Running Irons (8 page)

“Just hold everything!” snapped Ella Watson, stepping forward but keeping out of line of fire. “Ed put up your gun right now.” Not until Wren obeyed her order did she turn her eyes to Danny and continue, “And you, cowboy, if you know what’s good for you. I know Clyde there acted a
mite hot-headed and foolish, but he
is
the sheriff’s nephew.”

From the woman’s tone, Danny could not decide if she gave warning that the sheriff bore strong family ties and would strenuously object to his nephew going home with a .44 caliber hole in his stomach; or that she merely figured any relation of the sheriff could not help acting foolishly. However, Danny reckoned he had made his point and could rely on the woman to prevent any further need of his Colt. Wren had already returned his gun to the sash, so Danny lowered the Colt’s hammer on to a safety notch between two of the cylinder’s cap-nipples and spun the gun into its holster. Instantly the deputy let out a snarl and reached toward his off-side Colt. Ella Watson stepped between Danny and the deputy, standing squarely in front of the young Ranger and glaring down at the deputy.

“Now that’s enough, Clyde. You asked for what you got and if you want to take in the cowhand under arrest, I’ll send for Dean Soskice to act for him.”

Just who the hell Dean Soskice might be Danny did not know; but the name appeared to have a mighty steadying effect on the deputy. With a menacing scowl, the deputy took his hand from his gun and rose to his feet. Once again he jerked his thumb toward the door.

“You’re still wanted down at the jail,” he said.

“Why sure,” Danny replied. “I’ll come right now. My drink’s gone now, anyways.”

“I’ll come with you, Danny,” grinned Tommy, eyeing his new acquaintance with frank admiration. “The boss said for both of us to go along. See you after we’ve done, honey.”

“I’ll be here,” Mousey promised.

“After you, deputy,” drawled Danny as they reached the door. “I was raised all polite and proper.”

Still scowling, but with none of the cocky swagger which marked his entrance, the deputy preceded the others from the saloon. Ella Watson watched them go and returned to the gunhand’s side.

“Well?” she asked.

“Naw. It’s not him. That kid’s not better than fair with a gun and Dusty Fog’s a whole heap faster. Still he looks a whole heap like Fog, except that he’s some smaller and not so hefty built.”

Watching the gunhand reach up and finger the bullet-scar, Ella Watson felt relieved. A man did not soon forget the feller who marked him in such a manner and licked him to the draw—Ella discounted Wren’s story that Dusty Fog shot him from behind—and it came as a relief to know the newcomer was not the Rio Hondo gun wizard.

“I hope that fool Simmonds handles things better than his nephew did,” she said. “I’d like to
know more about that cowhand. If he’s safe, he’s just what we want, brash, looks like he needs money—and not too good with a gun.”

Clyde Bucksteed did not speak to Danny and Tommy as they walked toward the sheriff’s office, nor did he follow them as would a deputy taking in a couple of suspects. Instead he walked before them, conscious that most of the folks who saw the procession knew where he should be if bringing the two in and not merely running a message for his uncle. Already the bodies had been taken from the street, but a few folks hung around in the hope of fresh developments, enough to make sure the story of Clyde’s failure to control the cowhands be broadcast around the town.

“Who-all’s this Dean Soskice?” Danny asked of Tommy.

“A law wrangler. Not a bad jasper though. Talks real fancy and gets us boys out of trouble should we take on too wild and rowdy comes pay day. He sure has old Farley Simmonds buffaloed. Wouldn’t be surprised if Dean’s not in there right now.”

Knowing the cowhands’ usual contempt for law wranglers, Danny looked forward to meeting this Dean Soskice who buffaloed the county sheriff. On entering the sheriff’s office, Danny found his wish granted. Not only was the sheriff-buffaloing law wrangler present, but Danny also found himself
face to face with the remainder of the Caspar County law.

Simmonds proved to be a florid-featured, sullen-looking man, run to fat and with an air of lassitude about him. For all that he dressed well and looked a whole heap more prosperous than he should. Unlike his range-dressed nephew, Simmonds wore town-style clothing and sported a gunbelt from which he must be able to draw the fancy-looking Prescott Navy revolver in no less than three seconds starting with a hand on its butt.

Although not one to judge by first appearances, Danny decided that he did not care for Caspar County’s law-enforcement officers. With Simmonds and his nephew running the sheriff’s office, Danny could well imagine that the county would be full of cow thieves. In fact, he felt considerably surprised that Caspar County did not serve as a haven for more types of outlaws. From what Danny could see, any help he might require locally would not come from the sheriff’s office and he doubted if the secret of his identity would remain a secret for long should he take either Simmonds or the deputy into his confidence.

