Yet another lawman had recognized the Lone Star Hellions. A lawman? Well—ex-lawman seemed a more accurate term. This shabby, colorless hombre was unfastening his star, flinging it to the porch boards. It bounced, gave off a metallic clatter. The Texans traded glances, tethered their mounts and dug out the makings.
“I’m Marv Bleeker,” the local informed them. “Used to be sheriff of this here town.”
“Up until when?” prodded Larry.
“Up until five minutes ago,” grinned Bleeker. “Yeah, I was Ruddsboro’s lawman for nigh on ten years, and what did it get me? Nothin’ but trouble, and a lousy eighty dollars a month.”
“You’re quittin’?” challenged Larry.
“Ruddsboro is dyin’ on its feet,” Bleeker told them. “All the men are pullin’ up stakes and headin’ north to the goldfields. I was gonna stay put like a righteous man should, on accounta I got a wife. Well, the heck with her. Couple days back, her blabber-mouthed mother rolled in on the westbound stage and said as how she’s gonna live with us from now on. Hah! That’s what she thinks! She can live with Cora Jane from now till Kingdom Come if she wants—but not with me. No siree! Bad enough Cora Jane bendin’ my ear all these years. Her ma gabs louder’n a hurt steer. They’ll be at it day in and day out.”
“Thing like that could weary a man,” grinned Stretch.
“If I never see them women again,” declared Bleeker, “it’ll be soon enough for me. I’m headed for Happy Rock to make my fortune, and I don’t care a hoot in hell what happens. Wreck the town. I won’t be here to fret about you!”
He hustled off the porch, hefting a bulging saddle roll which he secured to the bay hitched to the law office rack. With a flourish, he waved his Stetson at them. Then, in feverish haste, he untethered, swung astride and spurred the horse to movement. They watched him raising dust along the main stem. They traded grins, and Stretch smugly remarked, “Quite a reputation we got.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” advised Larry, as he scratched a match for their cigarettes.
They lit up.
“Are we so flat-broke we can’t afford a couple tall beers?” Stretch asked.
“Not all that broke,” drawled Larry.
“So what’re we waitin’ for?” grinned Stretch.
They climbed to the porch of the Herders Haven, shouldered the batwings open and moved inside. The barroom contained a few tables and chairs, a seven-foot long counter, a half-dozen spittoons and nine Ruddsboro citizens. A tall, elderly man was talking—loudly, earnestly. The drifters studied his reflection in the long mirror, as they breasted the bar and ordered their drinks.
He looked to be in his fifties. His hair was iron-gray, his face weather-beaten, his body hefty, hard-muscled. He wore range clothes and, right away, Larry pegged him for a working rancher. He stood by a table at which his sidekick was seated. This one appeared to be somewhat older. He was ugly, hatchet-jawed, squint-eyed.
“Ain’t he,” Stretch quietly enquired of Larry, “the meanest-lookin’ old buzzard you ever seen?”
“Just about,” grunted Larry.
They sampled a few mouthfuls, casually eavesdropped on the conversation. The rancher’s listeners were grinning, nudging each other. There were six of them, all wearing the stamp of the forty-a-month cowpoke, and it was painfully obvious that the rancher’s pleas were falling on deaf ears.
“Does he have a name?” Larry asked the barkeep.
“Don’t everybody?” grinned the barkeep. “He’s Buck Farnum, boss of Box 7. The old one is Harney, his ramrod. All them other hombres used to work spreads hereabouts, but not anymore. They hanker to try their luck in Happy Rock. Farnum’s tryin’ to talk ’em out of it.”
“I’m asking you men to reconsider.” The rancher looked to be mighty desperate. Larry got the impression he was struggling to hold his temper in check. “If I can drive my two thousand head north to the Fane City railhead, I’ll have an even chance of selling them to the Seattle buyers. That’s what stands between me and bankruptcy, boys. I sell the herd—or I’m finished.”
“Nobody’s stoppin’ you, Farnum,” chuckled a brawny cowpoke. “Go ahead. Drive your two thousand head to Fane City. We’ll wave you bye-bye and wish you luck.”
