By the Horns Page 19

  “Want me to ride on ahead and discourage them from tanglin’ with us?”

  “By ‘discourage’ you mean shoot a few?” Owen asked. “For someone who swore off bein’ a quick-trigger artist, you sure aren’t shy about showin’ off your talents.”

  “A man has to keep his hand in.” Lon grinned.

  “I’d rather you stay with us. If they jump us, we can use that gun hand of yours to even the odds.” Owen rose. “I reckon we’re not in any danger tonight, but come tomorrow, every one of us better grow eyes in the back of his head.”

  “It’s as serious as all that?” Pitney inquired.

  “Serious enough,” Owen answered. “If havin’ Big Blue and the cows stolen and all of us turned into coyote bait counts.”

  That night Lon and Cleveland stood watch first. Owen, Slim, and Pitney sat around the fire, sipping coffee, while Benedito busied himself cleaning up. Chavez prided himself on keeping a clean chuck wagon, and always attended to the pots and pans and utensils as soon as their meals were over. Often he enlisted the aid of one of the cowboys, but tonight he spared them.

  Slim took a long swallow, stretched out his long legs, and let out a sigh. “This sure is the life. I hope I can cowboy until I’m eighty.”

  Owen winked at Pitney, then said, “What about your notion to take a wife and raise a family?”

  “There’s always that,” Slim said, “if I ever come across a female who takes a shine to me.”

  “That heavyset gal we found south of the border sure did,” Owen remarked. “Why, the way she batted her eyelashes, a body would think the sun rose and set just for you.”

  “Pick on someone else,” Slim said, but he was grinning.

  “Yes, sir,” Owen said soberly to Pitney. “That gal was smitten, or I’m a jackrabbit. All the men Sweet Sally bragged about bein’ with, and she set her sights on our Slim.” Owen turned an innocent face on the rangy puncher. “What’s so special about you, anyhow? There must be somethin’ we’ve missed.”

  “If you were to fall off your horse and break your neck, I would whoop for joy,” Slim taunted.

  “Now is that any way to talk to a man who is payin’ you compliments?” Owen countered.

  “My ma didn’t give birth to me yesterday.” Slim held his own. “What you are payin’ me is brown and comes out the hind end of horses.”

  “You have to admit she cottoned to you.”

  “I admit she was friendly,” Slim allowed, “but not a lick more. Besides, bein’ friendly to men is what she does for a livin’.”

  “I say,” Pitney interjected, “you wouldn’t really marry a woman like her, would you? A prostitute?”

  “A used saddle can be more comfortable than a new one,” Slim observed. “Less breakin’ in to do.”

  “But all the men she has been with. Wouldn’t that bother you? It would bother me,” Pitney said.

  “Well, you’re a gentleman, and gents like you have high standards,” Slim said. “The rest of us can’t afford to be fussy.”

  “I would never wed a prostitute. The scandal would ruin me. Every time I touched her, I would think of all the others, and it would make me physically ill.”

  Slim shrugged his slender shoulders. “I can’t hardly throw stones. I’m not exactly a virgin. Not respectable at all by your standards.”

  “I never implied any such thing,” Pitney said. “I’m not judging you.”

  “Good. ’Cause it seems to me the only one who can do that is the Almighty. The rest of us all fall short in some way or another.”

  “Why, that is quite profound.” Pitney smiled. “I never took you for a philosopher, Mr. Vrains.”

  “Just because I punch cows doesn’t mean I can’t think.”

  Owen returned to the subject of Sweet Sally. “Maybe you’ll run into that big gal again. Toward the end there she was hangin’ on you like her leg was broke and you were a crutch. That’s always a sign a woman is about to throw her loop.”

  “She can make it as wide as she pleases,” Slim said. “I’m not ready yet to put down roots.”

  “Give her ten minutes alone with you and you will be.”

  Slim and Owen laughed but their laughter died when Lon strolled out of the dark, hunkered by the fire, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be on guard?” Owen mildly asked.

  “I wouldn’t want the hombre watchin’ us to guess I’m on to him,” Lon said. “Only one, on horseback.”

  “Where?”

  “Across the creek on the first hill. He made the mistake of showin’ himself against the stars.”