From Simmonds, Danny turned his attention to the other two occupants of the room. Jerome sat by the sheriff’s desk, chewing on the end of a thick black cigar and looking mean as hell. The other
man caught Danny’s main attention, being the lawyer who buffaloed sheriffs.

Even with the type of man Danny figured the sheriff to be, the young Ranger could hardly believe that he would allow Dean Soskice to bother him. Soskice proved to be a tall, slim young man with long, shaggy brown hair, a pallid, slightly surly face and an air of condescending superiority about him; dressed in an Eastern-style suit, shirt and necktie, none of which showed any signs of lavish attention having been spent on them. As far as Danny could see, Soskice did not wear a gun and in Texas at that period seeing an unarmed man was even rarer than finding one walking the street without his pants. Nothing about the lawyer told Danny how he managed to buffalo Sheriff Simmonds and Danny reckoned it might be worthwhile to try to find out the reason.

“You’re the young feller as found the bodies,” Simmonds stated in a ripe, woolly politician’s voice, then he turned his eyes to his nephew. “Say, Clyde, boy, how come you’re all wet?”

“He threw beer over me,” Clyde answered sullenly.

“Now why’d he do a thing like that?” asked the sheriff and swivelled his gaze back to Danny. “You hear me, boy. Why for’d you do that?”

“Feller caught me arm, pulled me around,” Danny answered. “Next dang thing I knowed,
there he was with my beer all down his fancy shirt front.”

Low mutters left Clyde’s lips and Soskice moved forward. “If there’s a complaint being sworn out against you, cowboy, I’d advise you to tell the truth,” the lawyer said, his voice that of an educated Northerner.

“You got a complaint against the feller, Clyde?” the sheriff inquired. “I only telled you to fetch him down here for a talk.”

Anger and resentment smoldered in Clyde’s eyes as he studied the lawyer’s mocking face. However, Clyde recalled other occasions when he had tangled with Soskice on a legal matter and been sadly beaten in verbal exchanges. Soskice knew every aspect of the law as it pertained to working to the advantage of the one Clyde figured on arresting and used that knowledge to build a sizeable following among the cowhands, most of whom had a hefty antipathy toward the peace officers who often interfered with their fun.

“I got no complaint,” Clyde finally muttered, knowing Soskice would worm the cowhand out of trouble should he try to make a complaint stick. “The cowhand got me all wrong.”

“You’d best tell the sheriff your side of this business, Danny,” Jerome remarked. “I’ve told him the way I saw things and he wants to hear what you’ve got to say about it.”

Just in time Danny prevented himself from delivering the story like a lawman making his report. Instead he told what led up to his discovery of the bodies and left out his own conclusions on the affair.

“Just come on ’em, huh?” grunted Simmonds at last. “Where’d you come from and why’d you come here?”

“Come up from Austin last and happened by this way looking for work.”

“Been working in Austin?”

“Nope. Just wanted to see what the big city looked like.”

“Where’d you work last?” Clyde asked.

“That’s a good question,” drawled Simmonds. “Only let me ask ’em, Clyde.”

“Sure, Uncle Farley,” was the sullen reply.

“Boy’s a mite eager, but he’s got a good point,” the sheriff went on. “Where did you work last?”

“For the Tumbling D, that’s Joe Dudley’s place down to Ysaleta,” Danny answered, giving one of the places Murat named as references.

“And your name’s Danny Forgrave?”

“Allus has been,” Danny answered.

“It’s not a summer name then?” Clyde remarked.

When a man did not wish to give his correct name out West, folks rarely pressed the matter. About the closest one came to doubting the speaker’s claim was to inquire whether the title
given be a summer name, one taken on the spur of the moment and as a temporary measure.

“Summer and winter both,
hombre!
” Danny growled.

“Danny’s working for me,” Jerome put in. “You’ll find him around the spread if you’re not satisfied with his story. Now what’re you fixing to do about this cow stealing, Farley?”

“Doing all I can, Buck. Only the county don’t pay me well enough to hire more help.”

“Then send for the Rangers.”

“I wrote a couple of weeks back, but I never heard nothing back,” answered the sheriff.

Which, although he did not intend to mention the fact, Danny knew to be a lie. No request for aid sent by a sheriff was ever passed up by the Rangers and his company had received no letter from Simmonds.

“Well, you’d best do something,” growled Jerome, “otherwise I’m going to.”

“I thought this business today showed you what happened when folk take the law into their own hands,” remarked Soskice. “Crither’s attempt hasn’t been any too successful, has it?”

