Chapter 1

 

The crack of a pistol shot shattered the morning silence. Jim Butler jerked his mount to a halt, his hand dropping to his six-gun. He was high atop a rocky ridge that overlooked a long, sandy arroyo. The shot had come from below. Dismounting, he hunkered down and trotted toward the edge of the ridge. A few feet from the rim, he dropped to his belly and crawled the rest of the way. Peering over the precipice, he frowned at what he saw.

Four cowboys with pistols drawn sat horseback on the edge of the arroyo. Three of the riders were men from Jim’s past. Below the men, kneeling in the dirt, were four Mexicans and a half-butchered longhorn steer. Another Mexican lay on his back; blood oozed from a gunshot wound on his side. Of the four riders, the youngest one with the blond hair was bellowing like he was in charge.

“I told you my daddy was making a big mistake letting them Mexes start farming on our property.”

One of the cowhands, a scruffy-looking puncher, nodded in agreement. The other two glanced at each other, saying nothing.

“You’re sure ’nuff right about that one, Chris,” said the nodding cowboy, punctuating his statement by launch­ing an enormous glob of stringy tobacco juice that hurtled through the air in the general direction of the Mexicans.

“Señor Armstrong,” said one of the Mexicans, “We do not kill this cow. It was dead when we found it. The neck was broken, maybe from a fall into this arroyo. We did not want the meat to go bad, so we butchered as much as we could carry to our families. We would have told El Patron when we saw him next. This is verdad, señor. The truth, I swear it.”

“Don’t lie to me,” said Chris Arm­strong. “You stinking bean eaters ain’t worth the spit in my mouth. Get your sorry carcasses into that cart yonder and head out toward our ranch house. When my daddy finds out about this he’ll make sure you heathens get to dance on the end of a short rope. I heard you boys love to dance. Ain’t that right?”

The scruffy cowboy laughed like he thought his boss had said about the funniest thing he’d ever heard. The other two sat stone-faced.

“Say, Chris,” said the larger of the two silent cowboys, a barrel-chested man with a gray bush of a beard. “See the way that old steer’s neck is all twisted back. That sucker’s broke clean. Maybe these fellers are levelling with you?”

“Shank Halsey, how long have you worked for the Double-A-Slash?”

“Chris, you know I was with your daddy when he rode into this country. Shucks, son, I’ve been here forever.”

“If you want to stay here, old man, you had better shut your mouth.”

The last of the riders, a lanky mass of freckles named Rusty Puckett, started to say something, but Shank nudged him, and he backed off.

From his perch above the scene, Jim watched with growing concern. He had known Shank Halsey and Rusty Puckett all of his life. He wanted to speak up, but decided to watch some more before committing himself.

“Señor,” said the Mexican who had spoken before, “what about Manuel? We must get him to a doctor. He is bleeding too much. He might die here.”

“Bleed to death or hang, it don’t make any difference. He’s going to die anyway,” said Chris. “Didn’t I tell you to get in that wagon, Mex? Now, go!” He turned to the scruffy rider. “Val, you make sure these boys get to the house in a hurry. I’m going ahead to tell Bale what we found and to get the ropes ready.”

Not waiting for an answer, Chris Armstrong dug his spurs into his horse and took off at a gallop toward the headquarters of the Double-A-Slash ranch. Seconds later, Shank Halsey headed out in the same direction.

Jim waited until all the men were out of sight, climbed aboard his steel dun mare, and worked his way down the embankment to the arroyo. When he got there the wounded Mexican was still breathing, but the man had lost a lot of blood. Jim rummaged through his saddle-bags until he found a pint bottle of whiskey and a clean shirt. He wrapped the shirt around the wound to staunch the flow of blood. He then gathered up a few pieces of wood and started a small fire. After putting a pot of water on to boil, Jim looked over at the unconscious man. The Mexican farmer’s breathing was coming in shallow, ragged gulps. Jim had removed more than his share of lead chunks in the last fifteen years, but never from a man this close to death.

“Amigo,” said Jim, “I don’t hold much chance of you living through the night, but I’ll do my best to fix your wound. Then it’ll be up to the man in the sky to decide whether you live or die.”

Jim unsheathed the knife he wore on his belt and placed it by the fire. He cleaned the wound with hot water. Then he poured some of the whiskey over the knife blade. Straddling the still unconscious man, using great care, Jim probed into the bullet hole.

I think I feel it, amigo,” said Jim. He was sweating but not from the heat. He reached the tiny piece of lead and, with a little effort, popped it out.

“You’re lucky, pardner,” he said. “It doesn’t look like the bullet hit any vitals.” Afterwards, he packed the wound and wrapped it with strips torn from his clean shirt.

Jim reckoned he was two hours north of Two Bucks City, Texas. He had planned on reaching the town by early afternoon, but the shooting of this Mexican farmer had altered his plans. He couldn’t leave the wounded man, and moving him was out of the question. He unsaddled his horse and picketed the big mare over a large patch of green grass. He arranged his gear on the ground and checked on the Mexican. The man’s breathing had become more regular since the bullet had been removed. He seemed to be resting.

“Amigo,” said Jim, “you survived my butchering well enough; you just might make it after all. I made camp and I’ll stay with you through the night. I can’t promise anything beyond that. It’s been a coon’s age since I had me a fresh beefsteak, so I believe I’ll carve me a big ol’ hunk of this steer and cook it for my dinner. I’ll save some to make a broth for you, if you make it.”

