Chaparral Range War (9781101619049) (4 page)

He found himself driving the buckboard home under the stars, with Cally seated beside him. Dan wasn't along. He'd told them he'd ride Guthrey's saddle horse back with his friends a little later that night. Alone with Cally, Guthrey enjoyed the cooler night air. She clung to his arm and for him it felt natural, even comforting. The road was easily visible aside from a few chuckholes he missed seeing that rocked the rig. The bounce only made them laugh, and the trip was uneventful.

In the yard, he lifted her off the buckboard and set her down. Then she turned her face up at him. He lightly kissed her on the mouth. They simply stood there for a long moment in silence.

He swept off his hat for her. “Thanks. You are a generous young lady, Cally. I will mind my manners better in the future.”

“I hope not,” she said and turned for the house. Beating his leg with his hat, he watched her disappear inside the dark house. Somewhere a coyote howled off in the night. He led the horses off to unharness them in the corral, then went and found his bedroll. He shook his bedding out good to rid it of any scorpions or vinegarroons that might have snuck inside and spread it out.

He didn't go to sleep easily, thinking about Cally and the night's tougher event until he finally faded off.

THREE

I
N THE MORNING,
he milked the cow, put the pail half-full of the strong-smelling hot milk on the dry sink, and went to wash up. Cally rang the triangle for Dan and smiled at Guthrey in the first burst of daylight rising over the mountains to the east. He stood on the porch a moment to view the sunrise.

“Thanks for milking the cow. You're spoiling me.” She draped his arm across her shoulders and, laughing, followed him inside like he was dragging her.

“I like spoiling you.”

She nodded with a smile. “The dance was great. Would you go to church with me today?”

“I guess I could be bribed.”

“Oh, bribed, huh?” She showed him his chair. “You better eat. The pancakes will be cold.”

“Dan getting up?” he asked.

“I thought so.” Then she looked perplexed. “I better go look up in his room in the shed.”

“I can go.”

She pushed him down. “You eat. He sometimes sleeps hard.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

With a quick kiss to his forehead, she gathered her hem and ran outside the small house for the shed. Guthrey sipped his coffee, holding the hot metal cup in both hands to listen and wait. Soon the sounds of her soft shoes came back and she nodded from the doorway. “He's coming.”

Guthrey put down the cup and began forking the pancakes on his plate.

“I guess he didn't get in from the dance until late.” She swept her dress under her to sit down.

He agreed. “What time is church?”

“Eleven o'clock. I can pack a picnic lunch for afterward.” She looked at him for his answer to the after-church picnic invite.

“Fine. Whatever you want to do.”

Pleased about his acceptance, she went for the coffeepot when her brother came into the room.

“Morning to both of you. You two sure had everyone talking last night.” Dan slumped in the chair.

“We're going to church this morning.” Maybe that act would help their reputations, Guthrey mused to himself.

“I'm not. I'm going back to sleep. I won't even eat.”

“Fine.” Cally sounded sharp with her reply.

They found a small crowd at the schoolhouse for the services: several widow women and a few families with children, who were under close parental supervision with orders to be polite, which meant being quiet. The rest were older couples. The preacher was Joshua Harney, a man with a strong voice who belted out hymns and gave a sermon about Jesus speaking to the crowds of those believers who came to see him at Galilee.

When the service was over, there was a small gathering outside, and Guthrey met more of the area residents. A straight-backed thin woman with silver hair introduced herself as Chancey Edwards.

“I hope you live long enough to run Whitmore out of this region. One of his men murdered my husband, George, and a better man never lived. I hope you kill Whitmore and all of his men.”

“I'm sorry about the loss of your husband, Mrs. Edwards.”

“I'm mad as hell. If you don't kill him and that man ever rides into my yard, I will kill him.”

He shook his head. “Don't. It won't help you.”

“It will help me.” She turned and walked away.

“She's really bitter,” Cally said softly. “Let's go picnic.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Don't call me that. I am not your mother.”

“It's my way, Cally. It's hard for me not to be respectful to a woman.”

On the drive home, they found a grassy glen under some cottonwoods beside the road. Guthrey tied the horses and then brought Cally's basket down to the site. She spread the blanket and unpacked her food. They ate ham sandwiches and some chocolate cake, washing it down with sun tea.

“Here, you need this,” she said, using her fork to feed him the last of her piece of cake.

