Range Rebel (Prologue Western) Read online

  “Do you think Edrick had him hanged?”

  “Who knows? It could have been other ranchers, but Edrick was the most outspoken.”

  Dave placed a hand on her shoulder. “Go to the house,” he said. “I’ll lay him out.”

  She shook her head. “There is a little burial plot up the slope behind the ranch houses. Dig his grave please.”

  Dave watched her walk straight-backed to the house. He led the claybank to the barn and got a shovel. There was an uneasiness in Dave born of the morning’s events. Edrick had warned him not to leave the country. Even now the iced eyes of the breed might be watching the ranch.

  On a slope behind the ranch houses was a small cemetery plot. Three white headboards shone in the sun. “Amos Pearce,” read Dave aloud from the first one, “killed by Tontos, 1868. Rest in peace.” He looked at the others. “Jared Pearce. Nine years old. Died of fever. 1869. Gone from this earth to his reward in Heaven. Jonce Pearce. Killed by his horse. 1870. Our loss is Heaven’s gain.” Dave shoved back his hat and set the shovel against the grass, driving it deep with a hard push of his foot.

  As Dave cut back the thick turf he thought of the many other graves he had dug. From Elthan’s Landing, the blooding of famed Hood’s Texans, through Gaines Mill, Freeman’s Ford, Groveton, Second Manassas, Sharpsburg, Gettysburg and Chickamauga. He had buried his cousin Cad at Gaines Mill. He had buried his brother Jim at a forgotten spot in the rain on the retreat from Gettysburg. When he had come back to the Brazos country after a long seige in hospital in Tennessee, his uncle Mark had shown him the graves of his father and mother, killed by guerillas the last month of the war. No wonder he was an outlier, a man who sought the solitudes, a man who had no kith nor kin, now that Uncle Mark had died in Texas. The war had taken a sixteen year old boy into its red folds and spewed out a partially crippled man four years later. It had seared a hatred for the ceaseless conflict of man against man deep into Dave’s soul.

  The girl came slowly up the slope as Dave finished the grave. Dave lowered the body to the ground and watched her as she wrapped the corpse in a blanket and then wrapped canvas tightly over that. Dave wiped the sweat from his face. “You ought to lay him out until the law gets here,” he advised.

  She looked up quickly. “Law? What law? There is none! Bury him! I’m the only one to mourn, or avenge him!” she said bitterly.

  Dave carried the body to the grave and lowered it. He looked at the girl. “All right?” he asked.

  She was dry-eyed. “Yes.”

  Dave hesitated. “Maybe a few words from the Good Book?” he suggested.

  “Bury him,” she said quietly. “God knows he was a good and honest man.”

  The clods began to fall. She watched him as he finished filling the grave and then got rocks to cover the mound. He bowed his head for a moment and said a soft prayer for the man he had never known. When he looked up she was almost at the house. He picked up the spade and led Brazos down the slope. Something winked from a bald butte across the valley. He was willing to bet Brazos against a platter of hogbelly that someone was watching the ranch through fieldglasses. He’d better move on.

  She was waiting for him beneath the ramada that shaded the front of the sturdy log house. She had a sack in her slim hands. “Your salt and coffee,” she said. Her eyes met his steadily. “Are you looking for work?”

  “No.”

  She raised her head. “I’m alone now. Carl and Kelly were the last of the men who worked here. There are fifty steers in Cup Valley.”

  “Alone?”

  “Mack Muir is with them. He’s a friend of my father. He promised to take care of them until Dad came back.” The loneliness in her voice swayed Dave. “I’ll stay awhile,” he said. “Until you get help, that is.”

  “It may be a long time,” she said quietly.

  two

  THE ODOR OF COOKING drifted invitingly out to Dave as he finished feeding Brazos and turned him loose in the corral. Dave took his fieldglasses from their case and stepped into the barn, away from the bright sunlight which would reflect from them. They were good glasses, German made, captured from a Yank officer at Gettysburg. Dave could pick out each rock and clump of brush on the bald butte bordering the valley to the east. The sun glinted from something. There was a furtive movement. Dave picked out the impassive face of the breed, Mick Ochoa. The breed settled again, studying the ranch through his glasses.

