Slaughter's way (11 page)

"And there won't be," Chisum promised, then a grin split his face; but for once it was a grin of genuine amusement and even reached his eyes. "Don't reckon you'd care to give me a power-of-attomey note to gather any of yoru' stock I come across, would you?"

"Nope," Slaughter repHed dryly. *Tou're not getting the hundred head back out of me that way."

PART 2

Bitter-Creek Gallagker's Head Tax Toll

Three thousand head of longhorned, half-wild Texas catde moved slowly through the bottom lands of the Devil River country of New Mexico, heading for Fort McClellan down by the Mexican border just beyond the Arizona line. They stretched back over a full mile, not held bunched together but allowed to make their own pace and graze as they went.

In the lead, between the two point riders, came Big Bill the lead bull and the only beef critter in the herd not doomed to become some Apache's dinner; the rest of the herd being used to feed reservation Indians on arrival. Big Bill was huge, black and had a six-foot span of horns he was full willing to use on anybody or anything that riled him. The willingness to fight made Big Bill an invaluable herd leader—he had already led three drives—and any critter fool enough to challenge his rule woimd up as beef stew for the trail crew.

Behind the point, the first third of the herd was handled by the swing men, the next third came under the care of the flank riders, while the remainder was watched over by the drag hands.

Eighteen men, including the segundo, Tex Biuton, rode the herd. Every one of the crew was a tough, salty and eflBcient cowhand who knew his work from soda to hock, including the drag riders, for it was not Slaughter s way to hire any other Idnd. The herd belonged to Texas John Slaughter. His hands rode swing, flank and drag turn-about, as opposed to some ranchers' method of hiring cheap, poor-quality men to handle the drag.

Following the herd came the remuda, the spare horses used by the trail hands and watched over by a

youngster learning the cowhand trade from the bottom and performing the menial horse-herding task until in the fullness of time he, in the words of the crew, made a hand.

Paralleling the herd on its right flank came the trail hands' mobile home, in the shape of two wagons puUed by four mules each and containing all those sons-of-the-saddle needed to live out their spell of riding on a cattle drive.

The bed wagon traveled in the rear position, driven by Hop Tow, a small, serious young Chinaman learning the camp-cook's trade by serving in the capacity of, helper; or assistant to people less cultural than cowhands. The bed wagon carried the trail hands' bedding, saving weight on the backs of the hard-worked horses, spare saddlery, an anvil, horse-shoeing gear and a keg of good-enou^s,* along with other equipment which might be needed on the drive. Among all this, swinging in a hammock with the ease of a saSor, Insomny Sam, the nighthawk, caught up on his sleep during the day so as to be alert and wakeful while he handled the remuda in the dark hours.

As became its importance to the herd, the chuck wagon preceded the bed wagon and was driven by Coonskin, Slaughter's cook. Driven might be too expansive a term, for the fat, jovial Negro had his mule team so well trained that they would stay alongside the herd, without needing a guiding hand on the ribbons, come rain, snow, heat or blow. Which same allowed the cook to strum on his banjo and give out with song to the pleasure of aU who heard him.

Coonskin was singing that early afternoon as the herd moved along at an easy pace.

**If he says to you, *Git out of town," You'd best do what he say, 'Cause he don't ask no second time, For that ain't Slaughter s way."

**01e Coonskin sure sings elegant," drawled Tex Fiuton, easing his medium-size, stocky length in his

^Good-enoughs: Ready-made horseshoes used for temporary re^ placements on the trail,

low-homed double-girthed Texas saddle. He did not ease or set right his holster, or make sure the walnut-handled Colt Artillery Peacemaker rode loose, for the gun-belt hung just right. In fact any gunbelt which needed such attention after once being strapped on in the morning was a liability, not an asset to its wearer.

"Siu-e does," grunted Talking Bill, so called because he could manage to say less than most folks about any subject iHider the sun.

"^And he's just right in what he says about Texas

John/' Tex went on. While he was not a wild character imself, he always found himself jawing more than usual while riding point with Talking Bill. "Wonder what John aims to do about that Bitter-Creek Gallagher who folks claim takes head tax toll on every herd of beef that comes through this way."

"Dunno."

"Or me. One thing's for sure though, John Slaughter ain't fixing in to let no loudmouthed Yankee muscle him into paying head tax toll for crossing open range 'cause that's not Slaughter's way."

