Buck and the Widow Rancher (2006) (2 page)

Before dropping the reins over the hitch rail, Buck led his horse to a nearby water trough and let him drink. Matilda watched.  

A few minutes later, seated comfortably around the big kitchen table, she smiled. ‘I would hazard a guess that you’re the friend Uncle Fish told me to look out for,’ she allowed, pouring him a mug of black strong-looking coffee. ‘There was a letter from him telling me to watch out for a big, rangy man riding a big black horse that looks even rougher. That’d be you. My name is Matilda Randle.’

‘Yep,’ Buck smiled, and introduced himself.  

Following her into the house, he had been led through the front room down a short hall and into a sun-washed kitchen. The big room at the front, with its huge stuffed buffalo head mounted over a rock fireplace, each of the river-smoothed stones being bigger than a man’s head, was clearly a man’s room. This was a comfortable room full of worn oversized leather and polished wood furniture. The kitchen, on the other hand, was a woman’s domain.  

A large black Peninsular woodstove, its silver trim around the fire box and big oven gleaming in the sunlight, took up nearly all one wall. A stone dry sink and thick plank-topped work counter lined another. Windows, each with bright yellow and white curtains, framed the windows on three
walls, letting the bright late morning sunshine fill the room. Seated at the table that was big enough to sit six or eight comfortably, Buck blew some of the steam off the cup and watched the woman as she returned the big fire-blackened pot to the back of the stove.

A young woman, he judged, probably five years or so younger that he was. Somewhere in her mid to late twenties, he’d say. A proud woman, one who would not take lightly to being ordered around by any man, unless he was her man. A ranch woman, she was probably a strong and capable person, he thought. The kind of woman that, having grown up on a ranch, was able to handle herself well and not faint away at the first hint of trouble. Just the kind of woman, he said to himself, that he would marry. But then, he completed the thought: he just wasn’t the marrying kind.

Buck watched her, noting the smoothness of the dress over her upper body. He didn’t know much about dresses and dress material, but had noticed time and again how some women seemed to fill out a dress better than others. This dress, at least to the point just below her waist where the bottom flared out, fitted this woman’s body as if it had been sewn on. A wonderful sight, he thought, all smooth and full of curves. Shoulder-length hair, light brown and wavy, was held in place by a wide band of ribbon. Her eyes were of a light blue color that was almost the pale shade of the sky just before sundown.

‘Tell me, how well do you know Professor Fish?’ Buck leaned back in the big chair, deciding it was best not to look too far into her eyes or he might get lost.

‘I know him as Uncle Fish. And I’ve known him pretty much all my life,’ she smiled.

‘Uncle Fish? That’s a new one on me. I’ve only ever heard him called the Professor or Professor Fish. Is he your uncle?’

‘He was almost my father,’ she answered, laughing. ‘I grew up knowing him. He and my father were great friends
and at one time both the men courted my mother. Father won out, and Uncle Fish stayed around, helping turn this end of the valley into the Rocking C. He was here until I was at least ten years old. I think he stayed around just in case my mother ever changed her mind. He really isn’t my uncle, you know, but he’s about the closest thing I have to any
relatives
. My husband Virgil was an orphan, so there’s just been him and me.’

‘Do tell. I’ve known the Professor for ten years or so and somehow I just can’t see him courting a woman. But yes, I did get a letter from him asking if I was to ride in this direction would I stop by and see what kind of trouble was coming your way.’

‘I didn’t know what else to do, or who else to turn to when Virg was shot. The town sheriff wouldn’t even come out when I reported it. He said anything outside the town limits was outside his jurisdiction.’

‘And there isn’t a marshal in this area?’

‘No. I didn’t know what to do. Nobody seemed to care that my husband had been killed. For a while I was knocked for a loop. Hugh came over a couple times to help out, and Hank, our foreman, and the hands, well they really took care of things. Kept everything running the way it should.’

‘Tell me about your husband’s shooting.’

‘I don’t know much. When he didn’t come in from a trip to town, Hank took a couple of the boys and rode back that way to see if Virg’d had some trouble with the wagon. He’d been in picking up supplies and was due back by dark. It’s a good two or three hours or so into town and he didn’t like being on the road after dark with the wagon. They found him on the other side of the river. He’d been shot in the side and was lying in the dirt next to the road. The wagon and all the supplies was just standing there. Hank used his bedroll and wrapped Virg up and brought him home in the back of the wagon.’