  Leslie came from the house. Her face was flushed from the heat of the kitchen. She wiped her hands on her apron. “It’s ready,” she said. She looked curiously at the glasses.

  Dave handed her the glasses. “Look up that bald butte.”

  “Skull Butte?” She studied the rock formation. “There’s a man up there. Why, it’s Mick Ochoa!”

  “Why is he watching the ranch?”

  “He could be watching you, Dave. He must have seen us at the cemetery.”

  “Edrick still thinks I had something to do with the rustling.”

  She handed him the glasses and tilted her head to one side. “And have you?”

  Dave cased the glasses. “No,” he said quietly.

  “Yet you were heading out after meeting him.”

  Dave smiled. “I usually do as I please.”

  “Dan Edrick runs this part of the territory, or tries to.”

  “So? He won’t run me.” He took her arm and walked her toward the house. “Let’s give Mick something to report.”

  She had set a fine table. Venison, small potatoes, corn bread, coffee and apple pie. She did not fill her own plate, but sat watching Dave eat. “I envy you in a way,” she said. “Free as a bird, traveling when and where you will.”

  He grinned. “Going hungry. Getting lost. Shot at by bronco Apaches.”

  “Have you never wanted to settle down?”

  Dave applied himself to the cornbread. “Yes, but somehow the same things happen. Men always pick sides for a fight. A man has to join one side or the other.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  He shook his head. “It’s the way of the world. My father left Kansas because of the Free Soilers. We never owned a slave nor grew cotton. We were never great on the question of State’s Rights. Yet my brother, my cousin and I enlisted, because we believed in our new state of Texas. Cousin Cad died at Gaines Mill. Brother Jim died of wounds received at Gettysburg. I got a minie ball in my left leg at Chickamauga. I came home to find that my father and mother had been murdered by guerillas who claimed to be Southern partisans. It seems as though my father had some fine mules they wanted.” Dave shoved back his plate. “May I smoke?”

  She nodded and watched him fill his pipe. Dave lit up. “Reconstruction was the same thing all over. Some Confederates joined the scalawags and carpetbaggers. Others left Texas and went into Mexico to fight with Maximilian, or against him, with Benito Juarez. I couldn’t see any of it. I decided to stay by myself, see the west, and avoid other men’s fights.”

  “You speak as though you’ve had an education.”

  “My mother was a schoolteacher from Illinois. My father was a lawyer from Kentucky. My elder brother Jim made me keep at my books while in camp. Seems odd now. Fighting bloody battles, killing men, and then sitting down beside the bivouac fires to study.”

  She refilled his coffee cup. “Now you’re entangled again.”

  “No, I’m helping a woman who is alone.”

  Her eyes held his. “Then you must still believe in fighting.”

  “I believe in helping a woman, Leslie. There is a difference.”

  She shrugged. “I will not leave this valley. My father bought this ranch from Mrs. Pearce. Her husband defended this house against Tontos and was killed. Her youngest son died of fever during a hard winter. Her eldest son was killed by his own horse. Now Dad has been lynched fighting for his own land and cattle. There has been too much blood already spent to hold this land, but I intend to stay right here.”

  Dave leaned back in his chair. “One woman? You’ll
need help. Do you have money?”

  “Enough to keep going.”

  “You’ll need good men, handy with guns.”

  “Men are afraid to work for the small ranchers. You saw what happened with Carl and Kelly. They were good men, honest men, but the threat of a rope drove them away.”

  “Your father was suspected of rustling. They won’t leave you alone. Your stock will be driven off. Perhaps they’ll burn you out. Anyone who tries to work for you will be driven away or killed. Is it worth it?”

  She placed her elbows on the table and clasped her hands, resting her chin on them. There was no fear in her gray eyes. “When did you think the Confederate cause was lost, Dave?”

  “After Gettysburg. We had lost too many good officers and the pick of the men. The blockade was strangling Confederate commerce.”

  She nodded. “Yet you fought on. If you hadn’t been wounded at Chickamauga would you have fought on until Appomattox?”

  He tamped down his tobacco. “Yes,” he said softly.

  “Then perhaps you can understand why I will not leave. This is my home. My father’s name has been disgraced. I’m the last of my line, as you are, and I will not leave!”

