Ten Guns from Texas Page 2

  “When I stepped out of the bunkhouse about an hour ago, I heard the calves we had cut out for brandin’ today all bawlin’ ’n such, so I rode out to check on ’em just to make sure they were all right.”

  “And?”

  “They’re gone, boss. Ever’ damn one of ’em.”

  “Damn. How did they get away? Did the fence fall?”

  “No, sir, the fence didn’t fall. It was cut.”

  “Cut? You mean by the Fence Busters?”

  “Oh, it was the Fence Busters, all right, Mr. Bellefontaine. Ain’t no doubt in my mind about it.”

  “Dirk Kendrick?”

  “Yes sir. That’s what I figure all right. That’s why I’ve got all the men up and dressed,” Sam said.

  “What for?”

  “So we can go after him. Don’t forget, boss, those were some of the newly born Hereford calves. You don’t want to lose any of ’em, do you?”

  “Sam, suppose we did go after them. What good would it do? Remember, we aren’t dealing with your average rustler here. The Fence Busters are as well organized a group of men as I have seen since Robert E. Lee surrendered my regiment to the Yankees at Appomattox. If we go after them with no more than a handful of cowboys, we’re are going to wind up getting a bunch of good men killed.”

  “Does that mean we don’t do anything at all?”

  “We can go see Sheriff Wallace,” Bellefontaine suggested.

  “Dirk Kendrick has Sheriff Wallace in his pocket, you know that. Deputy Bullock is so slimy I don’t see how even Wallace can put up with him.”

  “Yeah, well, I tend to agree with you,” Bellefontaine said. “But right now, what other choice do we have?”

  “You’ve got those Angus beeves comin’ in before too much longer,” Sam said. “I’d hate to see some of them get stole like these was.”

  “We’ll just have to be extra careful,” Bellefontaine said.

  * * *

  “How many?” the ranch owner asked.

  “One hundred and nine,” Kendrick replied. “Eighty-five are Herefords and twenty-four are Longhorns.”

  “It will cost you five dollars a head to keep them here, same for the Longhorns as for the Herefords.”

  “The Longhorns are worth only half as much as the Herefords,” Kendrick complained.

  “Whatever the cattle are worth on the market means nothing to me,” the ranch owner replied. “I run the same risk in holding stolen Longhorns that I do stolen Herefords. The law makes no difference, so far as stolen property is concerned.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to pay it. I need someplace to keep them, and right now your ranch is the only place I have.”

  “Yeah, it is. Listen, I was thinkin’. Maybe you had better cut some of my fence and run off a few head of Longhorn. I’ll claim I had several head of Herefords stolen. I wouldn’t want people getting suspicious because my fence wasn’t cut ’n I wasn’t losin’ cattle just like ever’one else is.”

  Kincaid chuckled. “I see what you mean. It is to our mutual benefit to maintain a degree of secrecy with regard to our business arrangement. All right. Soon as we get the cattle we acquired tonight remanded to an area that offers the least chance of discovery, we run off a few of your Longhorns.”

  * * *

  “Just what is it you expect me to do?” Sheriff Wallace asked when he was approached by Bellefontaine the next morning.

  “Well, you are the sheriff and I did have some of my cattle stolen. The correct thing to do when you have some of your property stolen is to report it to the sheriff.”

  “Yeah, well, first of all, how do you know your cows was stole?”

  “What do you mean, how do I know? The calves were gathered in a pen to be branded. They were there, now they aren’t there.”

  “And you say it was the Fence Busters?”

  “It had to be. The fence was cut.”

  “Was the fence on public or private land?”

  “It was on public land. I run a lot of my cattle on public land and fence off my cattle to keep them separated from other brands. All the cattlemen do that. The only thing we do is make sure that everyone has equal access to the water. Hell, you know that, Wallace.”

