Lone Star 01 (9 page)

“And her friend, Ki,” Daryl continued.

“Heard about you too, feller. But you ain't Mexican.”

“Mexican?” Ki echoed, nonplussed.

“Ain't Mexicans the ones who're best with knives?”

“Pa!” Daryl snapped, scowling afresh. But Toby just continued grinning unregenerately, looking incredibly chipper after his long bout of drinking. Jessica, smothering a laugh, thought it was amazing, the vitality these leathery old ranchers seemed to have.

Forging ahead, Daryl said, “Cap'n Ryker? Let me intro—”

“We're aquainted,” Ryker cut in, a sharp edge to his mellow voice. “That is, we know each other by reputation. As president of Acme Packers, I am well aware of my competitors, of which Starbuck is definitely one. As I'm sure Starbuck is similarly aware of me.”

“Oh, you bet we are,” Jessica said.

“The Captain's trying to buy us out,” Toby explained, obviously tickled by his chance to stir things up. “Plans to run us together with the Flying W, when he takes that place over, too.”

“Now, now, Mr. Melville, I said no such thing to you.”

“But that's what you've got in mind, ain't it, Cap'n?”

“Well, I suppose I'm forced to admit it is,” Ryker replied gravely, and turned from Toby to Jessica. “To be perfectly honest, Miss Starbuck, my company needs the same thing yours does—a constant, reliable supply of beef without the fluctuating prices and conditions we've all experienced. I'm here on behalf of Acme, trying to persuade the smaller ranchers to sell out to one large combine, rather than join a cooperative of the sort you've been attempting to establish. I'm afraid that if I succeed, the ranches involved would no longer be able to honor their commitments with Starbuck.”

Jessica clucked her tongue and looked downcast. “You understand if I hope your plans fail. But will you be staying permanently?”

“Goodness, no. When my negotiations are finished, win or lose, I'll leave whatever I've obtained in capable hands, and move on.”

“Then you might as well move on from here, Cap'n Ryker,” Daryl said sternly. “Unless you're willing to meet our price.”

“Thirty thousand?” Ryker's chuckle was amiable. “My good man, I could buy all of Eucher Butte for that much money.”

“Be my guest. Halford and Kendrick mightn't agree, though.”

“Ah, yes, Kendrick. Now listen, I'm offering a fair price, more than a fair price, almost double what you owe Kendrick—what, in effect, you'd be getting for your ranch by turning it over to him.”

“Don't intend to settle for Kendrick's price, either. We intend to keep it for all it's worth. Thirty thousand worth.”

“You may not have that choice much longer,” Ryker continued in his shrewd, persuasive voice. “Oh, I understand how you feel, how you believe your ranch is worth a great deal, how you place a high value on the sweat and tears you've spent improving it. But consider this—will your crew shed more blood to help you keep it?”

Daryl stepped forward, fists clenched. “Is that a threat?”

“Simple advice. Even supposing Kendrick held off claiming your ranch as payment, there's a ruinous crime wave going on in this area that Deputy Oakes seems incapable of stopping. If it continues as it has, it could ultimately rob you of all your assets, and leave you crippled, in a worse position to bargain than you're in now.”

“Our land'll remain. Like you said, that's all you want.”

Ryker threw up his hands in frustration. “You're not being sensible, son. Very well, I won't pursue this further this morning. But I'll be at my Block-Two-Dot in case you want to get off your high horse and talk down on the ground. Good day to you all.”

With a tip of his hat and a nudge at his driver, Ryker sat back in the seat, looking sourly exasperated. Behind the dapple gray, the buggy veered about and jounced, swaying, out of the yard.

Apart from the noise of the departing buggy, and the clucking of some scrawny hens foraging by a pile of manure, nothing stirred for a long moment. Then Jessica, referring to Roby's initial comment, said lightly, “Yes, it certainly is pleasant and peaceful here.”

“Like blazes it's peaceful,” Toby snorted. “We and the boys are shot at, our cows are run off ... not that I'd allow Cap'n Snake-eyes the satisfaction of hearing tell.”

“Snake-eyes?”

“That's what Dad calls Ryker's Block-Two-Dot brand.”

“Looks just like dice showing twos,” Toby added, grinning.

Jessica laughed. “But aren't you trying to sell to him?”

Daryl shook his head. “We were only funning him, Jessie. We picked the figure of thirty thousand ‘cause nobody'd be dumb enough to pay such a price. C'mon, step down and rest a spell.”

