Range Rustlers, page 3
The speed of his reaction took the foremost rider by surprise and when he saw himself looking down the Colt’s bore, he swung his mount away. The slight delay gave Bob the chance to take refuge in a shallow ditch.
A cowhand on a flashy pinto horse was next on the scene. He snapped a shot at the boy but missed. Bob fired back and had the satisfaction of seeing the man drop his gun and clutch at the saddle horn.
‘Get back!’ one of the hunters shouted urgently and set the example by spurring his mount out of pistol range. Seeing the sense in his action the others followed. They could have ridden over their quarry, but it was likely to cost them lives. Bob was on foot with nowhere to go and it would be much easier and far safer to kill him from long range with a rifle.
The retreating men almost collided with Raymond and Adams in their haste to get out of pistol range. The boss of the Diamond R snorted in derision. ‘A fine bunch you are. Running from a kid with an old cap-and-ball pistol.’
‘He shot Luke,’ one cowhand told him.
Adams swore as the wounded man crumpled and fell from his saddle. He did not need to lose one of their men with a company representative visiting the ranch. ‘Andy,’ he snapped, ‘see what you can do for Luke. The rest of you blow that murdering little sonofabitch to hell.’
Just then Crossley-Smith and the deputy galloped up to join them. Raymond muttered angrily. This was not the time for witnesses.
‘What’s going on here?’ Connell demanded.
‘That kid over there shot one of our men,’ Adams growled. ‘Stay out of this.’
‘I saw what happened. Why were you chasing him? In that kid’s position I would have done the same thing.’
‘He’s a rustler,’ Raymond announced. ‘He’s one of the Coulters.’
Crossley-Hunt reined in his horse opposite the rancher. ‘I assume you have proof that the boy was rustling, Mr Raymond. What exactly was he doing? Did you see him rustling stock?’
‘Er – not this time. But he took off as soon as he saw us.’
The Englishman looked hard at him. ‘Under the circumstances, I think he showed good sense.’ Then he turned to Adams. ‘Forget about the boy. See what you can do for that wounded man.’
The foreman flushed angrily and retorted, ‘You can’t give me orders. Jensen’s my boss. I don’t take orders from some dude whose mother wasn’t even sure of his father’s name and could only name the two most likely suspects.’
Crossley-Hunt ignored the insult. ‘You will take orders from me and so will Jensen. 1 am a special inspector for Regency Estates and I have the authority to fire you. As it is, I am resisting the urge to drag you off that horse and give you a lesson in manners.’
Noting the closed flap on the Englishman’s holster, Adams moved his right hand over his gun butt. ‘Just try it.’
The double click of a gun being cocked caught the foreman’s attention. He looked to see Connell’s Colt trained on him.
‘I’ll shoot you if you try to draw that gun,’ the deputy announced. ‘There’s been too much shooting around here today, but I’ll make an exception in your case if you try anything. If you and Mr Crossley-Hunt want to settle your differences with your fists, that’s fine with me. Otherwise, if you want to keep your job, you’ll do as he says.’
A startled oath from Raymond quickly defused the situation. The others followed the direction of his gaze and saw three horsemen, each carrying a rifle, halted on a ridge above them.
‘It’s Coulter and Sutton and Norton’s there too,’ a cowhand said. ‘Looks like they mean business.’
Connell thought quickly. The situation was getting more volatile by the minute. ‘Stay here and nobody start shooting.’
He urged his horse forward and rode slowly toward Bob Coulter.
The boy saw him coming and began sighting along his gun barrel. The deputy raised his right hand high to show that he was not reaching for a gun. Bob watched nervously and kept his gun trained on the approaching rider’s shirt front. ‘Don’t come any closer,’ he shouted.
Connell halted his mount about five yards away. ‘You won’t need that gun,’ the deputy told him. ‘You’re not in any trouble with the law. My name’s Tom Connell. I’m a sheriff’s deputy. If you want to catch your pony and go, I’ll make sure no one bothers you.’
‘You’re one of McLeod’s men. I can’t trust you any more than I’d trust those others.’