‘And the sheriff didn’t come out to even look at the body?’

‘No. I sent Hank in, but Sheriff Holt said there was
nothing
he could do. We buried Virgil up alongside Pa’s grave. Up on a little hill overlooking the ranch yard. We’d only been married six years.’

‘Your letter didn’t say much about the kind of trouble you were having, at least the Professor’s letter to me didn’t. You have any idea who would shoot your husband?’

‘I don’t know. All I do know is that a few days after we talked to the sheriff I had a visit from a well-dressed man I’d never seen before. He said his name was Vance Hubbard and he was holding a couple IOUs for debts my husband had owed. That was the first I heard of that. Virg had never said anything about owing anyone money.’

‘Did the Hubbard fellow say what that debt was for?’

‘Yes. He said it was a gambling debt. He claimed Virgil had lost in a poker game and didn’t have enough money to cover his losses. Virgil never played poker that I knew of.’ She stopped and brushed at her cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, getting up to get the coffee pot.

‘That’s OK. A person has a right to mourn for a loved one and I don’t think there’s a time limit on how long that mourning can last. Probably as long as it has to, I’d say.’

‘The thing that makes me mad,’ she said, filling both Buck’s cup and her own, ‘is that I’m not sure whether I’m crying over losing Virgil, or because I’m so damn mad that no one would do anything to find out who shot him.’

Buck sipped at the hot coffee and let a few minutes pass before asking her what kind of man her husband had been.

‘He was a good man, well educated, but for all that still good at making this ranch profitable. Anyway, he worked hard and had some plans for expanding the irrigation ditches my pa had put in. There’s a lot of land over to the east that would produce better beef if we could get more
water to it. Virgil wanted to upgrade the kind of beef we raise, too. Get in a couple of white-face Herefords.’

‘Tell me about this ranch and the surrounding country.’

‘Well, the Rocking C property runs from about halfway up that hillside back there by the falls and then all along the rimrock to the east. The boundary to the west is the river and the southern end is where the river bends around and crosses the valley. There is a bridge across the river there that my father, Jim Coulter, had built a few years before he died. The town, Coulter’s Landing, was named after him. It’s about five miles on down the road from our boundary.’

‘What’s on the other side of the river up here?’

‘The Hightower place. Hugh Hightower’s the man who was here when you rode in. The other man was Frank, Hugh’s oldest son. He has three sons and they run horses over there. His land is long and narrow. Just as this ranch, it starts up at the foothills and is bordered by the rimrock on one side and the river on the other. His place runs further south than this, though.’

‘And what’s down below the river?’

‘There’re a handful of small spreads. Squatters, Hugh calls them. There are a couple of pretty good sized farms down there and below town on both sides of the river. A few Basque sheepherders run their flocks in the dry country to the east. Away from the river it gets pretty dry and that makes it just about right for sheep. Beyond there’s a long wide stretch of sand blow. No water until you get across to the Red River. A lot of people have died trying to ride across without carrying enough water.

‘Anyway, Pa was the first one in the valley. The Hightowers came in a few years later and took up their land, Hugh and his first wife, Kathleen, and the two oldest boys. We were all good friends then. I remember growing up and having Kathleen Hightower and her boys, Frank and Hughie coming over to visit my ma every so often. We’d play all day
in the barn or riding our ponies. Then Ma died, caught the flux, the town doctor said. It wasn’t but a year or so after that Kathleen passed away. A while later Hugh remarried and his third son was born. I don’t remember her name. I never met her. She died when the boy came. His name is Paul.

‘Pa said that having the farmers taking up land south of town helped make the valley strong. Hugh didn’t agree. I remember he always said that land should be used for
raising
livestock. Putting a plow to the ground was destroying it, he claimed. Pa only laughed and said he had enough and someone else could use the rest. Until my husband was killed this valley was a wonderful place to live.’

‘What did your Mr Hightower mean about you missing some cattle?’

‘I don’t know. Hugh came by a few days ago saying his son Frank was coming back from a horse-buying trip and found sign over along the east wall of a couple small bunches being pushed south. We decided to start gathering a herd of older stuff for a drive later to the railhead. That’s where the hands are now, out pushing everything into a holding ground. We’ll pick out the young stuff to keep over the winter and sell off the older beeves. I asked Hank to take a look and let me know. He won’t be back to the ranch for another two or three days.’

Buck finished his coffee and pushed away from the table. ‘Well, I don’t know what I can do to help, but I can start by checking out those IOUs and maybe stop in and talk with the sheriff.’

