Badlanders (6 page)

B
eaumont Adams stood at the window to his saloon for a considerable while after the Jessups went by. He was staring at the street, but he was seeing Isolda Jessup. She liked him. She was interested. He could tell.

Beaumont wouldn't have thought it. Sure, he was better-looking than most. Women told him that all the time. Sure, he was fun to be with. Women told him that, too. Fun because he hardly ever took anything seriously. Why should he, when the world and most everyone in it were plumb ridiculous?

With a toss of his head, Beaumont turned and walked to the corner table reserved for him and him alone. No sooner had he sunk into a chair than his barman, Floyd, brought him a bottle of his favorite brandy and a glass. Beaumont went through the motions of pouring, but his mind was more than a thousand miles away, in the hills of Tennessee.

Beaumont was a Southern boy, and proud of it. He'd been too young to take part in the War Between the States, but his pa and grandpa did and told him all about it. How the Yankees had pushed the South into war and
then used their industrial superiority to crush the Confederacy and lay waste to everything and everyone in it. Beaumont particularly hated carpetbaggers, the Yankee vultures who swooped south of the Mason-Dixon to plunder and pillage, all legal-like.

Yankees. How Beaumont despised that word. Yet here he was, entranced by a Yankee gal. From what Beaumont had gleaned from Franklyn Wells, the Jessups were as Yankee as could be, Northern blue bloods through and through.

Yet, damn, that Isolda was an eyeful. It wasn't just her looks. There was something about her, something Beaumont couldn't put his finger on, a quality she had that stirred him, deep down. He tried telling himself that he was being ridiculous, that she was a female just like every other, but at the first contact of their eyes a shiver had rippled through him from head to toe, as if a jolt of lightning had flashed between them. And, wonder of wonders, he had a hunch she felt the same way.

“What do you know?” Beaumont said to himself, and took a long swallow of brandy.

“What do we know about what, boss?”

Beaumont looked up. Dyson and Stimms had come up to his table without him noticing. It showed how rattled he was by the Yankee girl. No one should be able to do that. “You tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Stimms said, cradling his Sharps.

Sighing, Beaumont polished off his glass and set it down. “Suppose you tell me why you've inflicted yourselves on my good nature?”

“Done what, now?” Dyson said, his hand idly resting on his Remington. “You told us to report back after we went to see Zimmerman, remember?”

“What did he say to my offer?”

Dyson glanced at Beaumont's right sleeve and hesitated. “Do you want it word for word or should I sugarcoat it?”

“Word for word will do,” Beaumont said.

Dyson coughed. “Zimmerman said to tell you there's no way in hell he'd sell out to a tinhorn like you. He said it should be you who sells out to him since he aims to be top dog in this town before too long.”

“Does he, now?”

“You should have heard him, boss,” Stimms said. “He talked about you in front of everybody like you were dirt.”

“It made me mad,” Dyson said, “but we did as you told us and didn't cause trouble.”

“You did right,” Beaumont said. “I gave him his chance and he threw it in my face. Now no one can blame me for what comes next.”

“What will that be?” Stimms asked.

“Why, we kill the son of a bitch, of course.”

•   •   •

Edana Jessup took a lot of pride in being an independent woman. Independent in that in a world largely run by men, she could hold her own. She had a head for business, as her father liked to say. Thanks to that, and her education, she was as competent as any male born, and then some.

Edana had looked forward to the move to the West. Overseeing the dairy farms had become routine. There was no challenge to it once they had everything running smoothly. She'd needed some excitement in her life, and along came the Diamond B.

It promised to be a considerable challenge. A Western ranch wasn't anything like an Eastern dairy farm except that both relied on cows to turn a profit. But even in that regard there was a difference. It prompted her to remark, after they'd gone about a mile out of Whiskey Flats, “I shouldn't let an opportunity like this go to waste, Father.”

“Opportunity?” Alexander said absently. He was engrossed in a series of bluffs to the north.

