The Taylor County War (12 page)

Sam felt the angry heat coloring
his cheeks. Rogers noticed it, and laughed loudly.

“I’ll give you a little while to
think about it, marshal,” Rogers said, and rose from his chair.
“But not very long. I trust you’ll figure out what’s best for
you.”

The cattleman walked out of the
office, with neither man offering any goodbyes.

Sam tilted his chair back and put a
booted foot on his desk. His siesta would have to wait. As Rogers
had said, he needed to think long and hard and figure out which
course was in his best interest.

And he had to figure out if he was
for sale, after all –and if not, why everyone assumed he was.

***

The shadows had begun to lengthen,
and Sheriff G. W. Satterlee was about to call it a day. He was
sitting on the front porch of the sheriff’s office, his chair
tipped back against the wall.

Sam Gardner approached him.
“Evening, G. W.”

“Howdy, Sam. Pull up a chair.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Sam said, and
soon he was leaning back against the wall beside the sheriff.

Sam fished in his pocket and pulled
out a smoke. “Care for a cigar, G. W.?”

“I would, Sam, but I’m workin’ on a
chaw.”

Sam bit the end off his cigar, then
struck a lucifer and puffed deeply until the tip glowed deep
red.

“Smells like a good one,” G. W.
said.

“I do like my smokes.”

“I hear that Irish deputy of yours
clobbered old Dace good today.”

Sam chuckled. “He did that, all
right. Seamus is a good hand, I like him. I still miss Fred,
though.”

“I know what you mean. I miss poor
old Spence, too –those Danby bastards robbed us both.”

“How’s your new boy working
out?”

“Laban? He’ll do, I suppose. He
takes some gettin’ used to. A real old-fashioned fire-breathin’
Kansas Free Soiler. He’s worse than that damned Methodist preacher
sometimes.”

Sam snickered. “I always thought
Free Soiler was an unfortunate name. Sounds like people with bowel
problems.”

“I never thought about it that
way,” G.W. said. “It figures you would, though.”

“I have a creative mind.”

“Somethin’ like that.”

Sam took another deep puff. He
tried to blow a smoke ring, but it came out crooked.

“I got a visit from Taylor County’s
newest upstanding citizen today,” the marshal said.

“Oh? Who’s that?” G. W. asked.

“Andrew Rogers.”

“Oh. That weaselly son of a
bitch.”

“You know him.”

“Just well enough. What did he want
with you?”

“Nothing much. He just asked me to
lean on Ira Breedlove, maybe throw him in jail. Maybe shoot him if
he gets too froggy –by implication I guess that means I’d also be
shooting Preston Vance, Wes Quaid, Rattlesnake Jake, and all the
other Wolf’s Den regulars.”

“Oh,” the sheriff said. “Is that
all?”

“For a start. Then he aims to take
over the greater United States, once he gets you out of the
way.”

“I was startin’ to get jealous, I
thought he’d forgot about me.”

“Nope, he has you down solid on his
calendar. And of course, if I don’t sign on, he has all manner of
nasty things in store for me.” Sam chuckled. “You know, the more I
think about it the more I suspect that John Doe who took all week
dying from a stab wound under Doc Munro’s care must have been one
of Rogers’ gunnies, showing up early. I guess no one told him it
pays to be polite to Soo Chow’s boys when you’re in their part of
town late at night.”

“What did you tell Rogers?”

This time Sam’s smoke ring was
perfect. “He very generously gave me some time to think it over.
Which I have done.”

“And?”

“And, the first thing I thought
about was, it chaps my ass that someone would think I’d be a part
of such a venture. And chaps it further, to the bleeding point,
that they’d believe they could force me to do so if I didn’t come
along of my own free will.”

“That sounds as bad as Free
Soiling.”

Sam didn’t laugh. “I’m serious,
George Washington. Sure, I take a cut from the gambling and the
whoring. Show me a town marshal that doesn’t. That doesn’t mean my
gun is for hire to whoever has the greenbacks to pay me. Hell, I
make it plain and clear to Ira, and Dab, and everybody else –I’m
here to keep this town running smooth and safe for honest folks.
Just because I take a percentage doesn’t mean they own me. For
petesake, I take a percentage from Abby Potter, but I that doesn’t
mean she can make me service her customers.”