‘Your pa and a couple of your neighbours have their rifles trained on me right now. If I make one wrong move they’ll shoot me quick.’
‘You’re just trying to make me look behind so you’ll be able to draw your gun. I ought to shoot you right now.’
‘Don’t do anything rash.’ Connell stood in his stirrups and shouted, ‘Coulter.’
‘What do you want?’ a voice replied.
The boy’s relief was clearly visible but he still eyed the deputy nervously.
‘Your boy is going to catch his pony and ride up to you. I’ll make sure he’s not harmed.’
‘He better not be,’ Coulter shouted back. ‘There’s three rifles trained on you.’
Connell walked his horse beside Bob to screen him from Raymond and the others while he caught the grulla. ‘You shot a man back there and, for the record, I need to know what happened. I arrived on the scene a bit late but I saw them chasing you. Why was that?’
‘I was checking on our cattle when that bunch of riders came charging over a hill after me. Two small ranchers have been lynched so far and I don’t intend to be the third.’
‘That’s fair enough. When you get home, tell your folks that I’ll be riding around out here for a while. I’ll probably call on them sometime over the next few days.’
Bob caught his pony, checked it over for injuries and finding none, mounted it. ‘Thanks,’ he called back as he rode away.
The deputy returned to the others. Raymond was far from happy and Adams and Crossley-Hunt were both glaring at each other. The wounded man was stretched out on the ground. The bullet had glanced off a rib and lodged in his upper arm leaving painful but not life-threatening wounds. The country was too rough for a wheeled vehicle and though it would be painful, the injured man would be forced to ride out.
While all attention was on the wounded man, Adams quietly mounted his horse and slipped away.
CHAPTER SIX
Raymond was in a foul mood as he steered his horse toward the Double T. His hunt for rustlers had been frustrated and one of his men wounded. Interference by Connell had broken up the posse and the small ranchers were aware of their presence. The vital element of surprise was gone. Further incursions into the Alder Creek area were likely to be dangerous.
Luther Schultz, the man chosen to replace Cutler as foreman, was riding at his side. Schultz might not have been as smart as Cutler but he was just as hard, an uncompromising, utterly ruthless man. He shared the same hatred of rustlers as Raymond and Cutler had.
‘Too bad that Connell turned up when he did,’ the new foreman muttered. ‘We would have really hurt those rustlers if we had strung up Bob Coulter. The Coulters are the brains behind those thieving ranchers.’
In a pine thicket not far ahead, a young, olive-skinned man checked the sights on his Winchester. He had chosen his ambush site well, A screen of trees concealed him from his intended victims and a deep arroyo at the side of the trail would stop any direct pursuit. He raised his rifle and smiled to himself as Schultz rode into his sights. Taking a deep breath, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked solidly against his shoulder and the thump of a bullet striking flesh came back to the shooter’s ears.
The heavy lead slug hit Schultz just above his gunbelt, knocking him halfway from his saddle and doubling him up as it ploughed through his body like a hot iron. Raymond’s horse reacted before its rider and jumped sideways. The riders behind scattered and the stricken man slid gasping to the ground as his mount shied.
The unseen gunman fired again and Ben Richmond, another of the cowhands, yelped in alarm as a bullet cut a piece from his ear.
All was confusion. Men were yelling and horses plunging at the frantic directions of their riders.
Raymond jumped from his saddle, drew a carbine from its scabbard and sheltered behind his prancing horse as best he could. His men did likewise, dodging among the startled horses and trying to keep from being trampled.
‘He’s across the arroyo in the pines,’ a cowhand shouted. ‘I saw gunsmoke over there.’
‘We can’t get at him if he is,’ Raymond said. Then, raising his voice, he called, ‘Fire into those pines.’
Rifle fire tore through the dark green trees but the shooter had already gone.
Crossley-Hunt watched the small ranchers and then the Double T men depart. It was then that he missed the foreman. ‘Where’s Adams?’ he asked.
‘He ain’t here,’ a man replied with studied insolence.