“Thanks. It tasted good.” He looked at her, all prim in her special blue church dress, seated on the blanket. Her beauty had grown since he first met her. Maybe the dress and her red hair fixed up in curls was part of it, but he saw a side to her that he was only now discovering. Her generosity toward him was real, and he had to admit she'd stolen a part of him.

In the next week he needed to meet this no-show sheriff, Guthrey decided. Seated on his butt with his boots and legs spread apart and his arms braced behind him, Guthrey wondered how he'd ever drive the strong forces of evil out of this dry land.

Cally got on her knees, swept his hat off, and kissed him. “You are becoming too serious for a picnic.”

Kneeling down beside him, she hugged his neck, pressed her cheek to his, and whispered in his ear, “Are you avoiding me? I'm not some child.”

“I know that. I don't want you to think I'm some lurid old man.”

“I won't.”

“Good. We better get on home, then.”

“Whatever you say,” she said stiffly. She rose, then bent over, gathering her things to put in the basket.

He didn't want to leave either, but he decided they needed to take some time to think it over before getting into a relationship. Her things loaded, he helped her onto the seat. Nothing he had composed in his mind sounded nearly sincere enough for him to speak out loud to her. Uncomfortable with the turn of events, he clucked to the horses and they went home in a stilted silence.

FOUR

T
HE NEXT MORNING
they were civil to each other, but a cold curtain hung between Guthrey and Cally at breakfast. When he finished his meal, Guthrey told Dan he was going to saddle up and go over and meet the sheriff. He knew his words gave Cally a start because she spun around to look at him but never said anything.

“You're coming back here, ain't'cha?” Dan asked.

“I plan on it.”

“Good,” he said.

“Thanks for breakfast, Cally,” he said to her.

“Oh, it was nothing,” she said, busy washing her dishes.

He took his bedroll in case he got caught out somewhere. Dan planned to check on some more of his cattle that day, so they parted company. Soda Springs was south and west of Steward's Crossing. Guthrey rode his horse in a jog down the dusty river road. He passed some folks in wagons and waved. It was midmorning before he reached the small village, which looked even less prosperous than Steward's Crossing. Past some adobe jacals and a few more buildings, he saw the faded sign that read Crook County Offices on the front wall of a mud brick building.

He dismounted, shifted his gun belt, then wrapped his reins on the rack. Only a few old Mexican women were in sight along with some yellow cur dogs that barked at him.

Inside the dark corridors of the courthouse, he stopped where a man sat at a telegraph key behind a counter.

“Good morning,” he said to the key puncher, who about swallowed his mustache at the sight of him. Guthrey figured his sudden appearance had shocked him or something.

“What do you want?” the young man asked.

“Is the sheriff in?”

The man laughed. “Hell, he don't come in much. Sheriff Killion's got a ranch to run and he and his deputies are all out counting cattle for the tax rolls. You know he's the county tax collector too?”

“I've heard that he does that too.”

“Hell, they paid him over twenty thousand for that job last year. County only pays him a couple of thousand to do the law things.”

“I really don't care about his pay. I need to talk to him.”

“Well, just ride out to his ranch. If he's home, you can talk to him out there.”

“Does he have a head deputy I can talk to?”

“That would be Lamar. Lamar Dawes. I'd say he'll be in Rosa's Cantina about this time, sobering up on whiskey.”

He frowned at the man. “What happens when they have a crime in this place?”

“Nothing, 'cause, we don't have any crime.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why, mister, Crook County, Arizona, is a very peaceful place.”

He turned to leave since the man had nothing he wanted. “You work the wire for who?”

“The county. The telegraph company couldn't find anyone who wanted to do it. Not enough business for anyone to want to set up a telegraph office here. So I got the job. Wait, that's an army message. I need to hear it. Bet some more Apaches have left the reservation again. They've been doing that real regular lately.”

He waited for the man to write out the message.

The operator set down his pencil and began to read the message. “‘Blue Starr and a half dozen bucks left San Carlos Reservation yesterday and were discovered gone at roll call this morning. Headed south for Mexico on fresh horses. Names of others will come later. They are armed and should be considered dangerous.' Hmm, they damn sure will be dangerous.”

“What will the sheriff do about that?” he asked.

“The sheriff? Are you talking about the runaway Apaches? Hell. Nothing. He can't spare any men. They're counting cattle for the tax roll. I told you that's where he makes his money. Chasing Apaches don't pay a gawdamn thing.”

“Thanks,” Guthrey said, disgusted with all he'd learned so far. He headed across the street for the cantina with the faded sign that read Rosa's.