“The cattle,” Edana said. “This Western breed isn't like those we're used to, or so Mr. Wells assured us. The
sooner we learn all there is about them, the better we can manage the ranch.”

“True.”

“So if you don't mind, I'll ride with our foreman awhile and pick his brain.” To further justify her request, Edana added, “Mr. Wells did say that Mr. Bonner is an expert.”

“Why would I mind?” Alexander said. “I commend your diligence. Go have your talk.”

Edana thanked him and jabbed her heels to take her bay up next to their foreman's buttermilk. In town she'd observed how he seemed ill at ease around her sister and her, so she sought to start things on a good footing by saying, “That's a fine animal you have there, Mr. Bonner.”

Neal looked at her in surprise, then patted his mount. “Best horse I've ever ridden, ma'am. I wouldn't part with him for anything. I got him down to the Staked Plain country about, oh, seven years ago, it was.”

Always the businesswoman, Edana asked, “How much does a horse cost in Texas?”

“Depends on the animal,” Neal answered. “You could likely get an old swayback for ten dollars. A ridin' horse can go for anywhere from fifty or sixty to more than a hundred. A horse like mine, two hundred or better.”

“Is that how much you paid? Two hundred?”

“No, ma'am. I got him for free.”

“How did you accomplish that miracle? Did you steal him?” Edana joked.

“No, ma'am,” Neal said. “I hanged the man who had him before me.”

Edana thought he was making some kind of peculiar joke her until she saw his grim expression. “You're serious?”

“I'm always serious about hangin' folks.”

“But . . .” Edana was so shocked her mind had gone numb. “Why?”

“He was a rustler, ma'am. Ed Coker was his name. He
fancied himself the king of the horse thieves. Even went around braggin' about how good he was, and how he'd never been caught. Well, one day he made the mistake of stealin' a small herd from the Diamond T. I took that poorly, seein' as I was foreman, and that made them my responsibility. Jericho and me lit out on his trail. Took us pretty near ten days, as I recollect, before we caught up. Ed made a fight of it and Jericho put lead in his shoulder. Then we hanged him.”

“Dear Lord.”

“Ed had grit, I'll give him that. He didn't bawl or whimper like some rustlers do. He died game.”

“How can you be so cavalier about it?”

“Ma'am?”

“You
hanged
him. You killed another human being. Murdered him, essentially, since he didn't have a trial and wasn't duly sentenced by a judge.” Edana shook her head. “Can't you see how wrong that is?”

“Ed was a rustler, ma'am. He knew what to expect if he was caught.”

“Stop calling me that. And that's not the point.” Edana took a breath. “The point is that you ended another man's life without due process. Back East you would be put on trial and probably sent to prison for taking the law into your own hands.”

Neal waved an arm at their surroundings. “Take a good look around us, ma'am.”

Annoyed that he kept calling her that, Edana nonetheless gazed about, wondering what he was getting at. The bluffs had given way temporarily to tall spires of stone, here and there broken by the dark meanderings of shadowy ravines. In the distance a mesa reared, a world unto itself. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”

“What do you see?”

“The Badlands, what else?” Edana said. “As wild a country as anywhere on God's green earth. It's how I'd imagine the world will look after it comes to an end.”

“Why, that's almost poetical, ma'am,” Neal said.

“I told you to stop calling me that. Why did you ask what I saw?”

“Other than Whiskey Flats, do you see any towns hereabouts? Any homesteads or farms? Don't bother to answer. There isn't any for hundreds of miles. That's how it was down to Texas.”

“That doesn't justify what you did.”

“It was up to us to end the stealin'. No one else would.”

“Well, there won't be any hanging of rustlers at the Diamond B. We're not barbarians. We'll live by the same laws as everyone else.”

“Take another gander. Do you see any laws anywhere?”