  “Yes, I do know that, and therein lies the rub,” Sheriff Wallace said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know damn well, Bellefontaine, that there is no law against cutting fences that are on public land. If it was the Fence Busters, there’s nothing I can do about it. They have every right to be cutting the fences. In fact, they have been hired by a legitimate company in New York to do that very thing.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think they have been hired to steal my cattle,” Bellefontaine replied. “No legitimate land company would do that. Besides which, I’m not the only one having cattle stolen. I checked with some of the other ranchers before I rode in here this morning, and a few of them lost cattle last night, too.”

  “You said it was calves, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how do you know they were stolen? If it was calves, it’s more ’n likely they just wandered off on their own, lookin’ for their mamas. That’s what calves do, you know.”

  “It wasn’t calves that were taken from Chris Dumey or Tom Byrd or Donald Dobbins. It was cows, full grown and ready for market. Whether you are willing to admit it or not, the Fence Busters are nothing more than cattle thieves. They might try and pass themselves off as legitimate businessmen, but nobody in the entire state believes that.”

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to make that accusation, if I were you,” Sheriff Wallace replied. “You may not realize it, but you are setting yourself up for a lawsuit. Big companies like the New York and Texas Land Company have lots of money, and they can afford very expensive lawyers. It wouldn’t be good for them to be accused of association with cattle rustlers. I’d lay off if I was you.”

  Bellefontaine sighed. “Sam told me I was wasting my time coming here, and he was right.”

  “Even if what you say is true, how do you expect me to do anything about it? There are at least forty Fence Busters. I’ve just got Deputy Bullock.”

  Disgusted, but not really surprised, Bellefontaine left the sheriff’s office and rode back out to his ranch.

  * * *

  “What did the sheriff tell you?” Sam asked when Bellefontaine returned.

  “You were right. He isn’t going to do anything.”

  “We need to get rid of him come the next election,” Sam said. “He’s worthless as tits on a steer.”

  “I would suggest that you run for sheriff . . . except that you are too good a foreman, and I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

  Sam grinned. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, boss. I like ridin’ for the brand.”

  Chapter Three

  Blowout, Texas

  The town was a scattering of flyblown, crumbling adobe buildings laid out on the east side of the Blanco River about three miles below the origin of Blanco Creek. The name came from Blowout Cave, located in a hillside east of the river about a mile above the spring. At one time, the cave had been home to thousands of bats, and over at least a hundred years, a huge deposit of guano had accumulated. Ammonia and other gases from the decomposing guano had built up to such a degree in the cave that it was impossible for anyone to breathe, thus no one could even stand to be there long enough to mine it for fertilizer.

  During a thunderstorm, lightning struck at the cave mouth and ignited the gases. The resultant explosion carved away almost one third of the mountain and gave the town its name.

  It had no city marshal nor sheriff and had trouble filling those positions since three law officers had been killed over the last two years. Those hapless victims of Blowout’s lawlessness lay buried in a part of the cemetery known as the “Lawman’s Corner.”

  Blowout wasn’t an outlaw town as such. There were still decent citizens and merchants who were trapped in the town by circumstances. Occasionally, they would hold s
ecret meetings and plan ways to attract someone willing to put on a badge.

  At the moment, such a meeting was taking place.

  “Who is going to give his life to be the sheriff in this town?” asked Wes Long, owner of the mercantile. “We didn’t do anything to help any of the previous lawmen stand up to Kendrick, and we aren’t likely to show any more courage for the next sheriff.”

  “Besides, we already got law.” Fred Matthews owned the wholesale and freight company.

  “What are you talking about, Fred? You call Dirk Kendrick law?”

  “Yeah, I do. I mean, when you think about it, he keeps his men sober ’n won’t let any of ’em run roughshod over the citizens of the town. He keeps the peace.”

  “It’s a hell of a peace is all I’ve got to say,” Long added.

  As had all previous meetings, that one ended in frustration and failure. They had not been able to come up with one suggestion to deal with the problem at hand—the occupation of the town by Dirk Kendrick and the Fence Busters.

