Riding For The Brand: Sage Country Book Three Read online

  “Hell no, you can’t step down. What do you want?”

  “The roundup starts on Friday. I was wondering if you were going to be there.”

  “That’s none of your damn business.” Another one of the men spoke up.

  “Shut up, Carl. He’s talking to me.”

  “Shut up, your own self, Curt. I’ll talk to him if’n I want to.”

  I decided to carry on.

  “The reason I was asking is because I’m new around here and I just wanted to say ‘howdy’, before we start working cows.”

  “I heard the Murphy outfit got wiped out.” A different man spoke up.

  I nodded.

  “It nearly did. Sean Murphy and his wife are dead, but their children are safe. Murphy’s partner, a man named Kennemer, is somewhere around here.

  “Did you say, Kennemer, he any relation to Old Bill Kennemer?” The first man, Curt, asked.

  I nodded.

  “Himself.”

  “You’re saying Old Bill was Murphy’s partner?” The fourth man asked.

  “Yep, he still is. Listen, I told you my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “Well, step down, mister. I’m Curt. These sorry excuses are my brothers, Carl, Ken and Calvin. Folks call us the Cross brothers.”

  I had to smile, as I stepped off Dusty and shook hands with the rough and bearded men. It was evident none of them had bathed since…maybe ever.

  “You got any whisky, Sage?” Calvin asked.

  “No. I’m sorry, boys. I’m traveling light.”

  “Well then, how’re we sposed to have a drink, eh?” Kevin asked.

  Even out in the fresh air on the edge of the mountains, the smell of the four unwashed men was something terrible.

  “Shut up, Kevin. Go fetch a fresh bottle.” Curt said.

  “You shut up. We’re just funnin’ with him, Curt.”

  “Go fetch a bottle or I’ll be funnin’ with your ugly face.” Curt said.

  Kevin cut his eyes at me.

  “Lucky for you, we make our own ‘shine’, best corn likker you ever swallered.”

  He headed for the barn.

  Now, I don’t have much use for whiskey. On this occasion, I recognized these men were serious about their drinking. These were men who couldn’t trust a man who wouldn’t take a drink. I figured I could take a drink of their homemade and be on my way.

  I was wrong.

  I remember the way Dusty looked at me as I tried to climb up into the saddle an hour or two later. He’s much smarter than me, he remembered the way back to the Rocking M. I don’t even remember getting back.

  I woke up in a small pile of hay, on the floor of the barn. Dusty was still saddled. I’d managed to get his bridle off and left it hanging on the saddle horn. He looked at me like I’d let him down—which I had.

  I found the sunrise a bit too bright, and every movement caused me pain. I felt nearly sick to death as I unsaddled Dusty and turned him out into his corral.

  In the house, I splashed some water into the sink, washed up as best I could, then I fell onto my bed and slept for three or four hours.

  I woke up hungry, just before mid-day. I’d intended to ride out to the Flying W, but with the day half gone, I decided to spend the afternoon digging post holes for the fence line. It would do me good to sweat out the poisons.

  I vowed never to drink whiskey again.

  ***

  I hate barbed wire. I hate the fences. I miss the days when I could ride from Texas all the way to the frozen north, or west to the Pacific Ocean. As I was growing up with the Romani, we traveled far and wide, seldom bothered by fences. But, those days were gone now, and the Rocking M would have to be fenced.

  Dusty and I trotted out to the place where the fence had been started, but never finished. As we approached I saw three young men were hard at work putting in fence posts. I recognized them as being Ace Johnson’s boys from the Rafter J. I lifted my hat to set them at ease. Those boys had their rifles near to hand. They’d taken a wagon load of fence posts and dropped them off in a long continuous line that disappeared over a nearby hill.

  “Howdy, Mr. Tucker. Pa sent us over to get a jump start on this fence.” One of the young men said, as I rode up.

  “Looks to me like you’ve been at it for a spell, I sure do appreciate it.”