“I won’t be doing it by using a hired killer,” Jerome answered, coming to his feet. “Let’s go, boys.”

After watching Jerome, Danny and Tommy depart, Simmonds gave a grunt. “Buck sounds a mite peeved. He’s no fool either and as tough as they
come. I sure hope them cow thieves hold off for a spell.”

“How about that new cowhand?” asked Soskice.

“His story sounded all right to me,” the sheriff replied.

“Why not telegraph Ysaleta and check up on him?” the lawyer suggested. “And don’t look so pained, the county will pay.”

“Yeah, likely it will,” Simmonds admitted. “Clyde, you go down to the telegraph office and send a message to the sheriff at Ysaleta, ask him what he knows about a feller called Danny Forgrave. The answer might make interesting reading.”

“I
DON’T RECKON HE’LL DO A DAMN LOT FOR US
,” Jerome growled as he left the sheriff’s office with Danny and Tommy. “Not unless the cow thieves start branding the stuff out on Main Street.”

“Why’d you elect him then?” Danny asked.

“Damned if I know,” the rancher admitted. “This’s a poor county and there were few enough who wanted to take on the office. Being sheriff’s a thankless chore and don’t pay more than eating money. Reckon Farley looked about the best of a bad bunch at election time. Let’s go grab a meal at the Bon Ton, then take a drink afore we ride out to the spread.”

“How about Sammy and Pike?” asked Tommy.

“I’ll see about their burying afore we pull out,” Jerome promised.

“I mean what’re you fixing in to do about them getting burned down that way, boss,” growled the youngster. “We ought to see the Forked C bunch and——”

“I’ll be seeing Vic Crither,” the rancher promised.

“It was through him that they got made wolf bait!”

“Choke off that talk, boy!” Jerome warned. “Vic handled things the way he saw them and he sure as hell didn’t tell Gooch to prowl our range.”

“He ought to be——!” Tommy began hotly.

“Simmer down, boy,” Jerome said quietly. “Vic made a mistake in bringing Gooch in, but he never sent that bounty-hunting skunk on to our range, or told him to gun boys down like that.”

“Sammy and Pike were my pards——”

“I know. And they were good boys, too, even if they did go out with running irons by them. But it won’t bring them back to start a shooting fuss with the Forked C. All that’ll do is get more folks killed. We’ll get the same as is happening up in Shelby County and while we’re fussing the cow thieves’ll steal us blind.”

“You’re right in that, boss,” Danny put in. “I’ve seen a county that’s been torn apart by a range war. The buzzards were the only ones to profit by it.”

Jerome looked at Danny with interest. Knowing cowhands, the rancher had not expected support from that quarter. There was something puzzling about the tall blond stranger. Sure he looked and acted like a drifting cowhand, a wild, irresponsible young cuss no different from thousands of others who followed the longhorn trade. Yet he seemed capable of thought; the question about why Simmonds was elected sheriff proved that; and now he talked sense and peace instead of reaching for a gun and panting for war. It said much for Danny’s acting ability that he had so far managed his true nature and played a part well enough to fool so shrewd a man as the rancher.

“Just you listen to Danny, Tommy,” Jerome grunted. “It’s the first time I ever heard a cowhand say anything that made sense—and I’ve been one. Let’s go eat a bite.”

While walking toward the Bon Ton Café, leading their horses, the three men saw a bunch of riders entering town. The newcomers came fast, making a fair racket and all showing signs of being in high spirits.

“Rafter O’s coming in,” Tommy remarked. “Hey, that must be their mean ole bay Joey Jones’s leading.”

“What’s so special about the bay?” Danny asked, studying the riderless horse led by one of the approaching cowhands. It was a fifteen hand,
light washy bay animal with a roman nose, little pin ears crimped at the tips and pig eyes, with the general air of a mean one about it.

“Nobody’s ever rode it,” Tommy explained. “So Rafter O do tell.”

“Never yet been a hoss as couldn’t be rode,” Danny stated.

“And never a cowhand as couldn’t be throwed,” Jerome countered. “If you’re fixing to take that bay on, don’t. I saw it one time at Rafter O. It’s a suicide bucker and how it’s not killed its fool self, or some danged fool rider, I’ll never know.”

With that the rancher led the way to the Bon Ton where they left the horses at the rail and entered the room to sit at a table by the door. Even as they ordered a meal, a group of the Rafter O men entered and came toward the Jerome table. Danny figured the stocky man in the lead to be boss of the outfit and his guess proved to be correct.

“Howdy, Wally,” Jerome greeted.

“Hi, Buck,” replied Wally Stirton. “How’s things?”

“Could be better.”

“They always could. Losing much stock?”