  Wheatland, Wyoming

  Wheatland was twenty-five miles north of Chugwater and more than twice as large. The greater population had brought Duff to town, for it was there that he was able to make arrangements to have enough cattle cars delivered to the railhead in Chugwater to accommodate the cattle he would be shipping.

  Once he had completed all the arrangements, he stopped at Nippy Jones Tavern to have a beer before he started home to Sky Meadow Ranch. Only one other customer was at the bar, standing at the opposite end. Duff got the distinct impression that the man was looking at him. More than looking, the man was studying him.

  Duff started to walk down and introduce himself, but before he could do so, the man left the saloon. He also left a beer mug that was more than three quarters full.

  As Duff was mulling this over, Nippy Jones, the owner of the saloon, came down to speak with him. “Hello, Duff. What brings you to town?”

  “Hello, Nippy. I came to town so that I might lease twenty stock cars.”

  Over the years since he had arrived in the United States, Duff had done a considerable amount of business in Wheatland. As a result, he knew several of the local businessmen. As it so happened, Nippy Jones and Baldy Johnson, owner of Fiddler’s Green, were also very good friends.

  “Ah, shipping some stock to Kansas City, are you?”

  “Nae, to Texas. I’ve sold some cattle to a rancher there.”

  “Ha, it’s about time Texas started improving their ranches with good Wyoming cattle.”

  “Scottish cattle,” Duff corrected. “’Tis true that they’ll be coming from Wyoming, but the breed is from Scotland.”

  Nippy laughed. “I’ll not argue with you. By the way, how is the old Sergeant Major doing?” Nippy asked.

  “Baldy is doing quite well, and ’tis his own regards he asked that I bring you.”

  “And give him my best as well,” Nippy replied.

  “Nippy, the gent that just left your establishment, would ye be for knowin’ his name?”

  Nippy shook his head. “I never laid eyes on ’im ’til he come here today.” Suddenly he brightened and held up hand. “But I think he must know you. No more ’n fifteen minutes before you came in, he asked about you.”

  “What did he ask?”

  “He asked if you came here often. He said he was wantin’ to meet you. And that’s funny, now that you think about it. If he actually did want to meet you, I wonder why it is that he didn’t stay and talk?”

  “’Tis enough to make a man wonder now, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t you find that a little peculiar?” Nippy asked.

  “Aye, ’tis peculiar all right, but I’ve lived long enough to have seen many a peculiar fellow. If ye nae mind, I’ll be for takin’ my drink over to the table.”

  “Go find your table, ’n I’ll bring your drink m’self,” Nippy offered.

  Shortly after Duff’s drink was delivered to him, two men came into the saloon, talking with each other as they stepped in through the swinging batwing doors. Once they were inside, they separated. The big bearded man went to one end of the bar, while the smaller of the two, who had a handlebar mustache but no beard, went to the opposite end. Both of them appeared to take no notice of Duff, but he couldn’t help but notice that both were studying him in the mirror.

  To most people, the fact that those two men had come in together, talking as if they were old friends, then taking up positions far apart from each other would mean nothing. But for Duff, it activated a little signal of alarm. He had the feeling they were setting up an ambush, and he had an even stronger feeling that he was the target.

  Deliberately and as unobtrusively as he possibly could, Duff slid his pistol out of his holster, then held it on his lap under the table. He had never developed the skill of the fast draw, which seemed so prized by all Westerners, but did whatever needed to be done to give him an even chance anytime he was forced into a confrontation. For that reason, he held the pistol on his lap.

  He had one additional advantage, one that required no manipulation of the situation in order for it to be effective. He was an exceptionally accurate shot, and his prowess extended with equal skill to the pistol and the long gun.

  Even as he wondered about the strange behavior of the two men who had just come in, the same man who’d left a few minutes earlier returned and walked right to the center of the bar.

  He was met by Nippy Jones. “You left your beer more ’n half full last time you was here, Mister. I can replace it if you like, but it’ll cost you the price of a new beer.”

