Riding for the Brand (Ss) (1986) (28 page)

For a long moment, the street was motionless.

Then somebody said, "We better get inside.

She's ra*'."

Jerry swung from his horse and in a couple of strides was beside the fallen man. Ripping back the shirt, he exposed the side, scarred by a steer's hoof.

Dan Blaze jerked around. "Slagle"... He yelled.

"Where's Red Slagle! Get him!"

"Here."... Slagle was sitting against the building, gripping a bloody hand. "I caught a slug. I got behind Ray."... He looked up at Blaze. "Gary's right. He's straight as a string. It was Ray's idea to ring him in and use him as the goat after he found him with us."

Dan Blaze knelt beside him. "Who killed my brother?" He demanded. "Was it you or Ray?"

"Ray shot him first. I finished it. I went huntin' him an' he busted out of the brush. He had a i stick he'd carried for walkin' an' I mistook it for a gun."

"What about Langer?" Gary demanded.

"Where's he?"

Red grinned, a hard, cold grin. "He lit a shuck.

That whuppin' you gave him took somethin' out of him. Once he started to run he didn't stop, not even for his money."

He dug into his pocket. "That reminds me.

Here's the forty bucks you earned."

Jim Gary took the money, surprised speechless.

Slagle struggled erect. Gary's expression seemed to irritate him. "Well, you earned it, didn't you? An' I hired you, didn't I?

Well, I never gypped no man out of honest wages yet!

"Anyway"... He added wryly, "by the looks of that rope I don't reckon I'll need it.

Luck to you, kid! An'"... He grinned, "stay out of trouble."

Thunder rumbled again, and rain poured into the street, a driving, pounding rain that would start the washes running and bring the grass to life again, green and waving for the grazing cattle, moving west, moving north.

*

Author's Note:

Water was the most precious item in the West, and it still is. The ownership or control of land was nothing without water, and most cattlemen did not own the land on which their cattle grazed. They merely found the range and grazed their cattle until it became too crowded or they were impelled to move on. The West has ways of hiding its water. At Tinajas Altas, on the old California trail, dozens of men died of thirst with many thousands of gallons of water waiting in natural rock tanks above them.

To a man unfamiliar with the southwestern desert, those bare rocky ridges looked unpromising, and no one not knowing the country would dream there would be water in such unlikely places. Yet it was there, rainwater caught in natural basins, runoff from the bare rocks around.

Nobody ever claimed the way of the West was easy. It had rich rewards, but you had to earn them.

You still do.

*

Fork Your Own Broncs.

Mac Marcy turned in the saddle and, resting his left hand on the cantle, glanced back up the arroyo.

His lean, brown face was troubled. There were cattle here, all right, but too few.

At this time of day, late afternoon and very hot, there should have been a steady drift of cattle toward the waterhole.

Ahead of him he heard a steer bawl and then another. Now what? Above the bawling of the cattle he heard another sound, a sound that turned his face gray with worry. It was the sound of hammers.

He needed nothing more to tell him what was happening. Jingle Bob Kenyon was fencing the waterhole!

As he rounded the bend in the wash, the sound of hammers ceased for an instant, but only for an instant. Then they continued with their work.

Two strands of barbed wire had already been stretched tight and hard across the mouth of the wash. Several cowhands were stretching the third wire of what was obviously to be a four wire fence.

Already Marcy's cattle were bunching near the fence, bawling for water.

As he rode nearer, two men dropped their hammers and lounged up to the fence. Marcy's eyes narrowed and his gaze shifted to the big man on the roan horse. Jingle Bob Kenyon was watching him with grim humor.

Marcy avoided the eyes of the two other men by the fence, Vin Ricker and John Soley, who could mean only one thing for him trouble, bad trouble. Vin Ricker was a gunhand and a killer. John Soley was anything Vin told him to be.

"This is a rotten trick, Kenyon"... Marcy declared angrily. "In this heat my herd will be wiped out."

Kenyon's eyes were unrelenting. "That's just tough"... He stated flatly. "I warned yuh when yuh fust come in here to git out while the gittin' was good. Yuh stayed on. Yuh asked for it.

Now yuh take it or git out."

Temper flaring within him like a burst of flame, Marcy glared. But deliberately he throttled his fury. He would have no chance here.

Ricker and Soley were too much for him, let alone the other hands and Kenyon himself.

"If you don't like it"... Ricker sneered, "why don't yuh stop us? I hear tell yuh're a plumb salty hombre."

"You'd like me to give you a chance to kill me, wouldn't you?" Marcy asked harshly. "Someday I'll get you without your guns, Ricker an'

I'll tear down your meat house."

Ricker laughed. "I don't want to dirty my hands on yuh, or I'd come over an' make yuh eat those words. If yuh ever catch me without these guns, yuh'll wish to old Harry I still had "em."

Marcy turned his eyes away from the gunman and looked at Kenyon.

"Kenyon, I didn't think this of you. Without water, my cows won't last three days, an" you know it. You'll bust me flat."

Kenyon was unrelenting. "This is a man's country, Marcy"... He said drily. "Yuh fork your own broncs an' yuh git your own water. Don't come wh*' to me. Yuh moved in on me, an' if yuh git along, it'll be on your own."

Kenyon turned his horse and rode away. For an instant Marcy stared after him, seething with rage. Then, abruptly, he wheeled his grayish-black horse a moros and started back up the arroyo. Even as he turned, he became aware that only six lean steers faced the barbed wire.

He had ridden but a few yards beyond the bend when that thought struck him like a blow.

Six head of all the hundreds he had herded in here! By rights they should all be at the waterhole or heading that way. Puzzled, he started back up the trail.

By rights, there should be a big herd here.

Where could they be? As he rode back toward his claim shack, he stared about him. No cattle were in sight. His range was stripped.