“Lost more than that,” Jerome said, knowing the story would come out sooner or later. “Gooch cut down Sammy and Pike last night.”

Silence fell on the group of cowhands at the words. While there might be considerable rivalry
between the different ranches, most of the hands felt a certain kinship to their fellow workers, especially when one found himself in difficulties. Gooch had never been liked by the free-and-easy cowhands and it might have gone hard for him if he did not already lie dead at the undertaker’s shop.

“Where’s Gooch at now?” asked one of the Rafter O hands coldly.

“Taking a rest on a slab at Gustavson’s,” Jerome answered.

“I figured he’d get around to doing it sooner or later,” grunted the speaker, for Gustavson was the local undertaker.

“Who got him?” Stirton inquired.

“That’s what we don’t know,” admitted Jerome and told the listening men of his findings on the range.

Knowing cowhands, Jerome figured he had best tell all he knew rather than wait until rumors spread across the range and stirred up bitterness. He did not hide anything, even the fact that his two men had been using running irons when cut down, nor did he excuse Gooch’s act on those grounds. Angry mutters rose among the listening men, but all were directed at Gooch and not the bounty hunter’s employer.

Danny took advantage of Jerome’s speech to study the Rafter O hands. Six in number, they
looked like any other bunch of cowhands one might find working on a Texas spread. Three of the six looked to be around Tommy’s age and appeared to be badly shaken by what they heard. Danny decided to cultivate the trio in the hope of learning something.

The food came and Danny ate well after a couple of days on his own fixings. When finished, he returned to the Cattle Queen with Jerome and Tommy, after tending to their horses. Already the hitching rail showed a fair crowd inside and on entering the bar room Danny saw that business had picked up. Jerome left the younger men to join a group of prosperous-looking citizens gathered at a side table. For a moment Tommy stood looking around, then led Danny to where Mousey sat with the big buxom brunette.

“Hi, honey,” Tommy greeted. “Where-at’s Dora?”

“Upstairs,” Mousey replied. “She’s taking it bad about Sammy.”

“She would be,” Tommy said sympathetically. “Can I see her?”

Watching the big brunette, Danny thought he saw a smile flicker across her face at the words. Then the expression went as the brunette looked at Tommy and answered. “I don’t reckon so. The doctor’s been and gave her something to make her sleep. She’s took it bad, even if it don’t show. Us girls learn to hide our feelings, don’t we, Mousey?”

“I know you do, Maisie,” the little blonde replied.

“Well, unless one of you boys want to buy a gal a drink, I’ll get back to work,” the brunette said.

“Call up a waiter, ma’am,” Danny drawled. “I’ll get them in.”

“No beer for me, handsome,” Maisie grinned, nodding to a passing waiter. “I like it, but it sure don’t like my figure.”

“Wine for the ladies,” Danny ordered, with the air of a man who wanted folks to assume he had been around. “And fetch a bottle of Stump Blaster for us.”

“That’s what I like,” grinned Maisie. “A big spender.”

“Can’t think of a better way to get rid of money, Maisie, gal,” Danny replied.

As Danny spoke, he saw Ella Watson passing. The saloonkeeper’s eyes came to him and studied him in a calculating manner. From the way she looked, Danny figured he interested her and so aimed to keep on with his role of a reckless young cuss who might be open to offers of making easy money over and above his pay.

“When we’ve had a drink,” he went on, “what say we go over and buck the tiger for a whirl.”

“Not me,” Tommy answered. “Pay day’s too far off and I’m saving my money.”

“They’re fixing in to get married, settle a lil
piece of land and raise kids and cattle, Danny,” Maisie explained with a grin, seeing Ella nod toward Danny.

A red flush crept into Mousey’s cheeks and she gasped, “How you do go on, Maisie.”

“Shucks,” Danny grinned. “Marriage’s real wonderful. Fact being, I don’t reckon any family should be without it.”

Maisie laughed with a professional entertainer’s heartiness. Having caught her boss’s signal and read its meaning correctly, she proceeded to pour out some of the wine brought by the waiter and also to study Danny with careful attention to detail. Before she could reach any conclusions, the Rafter O arrived from the Bon Ton. Halting at the door, the hands looked around the room, their eyes coming to rest on Danny’s party. The tallest of the Rafter O group nudged the shortest, nodded in Danny’s direction and the whole bunch trouped across the floor, their boss leaving them to join the same group Jerome sat among.

“I tell you, Chuck,” the tallest hand announced in a carrying voice, “that ole bay’s so mean the boss’ll never sell it to Bench J.”

“Reckon not, Lanky,” the shortest of the party answered. “There wouldn’t be nobody at Bench J could ride him.”

