Longhorn Empire (9 page)

“The next thing we know, the sidewinder will be runnin’ in sheep!” roared Webb. “Bob wire fence in the Panhandle!”

“You’ll see plenty of barbed wire fence in this section before long,” Austin Brant predicted. “The big new spreads will be
going in for it heavy. Particularly if they start improving their breed of cows.”

Brant was eminently right in his prophecy. Soon the great XIT spread would put up more than eight hundred miles of fence to
enclose the ranch’s vast domain, at a cost of more than $175,000. Cross fences would increase the mileage to fifteen hundred.

“And speaking about improving breeds,” Brant remarked, “there’s something I want to take up with you. I see a chance for the
Running W to get the jump on every outfit in this section, even Goodnight and his JA.”

He recounted his conversation with Nate Loring. Webb was interested, but pointed out objections.

“You could never bring them breed bulls all the way here from Oklahoma,” he reminded. “They couldn’t make the march over the
rough ground. Their hoofs wouldn’t take it. A longhorn is equipped pertickler for hard goin’, but them blood critters has
got soft from ablin’ around over easy pastures.”

“I’ve got a notion how it could be done,” Brant replied. “I figure it’s worth trying, anyhow.”

“We’ll talk about it again after we get the next herd ready for the north drive,” Webb decided. “Right now, the big chore
is to get them cows ready for the trail.”

Others beside Webb had things to say about Norman Kane’s fencing project. There were some small owners occupying range directly
south of Kane’s holdings. When Kane finished his fencing, these owners realized that their cows were cut off from the water.
Naturally they didn’t take kindly to the new conditions. Their criticism of Kane was bitter. They did more than criticize.
Kane’s wire was cut in a number of places. He repaired the breaks and set men riding to guard the fences. Shootings from ambush
followed next. There was the making of a first class range war under way.

“Looks like the hellion is goin’ to get his
comeuppance without any moves on our part,” John Webb chuckled, when informed of the troubles besetting his unwanted neighbor.

Austin Brant, however, took another view of the matter. “If it’s bad for him, it’s bad for us, too,” Brant declared. “There’s
the making of plenty of trouble for everybody in this. All of a sudden we’ve got the honest ‘little fellow’ siding with the
wideloopers and brand blotters. And this is only the beginning. With more wire coming there’ll be more trouble coming. Something
has to be done.”

“What?” countered Webb. “Those jiggers down there can’t get their cows to water, and if the cows can’t get water, they can’t
hold on. Which means the little fellers are goin’ to be ruined. They ain’t gonna take it layin’ down. If Kane insists on keepin’
his fences up, what can anybody do about it?”

“I’ve got the answer, if I can make Kane listen to sense,” Brant replied. “I’m going to take a chance on riding over to see
him soon and putting a proposition up to him.”

While Brant was debating how best to approach the Flying V owner, Norman Kane proceeded to play into his hands by kicking
up a row that gave even
him
pause.

One morning there appeared on a wall of the Tascosa post office, and in other places, a notice printed in heavy black type:

A FAIR WARNING

Anyone hereafter meddling with my wire will be risking death or serious injury. I am a law abiding citizen, but have received
little
protection from the law. Therefore I have taken mea sures to protect my property from the depredations of the lawless.

Heed this warning or pay the price!

(Signed) Norman Kane
Owner, Flying V Ranch

The notice was hotly debated in various gathering places that included general stores and saloons. Some held that Kane was
justified in taking extreme mea sures. His wire had been cut; his men shot at. Others maintained that taking the law in your
own hands is a bad business and likely to get you in trouble. The discussions raged furiously and didn’t tend to improve conditions
that were already far from good.

There was much conjecture as to just what Kane had done to protect his property. Curiosity rose to a high pitch. Everybody
was talking about the matter and making gusses, most of them decidedly farfetched.

Slim Lubbock and Bull Soderman, two of Wes Morley’s Bar M riders, were discussing the subject over glasses of red-eye in a
Tascosa saloon. The hour was late, the likker potent, and Slim and Bull had been going it strong for most of the night.

“I shay,” remarked Slim, with owlish gravity, “what we should do ish ride over there and find out how he’s got that darn bobsh
wire fixed so it’ll take care of itself.”