“Thanks, but we're awfully late as it is.”

“I know a shortcut,” Daryl offered hopefully, and when Jessica didn't refuse, he grinned, saying, “Wait a minute, I'll saddle up.”

As Daryl began sprinting for the corral, Toby yelled, “You ain't leaving me ahind to rot, blast you!” He lurched up out of his rocker and chased bandy-legged after his son. “Hell, you get lost goin' to the outhouse! You better let me do the pointin‘!”

A short while later, the four were riding as a group across Spraddled M range, Daryl on a linebacked buckskin gelding, and his father on a tubby roan mare. They headed west northwest over mountain meadows and among thick stands of spruce, fir, and lodgepole pine, at one point spotting Spraddled M hands chousing a small bunch of young stuff down by some creek brakes. Then Daryl shifted to a slightly more northern track, and climbed higher along a tangent through the forested benches and rocky slopes.

Eventually, their hard-breathing horses struggling with the steepened grade, they topped a ridge and Daryl reined in. Ahead stretched the vista of a wide, shallow valley, through which coursed the wavering thread of a stream. Beyond the stream was the distant outline of a ranch, its cluster of buildings vaguely resembling the Spraddled M‘s, a windmill in its yard briskly revolving, sunlight glinting faintly off the whirring blades.

“Like the view?” Daryl asked cheerfully.

Jessica nodded. “It's beautiful out here.”

“Well, it looks better'n usual. We had a good snowpack this winter, and spring's been pretty wet so far, but generally we suffer from poor runoffs and low rainfall. A couple of years it's gotten as bad as being drought-dry.” He jiggered his buckskin closer to Jessica's bay, until they were almost touching stirrups. “That's the Flying W you see down there. Actually, it was doing fine, despite the weather and all, till Waldemar met with his accident.”

“And now?”

“It's going to hell in a handbasket. Frankly, I'm glad Dad is coming along. He and Uriah—Mr. Waldemar—loved feuding over cribbage a lot, and I think he misses him almost as much as he does my mother. But, ‘cept for the funeral, Dad hasn't been by to pay respects to Mrs. Waldemar, and I know she must be feeling lonesome and miserable about everything, and could do with an old friend cheering her up some.”

“You leave me to my own socializin‘, son,” Toby snapped.

Daryl turned to his father, grinning. “You an' Uriah, the orn‘riest pair of mules ever born, I swear.” He kneed his horse forward, and with Jessica following closely, Ki and Toby trailing a few feet behind, they began their slow, winding descent into the valley.

Jessica said to Daryl, “That accident was pretty convenient. I understand Mr. Waldemar refused to sell out to Ryker.”

“I don't know what you mean by his death being convenient, Jessie, but yeah, Uriah wanted nothing to do with Cap'n Ryker. There was bad feeling ‘tween them right from the start, when the Cap'n first moved onto the Block-Two-Dot. It's way over in the next valley, and it's probably the largest and richest of the smaller spreads. Anyway, Uriah was a tough, stubborn, but honest cowman, and you know how some of them can feel about Easterners taking over spreads.”

“The ol' grunt-and-grab,” Toby added from behind.

Daryl twisted in his saddle again. “Dad, you're only saying that ‘cause that's what Uriah used to say. But if you consider it from Ryker's angle, he's buying up a wad of mortgages and debts, offering a way out, often the only way out, from bankruptcy.”

“Maybe,” Jessica said, “but he drives a hard bargain.”

“Why shouldn't he? He's a businessman. We're the damn fools who've bitten off more'n we can chew, trying to make a go with a handful of cattle and a wagonload of furniture. He's not accountable if we end up dragging ourselves down into poverty and misery.”

“He is if he helps do the dragging.”

“He doesn't have to, Jessie. Failure seems to come natural to some folks, just like it's human nature to blame the winner who comes to buy up what's left. A body resents it, resents what's given.”

“Maybe Ryker should grow whiskers and drive reindeer,” Jessica retorted, angered to hear Ryker described as a benefactor for gobbling up other peoples' property and dreams. On the other hand, Daryl was speaking without having her information, her black book, her background and experience in dealing with such skunks. And at this point she didn't feel ready to educate him, either.