Being Slaughter's segundo, second in command, Tex Burton might be thought to have knowledge of his boss's plans. In general he did, but Slaughter had made no mention of what he planned to do should Bitter-Creek Gallagher attempt to make him pay for the privilege of crossing open, unowned range.

A mile ahead of the herd, Texas John Slaughter sat his horse and watched the two riders who came toward him. He was not a tall man, being no more than five nine in height; but one did not notice such things as his lack of inches when in his presence. There was something about him, an air of strength and command, that compensated for his lack of inches.

From head to foot his clothes spelled Texas cowhand; and, despite the fact that he looked as work-dirty as any of his men, something about him said top-hand and boss to eyes which knew the West. From his low-crowned, wide-brimmed Stetson hat of costly make —^which shielded a tanned strong face with a neat black moustache and trim chin beard, yet had ginger eye-

brows and hair—down through the tight rolled bandana trailing ends over his gray shirt, by the levis tucked into expensive made-to-measure boots with Kelly spurs on their heels, he might be Texas cowhand; but that gunbelt around his waist, an ivory-handled Colt Civilian Peacemaker in a contoured holster which hung just right, told that there sat a man who was real good with a gun—or worked hard to make folks believe he was.

It had never been Slaughter's way to try to fool folks into thinking anything about him.

"There he is," said one of the approaching riders. *T saw him one time up in Hays City. Let's deliver Bitter-Creek's message and get it done."

'*You mean that's the great Texas John Slaughter?" asked the other, a tall young hard-case who hailed from Dakota Territory and figured they did not come any wilder or woollier than him. "Why, he looks five cents' worth of nothing to me."

The first man did not reply, for he watched Slaughter all the time and had the advantage of knowing something of Slaughter's way. Being a lower-grade professional gunslinger, he preferred that any time he entered a fight he had a considerable edge over his opponent, and that any blood that might be spilled was not his own. He had only volunteered to deUver Bitter-Creek's message because his boss agreed to send another man along with him. Two to one were good odds, high enough to make most men think twice before bucking them.

Only now it came to a point where he was no longer sure about there being safety in numbers. Nor did he care for the young hard-case's attitude. Not only was Slaughter no man to push around, but he had at least eighteen men back there with his herd and they would be ready, willing and able to back up their boss's play.

Bringing their horses to a halt about fifteen feet in front of Slaughter, the two men waited for him to speak. They might have waited until hell froze over, for all he cared. Lounging in his saddle, an unlit, crooked, thin black cigar hanging from his lips, Slaughter waited for the men to open die ball.

^'Bitter-Creek Gallagher sent us,** the first gunman said.

Gallagher s name packed a whole heap of weight aroimd that neck of the woods, and his hired men gained a certain protection under its shadow. Slaughter did not even trouble to ask why Gallagher sent men to see him. It was not Slaughter s way to waste anything, even words.

'"Bitter-Creek says you can come through with your herd, and buy supplies in Devil City," the gunman went on, after a pause while he waited for Slau^ter to show some interest and ask questions, "right after you've paid two dollars a head on every bull, cow, steer and calf in your herd, took on oiu: trail coimt*'

"Nol''

Just one word left Slaughter s lips, but it told the two gunmen his feeUngs on the subject as well as if he had sat back and whittle-whanged for a full hour.

'What d'you mean, 'no'r^ growled the second gunman, showing more courage than good sense.

"Call him oflF, Iwmbre," Slaughter warned. "I don't want to hurt him, but I will if he makes a wTong move.^

"Will, huh?" sneered the second tough, dropping his hand.

Slaughter did not move in his seat, but his right hand dipped—fast. Half a second later the ivory-butted Colt crashed in his right hand and bucked in his palm. He thumb-cocked it on the recoil, for so perfect was the Peacemaker s balance that the weight of its barrel drew it back into line and cocked back the hammer under Slaughter s educated thumb.

Two hundred and fifty grains of lead, hurled out of a foiu'-and-three-quarter-inch barrel by the force of thirty grains of black powder exploding, smashed into the young gunman's right elbow just as he reached his gun. The impact slammed him back in the saddle. A scream of agony left his lips and, from the way his arm looked, the days of selling his gun had ended.