“We ain’t got no cutters,” Bull objected.

“Oh, we won’t do any cuttin’—that getsh you in trouble,’ replied Slim. “We’ll just look ’em over, careful like. Find out whatsh
al ’bout.”

Bull was still a bit doubtful as to the wisdom of
the move, but Slim finally carried the day. They left the saloon together, rather shakily, and managed to unhitch and fork
their horses. Once in the saddle, life-long habit asserted itself and they had no trouble staying there.

Slim was little and scrawny and liable to be cantakerous. Bull was big, beefy, good-natured. Both were tophands and well liked.

It was quite a ride to the Flying V wire, but they made it without mishap. They were more sober when they got there than when
they started, but not enough to alter their decision. They were still determined to learn what Norman Kane was up to. The
full moon was shining brightly in a clear sky, bathing the prairie in silvery light. The taut strands of rusty wire gleamed
palely golden. The fence posts marched in a seemingly endless line.

Although still more than half drunk, Solderman and Lubbock had sense enough to choose what appeared to be a safe spot to approach
the fence. There was no growth within hundreds of yards, no place where a fence guard could hole up with ready rifle. If someone
was watching from afar, the two cowhands felt they’d have such a head start that distancing possible pursuit would not be
difficult. They rode up to a hundred feet of the fence, gave the whole terrain a careful once-over and dismounted. They approached
the wire with caution, not touching it at first. Then, emboldened by the deserted silence, they began a more thorough examination,
tugging at the strands, shaking posts.

“Hey!” suddenly called Slim, who was some twenty feet behind his companion. “Here’s a post that ain’t in the ground. Just
hangin’ loose. Bottom end sawed off. I can pull it way up and—”

Bull Solderman never knew what more Slim intended saying. There was a crashing roar, a yellowish flare that dimmed the moonlight.
Bull was knocked end over end by the force of the blast. He lay for a moment, stunned, deafened and blinded. When he scrambled
to his feet he was cold sober.

The sawed-off post, still stapled to the wire, sagged drunkenly over a gaping hole in the ground from which rose trickels
of smoke and a smell of burned dynamite. Slim Lubbock lay some distance from the smoking crater, his face covered with blood,
one leg twisted grotesquely. He was unconscious and moaning softly. Horrified and still dazed, Solderman ran to him.

“Slim! Slim!” he called inanely. “You all right?”

Slim was far from being all right. Bull realized that as his vision cleared
and he dropped a loop on his scattered senses.

The horses had dashed away when the blast went off. Now they stood a hundred yards distant, snorting and stamping. Bull whistled
and the well trained animals came to his call. A powerful man, he managed to fork his cayuse with Slim cradled in his arms.
He rode madly away from the scene of horror.

It was many miles to the Bar M ranch house and Bull knew that Slim was badly in need of medical attention. On the other hand,
the Running W casa was but a couple of miles distant. Bull headed for the Running W. He arrived there as the sky was graying
with dawn. His yells brought the hands tumbling from the bunk house and Webb and Austin Brant onto the porch of the Bull Mansh.

Brant immediately took charge. He carried Slim’s unconscious form into the house and placed him on a couch. He ordered a hand
to saddle up and ride to Tascosa for a doctor. Then he and Webb did a little rough surgery on Slim.

“He’s considerably bunged up, but I think he’ll make it,” Brant finally said. “That leg fracture isn’t compounded, and the
head cuts aren’t very deep. Doesn’t seem to be any skull fracture. I can’t say about concussion. He may just be out from shock.
We’ve done all we can and will have to wait for the doctor. And now, Bull, tell us what happened.”

Solderman told them, with plenty of profanity. Brant listened in silence, his face darkening.

“I’ve heard of that trick before,” he said when Bull had finished. “It was used down in Navarro County during the wire war
along the Trinity. I think I know how it was worked, but I’d like to ride over to where that blast let off and make sure.
It’ll be daylight by the time we get there. Come along, Bull, and lead us to the spot. Half a dozen men come along, too. Want
plenty of witnesses to what we find.”

“What about those Flyin’ V skunks,” Bull asked, a little nervously, as they got under way. “Think they’ll be waitin’ there
for us? They must have heard the racket at their ranch house.”