They dropped out of the hills and onto the gently rolling floor of the valley, and for a while rode roughly parallel to the creek. Where the creek was bridged by a wagon road, they turned and followed the road until they reached the home pastures of the Flying W. The windmill appeared first, flickering in the sunlight atop the wrinkled steppes of a hillock. Then, as the road curved around the base of the hillock, the ranch itself came into view, sprawling in the mottled shade of a grove of cottonwoods.

Riding into the yard, Jessica saw a couple of punchers moving around the outbuildings. When they saw who she was, they sped up, and Jessica, smiling inwardly, thought the crew must all be madder than a boil at her. Then, pulling up in front of the ranch house, she eyed its weathered clap-boards, dirty and paint-peeling, though its windows were washed and were framed by spotless curtains.

They were dismounting as a graying woman came to the door. She appeared colorless and subdued, with a lurking sadness to her eyes, but she wore a clean house dress, and her hair was neatly plaited and pinned around her head.

“Howdy, Am‘belle,” Toby greeted, lifting his hat.

“How do, Toby, Daryl.” Her voice was throaty and warm. “And you must be Miss Starbuck. Please, all of you, come on in.”

At the door, Jessica asked her, “Your crew told you?”

“Did they ever!” Mrs. Waldemar's lips perked with a wry smile. “They larruped in like a posse was after ‘em, and got to working bright and early, fit to beat the band. All save Lloyd. He quit.”

Jessica frowned, recalling the aggressive Lloyd Nealon. “I'm sorry. That leaves you short a foreman, and that's not what I had in mind. I guess I overstepped my bounds, and I do apologize.”

“‘Tain't accepted, Miss Starbuck. You did what Uriah would've done, and what I should've done if I'd had the gumption of a ninny.” She shut the door and headed for the kitchen, adding, “Now sit. I've got coffee on the stove, and an apple pandowdy in the oven.”

Inside, the parlor was meagerly yet tastefully furnished. Jessica and Daryl settle on a horsehair tête-à-tête sofa, while Toby relaxed in an easy chair with his hat balanced on his knees, and Ki stood beside a French marquetry-work side table.

“Don't you want to sit comfortable?” Mrs. Waldemar asked Ki, when she returned from the kitchen bearing a loaded tray.

“No, thank you. I feel quite comfortable standing.”

“Ain't used to a saddle, I betcha, and's just sore from our ride,” Toby declared. Which was anything but the truth; Ki simply preferred to stand, finding most American stuffed furniture, including beds, too soft and spongy for his taste. But then, Toby probably didn't believe what he was saying anyway, and promptly forgot about it as he started eating the fresh-baked apple pandowdy. “This is plumb scrumptious, Am‘belle. Best I've ever tasted.”

“If you didn't make yourself so scarce, Toby, you'd find I can cook more'n that,” Mrs. Waldemar replied, as she finished pouring coffee and serving wedges of apple pandowdy. “And you'd also find I'd whup you at cribbage worse'n Uriah ever could.” Setting the tray aside, she sat down in an armless reception chair and regarded Jessica appreciatively. “You received my letter. I truly didn't expect anyone to come here about it, but I am most grateful.”

“You still suspect your husband was murdered?”

“I've learned nothing to change my mind, Miss Starbuck. I can't say I don't wish to have his killer brought to justice, but I doubt the crime will ever be solved, and nothing can bring Uriah back. No, I must put that behind me, and think of the ranch.”

“Well, that's why we're here, Mrs. Waldemar. If you'll allow me, I'd like to take a look at your books and some of your land, and see if we can't come up with a few suggestions to help you.”

“Feel perfectly free, and my prayers are with you. The banker and my foreman—that is, my
ex
-foreman—and others who should know have all insisted it's too late, and there's nothing left but to sell.”

“Yes, to Ryker. Has he made you a reasonable offer?”

“I can't judge, and I'm not sure it'd matter if I could. It's the only offer; no other buyer is willing to buck the Captain.”

“You're bucking him, Am‘belle, and good for you.”

“You know why I am, Toby. Because Uriah would spin in his grave if I let Captain Ryker buy the Flying W. Besides, the ranch was profitable before, and I can't help believing it can be made so again, if ...” Mrs. Waldemar paused, getting to her feet and pacing the room, looking troubled and embarrassed as she halted in front of Jessica. “If, Miss Starbuck, you'll bring in some men. Some real men, who won't scat to the tall timber whenever the rustlers cut our herd or torch our graze. Men who won't hesitate to kill.”