  “There are bound to be more,” Owen said.

  “If there are I couldn’t spot them, and I’ve been around our camp twice.” Lon drank some coffee.

  “You warned Cleveland?”

  “No. I’m an idiot.”

  Slim choked back a snort.

  “Cleveland is keepin’ an eye on the rider,” Lon said. “Want me to circle around and invite him to join us?”

  Owen was thoughtful a bit. “As much as I would like to question him, it’s best they don’t know we know.”

  “Whatever you want.” Lon set down the cup and stood. “I’ll back your play, just like always.”

  Spurs jingled, and Cleveland rushed into the firelight. “He’s coming! That rider on the hill is heading this way.”

  Owen shot erect. “Is he alone?”

  “As near as I can tell.”

  “Go on back. Let him in but stay there and watch like a hawk for any friends he might have. He could be a decoy, sent to distract us,” Owen said. “Stay where it’s darkest, down low. You’ll hear them before you see them. Don’t be shy about discouragin’ them with lead.”

  Cleveland nodded and ran off.

  Owen turned to Slim. “You take the south side. Do the same as I told Cleveland. Don’t let the firelight reflect off your rifle.”

  “Will do.” Slim snatched up his Winchester and hastened past the chuck wagon, whispering, “We have company!” to their cook as he went by.

  Benedito stopped putting his utensils away and climbed up on the wagon. He slid the scattergun from under the seat, broke it open to verify that both barrels were loaded, then snapped it shut and placed it across his lap.

  “Where do you want me?” Lon asked.

  “Right here. Sit down. Relax. Pretend you’re that idiot you claimed to be.” Owen smiled and suited his own actions to his instructions. He refilled his tin cup and leaned on an elbow, giving the impression he did not have a care in the world. “You, too, Mr. Pitney. You look like you’re sittin’ on a cactus.”

  “What can this man want?”

  “Cutters are careful critters. They usually send one or two men in to get the lay of the land, you might say.”

  “He’s taking our measure? Is that it?”

  “He thinks he is.”

  A high, friendly voice came out of the night. “Hello the camp? Mind if I share your fire a spell?”

  “Are you by your lonesome?” Cleveland responded.

  “Just me and my horse.”

  “Come right ahead!”

  Hooves clomped, and they heard splashing as the horse crossed the creek. Then a sorrel and the man on it loomed out of the dark. The man touched his hat brim and said amiably, “Howdy, gents. I’m friendly if you are.”

  “None friendlier,” Owen said. “Light and sit a spell, mister. We have coffee to spare if you’re thirsty.”

  “I’m obliged.” The man’s saddle creaked. He opened a saddlebag and brought out a tin cup. Smiling broadly, he squatted and helped himself. “Cozy camp you have here, friend.”

  The reputed rustler was not much over five feet tall. Short-cropped brown hair framed a pear-shaped face. Dark, glittering eyes darted from Owen to Lon to Alfred Pitney, where they lingered, then to the chuck wagon, and Benedito. He had a long, bony nose, pinched cheeks, and the makings of a brown beard from not having shaved recently. His clothes were no d
ifferent from those of the punchers, except he wore his pants inside his boots and his boots came almost to his knees. A Colt was at his left hip, a knife at his right. A red bandanna in need of a wash hung loosely around his neck.

  “Come far?” Owen asked.

  “I’m on my way from Dodge to El Paso,” the man said. “How about you?”

  “From down near the Gulf.” Owen did not divulge more than that. “On our way to Dodge,” he lied. “Since you’ve just been there, you can tell us how the market is for beef these days.”

  “Oh, it’s good. Mighty good. Cows bring near thirty, a three-year-old steer will fetch close to sixty, and a bull will bring you anywhere from eighty to a hundred dollars.” The man’s dark eyes fixed with ill-concealed covetous desire on Big Blue. “Speakin’ of bulls, that there is the grandest I’ve ever seen. A longhorn, unless I’m mistaken.”

  “There are no rocks between your ears,” Lon Chalmers said.

  The man cast a glance of annoyance at him but let the remark pass. “Not much of a herd if you’re fixin’ to sell at Dodge.”