  “I’ll do my drinkin’ after,” the man said.

  “After?”

  “After me ’n this feller over here finish up with our business.” The man turned to face Duff.

  Here it is, Duff thought. He almost felt a sense of relief, not only because it was proof positive that his natural instincts were still active and correct in the assessment of danger, but also because the threat was imminent and he could deal with it right away.

  “Would you be the Scotsman they call Duff MacCallister?” the man asked.

  “Aye, Duff MacCallister ’tis my name.”

  “Is that a fact? Well, Mr. Duff MacCallister, my name is Deekus Pollard, and I’m calling you out, now.”

  With that announcement, a sudden repositioning of all the other patrons in the saloon occurred as most everyone moved to get out of the line of fire, should shooting begin.

  Duff noticed that neither of the two men who’d come in just before Pollard had moved. In fact, they seemed to be studying their beer, which seemed very strange, given the possibility that they might be in the line of fire.

  “Mr. Pollard, would you be for telling why you wish to pick this fight with me?”

  “What difference does it make? You’ll be dead in another couple minutes, ’n once you’re dead, how or why you was kilt won’t make no difference at all.”

  “Ah, so you are a philosopher, as well as a gunman. I have found that philosophers are some of the most interesting men I have ever encountered. ’Tis a shame I’m going to have to kill you.”

  Pollard’s smile disclosed crooked, yellow teeth. “I ain’t the one that’s goin’ to be kilt. You see, I got me what you might call an edge.”

  “An edge, you say? Do you think that’s fair?”

  “Fair? What do you mean, fair, you damn fool? I’m here to kill you. Fair ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”

  “Well, in that case, I shall feel nae compunction about acquiring my own edge, and you’ll have nae cause for complaint, seeing as you have already established the parameters for our tête-à-tête.”

  “For our what?”

  “You’re right, tête-à-tête would nae be the correct word, would it? I mean, of course, because a tête-à-tête normally refers to a head-to-head encounter between two people, and ’tis obvious that isn’t to be the case here.”

  “I don’t know what you’re a-talkin’ about, but I can tell yo
u right now, you won’t be a-drinkin’ no tea.”

  Duff chuckled, though instead of humor, there was a raw, almost dangerous edge to his laughter. “This is a life-or-death situation, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “And in a life-or-death situation, one should take every advantage, should they not?” Duff cocked the pistol he was holding under the table.

  “Yeah,” Pollard said.

  “I’m glad to hear you say that. Oh, and you two gents standing at either end of the bar . . . I suspect that you are a part of this. If you are, you will die along with Mr. Pollard. If you aren’t, then you need to leave now, while you can.”

  “Draw!” Pollard shouted.

  Duff didn’t squeeze the trigger until Pollard had his gun in hand.

  Pollard’s victorious smile changed to an expression of shock when he heard the roar of a gunshot and felt the bullet tear into his stomach. He dropped his own unfired pistol and slapped his hands over the bleeding wound in his stomach.

  “What the hell? Where’d that gun come from?” shouted the big, bearded man standing at the bar. He put his hands up, as did the smaller man standing at the opposite end of the bar.

  “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” the bearded man shouted. “We ain’t in on this!”

  Duff pulled the still-smoking pistol out from under the table. “Would the two of you be good enough to take your guns out of your holsters ’n lay them on the bar?”

  “Why? I told you we ain’t goin’ to do nothin’”

  Duff cocked his pistol, the sound of the hammer drawing back making a loud, metallic click in what had become a very silent room. “I’ll nae be askin’ again.”

  “All right, all right. I’m a-doin’ it!” the bearded man said. As he slowly drew his pistol to put it on the bar, the other man followed suit.

  Duff nodded to the owner. “Mr. Jones, if you would be so good as to remove the bullets from the two guns, I would appreciate it.”

  Nippy Jones did so.

  “Now, if you two gentlemen would be for joining me, I would like to buy you a drink.”