“Now you're being facetious,” Edana. said. “Yes, I've read that on the frontier, men are a law unto themselves. Perhaps that applies in Texas but not here. I refuse to be a party to a hanging. Should a situation arise where you feel compelled to take the law into your own hands, you're to consult with my father or me first.”

“You want me to go around shackled?”

“Don't be preposterous. I didn't say you couldn't defend yourself if you're set upon. I simply said the Diamond B won't be a party to lawlessness, even if custom is on our side in perpetrating it.” Edana expected him to take exception. Instead he smiled and studied her with what she took to be a degree of admiration.

“You have some fancy notions to go with those fancy words of yours. But don't worry. I'll do as you say until you see how wrong you are.”

“The nerve,” Edana said, but she grinned. “Enough about that. I wanted to talk about something else. Cows.”

“They're big and they moo.”

Edana threw back her head and laughed. His sense of humor pleased her. In fact, his attitude toward rustling notwithstanding, nearly everything about Neal Bonner pleased her. He wasn't as handsome as, say, that gambler back in town, but he wasn't hard on the eyes, either. In fact, those eyes of his appealed to her greatly. They
hinted at depths she found herself thinking she might like to explore. “I'd like to hear about these Western cattle of yours. I've always thought a cow was a cow, but Mr. Wells informed me I couldn't be more wrong. Enlighten me, if you would be so kind.”

“Gladly,” Neal said. “Mr. Wells has it right. Beef cattle ain't milk cows. And here's why.”

Over the next hour and a half, Edana learned more about Western cattle than she'd ever had guessed was the case. For starters, the herd Neal brought up from Texas was composed mostly of longhorn stock. Longhorns were noted for their hardiness. They thrived almost anywhere: grassy prairies, brush country, even swamps. They could get by without much water better than any breed alive. They were bony, with a spread of horns that had to be seen to be believed, but for all that, Neal claimed they could weigh almost as much as a buffalo. When Edana scoffed, Neal put a hand to his chest.

“May the Good Lord strike me dead if I'm lying.”

Neal went on to inform her that whereas bull buffalo could weigh two thousand pounds or more, a full-grown longhorn bull might be between fifteen to eighteen hundred pounds, and sometimes even higher. All that growing took a while. Although a longhorn was considered adult at four years, it didn't reach full maturity and size until it was eight to ten.

“Another advantage to longhorns,” Neal, said, waxing passionate about his herd, “is that they don't need coddlin'. Let them loose and they can fend for themselves. All we have to do is brand them and round them up for market.”

“What about the winters? They can be severe out here,” Edana mentioned, and grew warm in her cheeks when he said that was a good question.

“Longhorns can take heavy snows and cold in stride, but we'll have to keep an eye on things. I was thinkin' we'd set up feed pens around the range in case a blizzard hits. Of course, gettin' out to them will be a chore, so
before the cold weather hits, we might want to herd the cattle into areas that will be easier to reach. Just a thought I had,” Neal finished.

“A good one,” Edana said, returning his compliment.

Neal looked away, and coughed.

“What are the dangers we face? Be honest with me. How about hostiles, for instance?”

“The Indians hereabouts are pretty much whipped, ma'am,” Neal replied. “The army came down on them hard after Custer.” He shook his head. “No, I reckon our main worries will be those blizzards, and a drought if it goes on long enough.”

“How about disease? How prone are these longhorns of yours to sickness?”

“They're your longhorns, too, ma'am,” Neal said with another of his slow smiles. “I can count the sick longhorns I've seen on one hand and have fingers left over. They never come down with that blood disease that your Eastern cows get.”

“Tuberculosis?”

“That's the one.”

“You make it sound as if we'll have it easy.”

“Not at all,” Neal said. “Our worst problem will likely be rustlers.”

“I hope not. But even so, remember what I said about not lynching them.”

“Oh, I'll remember, ma'am. And I'll keep my rope handy for when you change your mind.”

“As if that will ever happen.”

“You never know,” Neal Bonner said.

B
eaumont Adams waited for the sun to go down.