“Hellfire, Sam, that comment about
made me swallow my chaw.”

“You know what I mean.”

G. W. nodded. “Yeah. I know exactly
what you mean. Question is, what are you going to do about it?”

“Andrew Rogers needs to be taken
down a few notches. You need to watch him, and watch him close-
he’s doing all he can to stoke up a range war, and he doesn’t care
how many people die for him to get what he wants.”

“That much is plain.”

“You’re going to have to go after
him soon, G. W. And when you do, I’ll be right there with you.
Guaranteed.”

The sheriff nodded. Then he spat
out his tobacco.

“I might take you up on that smoke,
Sam,” he said. “And I’ve got a bottle in my desk to wash it down
with.”

“I wondered how damn long I was
going to have to sit here, dazzling you with my wit, before it
occurred to you to be neighborly.”

“Go to hell,” G. W. said.

“I’ll race you,” the marshal
replied.

Sam was a little late starting his
rounds that night.

Chapter Five

Wesley Quaid leaned the chair back
and put his boots on the railing of the Breedlove porch, pushing
his hat back on his head. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he took
out the makings and began rolling a smoke. This time of the morning
just before dawn was his favorite time of the day. Everything was
still fresh and unspoiled.

The shindig at the line shack had
soured his stomach. Not that he hadn’t seen his share of violence.
He’d fought through the Late Unpleasantness with Nathan Bedford
Forrest’s cavalry and was no stranger to bloodletting. Yet when a
youngster like Obie Wilkins was killed over something as senseless
as the trouble that seemed to be brewing in this country, it left a
bad taste behind.

From all appearances, someone was
trying to stir up a range war. And for what?

Sticking the cigarette in the
corner of his mouth, Wesley popped a match into life with his
thumbnail and took a deep drag on the smoke.

Billy Below strode gingerly around
the corner from the bunkhouse and nodded as he stepped onto the
porch. “Morning, Quaid.”

“How’s the wound?”

“Hurts like the blazes, but I’ll be
all right.”

“Should a man need a behind for
target practice, would you turn the other cheek?”

“Ha. Real funny, Quaid.” Billy
shook his head and grinned.

“I like to make folks laugh. What
can I say?”

“I wasn’t laughing.”

“Seemed to me like you were.”

Billy grimaced as he eased himself
into a chair. “Anyone up yet in there?”

“I heard Sen Yung moving about in
the kitchen, but the food’s not ready yet.” Wesley’s stomach
growled.

“A mite anxious for some grub,
ain’t we?” Billy asked.

“I reckon. I couldn’t eat much last
night thinking about that kid.”

“Obie?”

“Yeah. Something about this mess
don’t set right with me.” Wesley dropped his boots from the railing
and ground the cigarette out with the toe of the right one. “I
still can’t figure what Eddie Benton’s angle in this is.”

Billy leaned forward. “Did you hear
anything last night?”

“No. Why?”

“Something woke me in the middle of
the night. Did you get up?”

“No. I had trouble going to sleep
but once I dropped off, I slept like a dead man.”

“I think it was Benton, but I can’t
prove it. When I opened my eyes, he was in his bunk.”

Wesley frowned and began twirling
his long goatee with a thumb and forefinger. “You think he’s going
somewhere? Meeting someone?”

“Could be.” Billy leaned back and
cleared his throat.

“Could be what?” Eddie Benton asked
as he stepped around the corner of the house.

Wesley felt his stomach give a
little quiver. How long had the man been standing there? “Billy was
just telling me that next time he gets shot in the behind, he might
not be so quick to turn the other cheek.”

“Haw. Haw.”

Billy rolled his eyes.

Sen Yung opened the door. “Come
eat.”

“You got coffee?” Wesley asked.

“Yep.”

“Have I told you what a fine cook
you are?”

“You get same food everyone else
do, Quad.”

“That’s Quaid, but my friends call
me Wes. And anyone that cooks like you is a friend of mine.”

The Chinaman flashed his pearly
white teeth at Wesley and spun on his heel, heading for the
kitchen.

Tobias stood up from his position
at the head of the table when the men tromped into the dining room.
After everyone was seated, the old man said grace.

Without a word, Wesley dug into the
piles of food. Sitting down to a spread like this was something he
could get used to. Not that he’d wanted to punch cows for a
living.