The other waddies guffawed. Farnum colored, and still kept his temper.”
“I need help,” he muttered. “Damn near every man on my payroll quit to go prospecting. You all know that. Well—I’ll pay top wages and ...”
“With what?” challenged a scrawny redhead. “You scarce got one lousy dollar in your jeans.”
“You’d all be paid,” Farnum assured him, “as soon as we reach Fane City—as soon as I unload the herd.” He stared hard at the redhead. “You know me, Longden. My word is my bond.”
“Forget it, Farnum,” scowled Longden. “You had your day. Now it’s our turn. Inside a couple weeks, we’ll be lightin’ dollar cigars with ten-dollar bills.”
“That’s just a wild dream, men,” Farnum warned them. “You head for Happy Rock and maybe you’ll find nothing but trouble. It’s a hell-town.”
A third stranger entered the saloon at that moment. His town clothes and his battered derby wore a thick layer of trail-dust. At the bar, he ordered a double-shot of rye, which he toted to an unoccupied corner table. Larry and Stretch barely noticed him. He was the nondescript kind and, in any case, all their attention was focused on the Box 7 boss.
“Buck,” called the barkeep, “you’re just wastin’ your time. The boys got their hearts set on Happy Rock.”
“It takes ten men or more,” muttered Farnum, “to push three thousand head. I have two thousand. That’s a herding job for at least seven good men.”
“You won’t hire seven men here,” shrugged the barkeep.
“I have to try!” insisted Farnum. His temper was getting the better of him. “I have to make these gold-hungry fools understand! They have to help!”
“He’s gonna bust out cryin’!” jeered the redhead. “Look at him, boys! The almighty Buck Farnum—damn near on his knees!”
“The hell with you, Longden!” barked Farnum. “I’ll never beg from no-accounts!”
Longden’s eyes gleamed. Through clenched teeth, he snarled a warning.
“Don’t call me no-account, Farnum. You threw a big shadow once, but now you ain’t worth a hill o’ beans. You’re just another dried-out rancher—whinin’ when the chips are down!”
“I wouldn’t sign on with Box 7,” Stretch quietly confided to Larry, “not if it was the last cattle outfit in all the west. Look at that squint-eyed old ramrod. Who’d wanta take orders from a ugly, ornery cuss like him? I bet his own Momma would be scared of that face.”
“Mean as they come,” Larry agreed.
The discussion was fast developing into a hassle. Longden and his five sidekicks were crowding the Box 7 veterans, mouthing curses and threats. A fist exploded in Farnum’s face. He slumped over the table. The ramrod made to rise from his chair. Longden swung a blow at him. Gasping, Harney crashed to the floor. And then Farnum slid from the table, braced himself, bunched his fists and said, “Come on, Waco! We aren’t so old we can’t teach these galoots a lesson!”
“Damn right!” panted the ramrod, as he struggled to his feet. “Hit ’em hard—hit ’em fast—and remember the Alamo!”
He called Longden a name, nimbly parried another swing from the redhead, then threw out a savage jab that knocked his assailant sprawling. The drifters hastily finished their drinks, eyed the barkeep expectantly.
“What did Farnum call him?” demanded Larry.
“What did the ramrod holler?” demanded Stretch.
“Buck called him Waco,” frowned the barkeep. “He’s Waco Harney. He hollered ‘remember the Alamo’, on accounta he’s a Texan, and ...”
“Hell!” breathed Stretch. “And I called him ugly!”
“Ugly be damned,” growled Larry. “You ain’t seen such a handsome hombre in your whole doggone life.”
“So what’re we waitin’ for?” grinned Stretch.
“Who’s waitin’?” challenged Larry, as he hurled himself into the fray.
Farnum and his ramrod, gamely trading blows with superior forces, were suddenly conscious of a thinning of the opposition’s ranks. Longden had regained his feet, only to be hurled clear across the bar by a wild, powerful punch from the jubilant Stretch. To this feat of strength, Stretch added an ear-piercing whoop, a Rebel yell that sounded as music to Waco Harney’s ears. Waco raised an answering yell and struck out with renewed vigor.