  “Who knows where we’ll sell.” Owen evaded the question.

  “Yes, sir. That bull”—the man was once again admiring Big Blue—“is one handsome animal. Look at those horns! And how high he stands. Compared to him, buffalo are puny.”

  “He is a big one.”

  “I don’t suppose—” The man stopped, as if embarrassed. “I don’t suppose you would consider sellin’ him before you get to Dodge? I’d be willin’ to go as high as two hundred dollars.”

  “Well, now,” Owen said, “that’s a generous offer. But no thanks. He’s already spoken for.”

  “That’s a shame,” the man said, sounding genuinely sad. Tearing his gaze from Big Blue, he glanced toward their horses. His forefinger tapped his cup, once for each animal. Then he looked at Pitney and said, “What’s this apparition, by the way?”

  “He’s British,” Lon said. “An English lord takin’ a tour of our country. They dress like that over there to scare off the French.”

  “A lord? You don’t say? That makes you royalty, doesn’t it? And royalty is always rich.”

  Lon replied before Pitney could. “He’s a personal friend of the queen’s. Right when you showed up, he was tellin’ us how he once sparked the maid who cleans her chamber pots.”

  “What is she like? The queen, I mean?” the man asked. “Is it true she wears a crown covered with diamonds?”

  “That she does.” Pitney went along with Lon’s fibs. “It is encrusted with sapphires and rubies and emeralds, too. Her robe is made of spun gold and she always carries her scepter of office, which is a solid gold staff with a diamond as large as that coffeepot.”

  The man’s mouth hung open in rapt greed. “What I wouldn’t give to see a rig like that.”

  Pitney was enjoying himself. “Not only that, her throne is gold. Precious gems are embedded in the arms. Her footstool is sterling silver. I have never been into the queen’s private chambers, naturally, but the, er, maid I courted told me they are filled with chests of jewelry and money, wealth gathered from around the empire.”

  “She should be careful someone doesn’t steal it,” the man said.

  “Oh, that would be quite impossible. The palace guards protect her day and night. No one can get anywhere near her inner sanctum. A lout tried once and was beheaded for his effrontery.”

  “Beheaded? You’re tellin’ me they lopped off his head for a little thing like that?”

  “Oh yes. The guillotine is still very much in vogue in England. So are the rack and the corkscrew. Why, last year alone, two thousand people were tortured and executed by the queen’s orders.”

  The man believed the drivel was true. “No insult intended, mister, but it beats me how you people over there put up with her shenanigans.”

  “The secret is in how we are raised,” Pitney said, embellishing his story even more. “Every household is required to have a copy of the crown over their hearth. As soon as children learn to walk, they are required to bow to the crown three times a day as a sign of loyalty.”

  “You would never catch me bendin’ my knee to anyone or anything,” their visitor declared.

  “You wouldn’t have much choice,” Pitney took delight in assuring him. “Anyone who speaks ill of the crown is banished to the coal mines. They toil twelve hours a day deep in the earth, and are only fed gruel and water.”

  “Thank God for George Washington.” Lon entered into the spirit of things.

  “And here I thought I might like to visit England one day,” the man said. “I’ve always hankered to see other countries but it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “A man is never too old to change his ways,” Lon remarked.

  Owen cleared his throat. “Might I ask your name, friend? If you won’t take it as pryin’, that is.”

  There was hesitation, then, “Givens. Bill Givens. I used to ride for the Q L Connected, down to the Pecos country.”

  “I’ve heard of them.” Lon was sitting cross-legged, and now he set his coffee cup to one side and folded his hands in front of him. “They had quite a reputation, as I recollect.”

  Bill Givens smiled.

  “As brand blotters,” Lon continued, smiling as he dished out the insult. “Real careless with their brandin’ irons. They never kept their twine on the tree, and all their cows always had twins.”

  A flush crept up Bill Givens’s face. “That, sir, is a damned lie. The Q L Connected was as honest as the year is long.”

  “Then our years must be down to twelve days, one for each month,” Lon said. “Next time be more careful who you admit your long rope to. You probably figured none of us ever visited that neck of the woods.”