“I’d bet on that,” grinned Lanky.

“How much and what odds?”

All the Rafter O men looked at Danny as he spoke up. Trying to appear as if they had not meant their words to carry to the Bench J’s ears, the Rafter O’s exchanged glances.

“Did he mean us?” Lanky asked.

“I sure hope he didn’t,” a red-headed youngster called, with a surprising lack of originality, Red, replied.

“Figure he asked us something,” Chuck drawled. “Only does he mean it?”

Coming to his feet and ignoring Tommy’s warning glances, Danny dipped a hand into his pocket.

“Do you Rafter O’s talk with your money or only your mouths. I said how much do you bet and what odds do you give that I ride the bay?”

“He wants to bet, Chuck,” Lanky stated soberly.

“Nope,” Danny corrected. “I want to bet money. He’d be no use to me when I won him.”

Grins came to the Rafter O faces and cowhands took a liking to Danny. The attempt at getting him to ride the bay was in the nature of a try-out, to see if the newcomer had what it took to make a hand. Whenever Rafter O came into town, their boss specializing in horses more than cattle, they brought along a good bucker in the hope of finding somebody game enough—or fool enough—to ride it.

Everybody’s attention came to the table, even the gamblers holding up their games, for the Rafter
O’s reputation in such matters was common knowledge and the crowd eagerly awaited developments. If the blond stranger accepted the challenge, and he appeared to have done so, they ought to see some sport.

“Come on, Rafter O,” Danny continued after a few seconds. “Make your bet, or set up the drinks.”

“We’ll give you two to one and take up to sixty dollars,” Chuck answered after a brief consultation with his friends. “If you want to go that high.”

“Bet!” Danny said loudly and started walking toward the door. “I’ll get my saddle. Where’d you want me to ride him, in here?”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Ella Watson interrupted, coming forward. “I’ve an empty corral outside, use that.”

Without giving anybody the chance to request that he showed his money, Danny headed for the door and Tommy followed on his heels with Mousey at his side. They went by the front door, but the rest of the crowd headed out at the rear to form up around the big pole corral.

Danny collected his saddle, stripping off the rope, rifle boot and all other extras ready for what he knew would be a hard, gruelling ride. With that done, he took off his gunbelt and handed it to Tommy.

“You watch that hoss, Danny,” Tommy warned. “If Rafter O’s betting cash money on him, they sure don’t aim to lose.”

“Nor me,” grinned Danny. “Boy, you, me’n’ lil Mousey here’ll sure have us a time on what we’ve won.”

Together they walked around the side of the building and toward the corral at the rear. Danny watched Chuck lead up the bay, noting that it appeared to be quiet enough and followed without trouble. Not that he felt surprised for a blindfold covered the horse’s eyes, and he knew that even a bad outlaw learned the futility of fighting a rope. The bay did not fight having a saddle put on it, but Danny noted the way its ears flattened down and its muscles quivered. That horse as sure as hell did not intend to be ridden by any man.

Like most Texans, Danny had ridden horses almost as long as he could walk. Following his elder brother’s lead, Danny took to riding bad ones and became adept at it before he decided the old saying, “A bronc buster’s a man with a heavy seat and a light head” had a whole lot of truth and so gave up his ambition of becoming a well-known rider of unmanageable horses. However, a man out West often needed to trim the bed-springs out of a horse or two and Danny had never lost the ability to stay afork a snuffy one. He reckoned he ought to be able to handle the bay unless it proved something really exceptional.

With his health, and wealth, at stake, Danny took no chances. He attended to saddling the horse himself. The spectators noted the care he took in the saddling and nodded their approval.

“No you don’t,” Danny growled as the horse blew itself out. Bringing up his knee, he rammed it into the animal’s ribs and forced a hurried blowing out of the air sucked into the bay’s lungs. This reduced the swollen rib-cage to its normal size before the cinches drew tight. If Danny had missed the trick, he would have tightened the cinches on the swollen body and when the bay blew out the air, the saddle was left loose. However, he had seen and countered the move and the saddling went to its completion.

“Are you set to make a start, Danny?” Chuck called, having learned the challenger’s name from Maisie.

“Yep,” Danny answered and swung into the saddle. Feeling the bay quiver under him, he knew a hard fight lay ahead. “Lord,” he thought, “If I get all stove up, Cap’n Jules’ll peel the hide off me.”

Yet Danny did not ride the horse out of sheer bravado or a desire to grandstand. He wanted to further establish his assumed character in Ella Watson’s eyes and knew that if he should be injured riding the horse, Murat would understand his motives.