A brawny man leapt at Larry, arms flailing. Three blows he aimed, but unsuccessfully. Larry blocked a swinging left, sidestepped a jabbing right, ducked low under another swing, then brought his own bunched right up in a hefty uppercut. The brawny man’s feet parted company with the floor. He hurtled backwards, crashed into a chair which collapsed in protest. From then on, he lay quiet, ignoring the fracas.
Larry whirled in search of another victim. A hard fist materialized out of nowhere, made harsh contact with his face. He recoiled, grunted an oath. His attacker swung another blow and, this time, Larry was more than ready. He grabbed for the darting fist. His strong hands closed over the muscular arm. He bent double. Carried on by his rush, the hardcase pitched across Larry’s shoulders.
“Go to it, runt!” roared Stretch. “Spin him and hurl him!”
And that was exactly what Larry had in mind. He spun thrice with his attacker imprisoned across his shoulders, then swung hard and released his grip. Like a massive bird in flight, the human missile hurtled towards the bat-wings. Old Waco ducked hastily. Unhappily for his victim, Larry’s aim was none too accurate. Instead of pitching through the batwings, the brawler disappeared through a front window, to the accompaniment of a clatter of smashing glass. The barkeep loosed a groan and covered his eyes.
Standing back to back, Farnum and Waco put their weight behind their fists and rendered their attackers horizontal. Only one hardcase remained on his feet, a muscular waddy who seemed downright frantic in his desire to thrash the taller Texan. He tried to club Stretch with a chair, missed, smashed the chair against the bar. He swung a kick at Stretch, missed, went off-balance and sprawled on his back. He scrambled up, seized a spittoon and flung it at Stretch’s head. Stretch bobbed unhurriedly and the spittoon missed him by ten inches. With a last impatient curse, the hardcase hurled himself at Stretch and endeavored to get a grip on his throat. Stretch chuckled, parried the clutching hands and drove a short, hard jab to the cowpoke’s belly.
The result was interesting, because the cowpoke’s complexion changed from suntanned to beetroot-red to pasty white, in that order. He stumbled away from Stretch, flopped on his backside, clasped at his midriff and gasped in anguish for some time thereafter.
The drifters blew on their skinned knuckles, traded satisfied grins. The barroom floor looked especially untidy now, littered as it was with battered and bloody hardcases, none of whom seemed interested in a resumption of hostilities. Farnum and Waco were somewhat short of breath but, like the trouble-shooters, grinning triumphantly. The ugly Waco advanced on the drifters with a gnarled paw out-thrust.
“Put it there,” he growled. “I know you’re Texan. You just gotta be Texan.”
They shook hands. Farnum nodded affably to the drifters and told them, “Waco and I have been together for a long time—and he still hasn’t forgiven me for being born in Virginia.”
“Buck,” explained Waco, “is just a consarned furriner, but don’t hold it against him, boys. He’s a square-shooter.”
“Farnum’s my name,” offered the rancher, “and this is Waco Harney, the best ramrod any cattleman ever hired.”
“I’m Valentine,” said Larry. “The spare-built hombre is my sidekick—Stretch Emerson.”
Waco’s squint seemed to bore into them.
“Larry and Stretch? You the hombres they call the Texas Hell-Raisers?”
“We’ve been called a lot of names, Waco,” grinned Larry.
“Some of which,” added Stretch, “was plumb unpolite.”
“Waco,” frowned Farnum, “how do you like our chances of signing them on?”
“It’s worth tryin’,” said Waco. “From what I hear, Larry and Stretch are a couple top hands.” He squinted at them again. “You hombres got the gold-itch, too—or are you ready to handle a man-sized chore?”
“Meanin’,” challenged Larry, “pushin’ two thousand head to Fane City?”
“You were listening,” frowned Farnum.
“You talk loud,” shrugged Larry.
“Amos ...” Farnum called to the barkeep, “a bottle and four glasses over here.”
“All right, all right,” sighed the barkeep.