  Dave stood up. “Then God help you.” He turned. His hunter’s hearing had brought the faint thud of hoofs to him. “Someone is coming. There might be trouble.”

  She smiled as she stood up. “You were the one who was trying to avoid entanglements with other men.” She walked into the living room.

  Dave eyed her full figure and honey-colored hair. “With men?” he asked himself aloud.

  She turned “What did you say?”

  He flushed. “Nothing. Who is it?”

  “Dan Edrick. Shorty Ganoe. Mort Hastings.”

  Dave slipped out the back door and got his Spencer. He twirled the cylinder of his long-barreled Colt and returned it to its holster. He came around the side of the house just as Leslie stepped out beneath the ramada. “I have the Sharps just inside the door,” she said.

  Edrick glanced at Dave with no surprise as he drew rein near the gate. “Where’s your Pa?” he asked Leslie.

  Leslie stepped out into the sunlight. Shorty rested his forearms on the saddlehorn and eyed her appreciatively. “We buried him two hours ago,” said Leslie.

  “Sho? I’m right sorry to hear that. Took sudden-like, was he?”

  She shook her head. “This gentleman found him lynched in Shadow Valley.”

  Edrick shoved back his hat. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Leslie.”

  Dave eyed the big man. He seemed genuinely surprised, but the man was evidently a good actor.

  “Who did it?” asked Edrick.

  Leslie held back a stray wisp of hair. “We don’t know, but we’ll find out, Mister Edrick.”

  “We?” Edrick glanced at Dave. “He throw in with you?”

  “He’s helping me until I can get more men.”

  Edrick scratched his jaw. “Lemme see. I can loan you a couple of the boys for a time. Always ready to help out. That’s Dan Edrick’s way, Miss Leslie.”

  “We’ll make out.”

  Shorty shifted in his saddle and grinned at Dave. “Limpy cut hisself into a nice deal,” he said.

  Dave colored. He moved the Spencer a little. “As Dan said earlier today, Shorty, you talk too damned much for a little man.”

  Shorty paled. His right hand dropped onto his thigh, near his Colt. Dave grinned. “Go ahead,” he said. “This morning you had three hombres to back your play, Shorty. Against an unarmed man. Go ahead. Draw that cutter. I’ll slide a slug up underneath your scaly hide so fast you’ll die wearing that damned grin of yours.”

  Shorty glanced uneasily at Mort. Mort kneed his horse away from the little man. “You been talking war,” he said, “don’t look to me for help. I think he can do it.”

  Dave looked steadily into the pale eyes of Shorty Ganoe. Shorty looked away. Edrick spat. “What happened to you since this morning, Yeamans? You were a hell of a lot less argumentative then.” Edrick cupped his chin in his right hand and glanced at Leslie and then back at Dave. “Sho?” he said, “I might have figgered that out.”

  Leslie Waite raised a slim hand. “What is it you want?” she asked.

  Edrick waved a hand to the south. “Me and the boys is making what you might call a routine check. I’d like to look at the stock in Cup Valley.”

  Leslie raised her chin. “Why do you ask me? You didn’t ask Dad when you sent Mick Ochoa there.”

  Edrick’s eyes were veiled. “He did find three Lazy E cows there, didn’t he?”

  “How many of our steers are in amongst yours?”

  Edrick smiled. “A few. No more. I’ll have the boys bring them over.”

  She leaned forward a little. “You can look at my stock, but Mr. Yeamans will go with you.”

  Shorty raised his eyes. “Mr. Yeamans,” he murmured.

  “I’ll get my cayuse,” said Dave.

  As Dave walked back to the corral he heard Edrick speak angrily. “You keep proddin’ that maverick, Shorty, and he’ll turn on you yet.”

  “I wish he would,” said the little man. “I sure wish he would!”

  Leslie called Dave aside as he returned. “Let them look all they want, Dave. Don’t start any trouble, but don’t let them start any either. Mack is a good man. He had already agreed to stand by Dad and me until this trouble was over.”

  Dave nodded as he sheathed his Spencer. “If anything serious happens you must ride down to Pebble Crick south of the canyon country. Ask for Captain Dwyre. He’ll help you. He has a company of cavalrymen bivouacked there.”

  She placed a hand on his arm. “Take anything from them rather than fight. Shorty Ganoe is a killer for all his smiling.”