The batwing doors creaked when he pushed them aside. A big man with hunched shoulders standing at the bar downed a shot of liquor. Afterward, he slammed the emptied glass on the countertop. Then he blinked in either disbelief or shock at the sight of Guthrey.

“Who in the hell are you?” The man again blinked his large brown eyes.

“I'm looking for the law.”

“By gawd, I'm the law. What the hell do you need?”

“I really wanted to see the sheriff.”

“What fur?”

“There are some men running roughshod over the citizens around Steward's Crossing.”

“Yeah, who are they?”

“They work for a man named Whitmore.”

“Give me one more glass, Rosa, and I'll be fine.” He cleared his throat and raised his shoulders to stick out his chest bearing the silver badge. “Mr. Whitmore is a leading citizen of our county. Just who the hell are you to accuse him of anything?”

“You don't understand. His men are riding roughshod over the small ranchers over there.”

The deputy cocked a mean eye at him. “Who in the hell do you think you are? I oughta arrest you for trying to stir up trouble.”

“Look, Lamar, I'm a former Texas Ranger. I know what I saw over there last Saturday night.”

“Why don't you go home, then. We don't need no gawdamn Texas Ranger in this country. We can handle all the law enforcing here.”

Guthrey saw the man's big fist coming at him. He quickly stepped inside the punch and drove his own hard fist into the man's gut. The force of his strike drove all the wind out of Lamar's lungs. The big man went to his knees, trying to gasp for air. Then Guthrey kicked Lamar's hand away from his gun and sent the weapon spinning across the floor. Next he busted him over the head with the butt of his own gun and Lamar went facedown like a poled steer.

“Did'cha kill him?” the short, frowning Mexican woman asked, standing on her toes, trying to look over the bar at the man on the floor in front of it.

“No.” Guthrey took the full whiskey shot glass she'd brought over for Lamar and tossed back the contents. The raw liquor cut a trail down his dusty throat and he looked in the mirror behind the bar at himself. Now he would have trouble, but he wasn't about to take a beating from that goon lawman.

He went outside and crossed the street to his horse. Then he changed his mind and stepped back in the hallway of the courthouse. “How much to send this Killion a wire and get a boy to take it out to his ranch?”

“Two bits. But he ain't there.”

On the pad, Guthrey wrote,
Check on your deputy. He was drunk and tried to beat me up. He'll have a headache for a while. Phillip Guthrey.

“Are you serious?” the operator asked, reading the pad.

Guthrey slapped a coin on the counter. “Send it.”

“Where can he find you?”

“At the 87T Ranch.”

The key operator looked hard at him as if still in disbelief. “You're damn sure enough tough, mister. I hope to see you again.”

“You will.”

Guthrey rode back to the ranch and arrived there at sundown. Cally came out of the house drying her hands on a towel. “I'm surprised you're back. Dan hasn't come in yet. I'm really getting worried about him, Guthrey. That's not like him at all to stay out like this.”

“Where was he going to look at stock today?” He hitched his horse to the rack.

“I'm not sure. He rode west this morning.” She ran over and hugged him. “Oh, I've been so worried about the both of you. I think we need to sell out to Whitmore.” Apparently she'd thawed toward him thanks to her concern about him and her brother.

He kissed her and squeezed her tight. “No, don't do that. Dan'll be all right. I'll go look for him.”

“I have some food ready. You need to eat first.”

He agreed. The daylight was about gone anyway.

She fussed over him as he ate. At last he made her sit down. “You can't get him back here by worrying about him. I'll find him.”

“How, in the dark?”

“Trust me?”

“Yes, but—what did the sheriff say?”

“He wasn't there. Some drunken deputy tried to beat me up. But he didn't.”

Her fingers covered her mouth, and she looked shocked. “Oh, they'll come and arrest you now too.”

“I doubt it. Lock the door. Keep a gun handy. I'll go find Dan.”

“When will you come back?”

“After I find him.”

“Guthrey, promise me you'll be careful.”

“I'll try.”

She shook her head like she didn't believe him. “I'll be here.”

“Thanks.” He kissed her. Then he left the house, found a fresh horse in the corral, and moved his saddle onto its back. With his bull-hide chaps buckled on to protect his legs, he swung aboard. In a few minutes, he started on his way in the twilight, taking a cow track into the backcountry through the chaparral. The horse he rode knew the path, and Guthrey gave him his head, hoping to find Dan if he was injured.