Picking up his hat, she followed him back out to the front porch. For a few minutes they stood looking out over the spread, taking in the late afternoon silence. Other than the soft clucking coming from a chicken coop somewhere out of sight and the random call of a calf for his mama, the place was peacefully quiet.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she enquired. ‘Are you here just
because Uncle Fish asked you to be?’

‘Yeah. I owe the Professor a lot, a lot more than I can ever repay, to tell the truth. And then I didn’t have any reason to be where I was at the time, so when I got his letter, well, I guess it gave me a direction to ride. A new place to see and new people to meet.’

‘Don’t think I’m not grateful, but I just want to know what you’re getting out of it. Hugh thinks you and every other man is just trying to move in on the ranch and me. If he had his way I’d become his third wife,’ she smiled. ‘But that’s not likely. Why, I’m only a little older than his oldest son. He’s almost as old as my pa was. No, it’s not likely. But he does think I need protecting. You should know that.’

Matilda suggested that she fix an early supper and then she’d ride in with Buck. Tired of his own cooking, which usually meant something cooked over an open fire, and then, five out of six times being burnt, he quickly agreed. Shooed out of the kitchen, he found comfort in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch and rolled a smoke.

The ride into town was a pure delight for Buck. After
pinching
out his cigarette and before being called in to the meal, he’d gone down to the creek that ran behind the barn and, finding the pool, stripped out of his dusty clothes and soaked for a few minutes in the cold water. Clean and refreshed with a shave, and with a clean shirt, he felt pretty good. Supper was another enjoyable time. Matilda had poured him a glass of amber-colored whiskey that went down so smooth he wondered how the liquid could be contained in the bottle. After the meal, made even better by having such an attractive woman on the other side of the table, they sat for a time on the front porch. Buck savoring another shot of the liquor with a hand-rolled cigarette.

After saddling a dun-colored horse for Matilda and
tightening
the cinches on his own saddle, they rode away from the ranch. As they slowly rode south, the ranch-owner pointed out various aspects of the property – where her father had
fenced off a section and dug the irrigation ditches to take water to a large garden, and later the bridge over the river.

‘This is my property line,’ she said. Then pointing to a rutted wagon road angling off to the west, she explained that was the edge of the Hightower ranch. ‘Hugh was younger than my pa when they came into the valley. Pa got here a little before him and had marked out the boundaries he wanted. Hugh looked the rest of the basin over and decided, rather than take up land south of the river, he would take the western strip. It’s a lot less land that he could’ve had, but he told Pa it would be better for raising horses. Guess he knew what he was talking about. He and his boys work hard, and they’ve got a good spread.’

After crossing the river, talk between them died out until they reached the outer edges of town. Typical of small towns throughout the state, Coulter’s Landing was no more than a dozen or so buildings, mostly flat-roofed, single-storey
clapboard
structures with only a handful having a second floor. The hotel was the tallest building, boasting three levels. Off behind the shops and businesses Buck could see a number of shanties and pole and sod dwellings. The residential side of town, he thought.

A curtain-sided stagecoach pulled by a six-horse hitch was just coming into town as they rode past the first few
buildings
. Matilda pointed to the tallest structure. ‘The stage is the town’s link to the railroad station at Brisby,’ she said. ‘Comes into town in the evening and leaves in the morning. I’ll stop off and leave my grocery list with Mr Lathrop at the store,’ she said, pointing toward one of the buildings, ‘and meet you later at the restaurant. We can have a cup of coffee before we head back.’

‘I guess finding the sheriff’s office won’t be hard. If I get lost I can always find my way back here and ask directions.’ Laughing, he tipped his hat and rode at a walk on down the street.

Wide enough for a pair of stagecoaches to pass each other, the street was probably either a frozen washboard in winter or a mud-choked swamp, depending on the severity of the weather. Now with summer about half over the
thoroughfare
was hock deep in dust. Every step his horse took sent up little puffs of the fine-ground soil. On either side, rough plank walkways ran along the fronts of the various stores and shops. Most of these were shaded by sun-blocking wood plank or canvas awnings from which signs announcing the kinds of product one could buy hung over the walkways. Finding the sheriff’s office was made easy by the big,
fivepointed
sign hanging above the door to that building. Tying his horse next to others at the rail in front, Buck settled his heavy gunbelt around his hips and pushed through the office door.