  Dave doffed his battered gray hat. “I’ve done some killing myself, ma’am.” He looked into her eyes, and for the first time in six years he began to suspect he might have a real purpose in life, after all. He mounted Brazos. “See you later, Miss Leslie,” he said, and rode to join the three Lazy E men.

  Edrick set a fast pace down the valley. He waved a thick arm, encompassing the valley. “One of the best spots in the whole damned Mogollon country, Yeamans. Plenty water. Fine grass. Protected by them ridges. I can see where Miss Leslie would want to keep it. I tried to buy out Missus Pearce but she just wouldn’t do business with me.”

  Shorty rolled a smoke. “She never did like the Lazy E,” he said.

  Edrick scowled at the little man. “I was always a friend to them Pearces,” he said.

  “Shore. Shore.” Shorty grinned.

  After a two mile ride they reached a narrow opening between two rugged buttes. “Cup Valley,” said Dan. “Part of the Waite layout. Best place in these mountains for keeping stock.”

  The entrance wound in an S shape, rose up a slope, and opened out into a small valley, more of a box canyon, that was almost circular in shape. Cattle were scattered across the grassy floor. The sun glinted on a dammed pool fed by a winding stream. Smoke drifted up from a line shack set in a motte of pines. A man came out of the shack as they approached. “Mack Muir,” said Mort Hastings.

  Muir was a well-built man with a fine head of red hair. His blue eyes studied the horsemen. “Hello, Dan,” he said easily, “Mort. Shorty.”

  Edrick nodded. “This is Dave Yeamans. Working for Miss Waite.”

  “So? Miss Waite? She doing the hiring now?”

  Edrick leaned on his saddlehorn. “John was strung up in Shadow Valley this morning, or last night, by some unknowns.”

  Muir paled. “Not John!”

  “We’d like to get our hands on the killers. John never was no rustler.”

  “You’re damned right he wasn’t! You looking for the killers now?”

  Edrick shifted a little. “Not now. We got business here.”

  Muir’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing in here but Double W cows and a few of mine.”

  “We’ll look anyway. Go a
head, Shorty.”

  Shorty and Mort cantered off. Muir rested big hands on his hips. “Still running the show, eh, Dan?”

  Edrick held out his hands, palms upward. “Just a routine check, Mack.”

  “I’ve got coffee heating,” said Muir. “Come in and set a spell.”

  Dave followed Edrick into the shack and sat down. Muir filled the cups. “Leslie planning to stay on, Dan?”

  “Looks like it. I’ll buy her out any day.”

  “Yeh,” said Muir dryly, “I’ll just bet you will.”

  “What’s riling you?”

  Muir sat down. “Everything. I’ve lost thirty head of stock. Three of my boys quit last week. I’ve got two left. The way things are going I won’t have a vaquer? left. Who’s behind this rustling, Dan?”

  Edrick shrugged. “Half a dozen of us ranchers been combing these mountains asking questions. I’ve lost three hundred head. I’ve heard tell we’re up against some of them Mex rustlers from over in the Blue River country. But, we ain’t seen any of them.” He sipped his coffee. “Some say it’s the ‘Paches. But what the hell would ‘Paches do with all them cows? They ain’t stockmen. Besides, they’d rather eat a cayuse or sweet mule meat. Me and the boys scouted the whole northern end and only came up with Yeamans here. He ain’t nothin’ but an outlier, hunting for a living.”

  Muir glanced at Dave. “How come you suddenly settle down to work for Miss Leslie?”

  Edrick leaned forward. “Now ain’t that a helluva question to ask a goodlookin’ hombre like Yeamans when a fine looking filly like Miss Leslie, smooth in the flank and slender in the pasterns, who ain’t been roped yet, is all alone?”

  Muir reddened. Dave seemed to feel a subtle warning emanate from the rancher. Beneath the surface of the blue eyes was a hard icy core. “That true, Yeamans?” asked Muir.

  Dave shook his head, but the lie was in his teeth. “I was warned to stay around this country by our mutual friend, Mister Edrick. Claims he’ll send Mick Ochoa chousin’ after me if I pull out.”

  Edrick coughed. “Now that ain’t exactly true! I just said he’d watch you to make sure you ain’t mixed up in any sticky loopin’!”