  I stepped off Dusty, took the neck rope out of my saddle bags, and after taking off his bridle I tied him to one of the standing posts with a clove hitch. As I was doing these things the youngster spoke up again.

  “Yes sir, we’ve been working since sun-up.”

  “You’re Toby, aren’t you? I remember you from yesterday.”

  “Yes sir. That’s my brother Fred over yonder, and Terry’s just beyond him.”

  “Pleasure,” I said. “Toby, I think it’s my turn to dig some holes. How’re you keeping a straight line?”

  “…Mostly dead reckoning. We take a look at a landmark and basically work a straight line toward it. We got us a length of string that’ll stretch out to about fifty feet. We take care to look both forward and back to keep the line as straight as possible. The way we’ve laid out the posts we’re pretty near true already. As we get closer, we pick another feature to work toward.

  We’ve been setting about three posts an hour, but I reckon we’ve slowed down some here lately. This ground through here is mostly rock. We’ve had to skip several posts in some places. After we stretch the wire, we’ll put in some posts with rocks piled around the base wherever we can’t put a post in the ground. It ain’t pretty, but it’ll hold cattle.”

  “How far is it to the corner of your fence?”

  “I figure it’s near half a mile. It’ll feel like ten miles, though.”

  I nodded my understanding.

  “Well then, let’s get to it.”

  18.

  At the end of the day, my shoulder wound was aching. Actually, I was tired and sore all over. My hands were stiff and nearly blistered. I’d only worked half a day, and if I hadn’t been wearing gloves, I would’ve been in trouble. It’s funny how soft we can get when we don’t work hard every day. Those Johnson boys, on the other hand, had worked like full grown men, from sun-up till the sun went behind the mountains, without much complaint.

  Compared to the daily life of a working rancher, life in the city of Bear Creek had made me soft. Of course, I had to allow for the fact I’d been nearly killed a few weeks back. I was just starting to regain my strength. I figured the roundup was probably going to be pretty taxing.

  It was full dark by the time Dusty and I got back to the ranch headquarters under Yellow Butte, now bathed in moonlight. I pulled up short. There were lamps lit inside the house!

  I eased off Dusty and left him ground tied by the creek, as I crept up to the house. The shades were all drawn, so I couldn’t see inside. I didn’t like this. Someone was waiting for me, but who?

  I circled wide, away from the house, toward the barn. There in the pen where I’d been keeping Dusty, I found the spotted Appaloosa horse I’d seen Old Bill Kennemer riding. If I had to have a house guest, I figured he’s do.

  I turned and started across the yard toward the back porch.

  “Pleasant evenin’ ain’t it?” A voice called out from the porch.

  I froze in my tracks.

  Old Bill Kennemer was sitting on the bench outside the back door. He was hidden in the dark between two windows glowing from the lamps inside. I couldn’t see him, but he’d been watching me.

  “Yep, it’s starting to cool off, though.” I said.

  “I’ve got some steaks and taters cooked up inside. Reckon you’re hungry. Best come on in and eat.”

  “Thank you. That’ll be as welcome as the rainbow after a thunderstorm.”

  Old Bill stood up and opened the back door. The light from inside revealed he was still wearing his sombrero and had the Sharps Creedmoor rifle cradled in his arm.

  Inside, he kept his rifle but hung his hat down his back with t
he stampede string holding it in place.

  “Go wash up, Sage. I’ll fetch your horse from where you left him down by the creek. He’ll be wantin’ some victuals hisself. There’s fresh coffee, if’n you want it.”

  I pumped water into the sink, and that cold water on my hands and face sure felt good. I scrubbed up as best I could, then swung over to the stove to investigate the good smelling source of onions, potatoes and beef steak coming from that location.

  Old Bill came back inside.

  “Smart, leaving your horse by the creek. You near snuck up on my Appaloosa in the gloom. You’re a careful man.” He said, as he set his rifle down, leaning it against the wall by the back door.

  “I promised my wife I would be, but I reckon I’m still not as careful as you.”

  He grinned at me, his dark face turning into all lines and creases under his long white hair.