Rustlers? He scowled. But there had been no rustling activity of which he had heard. Ricker and Soley were certainly the type to rustle cattle, but Marcy knew Kenyon had been keeping them busy on the home range.

He rode back toward the shack, his heart heavy.

He had saved for seven years, riding cattle trails to Dodge, Abilene, and Ellsworth to get the money to buy his herd. It was his big chance to have a spread of his own, a chance for some independence and a home.

A home! He stared bitterly at the looming rimrock behind his outfit. A home meant a wife, and there was only one girl in the world for him.

There would never be another who could make him feel as Sally Kenyon did. But she would have to be old Jingle Bob's daughter!

Not that she had ever noticed him. But in those first months before the fight with Jingle Bob became a dog-eat-dog fight, Marcy had seen her around, watched her, been in love with her from a distance. He had always hoped that when his place had proved up and he was settled, he might know her better. He might even ask her to marry him.

It had been a foolish dream. Yet day by day it became even more absurd. He was not only in a fight with her father, but he was closer than ever to being broke.

Grimly, his mind fraught with worry, he cooked his meager supper, crouching before the fireplace. Again and again the thought kept recurring where were his cattle? If they had been stolen, they would have to be taken down past the waterhole and across Jingle Bob's range.

There was no other route from Marcy's corner of range against the rim. For a horseman, yes. But not for cattle.

The sound of a walking horse startled him. He straightened and then stepped away from the fire and put the bacon upon the plate, listening to the horse as it drew nearer. Then he put down his food, and loosening his gun, he stepped to the door.

The sun had set long since, but it was not yet dark. He watched a gray horse coming down from the trees leading up to the rim. Suddenly he gulped in surprise.

It was Sally Kenyon! He stepped outside and walked into the open. The girl saw him and waved a casual hand and then reined in.

"Have you a drink of water?" She asked, smiling. "It's hot, riding."

"Sure"... He said, trying to smile. "Coffee, if you want. I was just fixin' to eat a mite. Want to join me? Of course"... He said sheepishly, "I ain't no hand with grub."

"I might take some coffee."

Sally swung down, drawing off her gantlets.

She had always seemed a tall girl, but on the ground she came just to his shoulder. Her hair was honey colored, her eyes gray.

He caught the quick glance of her eyes as she looked around. He saw them hesitate with surprise at the spectacle of flowers blooming near the door. She looked up, and their eyes met.

"Ain't much time to work around"... He confessed. "I sort of been tryin' to make it look like a house.

Did you plant the flowers?" She asked curiously.

"Yes, ma'am. My mother was always a great hand for flowers. I like 'em, too, so when I built this cabin, I set some out. The wild flowers, I transplanted."

He poured coffee into a cup and handed it to her. She sipped the hot liquid and looked at him.

"I've been hearing about you," she said.

"From jingle Bob?"

She nodded. And some others. Vin Ricker, for one. He hates you."

"Who else?"

"Chen Lee."

Lee?" Marcy shook his head. "I don't place him." 'He's Chinese, our cook. He seems to know a great deal about you. He thinks you're a fine man. A great fighter, too. He's always talking about some Mullen gang you had trouble with."

"Mullen gang?" he stared. "Why, that was in-" He caught himself. "No, ma'am, I reckon he's mistook. I don't know any Chinese an' there ain't no Mullen gang around I know of."

That, he reflected, was no falsehood. The Mullen gang had all fitted very neatly into the boothill he had prepared for them back in Bentown. They definitely weren't around.

"Going to stay here?" she asked, looking at him over her coffee cup, her gray eyes level,

His eyes flashed. "I was fixin' to, but I reckon your old man has stopped me by fencin' that waterhole. He's a hard man, your father."

"It's a hard country." She did not smile. "He's got ideas about it. He drove the- Mescaleros out. He wiped out the rustlers; he took this range. He doesn't like the idea of any soft-going, second-run cowhand coming in and taking over."

His head jerked up.

"Soft-going?" he flared. "Second-run? Why, that old billy goat!"

Sally turned toward her horse. "Don't tell me. Tell him. If you've nerve enough!"

He got up and took the bridle of her horse. His eyes were hard.

"Ma'am"... He said, striving to make his voice gentle, "I think you're a mighty fine person, an' sure enough purty, but that father of yours is a rough-ridin' old buzzard. If it wasn't for that Ricker hombre his "Afraid?" She taunted, looking down at him.

"No, ma'am"... He said quietly. "Only I ain't a killin' man. I was raised a Quaker. I don't aim to do no fightin'."

"You're in a fighting man's country"... She warned him. "And you are cutting in on a fighting man's range."

She turned her gray and started to ride away.

Suddenly she reined in and looked back over her shoulder.

"By the way"... She said, "there's water up on the rim." his Water up on the rim? What did she mean? He turned his head and stared up at the top of the great cliff, which loomed high overhead into the night. It was fully a mile away, but it seemed almost behind his house.

How could he get up to the rim? Sally had come from that direction. In the morning he would try.

In the distance, carried by the still air of night, he heard a cow bawling. It was shut off from the waterhole. His six head, starving for water!

Marcy walked out to the corral and threw a saddle on the moros. He swung into the saddle and rode at a canter toward the waterhole.

They heard him coming, and he saw a movement in the shadows by the cottonwoods.

"Hold it"... A voice called. "What do you want?"

"Let that fence down and put them cows through"... Marcy yelled.

There was a harsh laugh. "Sorry, amigo. No can do. Only Kenyon cows drink here."

"All right"... Marcy snapped. "They are Kenyon cows. I'm givin' "em to him. Let the fence down an let 'em drink. I ain't seein" no animal die just to please an old plughead. Let "em through."