“I think that’s the last place you’ll find any of the Flying V outfit right now,” Brant replied. “Let’s go.”

Brant was right. When they reached the scene of the explosion, nobody was in sight. Brant gazed at the hole in the ground,
above which the sawed-off post dangled. He pointed to the post.

“You’ll notice there’s a short section of wire fastened to the bottom end of that post,” he remarked. “Now scatter out over
the ground and see if you can find anything.”

The cowboys dismounted and began poking about in the tall grass. A few minutes passed and one called, “Hey! here’s part of
an old muzzle-loadin’ shotgun! The barrel’s all busted to hell.”

“Figured it would be,” Brant observed. “Any wire fastened to the trigger?”

“Uh-huh, a little short piece.”

Brant took the shattered weapon and turned it over in his hands.

“Tell you how it works,” he said. “A plumb devilish contraption, and plumb simple and easy to make. You just take an old muzzle-loader
and put in a charge of powder. Drop a dynamite cap down onto the charge of powder. Then fill the barrel with dynamite and cork
it tight with a wooden plug. Fasten one end of a piece of wire to the trigger. The other end to the bottom of the post that
isn’t in the ground. Put a cap on the nipple and cock the gun, all ready for shooting. Then you put the gun in a wooden box,
dig a shallow hole under the bottom of the post, put the box in the hole and cover it over with earth.”

“But what if the hammer happens to drop while you’re fooling with the darn thing?” a young puncher asked.

“You wouldn’t even know it happened,” Brant replied dryly. “The contraption is safe enough so long as the strands of fence
wire are not tampered with. The wire between the bottom of the post and the trigger is a bit slack, so that a cow rubbing
against the post won’t set it off. But if the
fence wire is cut, the sawed post falls over, the end kicks up, the trigger is pulled, the dynamite is set off and pieces
of shotgun are scattered all over the county. And usually pieces of whover did the wire cutting. Slim Lubbock just had a drunk’s
luck, that’s all.”

The comments of the listening punchers were blistering, their opinion of Norman Kane and all he stood for not complimentary
to
Senor
Kane, to say the least.

The story spread like wildfire, and there was merry hell to pay. It took all the argumentative powers of John Webb and Austin
Brant to keep Wes Morley and the Bar M hands from riding to the Flying V and shooting it out. Even the larger spread owners,
who had been rather inclined to go along with him, turned thumbs down on his fence bombs.

So when Austin Brant rode over with his proposition, Kane was in a mood to listen to anything that would lessen the tension
between him and the small owners.

The chief bone of contention was a stream that ran south across Kane’s range, turned sharply west not far from his south wire
and plunged into a canyon. This stream had been the foremost watering place for stock owned by the small ranchers to the south
and east. There were waterholes on the range, but these were scant and were steadily drying up. Soon the little fellows’ situation
would be precarious.

Kane was firm in his determination to keep his range fenced, but he was not pleased with the row he had kicked up. He listened
to Brant when the latter submitted his plan.

After talking with Kane, Brant rode south and contacted the various small spread owners. As a result of his efforts, a truce
was declared. Every available hand got busy with picks, shovels, plows and blasting powder. A channel was dug south from the
stream. Into this was diverted a portion of the creek’s water. Ditches were dug to the various waterholes. New holes were
excavated. The immediate problem was solved.

With their stock no longer threatened with extermination, the ire of the small owners cooled somewhat. But there was still
plenty of cussin’ over the damned “bob” wire. The rusty strands with their bristling barbs were an affront to every believer
in the open range. Horses and cows ran into the wire and suffered lacerations. These became infected with screw worms. Loss
of stock resulted. The average cowhand regarded wire with about the same affection he would have lavished on a case of spotted
fever.

“But there’s no use trying to set back the clock,” Austin Brant declared. “Wire is coming to the grass lands to stay. The
time is coming when a jigger won’t feel like he’s in a city if he meets two men on the range in as many days. We’ve got to
get used to changed conditions and regulate things accordingly. There’s still plenty of room for everybody, but from now on
it is the smart jigger who can see things as they are who is going to come out on top.”