Very calmly, the company man told him, ‘You won’t be here much longer either if you don’t tell me when he left and where he was going. Now try another answer.’
His bluff called, the cowhand mumbled, ‘He left about five minutes ago. Looked like he was going back to the ranch – didn’t say nothing to nobody.’
Suspecting that Adams had gone running to Jensen, Crossley-Hunt turned his horse’s head and said to Connell. ‘I’m going back to the ranch. Are you coming?’
‘I reckon I will,’ the deputy replied. ‘I have to pick up my pack horse and pack.’
‘Why not stay at the Double T tonight?’
‘I’m tempted but my place is out on the range and I can’t afford to have people think that I’m taking sides.’
The ride back was uneventful until they passed the fenced pasture where the stud bulls were kept. Being unfamiliar with the breed, Connell rode over to the fence for a closer look. He found himself agreeing with Adams that that the new bulls looked fairly ordinary and he could not see any value in importing such animals. The closest bull stared at him curiously. He saw its shiny black coat and the only colour otherwise was a slight orange tinge inside the ears. Vaguely he recalled his conversation with the Scottish herdsman. There was something negative about those little patches of colour but he could not recall exactly what it was. ‘Do you know much about that breed?’ he asked Crossley-Hunt.
The Englishman shook his head. ‘I’m more of a business manager than a cattle specialist but I do know that these Black Angus cattle produce very good beef.’
Connell did not sound convinced. ‘Maybe you people and us have different ideas about what is good beef but I don’t reckon those critters are carrying as much beef as some range bulls I’ve seen.’
When they reached the corrals, the deputy collected his pack horse and commenced loading his pack saddle again. He preferred to remain outside while Jensen and Crossley-Hunt discussed the Double T foreman’s insubordination. He saw no sign of Adams himself but figured that he would be in the ranch house with his boss. When he was ready to leave he led his horses over to the main house. A small worried-looking woman with grey-streaked hair was sweeping the veranda. The sound of loud, agitated voices was drifting from the house.
Deeming it best not to interrupt, Connell halted at the steps and said to the woman, ‘Sounds like this isn’t a good time to horn in on the discussion, Ma’am. Would you mind telling any survivors that Deputy Connell is grateful for them looking after his horse and that he’ll see them later.’
Prudence stopped her sweeping. ‘I’ll do that,’ she promised.
Jensen looked out the window in time to see the deputy riding away. He turned again to Crossley-Hunt. ‘I know that Ed got out of line but he was doing his best to protect the company’s interests. This rustling has been knocking down our stock numbers and we’re all sick of it. He has been an important factor in the smooth running of this place so I’m relieved that you have agreed to him staying on.’
Crossley-Hunt sat back in his chair. ‘He nearly had us involved in a murder today, Mr Jensen. He keeps his job only if he sticks to ranch work and leaves the apprehension of rustlers to the relevant authorities. I want that clearly understood.’
The rancher produced a pipe and began to stuff it with tobacco. ‘That’s understood. What would you like to do tomorrow?’
‘I might take a ride over and see some of those small ranchers and hear their side of the story.’
‘You won’t get much from them. Jack Coventry’s coming over tomorrow from the Wineglass. He’ll be more informative.’
‘I’ll get around to him before I leave,’ the company man said.
A little too eagerly Jensen asked ‘When will that be?’
‘When I get a good idea of the true situation around here. The company went to a lot of expense to send me here and I need to provide a full report backed up by relevant facts and figures.’
The man crouched over a small fire in a deep coulee where the flames would be hard to see. In the flickering light he studied a crumpled piece of paper he had taken from his pocket. It was a list of five names. The topmost name of Denver Cutler had already been crossed off. A smile appeared on the man’s face as he drew a pencil line through the name of Schultz. He was gut shot and would die in great pain. Only three more names to go.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Next day Connell found more evidence of rustling. The steer had been killed and butchered on the hide leaving the head legs and bones behind. The slaughter was typical of someone in a hurry who had just carved the meat off the bones instead of talking whole quarters. Once more the method of slaughter indicated a small-time rustler. In this case though, the rustler had taken the hide and the deputy was a bit puzzled by that. There were no brands on fresh beef but a branded hide could be incriminating.