  “I’ve had me more practice, the reason why I ain’t pushing up daisies.”

  I shrugged, conceding the point.

  “How long had you been sitting out there?”

  “Oh, not long, I reckon.”

  “How did you know I’d be coming back here?”

  “I seen you out with them young fellers. It was late in the day, so I figured you’d be along, directly. I came on in, and rustled us up some grub. Let’s eat.”

  “You bet, my belly button’s rubbing against my backbone. How’d you come to have beef steaks?

  Bill grinned and winked.

  “This afternoon, I found a steer with a Bar C Bar brand. It’d just been shot.”

  I figured he was the man who shot it, but I wasn’t above eating a good steak.

  As we ate, I told him about what I’d learned and seen since we’d met in Buttercup. After a while it dawned on me I was doing all the talking.

  “What have you been up to these last couple of days? Will you be joining us at the roundup, tomorrow?”

  Old Bill nodded, thoughtfully. He began to pack tobacco into his pipe.

  “I’ll bed down here, tonight. Tomorrow I’ll help you gather and move the cattle on this spread, but I’ll drop out before we get to the big roundup. I don’t care for crowds. I’ll be around though. I’m thinking I might stay on here, if’n it’s alright with you.”

  “This ranch is half yours, Bill. You’ve more right to be here than I do.”

  He popped a match and lit his pipe.

  “Rightee-o then, let’s clear up these dishes and get some shut-eye.”

  Stretched out in my bedroll, I reflected on the day and took some thought for the morrow. I couldn’t be sure what would happen at the roundup. My plan was to ride in with Ace Johnson and three of his sons, pushing the cattle we picked up along the way. When we showed up, I intended to claim I was riding for the Rocking M. It was unclear how the sudden appearance of someone claiming to represent the Murphy Ranch would be received.

  I didn’t fully understand where Old Bill Kennemer fit in to the picture. He was a hard man to read. He seemed more interested in getting whoever had killed Sean Murphy than he was in the ranch itself, but he didn’t seem very pleased with my presence on the scene.

  I reminded myself of the admonition not to worry about tomorrow-“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” I knew God had a plan and whatever it was, it would be good enough.

  With that final thought, I drifted off to sleep.

  ***

  I woke up before dawn, awakened by the sound of Old Bill getting dressed. I met him in the kitchen. While he was slicing bacon for our breakfast I threw some wood on the coals in the stove and got the fire going. When I had the fire well lit, I filled the coffee pot and set it on the stove.

  We were saddling our horses in the early light of day, when we heard riders approaching. Bill took his rifle and disappeared back into the dark of the barn. I pulled my rifle out of the scabbard and waited to see who was riding in.

  “Hello, the house!” Ace called, as he and three of his older sons pulled up near the back porch.

  “Hello, to you.” I said. I stepped out from Dusty’s off side, placing myself directly behind the riders from the Rafter J.

  The four men jumped a little, each showing his surprise.

  “Morning, John. Are you expecting trouble?” Ace asked. He and the others turned their horses to face me where I stood with my rifle cradled in my arm.

  “Yep, usually. You boys want to step down and drink some coffee before we get started?”

  The young men looked like they thought it was be a pretty good idea, but Ace shook his head.

  “Naw, we’ve had breakfast and I figure we should get after it.”

  Old Bill stepped into the light, easing up beside me.

  “Howdy.” Ace said.

  “Howdy do.” Old Bill replied, with a nod.

  “You fellers look like you’re ready for a fight, which might be a good thing, but are you ready to work cattle?” Ace asked.

  “We are” I said.” Ace Johnson, shake hands with R.W. Kennemer.”

  After the introductions were made and everybody had a chance to get the measure of each other, Bill and I mounted up.

  “We found twenty four head between here and our place.” Ace said. “We pushed them to the edge of the creek. If we spread out from here, we can gather them and whatever else we find on our way to Haystack Rock, where the roundup meets.”

  “Sounds good to me” I said.

  “I’ll ride along with you for a spell, but I won’t go all the way to Haystack Rock. I expect the five of you can manage without me.” Old Bill said.