Larry, Stretch and the Box 7 veterans found an undamaged table. Locating four undamaged chairs was a more difficult chore, but they managed it. The barkeep delivered the bottle and glasses. Larry insisted on paying. Over in the far corner, the nondescript stranger appeared to be completely absorbed in his own whisky, paying no attention to them.
One by one, the befuddled cowpokes struggled to their feet. Larry and Stretch produced tobacco-sack and papers, began rolling a smoke, the while he told the Box 7 men, “We’ve prospected a few times, only we ain’t in the mood for it right now.”
“Well then,” prodded Farnum, “would you be interested in my proposition? I can’t offer you an easy time of it, but it could be rougher.”
“Countin’ Stretch and me,” frowned Larry, “just how many men would you have? Two thousand head is a lot of beef.”
“I’ll be honest with you,” said Farnum. “The Box 7 bunkhouse is damn near empty. There’d be you and your partner, Waco, myself, Turkey and Curly. Turkey Legg is our chuck boss. He’s old, but, in a pinch, he’d climb out of his wagon, fork a cayuse and help us flush strays. Curly Dibble is young, sassy and ...”
“And plain stupid sometimes,” growled Waco.
“But loyal to me,” Farnum reminded him. “And that’s what counts, Waco.”
“That makes six of us,” mused Larry. “And how far north is Fane City?”
“We’d hit the railhead inside a couple weeks,” said Farnum, “barring accidents.”
Larry grinned wryly, repeated his question.
“How far north, Buck?”
Farnum shrugged impatiently, and told him, “Fane City is in Montana Territory.”
“Six of us?” blinked Stretch.
“Pushin’ two thousand head all that way?” challenged Larry.
“The word of a Texan,” said Waco, “ought to be good enough for you—and I’m tellin’ you it can be done.” He took a stiff pull at his whisky, wiped his flowing moustache with his shirtsleeve, squinting hard at Larry. “Now look, this herd’s a mite weary. They ain’t gonna act fractious the first three-four days. After that, we’ll be fording the south loop of the Big Horn.”
“And,” stressed Farnum, “we aim to follow the west bank of the river all the way to Fane City. Now, Larry, you know what that means. All the water we need, every mile of the drive—after we reach the Big Horn.”
“If them critters spook,” drawled Waco, “it won’t be because they’re crazy for water.”
“After I’ve sold the herd,” said Farnum, “I’ll have enough to settle my debts, pay you boys a bonus, and there’ll be a little left over for buying breed-stock. That’s all I ever wanted, boys. A fighting chance to stay in the cattle business and keep Box 7 alive and kicking.”
“Come drought,” growled Waco, “come fever—we gotta get the old spread outa debt.” He grinned wistfully at the younger Texans. “Helped Buck build Box 7, I did. Hate to see it get swallowed up by a bunch of itchy-fingered creditors.”
“Well?” prodded Farnum. “What d’you say?”
“Buck,” said Larry, “I reckon you just hired yourself a couple riders.”
“Why, sure,” nodded Stretch. “We wouldn’t give you a plugged nickel for Happy Rock. Fane City sounds okay to us.”
“I hear tell Fane City is just a day’s travel from Happy Rock,” offered Waco. He winked and grinned. “’Case you hombres catch the gold-fever, after we finish the drive.”
Farnum heaved a sigh of relief. For the Lone Star Hellions, he had just one last question.
“Any reason you can’t start in right away?”
“No reason,” said Larry. “We’re ready—as soon as you need us.”
“Reckon that does it, Buck,” grunted Waco. “Herd’s all mustered and ready to move. We could get started come sunup.”
“Meanin’ tomorrow?” frowned Stretch.
“Sooner the better,” said Farnum. “You can ride out to Box 7 with us right now, meet Turkey and Curly and eat supper with us.”
“Sounds fine,” decided Larry.
The nondescript stranger didn’t wait to watch the four cattlemen finish their bottle. Quietly, he quit his corner, nodded so-long to the barkeep and moved out into the street. His mount, a clean-limbed calico hitched to the saloon rack, was capable of speed in time of emergency. And, from his point of view, an emergency had certainly arisen.