In his living quarters on the second floor of the saloon, Beaumont stared at himself in the full-length mirror on his closet door. Most would call it a vanity of his, and they'd be right. For as long as he could remember, he'd liked to admire himself in a mirror.

Beaumont adjusted his hat and smoothed his frock coat. He hiked his sleeve and checked the special rig that held his derringer. It was snug in place. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his coat, he patted each of his Colt pocket pistols. The original pockets had been removed and replaced with larger leather ones so that the Colts wouldn't snag when he drew. It was an old gambler's trick that some gunnies relied on, too.

“I'm a walkin' arsenal,” Beaumont said to the mirror. Chuckling, he went out and down the stairs to the saloon.

The Three Aces was doing its usual booming business. Of the three saloons in town, his was easily the most popular.

The Tumbleweed, owned by Clyde Zimmerman, did
pretty brisk business, too, mainly thanks to a stable of young doves. It would do better if Zimmerman didn't water his drinks and treat everybody as if he was better than they were.

The newest saloon, called the Glass Slipper, was owned by a man named Garrison from New Orleans who liked to boast that his saloon was for a more genteel clientele.

Beaumont made for the bar. Dyson and Stimms were drinking and didn't notice him come up.

“You boys ready?”

Both turned and Stimms hastily gulped the rest of his drink, spilling some on his chin. “You bet, boss.”

“Genteel as hell,” Beaumont said.

“Boss?” Stimms said.

“Nothin' you would understand. Let's go see Zimmerman about acquirin' his establishment.”

“Do you want we should bring more than just us?” Dyson asked. “Floyd can be spared from the bar, and Toliver and Weist are over at that table.”

“They stay here to watch over things.” Beaumont had added new tie-down men to his payroll as a precaution. Not that they impressed him all that much. They weren't the same quality of killer as, say, Jericho or Scar Wratner, but they'd shoot when he told them to and that was what counted. “Us three will do.”

“If you say so,” Dyson said uncertainly. “Zimmerman has three or four gun sharks workin' for him, in case you didn't know.”

“They're not so much sharks as guppies,” Beaumont said, annoyed at having his judgment questioned. “If you're scared, you can mount up and ride out and to hell with you.”

“Did I say that?” Dyson said. “I just don't want you killed, is all.”

“Why, Dyson,” Beaumont said, “I didn't know you cared.”

“Are you kiddin'?” Dyson replied. “I've never had it
so good as I do workin' for you. You pay good, and you treat us decent exceptin' when you're mad, and you don't get mad much.”

“I'm a regular daisy.”

Beaumont made for the batwings. He liked how men stepped out of his way without being told, liked the respect he was accorded. He ate it up with a spoon.

“One more thing, boss,” Dyson said. “I heard that Scar Wratner and his pards have been there all day, drinkin' heavy.”

“So?” Beaumont said. He reached the batwings and stepped out into the welcome cool of night. “Wratner doesn't work for Zimmerman. He's nothin' for us to be concerned about.”

“If you say so,” Dyson said again. “But when he drinks a lot, he goes on the prod, and I wouldn't want him to prod us.”

“You don't think you can take him?”

“Scar Wratner?” Dyson said in amazement. “I'm good but I'm not his caliber, not by a long shot.”

“Do you reckon you can take him, boss?” Stimms asked.

“Easy as pie,” Beaumont said. “He'd never see it comin'.”

“I don't know,” Stimms said. “He's cat-eyed, that one. Word is he's bucked twenty men out.”

“The word is exaggerated,” Beaumont said, striding along with his hands in his pockets. “I have it that he hasn't killed more than twelve.”

“Oh, is that all?” Dyson said.

Beaumont laughed. “Why, Dyson, I do believe you're growin' a sense of humor. Will wonders never cease?”

“Why do you say things like that, boss? Why do you poke fun all the time?”

“I like to laugh, Dyson,” Beaumont said. “I like to enjoy life. Next to pokin' a woman, laughin' is the most fun I know.”