He lost count of the bacon strips
he consumed, but he ate six fried eggs and mopped up the yoke with
sourdough biscuits, washing it all down with scalding black
coffee.

Finally, he pushed his chair back
from the table. “That’s some mighty fine eating, Mr.
Breedlove.”

The old man had shaved off his
growth of white chin whiskers and appeared several years younger as
a result. He cleared his throat and glanced around the table,
eyeing each man in turn. “We’re riding over to the east range
today.”

Wesley raised an eyebrow but didn’t
comment. The eastern section of the Breedlove T-Bar-B ranch butted
up right next to the Rolling R of Andrew Rogers. The schoolteacher,
Marcus Sublette, had filled everyone in on what Rogers had said
just before he and his men had vacated the premises at the line
shack as the Breedlove riders were arriving.

Eddie Benton swallowed a mouthful
of eggs. “You sure that’s wise?”

“What do you know about my range,
Eddie? Seeing as how you’re new in these parts.”

Eddie lowered his eyes to the
table. “I just hear talk on the grub line, is all.”

“Well, you’re riding for me now, so
you’ll ride where I tell you.” He cast his iron gaze at Wesley.
“You got any problem with that?”

“No, sir.” Wesley sipped at his
coffee but held Breedlove’s gaze over the rim of his cup. “You take
a man’s money for a job, you do what he tells you.”

The old man nodded and looked at
Billy. “Get the horses saddled. We’ll ride as soon as I visit the
outhouse.”

“Yes, sir.” Billy shoved his chair
away from the table and clamped his hat down onto his head.

“I’ll give you a hand, Billy,”
Wesley said.

They strode away, leaving Eddie at
the table stuffing his face.

***

The sun was just edging up over the
horizon when they rode away from the ranch. Something akin to worry
settled itself in Wesley’s gut. In the light of the morning sun, he
studied Eddie Benton’s face. Something about the man seemed to
strike a chord in his memory, but he couldn’t quite put his finger
on it. Where had he seen the man before?

“Any critters we come across, start
them back toward the house,” Tobias said. “We’ll push them toward
the west range later on.”

“Billy was telling me last night
that range has been grazed down,” Eddie said.

Tobias eyed Eddie for a time before
speaking. “You let me worry about that.”

“Yes, sir.” Eddie slowed his horse,
dropping to the rear.

A prickly feeling raced down
Wesley’s spine and he turned in the saddle, catching a glare of
pure hatred in Eddie’s eyes directed at Tobias.

Wesley slipped the thong off the
hammer of his Thuer Conversion 1860 Colt Army that fired .44
cartridges. He had half a mind to just gun Eddie down and spare
them all the trouble of having to do it later. Something about the
man just didn’t feel right.

“Spread out and cut for sign,” Tobias said. “But
try not to get out of sight of one another.”

Billy headed north and Eddie
spurred his horse in a southerly direction. Wesley rode along with
Tobias.

The old man looked over at him,
squinting against the sunlight. “You riding out?”

“I’m getting paid to do a job. I
intend to do it.”

“I don’t need a nursemaid. I can
look out for myself.”

“I reckon you can. But a man don’t
have eyes in the back of his head.”

“I’m going to have to have a talk
with that son of mine.”

“That’d be between you and him, Mr.
Breedlove. He said he was coming out here.”

The sound of a calf bawling echoed
in the morning. Their horses’ ears perked in that direction.

“Here’s a few cows.” Tobias kicked
his animal into a gallop. “Let’s head ‘em back.”

Wesley followed several paces
behind. He focused his attention on the old man, but kept his eyes
scanning the horizon. Neither Eddie nor Billy were still in sight.
Where could they have got to?

Tobias rode around the dozen or so
cattle and started them moving back toward the ranch. Spurring his
horse, Wesley lent a hand.

The echo of the gunshot
reverberated in the morning stillness. Wesley flinched and gritted
his teeth. His first thought was of the old man. Had he been shot?
And who was doing the shooting? A glance at Tobias ascertained that
he was none the worse for wear. He returned his Colt to the
hand-tooled black leather gun belt. He did not even remember
drawing it.

“What the hell?” Tobias asked.

Two more evenly spaced gunshots
rang out and Wesley turned north. Billy Below waved an arm in the
air, signaling them.