  I looked over at him and asked, “Where you headed?”

  He made a forward motion with his hand, ending in a vague gesture.

  “Over yonder. I’ll be close if you need me.”

  The roundup ~ trouble brewing, trouble on the ground

  19.

  As usual, when a large herd is gathered, we heard the cattle before we saw them. The five of us were pushing one hundred and three head of cows, calves, and steers we’d gathered up along the way. It took me back to when I’d first seen the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains. I was on a horse back then too, pushing more than a thousand head of cattle from Texas toward Wyoming. My friend Yellowhorse and I were working for Charlie Goodnight in those days. I had to smile. More than twenty years later, here I was pushing cattle again.

  As we approached Haystack Rock, rather than take the long way around, we chose to go over the back of a smallish butte. From the top of the rise we had a good view of the flats where the herd was being held. Below us there were hundreds of cattle milling about. These were all range cattle of mixed breed. Most of the cows had calves, some a few weeks old, others born more recently.

  Over at the base of Haystack Rock, a cow camp had been set up. Some wagons had been pulled into a circle on the edge of a stand of pinõn and scrub pine. In the center of the circle a mixed batch of tables and chairs had been assembled under a big tent cover. Between here and there, spread out around the edges of the herd, were about a dozen mounted men holding the cattle together on the flats. A small creek meandered through the middle of the herd.

  As we started our bunch down the slope, a couple of riders peeled away from the larger herd and split up to help us ease our cattle into the bigger group. Once that was accomplished one of the riders trotted up beside me and Ace Johnson.

  “Mornin’ Mr. Johnson. Who’s this feller?” The rider asked, looking me over.

  “Mornin’ Ed. Shake hands with John, here. He’s repping for the Rocking M.”

  The man showed a sudden interest as he reached over and shook my offered hand.

  “Ed Baxter, Mr…I didn’t catch your last name.” He said, giving me a sharp look.

  “You can call me John. All my friends do.”

  “OK, John. I’m the foreman for the Bar C Bar. I heard someone was claiming to represent the Murphy outfit, but the story I heard was the Rocking M is abandoned.”

  “Nope. A couple of the ow
ners shifted into town, but I represent them. The other owner is here in the area.”

  “Other owner? I thought Murphy was the sole proprietor.”

  “Nope. He had a partner.”

  “Who’s the partner?” He asked, clearly surprised by the whole conversation.

  “Now, that isn’t really any of your business. Is it, Ed?”

  His gaze wandered away toward the snow-capped peaks. Ed pulled his hat off and wiped the sweat band with his bandana. He pulled it back on and looked over at me.

  “No. I reckon not. You might want to think about keeping that bit of information to yourself. My boss is a mighty nosey man. All he needs to know is you’re riding for the Rocking M. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Seeing this exchange, Ace spoke up.

  “Where do you stand in all this, Ed? Seems to me you’re a reasonable man.”

  Ed shook his head.

  “There’s trouble brewing. I want no part of it, but I ride for the brand.” He looked at me again. “Same as you, John.”

  He turned his horse and trotted back to the edge of the herd.

  “What do you make of that?” Ace asked.

  “He’s some worried. Ed knows he’s thrown in with the wrong outfit, but he can’t back up. Not that kind of man.” I said.

  He gave me a look.

  “I expect you aint either.”

  “Nope. Got no backup in me. It drives my wife crazy.”

  “Then he was right. There will be trouble.”

  “I won’t start it, but if it comes my way, I aim to finish it. What do you say we check out the camp and figure what to do next?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  ***

  At the Johnson wagon, Ace’s daughters had a cook fire going with coffee on, so we all climbed down to get a cup. I looked over the set up. Each ranch had their own little area for cooking and bedding down by their wagon. Most were just buckboards or freight wagons they used every day on the ranch. I wished there was a real chuckwagon like Charlie Goodnight had built. Still, the Johnsons had a chuckbox on their wagon, outfitted as a mobile pantry and field kitchen. Those girls sure knew how to use it.