“There's drinkin',” Stimms said, “and card playin'.”

“I do like cards,” Beaumont admitted. “But that's more work than pleasure. What's your pleasure in life? Besides sneakin' a poke with your mule every night.”

“Oh, boss,” Stimms said. “Where do you come up with this stuff? I would never and you know it.”

“That's not what your mule told me.”

Dyson cackled.

Not many people were out and about. The wives were home where they should be. The doves were in the saloons. So was most of the male population. Nearly every hitch rail was full up. A lot of cowboys from the Diamond B were in town to wet their dry throats.

The Tumbleweed stood at the next corner. It was only one story, and longer by half than the Three Aces. The batwings had been painted red, and the front window bore the likeness of a dove in a red dress.

“That gal on the glass sure is pretty,” Stimms remarked.

“Marry her, why don't you?” Beaumont said. “Your mule will send her a thank-you note.”

“Oh, boss.”

Beaumont looked at them. “Enough frivolity. From here on out, we're deadly serious. Stay close and cover me. Anyone goes for their hardware, and I do mean anyone, you blow them to hell and back. Do I make myself clear?”

“We have your back, boss,” Dyson said.

Beaumont grunted. He knew he could count on them. They were as dull as bricks but as loyal as hound dogs. Squaring his shoulders, he sauntered inside as if he already owned the place.

Hardly anyone noticed, at first. Most every table had a card game going and the bar was lined with drinkers. The doves were mingling, as they were paid to do. At a table in the back sat Clyde Zimmerman, dressed like the Eastern dandy he was, with his three hired wolves.

Beaumont started toward their table and caught sight of Scar Wratner, Grat, and Tuck at the far end of the bar.
Wratner had already spotted him. Cat-eyed was exactly right. Beaumont smiled and nodded. Scar didn't return the favor, but he did glance at Clyde Zimmerman and grin.

Beaumont wondered why. An alliance between Zimmerman and Wratner didn't bode well for his prospects. Out of the corner of his mouth he said to Stimms, “Keep an eye on Wratner. If he goes for his guns, use that cannon of yours.”

“I'll try, but he's awful fast.”

“I like a man with confidence,” Beaumont said.

Clyde Zimmerman saw them and stiffened. He said something to the three gunnies that caused them to set down their cards and their drinks and place their hands on the edge of the table.

“I do so hate to ruin a good frock coat,” Beaumont remarked to himself.

“Boss?” Dyson said.

“Remember, watch my back.”

Beaumont came to within a few feet of the table and stopped. He needed to be in close. Smiling, he said to Zimmerman, “Surprised to see me, Clyde?”

“It's Mr. Zimmerman to you,” Zimmerman said sourly. He had oily black hair and a black mustache, and an ample middle. “Didn't your simpleton give you my message?”

“Which simpleton?” Beaumont replied. “I have more than one in my employ.”

“The nerve,” Zimmerman said. “Offering to buy me out.”

Beaumont wanted to keep him talking awhile so the other three would relax their vigilance. “It was a reasonable offer, reasonably made.”

“You don't fool me,” Zimmerman said. “You've let it be known you intend to take this town over, lock, stock, and barrel.”

“I confess I'm afflicted with a leaky mouth on occasion,” Beaumont said.

“A leaky brain, too, if you expect me to sell to you. You're not the only one with ambition. I've already made overtures to Garrison, but he turned me down.”

“You have to say pretty please. He's one of those sensitive souls.”

“And what are you, besides a blowhard?”

“Now, now,” Beaumont said, continuing with his friendly act. “Have I insulted you in any way? I have not.”

“You insulted me by walking in here,” Zimmerman said. “You came to threaten me to sell to you, or else.”

“Why, Clyde,” Beaumont said, doing his best to sound hurt, “that's not why I'm here at all.”

“It isn't?”

