a long way south.’

Lew nodded and leaving his six-gun in the dust, untied and climbed into the saddle. Without a backward glance he
spurred the horse into a trot.

‘Goodnight, Henry, Sheriff,’ Buck said, before following the hotel keeper down the street.

Coming awake early the next morning, Buck poured water from the pitcher and shaved. Pulling his last clean shirt from the saddle-bag he reminded himself to stop by the general store and replace the oldest of the two shirts he owned. The other one was getting a tad threadbare. Using his fingers to comb back his hair and settling his hat at the correct angle he left the room thinking about breakfast.

As early as it was, the fire in the town’s only restaurant was blazing and the pot of coffee was hot and strong. The menu was chalked on a wide flat board that had been painted black. It simply listed three items; breakfast – $1, lunch – 50 cents, and supper – $1. Buck asked for coffee and breakfast.

Later, after a breakfast of eggs, thick slices of ham and fried potatoes topped off with large mugs of coffee, he relaxed in a rocking chair on the hotel porch and rolled a smoke. Buck felt ready for anything and gave some thought to what else he could do. Ride back to let Matilda know about the penned-up cattle he’d found was probably the first thing. Standing and stretching the kinks out of his back, he watched as a covered wagon came around the far end of the street and pulled up at the sheriff’s office. Another
sheepherder’s
wagon, he thought. Probably one of Navarro’s friends.

Turning away, he started walking to the stable to saddle up but stopped when he heard his name called.

‘Wait just a minute, Mr Armstrong.’ Sheriff Holt’s voice sneered loud and strong. ‘You just stop right there.’

Turning, Buck watched the stout lawman leading a group of people coming down the middle of the dirt street. Walking slightly in front of the group and setting the pace, was a young man. Buck almost laughed as the short-legged
sheriff nearly had to run to keep up. As the small crowd came closer he recognized the young stranger as the Basque sheepherder’s son, Jose Navarro. Tipping his Stetson back he waited.

‘Good morning, Sheriff,’ he said, as the out of breath man stopped a short distance away. Buck’s smile froze when Navarro, as angry as any man he’d ever seen, screamed at him.

‘You bastard,’ he shouted, his face dark and stiff with concealed fury. ‘My father treated you like a guest and you killed him!’