  Givens appealed to Owen. “You’re in charge here, I take it? Are you goin’ to lie there and let your man make rank accusations?”

  “He’s grown up,” Owen said. “He can do as he pleases.”

  “I don’t like it, I tell you. What ever happened to common courtesy? I wouldn’t insult you if you paid our camp a visit.”

  “Then there is more than one of you?”

  Bill Givens was a terrible liar. “No. Did I say ‘our’? I meant ‘my.’ I’m all alone, remember?”

  “So you claimed,” Owen said. “But let’s stop blowin’ smoke and talk about how many of you there are, and when you plan to hit us.”

  Givens stood up. “You, too? I don’t have to stand for this. I’m leavin’, and I hope to God I never set eyes on any of you again.”

  Lon stood, too. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, mister, until you answer my pard’s questions.”

  Bill Givens switched his cup from his left hand to his right and lowered his right hand almost to his revolver. “Is that a fact? I’ve got news for you. There hasn’t been a puncher born who can stop me from doin’ what I’ve made up my mind to do, and I’ve made up my mind to go.”

  “By all means,” Lon said. “Try.”

  Givens’s hand moved the barest fraction and then stopped, for he found himself staring down the barrel of Lon Chalmers’s Colt. “Jesus!” he blurted.

  Owen gave his cup to Pitney and slowly rose. “Now then. Let’s try again. Before you answer, keep a few things in mind. My pard, here, doesn’t take kindly to rustlers. I don’t either, but he likes to have a rustler for breakfast and every other meal besides.”

  “I’ve heard such brag before.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,” Owen said with civil courtesy. “But my pard doesn’t wear his six-shooter for bluff or ballast.”

  “Care for a sample?” Lon asked. Taking a step, he smashed the Colt against the rustler’s knee.

  Bill Givens shrieked and dropped, clutching his legs to his chest. He cursed luridly, and went to shout.

  “No you don’t.” Lon shoved the barrel into Givens’s wide-open mouth and thumbed back the hammer. “One peep out of you and you will have to make do with only half your face.”

  Owen smiled down at
the brand artist. “Let’s try this again.” He nodded at Lon and Lon took a step back, his Colt low at his side. “How many are we up against?”

  Givens glowered in pure hate, then spat in the grass. “Eight besides me.”

  “They sent you to look us over. So you can report back on whether it will be easy or hard.”

  “It will be hard,” Lon said.

  “Don’t flatter yourselves,” Bill Givens said. “We’ve trimmed bigger outfits than yours. Before tomorrow is out, I will piss on your graves.”

  17

  Tears of a Dove

  Sweet Sally was scared, more scared than she had ever been, more scared than she had ever thought she could be. The fright that sprouted since she left Whiskey Flats had grown into an all-pervading fear. Now she understood why Grutt and Bronk trod on egg-shells when Luke Deal was in one of his moods.

  The murder of the parson and the two young cowboys had shown her that Luke Deal might take it into his head at any moment of the day or night to end her life. He was as unpredictable as a tornado, and many times as deadly.

  Sweet Sally had met rough characters before. In her profession it was inevitable. Footpads, confidence men, thieves, cardsharps, self-styled pistoleros, badmen of every stripe had poked her at one time or another. Often, in the quiet hours of the night, they confided some of their vilest deeds, as if by allowing them the poke, she had earned the right to know the darkest secrets of their soul.

  But never, in all her wide travels and in all her many pokes, had Sweet Sally met anyone as undeniably dangerous, as ruthlessly violent, as coldly callous, as Luke Deal.

  The most amazing aspect to her was that Luke Deal had no regard for human life. None whatsoever. Nowhere in his being was there the slightest flicker of compassion for his fellow human beings.

  Sweet Sally had always believed she could handle any situation, any man. She knew her limitations, and her strengths. She was not, by far, the prettiest dove ever born, but she was friendlier and cheerier than most of her sisters, and her easygoing, open nature made up for her lack of looks. Many times she had been in tense situations—drunks who turned vicious, fights that broke out, jealousy that erupted in bloodshed. Always, each and every time, she would smile and be friendly and talk to those who had lost their self-control, and always she was able to smother the flames of violence with her kindness and sincerity.