“Goodness gracious, no. I'd never be dumb enough to threaten someone like you. Everyone knows you can't be blustered.”

Zimmerman didn't hide his surprise at the compliment. “You're damn right I can't. It's smart of you to admit it.”

“No, sir,” Beaumont said. “You can't be blustered and you can't be bought. You are too tough for the first and too dumb for the second.”

“What?”

“It takes intelligence to know when to fold. That's why really fine poker players are so rare. Simpletons hold on to a losin' hand long after they should.”

“Did you just call me dumb? And a simpleton, to boot?”

“Bein' stupid is one of your more notable traits. Like that god-awful cologne you wear. And how your mouth twitches when you're mad, like it's twitchin' know. Do you have fits on occasion? I once knew a gent who twitched like you do, and he was prone to fits.”

Red in the face with anger, Clyde Zimmerman rose out of his chair and leaned on the table. “How dare you?”

“You'd be surprised,” Beaumont said.

“Insult me in my own place,” Zimmerman fumed. “Turn around and leave or I'll have you thrown out on your ear.”

“Haven't you ever heard of sticks and stones?”

Zimmerman smacked the table so hard many at surrounding tables and at the bar stopped what they were doing to stare. “Gentlemen,” he said, and his three gun tippers looked at him.

It was the moment Beaumont had been waiting for. His hands had never left his pockets, and now he pointed the short-barreled Colts at two of the three and fired through his frock coat. That close up, he could hardly miss. His slugs cored their heads, splattering hair and brains. The last hired gun, and Zimmerman, had no time to react as Beaumont sent lead into each one. He shot the third gunny in the head, but he deliberately shot Zimmerman in the chest.

Clyde Zimmerman was knocked back over his chair and both crashed to the floor.

Simultaneously, Dyson's Remington cracked twice, and another of Zimmerman's leather slappers, who had rushed to help his employer, clutched at himself and pitched to the floor.

In the sudden and total silence, Zimmerman's gurgles and gasps were unnaturally loud.

Beaumont walked around the table and slid his Colts from their special pockets. “Told you that you were dumb.”

A scarlet stain was spreading across Zimmerman's shirt. He was struggling to reach a Smith & Wesson, worn butt-forward on his left hip. “Bastard,” he hissed, spitting blood.

“Oh, I'm that, and more,” Beaumont said, grinning. “I'm now the proud owner of two saloons. When I came in here I was the proud owner of only one.”

Tears of rage filled Zimmerman's eyes. “You . . . you . . .” He couldn't seem to find an insult vile enough.

“Maybe I'll change the name, though,” Beaumont
said. “The Tumbleweed is too ordinary. How does Zimmerman's Folly sound?”

“God!” Zimmerman practically screamed. He made a last effort to reach his six-shooter but couldn't move his arm far enough.

“Don't bring the Almighty into this,” Beaumont said. “Sinners like us, we're bound for that other place. Which reminds me. Say howdy to that gent with the forked tail when you get there.”

Clyde Zimmerman closed his eyes and quaked.

“Tell you what,” Beaumont said. “I can be as charitable as the next gent. Do you want me to end it quick or would you rather lie there and suffer?”

“You miserable son of a bitch.”

“Quick it is,” Beaumont declared, and bending, he extended the Colts so the muzzles were inches from Zimmerman's face. “Thanks for the saloon,” he said, and squeezed both triggers.

Beaumont turned to the onlookers. Some were in shock. Most looked as if they didn't know what to do. Beaming, he called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Tumbleweed is under new management. In honor of the occasion, all drinks for the next hour are on me.”

Glances were exchanged, whispers broke out, and then someone let out a hearty cheer. Others followed suit, and there was a rush for the bar.

“So much for the dear departed,” Beaumont said, and chuckled. “Ain't life grand, boys? Ain't it truly and wonderfully grand?”

“If you say so, boss,” Stimms said. “I've always thought it was kind of confusin' myself.”

Beaumont Adams laughed for joy.