Chris Armstrong charged up to the Double-A-Slash ranch house like the devil himself was chasing him. He jumped off of his horse before the animal stopped, bounded onto the porch, and stomped inside.

“Dad!” he hollered. “Dad, are you here?”

An answer came from the kitchen. Chris entered the room to find his father sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee. Maria, the Mexican cook, was washing dishes.

“Señor Chris, would you like some coffee?” said Maria. She wiped her hands on her apron and started toward the coffee pot sitting on a potbellied stove in the corner.

Chris ignored the offer and ripped into his father. “Dad, I told you, letting those greaser farmers squat on our land would cost us. Well, now they have gone and killed a steer and tried to butcher it. I’m going to teach all of those Mexican peons a lesson.”

“Whoa, there, Chris,” said Bale Arm­strong. The chair under him protested, squeaking loudly, as Bale tried to straighten his bent frame up to face his irate son. “Calm down. Sit here, get you a cup of coffee, and tell me what’s going on. That’s a pretty strong accusation you just made. Did you see these Mexicans kill the steer?”

“No, I didn’t see them, but they did it. They had already killed it and were butchering it when we got there.”

Maria’s slender body stiffened at the accusations. “Excuse me, Señor Bale, but I must go to the henhouse for a few minutes.” She didn’t wait for Bale Armstrong’s answer.

Throwing a tattered shawl around her narrow shoulders, the old woman hurried outside. The screen door banged shut behind her. Bale looked up as she left, and then back at his son. His eyes were hard.

Placing both hands on the table, using great effort, Bale pushed himself to a standing position. His worn-out legs creaked like rusty hinges as he stood. “Was anybody with you when you found the steer?”

“Shank and Rusty were with me. Val Rose was there, too.”

“Where are they?”

“Bringing in the rustlers. I’m going to hang them. That ought to keep the rest away from Double-A-Slash livestock.”

“Hang ’em! That’s a little bit harsh, isn’t it?”

“Bale, those greasers have got to learn once and for all who is boss around here.”

Bale looked Chris in the eye. “You had better not forget who is boss around here, either, Chris. I don’t like it when you call me by my first name. It shows disrespect. Ever since you started hanging around with that Quarry bunch, son, you have been making some mighty poor decisions. You know Mort Quarry wants this ranch, and he will stoop to anything to get it.”

Chris opened his mouth but nothing came out. He sat for a moment, and then stood up. “I don’t have time for this. I’m going to the barn for some rope. I’ve got a bunch of Mexicans to hang.”

Before Chris could go out, Shank Halsey strode into the room. He stood in the doorway blocking Chris’s exit. Chris tried to go around him, but Halsey stood his ground.

“Boss, we got to talk, and I’d just as soon Chris be here to listen to what I’ve got to say.” He shot a withering glance toward the younger Armstrong. Chris backed up against the cabinet and stood silent.

“I’m sure you already got the story from Chris, boss, but I want to make sure he didn’t leave nothin’ out.”

Bale Armstrong looked at Chris and back at Shank. He cocked his head to the side and motioned for the old wrangler to continue.

“Boss, them farmers was butcherin’ that steer when we came up on ’em. The dumb thing was in the arroyo with its neck all twisted back. They said they found it there with a broke neck, and they was just tryin’ to save some of the meat. One of ’em said he was goin’ to tell you, next time he saw you.”

“Is this true, Chris?” said Bale, narrowing his brow.

“They said that, but everybody knows a Mex would rather tell a lie than eat tortillas and chilli peppers.”

“That ain’t all, Boss,” said Shank, in a low voice. “Chris shot one of ’em. The feller didn’t have no gun, either.”

“Good Lord, Chris,” said Bale, his face blanching white. “You shot an unarmed man?”

“Come on, Dad, it was a stinking Mexican.”

Bale looked at Shank. “Is the man dead?”

“Don’t know, boss; Chris made us leave him there and bring the rest of ’em here to hang.”

“Where are the rest of the men who were doing the butchering, Shank?”

“Rusty and Valentine are bringin’ ’em in. They ought to be here any minute, now.”

“Shank, you get Maria to take a wagon, and you two hightail it back to the arroyo. If that man is still alive, bring him back here.”

Bale Armstrong turned to his young­est son. “Chris, you tell the boys to let those Mexicans go and tell Rusty to escort them back to their homes. I’ll go out there tomorrow and apologize to them. And boy, you had better hope that man you shot isn’t dead.”

Chris looked at his father, disbelief covering his face. “You tell them, Bale. I’m done working here. Mort Quarry offered me a job, and I’m going to take it. He knows how to treat his men, and he always needs another gun.” He turned toward the door. “Get out of my way Shank, or you’ll be the next man I shoot.” Shank stepped aside, and Chris stormed out of the kitchen.

Shank looked down at his boss and old friend. “He’ll come back, Bale. He just ain’t quite growed up yet. Maybe him bein’ away for a while might help, it sure can’t hurt. I’ll get one of the hands to hitch up a wagon, and, on our way out, I’ll tell Rusty what to do with them farmer fellers.”

Shank headed for the front door. Bale Armstrong dropped into his chair and bowed his head.