He found long trails of dried manure in places which indicated that the cattle were being driven, but that was no indicator of illegal activity. They seemed to be from cattle moving down from the higher slopes to the lower, more open country where the scattered stock would be gathered at round-up time. Had the signs been more recent the situation would have been different. For hours Connell criss-crossed the open range looking for signs of branding fires or hidden corrals in box canyons. He had been in areas where rustling had been rife and knew the signs of such activities, but saw nothing to indicate that the problem was widespread. Perhaps, he told himself, he had not seen enough country yet to make an informed judgement. One thing was certain; the range was heavily stocked.
Crossley-Hunt had finished breakfast and was endeavouring to strike up a conversation with Prudence on the ranch-house veranda. The maid, however, seemed too shy to talk and only replied in monosyllables. The company man knew from experience that those engaged in menial tasks had often acquired more knowledge about a venture’s operations than was realized by the employers. But the conversation never really got started.
They heard the beating hoofs shortly before a rider on a foam-covered horse burst into view from around a clump of pines near the front gate. The rider saw them and halted his mount in front of the house. ‘Where’s Jensen?’ he demanded. ‘I have a message for him from Joe Raymond.’
The ranch manager had heard the messenger arrive and strode out onto the veranda. ‘What’s the trouble?’ he demanded.
‘Schultz got shot yesterday and died last night. Sheriff McLeod is raising a posse to go looking for the killer. If you’re coming you’d better start getting your men together. Jack Coventry is bringing a few hands too. Raymond reckons there’ll never be a better chance to clear out those rustlers. The posse’s meeting on that grassy flat near the crossing at Big Squaw Creek.’
Jensen looked puzzled. ‘Who in the hell is Schultz?’
‘He rode for the Double T. Rustlers ambushed our men last night and Schultz got hisself gut shot. The Coulter kid shot another one of our hands, too. We’ve had two men shot in one day.’
‘I’ll be with you,’ Jensen said. ‘Prudence !’ he bellowed over his shoulder.
‘I’m here Mr Jensen,’ the maid said quietly.
‘Find Ed. Tell him to get the hands saddled up and ready to ride.’ Seeing Crossley-Hunt standing nearby, the ranch manager said, ‘Do you fancy a bit of excitement, Clifford?’
‘No, thank you, Oliver,’ the company man said. ‘I’ll leave the legal work to the sheriff. If you will leave out the account books and stock records I’ll catch up with some paperwork while you are gone.’
Though pretending to be joking, Jensen asked, ‘You ain’t scared you might get shot, are you?’
‘Not particularly. I’ve been fired upon so often that I have become almost used to it, but I am paid to be here, not out chasing murderers. You are also paid to be here, but I realize that you might have to perform some civic duties as well. I have no such excuse. I’ll see you when you get back.’
Sheriff McLeod sat back in the shade of a cottonwood tree and took a furtive swig from the flask carried his in his coat pocket. He smiled a little at the spectacle of the diminutive Jack Coventry dismounting from his very tall black horse by taking both feet from the stirrups and sliding off like an Eastern dude. He told himself that one day a cantankerous horse might kick some sense into the man whose vanity forced him to ride only the tallest horses to cover his lack of height. The big lawman chuckled and said, ‘You need to keep riding those old plugs, Jack, if you keep getting off in such a damn fool way. A horse with a bit of life in it could cow kick you into the middle of next week.’
Coventry ignored the jibe, hitched up his studded gunbelt and looked around. ‘Who are we waiting for, Monty?’
‘Ollie Jensen and a couple of his hands will be along soon. Joe Raymond is over there under those trees. Just sit here a while and I’ll tell you what’s going on and how we need to handle this. I picked up Chico after I heard the news and I’ll use him to run the killer’s tracks. He ain’t the prettiest ’breed I’ve seen but he sure knows how to track a man.’