Two men sitting on either side of a big dark-wood desk had been talking but fell silent as he came in out of the
afternoon
sun. Letting his eyes adjust to the murkiness of the room, Buck noted the shiny star badge pinned to the man sitting behind the desk before taking in the other man. Big like a cloud is big just before letting go with a rain squall, the man’s small, close spaced eyes were centered in the middle of a round, smooth face. Those black eyes stared back as Buck took in the Coulter Landing’s elected lawman. The pointed star was pinned to the pocket of a shirt that had once been white but since being washed at the laundry had taken on a dingy gray color. A sagging pot belly hung over the waist of a pair of dark pin-striped wool pants, which were held in place by a pair of black suspenders.

‘Well, stranger? Are you going to waste our time staring or have you got some business here … law business,’ the
sheriff
said almost angrily. ‘You barged in on a private
conversation
, you know.’

Nodding his apologies, Buck turned back toward the door. ‘Sorry about that. Tell you what, I’ll go have a cup of
coffee at the hotel and once you’ve finished with your private business and want to do some public law business, you come on over. I’ll buy you a cup, Sheriff.’

‘No,’ the older of the two men said, rising from his chair. Shorter and only coming up to Buck’s shoulder as he stood, this man was obviously not a rancher. A heavy gold chain hung across his vest from a buttonhole across to a slit pocket. The vest, suit coat and pants all were well-pressed gray wool. Flat-heeled leather shoes covered the man’s feet, feet that were tiny in relation to the rest of his body. ‘That won’t be necessary, young man. My business with Sheriff Holt will wait.’

‘What kind of story you got to share with us, cowboy?’ Buck decided he didn’t like the sheriff’s attitude and
wouldn’t
vote for him any time in the near future.

‘My name is James Buckley Armstrong and I’m here to tell you about a body that’s needing burial.’

‘What body?’ the rotund sheriff asked, standing up and reaching for a light-colored Stetson hanging on a hook. ‘Where is it?’

‘Out north of Mrs Randle’s spread. You’ll find him lying in a stand of big pine trees right near a little creek, just off the trail a bit. I hung a bit of cloth on a limb to mark the spot.’ Buck stopped as the sheriff put the hat back on the peg and sat back down.

‘Anything out of town is out of my jurisdiction, cowboy,’ he said. ‘Do you know who the man is?’

‘Nope. No identification in his pockets. Fact is,’ Buck said, placing the previous owner’s belongings still wrapped in the kerchief on the desk, ‘this is all he had in his pockets.’

The sheriff untied the knots and looked through the dead man’s belongings. Shaking his head, he looked at the other man, ‘Any idea who this belonged to, Mr Blount?’

The other man leaned over and, using a finger, poked the meager possessions before shaking his head.

‘Well, that doesn’t tell us much, stranger. How did this man die, anyhow?’

‘I shot him,’ Buck allowed. ‘There’s a dead horse nearby. I’d say it was my bullet that caused his death, too.’

Scowling, the lawman stared up at Buck. ‘Mind telling us how you came about shooting this man and his horse?’

‘I’m not sure it was his horse. There were at least three men and I only found one body and one horse. The horse had a brand that you might recognize, looked like a H Bar H.’

‘That’d be one of Hightower’s horses. Hell, everybody rides a Hightower horse. You say there were at least three men? When was this?’

‘Daybreak. From the way they shot up my blankets, I’d say they were trying to stop my snoring … permanently. They made too much noise sneaking up in the dark and when they opened fire I was ready. Surprised them, I’d say. I hit one and the others took off.’

‘And you didn’t see anyone you could describe? Now, why would three strangers want to shoot you up? Could there be someone coming after you?’

‘Doubt it. I don’t know too many people in this part of the country.’

‘May I enquire as to what your business is in this area?’ asked Blount, breaking his silence. ‘None of my business, I know, but, well, when a stranger comes in to report having killed a man, it does make one wonder.’

‘Yep. Makes me wonder why a bunch of hardcases would want to put holes in me, too. My business here? Just stopping off to look up a friend of a friend. As I said, my business.’

‘And who,’ Sheriff Holt asked, still watching Buck’s face closely, ‘could that friend of a friend be?’

‘Why, Mrs Randle, Sheriff. Seems she has had some
trouble
. Her husband shot just outside of town and all. Too bad you didn’t look into that murder, though. Might have saved
my riding over and nearly getting killed myself.’

‘Ah, the Widow Randle,’ Blount murmured softly. ‘Are you close to the young lady?’