Shock and agony tumbled the wounded man from his saddle. Even as his pard went down the first man spread his hands well clear of his sides in an effort to

dissociate himself from any hostile actions, and in an attempt to convince John Slaughter that he had no intention of taking up where the other man left oflF. Then he sat as if he had been turned to stone for Slaughter s eyes fixed on him and held him hke a weasel mesmerizing a rabbit.

Without any fancy finger-twirhng, or other flashy flourishes some fast men used to impress folk, Slaughter bolstered his gun. He could do all the trigger-finger strengthening tricks—which, as well as for show, was why the gunman did them—^with the best, but never when company watched him.

'*Go tell Gallagher I said no," he ordered.

"Sure, John, surel" answered the gunman, pointing down to the groaning hard-case. **ril help Logan here, if I can."

Slaughter nodded, but did not bother to reply. Still lounging in his saddle, he watched the man help his groaning, wounded pard onto the waiting horse, then swing afork his own, take the wounded man s reins in his right hand and ride away. Not until the two men were long beyond Winchester range did Slaughter turn the big black stallion and ride toward his approaching herd.

*What dyou-all reckon that shot was, Tex?" asked Talking Bill, making a tolerable long speech for him.

"I don't know, aint asking, and don't figure to be told," Burton replied laconically. **That ain t Slaughter s way. One thing I do know for certain sure; whatever he shot at's plumb likely to be bad hurt, or dead, and sure asked for to get shot in the first place. 'Cause that is Slaughter s way."

No matter where a man rode in the range country, he was likely to hear folks talk of Slaughter s way. More than one dude fresh out of the East had thought the term might mean a street in a famous catde town, a trail-drive route, or even a branch spur of a railway. It meant none of them. When folks talked of Slaughter s way, they meant the way that grim-faced Texas rancher looked at life and handled its many problems, and they gave tribute to the effective maimer in which he acted.

Bringing his big horse around, Slaughter rode alongside the chuck wagon and looked up at the merry black face of his cook.

'Tou-all needing supplies, Coonskin?" he asked.

Although the cook knew to the last grain of salt how his food situation looked, he shoved back his coonskin cap, scratched his head and looked thoughtful.

"I can t rightly say as I don't, Mr. John," Coonskin replied; he waved a hand to his plodding mules. *T)idn't figure to tire out these-here ole knobheads of mine toting a full load when we could buy more along the trail. Only when I done made my decision I didn't know about that mean ole Bitter-Creek Gallagher saying's how he don't figure to let us buy no supplies in Devil City imless you pays his head tax toll."

"We'll go stock up in Devil City comes morning," Slaughter replied.

With that he ttmied his stallion and rode along the side of the herd to join up with Burton and Talking Bill at the point. Coonskin watched his boss go, then threw a glance down at the wicked-looking eight-gauge, twin-barreled, percussion-fired shotgun lying at his feet. Next he glanced back into the wagon where his pet lay sleeping on a pile of empty potato sacks.

''Yes sir, Mr. John," the cook said, after making sure everything was all ready for the proposed visit to Devil City. 'We'll go in for sure. You, me, ole Betsy Two-Eyes 'n Mr. Earp'll go right on in that ole town and buy us them supplies comes morning. An' happen you-aU done got the sense of a seam squirrel, Bitter-Creek Gal-lagher'U stay away from us widi both big, smelly feet."

The conference between the boss and segundo did not last for long, for neither Slaughter nor Biuton went in for unnecessary jawing. A couple of phrases let Tex know his boss aimed to visit Devil City the following morning and that the segundo must keep the herd moving toward its destination. Burton confirmed the orders with a couple of "yes" and "no" replies which showed he imderstood them.

"Burt's coming," Talking Bill remarked, which while

not being gabby had the advantage of telling the other two all they needed to know.

A tall, well-built young man rode toward the herd. While he wore a dust-covered Stetson, his other clothes were not those a cowhand would wear. He wore a fringed buckskin shirt tucked into faded levis, and moccasins graced his feet. A gunbelt hung around his waist, twin 1860 Army Colts in the fast-draw holsters; the one at the right's butt faced the rear, while his left-hand gun turned its butt forward so as to be available to eitiier hand. There was an Indian look about his face, and he had enough Kaddo blood in his veins to make him a damned efficient trail scout.