His name was Jay Crisp and, suddenly, he was eager to reach the big mining camp to the north. Prospecting, however, wasn’t Crisp’s line of business. He stood to earn an easy two hundred dollars in Happy Rock, a certain party would gladly pay hard cash for information concerning the whereabouts and future movements of the Lone Star Hellions. And, coincidentally, that certain party was Cole Banning—the same Cole Banning who had contracted for the delivery of eight beautiful women to the bordellos of Happy Rock.
~*~
Twenty minutes after sunrise of the following day, the Box 7 herd was ready to move. Having spent the night in a clapboard bunkhouse with the cantankerous Turkey Legg and the youthful Curly Dibble, the Texans were now well acquainted with their new travelling companions, used to their ways already. Turkey was a long-necked, bald old-timer with a nutcracker profile and a goatee beard—Curly a boyish twenty-year-old, incredibly naive, brash and bumptious, but devoted to his employer.
Perched on the driver’s seat of the chuck wagon, Turkey caught Buck’s eye and waved to him.
“I reckon we’re ready,” he called.
Farnum rose in his stirrups and scanned the sea of brown hides. The wagon was well to the fore. His pitifully-small force of herders was in position. For him, the great moment had come. Averaging twelve miles per day and barring storms, stampedes and accidents, they would reach Fane City safely, with most of the herd intact.
He raised an arm and yelled, “Let ’em go ...!”
Slowly at first, the two thousand plodded across Box 7 range, with the herders resisting the impulse to hustle them. Then, with Box 7’s northern boundary a hundred yards to their rear, they increased speed. At a steady clip, they moved on towards the pass that would take them through the Muretta Hills.
That first day, Larry and Stretch fell easily into the old routine. This wasn’t their first cattle-drive—not by a long shot. When the bunch-quitters skittered away into the mesquite and chaparral, one or other of the Texans was ready to flush them out and return them to the moving herd, quickly, efficiently. The remuda held a dozen work-seasoned cowponies wise to the errant ways of the fractious longhorns.
In the late afternoon, having reached the center of a broad, granite-walled canyon, Farnum called a halt and gave the order to night-camp and bed the herd. The beeves spread across the canyon floor, always within sight of the rise on which Turkey had stalled his wagon. A brief conference was held.
“Ten miles, I calculate,” said Farnum.
“Fair enough for the first day,” opined Waco. “And they’re movin’ easy. Ain’t been no trouble worth frettin’ about.”
“North end of the canyon is wide open,” observed Farnum, “so we’ll take no chances. I want two nighthawks circling the herd from now till sunup. Four-hour shifts, boys. Waco and me right after supper, then Larry and Stretch, then Curly and Turkey.”
“What’s for supper, Turkey?” asked Stretch.
“What the hell d’you think?” scowled the old man. “Sowbelly, biscuits and beans. And, if that ain’t good enough for ...”
He broke off. Hunched by his half-kindled fire, he cocked an ear, peered southward over his shoulder. Farnum turned to stare. Waco, shading his eyes with the flat of his hand, squinted intently and observed:
“Couple wagons comin’.”
“Gold-seekers, most likely,” opined Turkey. “Headed for Happy Rock. We’ll see quite a passel of ’em ’fore this drive is finished, I betcha.”
“Runt,” frowned Stretch, “them rigs look familiar to you?”
“You’re loco!” growled Larry.
“What’re you two fretting about?” demanded Farnum.
“Look plumb guilty, don’t they?” grinned Waco.
He stared again towards the oncoming wagons—and his grin faded. An oath erupted from him. Curly’s eyes bulged. Turkey’s goateed chin sagged. Farnum said, incredulously, “Great day in the morning!”
“Women!” barked Waco. He might have been saying ‘Injuns’, ‘Rustlers’ or ‘Wolves’—for all the venom he injected into that one word. “Hells bells and sufferin’ snakes! Women!”
“How’d they get here?” wondered Stretch.
“Shuddup!” groaned Larry.
He propped a shoulder against a wagon wheel, sighed heavily and tried to ignore Farnum’s accusing eyes.