‘Close enough, I’d say. What’s your interest in her?’

‘I’m the banker and my interest with her is, I’m afraid, between she and I.’

‘And, I’d guess, the sheriff. Well, I’m on my wait to meet her. Care to come along? I’ll even buy you a cup of coffee,’ suggested Buck.

‘Um, yes,’ the banker said, nodding. ‘Now might be a good time to talk with her. Sheriff Holt, thank you for your time and good day.’ Putting a short-brimmed hat squarely on his head the banker reached for the door knob. Buck, standing to one side of it, had his hand on it first and opened it for the other man.

‘Stranger,’ Sheriff Holt said with authority, ‘I’m not sure we’re through talking about that man you killed.’

‘Why, Sheriff, it happened far outside the town limits. Of course, I understand how busy you must be just keeping the peace in this fine city. I guess the next thing for me to do is to contact the governor’s office and request that a marshal be sent in to investigate both that shooting and Randle’s murder. I gather you haven’t done that, have you?’

Buck watched as he spoke and saw a small tightening of Holt’s eyes. Then, once again smiling, the sheriff nodded. ‘Of course, that is the right thing to do. But, stranger, I trust you’ll remain in the area in case there are any questions? Seems strange to me, your coming in just about the time that poor Mrs Randle is having all her trouble.’

‘Yeah, I don’t have any place I’d rather be. What with a report of some rustling at the Rocking C and all, I guess I’ll stick around.’ With one hand on the smooth handle of his Colt six-gun Buck smiled at the rotund officer of the law. ‘Don’t forget, Sheriff, your jurisdiction ends at the edge of town. You don’t want to get involved with anything outside
your range, now do you?’

‘No, you’re right, of course. Forget I said anything.’

Nodding to the man, Buck pushed through the door and out into the sunshine.

Coming into the restaurant, he saw that the banker had just reached Matilda’s table. He was pulling out a chair when Buck walked up and, smiling at the young woman, took a chair on the other side of the table.

‘Huh, Mrs Randle,’ Blount said, frowning in Buck’s
direction
, ‘this business might be better discussed privately.’

‘Mr Blount, I believe anything you have to tell me can be said in front of my friend Mr Armstrong,’ Matilda answered.

‘Well, if you insist.’ Obviously the banker wasn’t happy with it, but went on, ‘I am very sorry about the death of your husband and hope you accept my condolences. However, even with such a terrible thing happening, business must go on. It pains me to trouble you with this, but the due date on your note is just a week away.’

‘My note? What note would that be, Mr Blount?’

‘To be clear, it is a note the bank holds signed by your late husband. According to the law, with his death that becomes the obligation of the next of kin, and that, I’m afraid, is you.’ Sincerity seemed to seep from the banker as he explained, hands held out with palms up and his smile appearing gentle and sad. Buck smiled at Matilda.

‘How much is this note for and when did Virgil take out this loan?’ he asked.

‘Stranger,’ – the sound of sincerity was gone, replaced by a mixture of anger and authority – a banker’s voice – ‘this matter is between Mrs Randle and the bank. You have no place in this.’

‘Mr Blount,’ Matilda asked gently and with a great smile, ‘How much is this note for and when did Virgil take out this loan?’

Buck smiled at the growing frown on the banker’s face. ‘About two weeks before his untimely death, Virgil came into the bank and took out a loan for twelve hundred dollars which he said was to be used to purchase a Hereford bull. Under the terms of that loan, the amount plus interest is to be paid off in monthly instalments with the first payment due and payable in seven days from today.’ Finished, Blount settled back in his chair, keeping his eyes on Matilda, not even glancing in Buck’s direction.

Matilda looked down at the table for a few minutes and then taking a sip of coffee from her cup, looked back across the table. ‘Thank you, Mr Blount, for bringing this to my attention. Now, if you’ll excuse us?’

That wasn’t what he had expected, it was clear. Glaring at Buck, the banker stood and nodding to Matilda walked out of the restaurant.

‘Buck? What is happening? Virg wouldn’t do something like that without our talking it over. We discussed everything and the purchase of a bull wasn’t in the plans until next spring.’

‘I don’t know. It seems that someone is trying to dump a big load on you. There’s that gambler trying to call a gambling debt, some rustling and now a bank note. And all this coming at you since your husband was murdered and left by the side of the road. I don’t know what I can do, but maybe it is time to send a letter to the governor’s office.’