The outline of the mountains to the west stood out against the stars. Grateful he'd drawn a horse that respected the thorny country surrounding them, Guthrey felt that, unless something spooked him, the horse would stay out of the cholla cactus's millions of spines. A canyon's dark depths beckoned to him. If Dan had been in a horse wreck, Guthrey could only hope that the boy was awake and would be able to call out to him. Perhaps Guthrey should have waited until daylight, but a sense of urgency sent him off on this fool's search. Cally had told him it was not like Dan to simply stay away at night because he couldn't get back before dark. He always came back—even if it was full dark.

Guthrey's horse went to the top of a pass between two mountains, then started stiff legged down the other side. He reined up and dismounted to relieve his bladder. The desert spread out beyond him in the silvery light. Some saguaros stood out like fingers pointing at the stars. The strong creosote aroma of greasewood brush filled his nose. The temperature had dropped since he'd left the ranch, he noticed as he climbed back in the saddle.

“Get up, Buck,” he said to the horse, giving him a name.

A coyote's howl set off a chorus of them as the pack searched about for a jackrabbit or small deer for their meal. Owls hooted, and the sound of Guthrey's shod horse crushing gravel accompanied him.

Then he reined in his horse to stop. Had he heard another horse nicker? His own mount made a sound deep in his throat that shook him in the saddle. He'd obviously recognized the other animal. Where was he?

The dark form of the other horse came uphill toward him. Guthrey slipped from the saddle and spoke to him. The horse looked sound enough in the starlight. Then he found the tail of the reata still dallied on the saddle horn and broken off about ten feet long. Dan must have had a wreck. But where was he?

With his hands cupped around his mouth, Guthrey called out, “Dan. Dan, where are you?”

He could hear his own voice trying to penetrate the vast desert night. No answer. He fired his pistol next. The resounding report rolled off across the land and then more silence. Nothing but some distant coyotes howling.

Well, he was closer than before. He might have to wait until daylight to find the boy, or what was left of him. Damn, where could he be? The night's shroud over the land did not answer Guthrey's silent question.

Before he remounted, Guthrey caught Dan's horse by his reins. Later on he might need him. Had this horse strayed from his rider for a long time and traveled a great distance? No way for the cow pony to tell him. He had half the mystery of why Dan hadn't came home. Maybe tracks in the daylight would tell him more. He'd best get himself a place to hang out until sunrise. Dan might be lying somewhere nearby.

Guthrey rode on about a half mile and found some large cottonwoods and cattails—
tules
was what the Mexicans called them. His horse took a drink from the water hole, but Guthrey used the canteen hanging on the saddle horn. The canteen water tasted tinny and warm but it was liquid. Guthrey sure wasn't interested in drinking from some mud hole the roving javelinas might have bathed in.

With both horses' cinches loosened, he hobbled them. With the side of his boot, he scraped a place free of sticks and rocks, then unfurled his bedroll to sleep a few hours until daybreak. Damn, he sure hoped that boy was all right.

* * *

T
HE FIRST SPEARS
of sunshine peeked over the far-off range of sawtooth mountains, and Guthrey was awake. His bedroll tied back on the saddle, he walked around trying to read signs. Dan's horse had ordinary shoes, so Guthrey could hardly tell it from his own mount. But a horse had come and gone on the cattle trail, so Dan must be farther northwest up the wide basin.

Some cows and calves were coming cautiously toward the water when he mounted up, leaving Dan's horse hobbled by the water hole. Half longhorns crossed with shorthorns, the cows still had a wariness about him he expected. Then he saw a calf following behind with a piece of reata around its neck and the length trailing him. The critter would likely hang that rawhide-plaited rope up on something and starve to death. Guthrey shook loose the rope on the saddle and, standing in the stirrups, fed out a loop.

The cows quickly started to retreat. He put his spurs to the pony's sides and took off after the calf. His mount cleared a rotting cottonwood log and he was grateful the calf had taken to the grassy open ground near the water hole. When he was close enough, he threw the loop and the pony sat down. Guthrey upended the calf and ran to hold it down.

Its momma stopped and bellowed for the calf to come on as Guthrey sat on top of the critter, looking at the fresh V Bar 6 brand on the calf. Whitmore's mark was on this three-month-old calf. Then before he jerked loose the extra rope, he looked up and read the cow's brand as she cried for her baby to come to her. She wore the 87T brand on her left side. The Bridges brand. She was their cow, but her calf had a fresh Whitmore brand on it.