Chaparral Range War (9781101619049)

DANGEROUS CONSEQUENCES

He took the pair of small keys from the drawer and unlocked the chain threaded through the rifles and shotguns on the gun rack. He held on to the four-foot chain too. Then he wrapped it tight around the door and the steel door frame and put the lock on it.

“You think that will keep us in here?” Rip asked.

“I do, 'cause when you escape this jail there will be several consequences ahead for you two. There'll be wanted posters for you two that will say wanted dead or alive. You won't sleep safe anywhere you run. Bounty hunters will be smelling out every place you ever hid.” Guthrey laughed aloud at his vision of them cornered, so scared when the trackers closed in on them that they'd pissed in their pants knowing their certain fate.

“Those wolves will then shoot you in the back of your skull. Chop your head off with an axe and stick it in a burlap sack to claim that reward. They never bring live ones back. They don't have to feed a head. That head won't escape them. It don't need a horse to ride either. Simple execution. Before you step out of that cell you better think about the price of your freedom.”

Berkley titles by Dusty Richards

THE HORSE CREEK INCIDENT

MONTANA REVENGE

THE SUNDOWN CHASER

WULF'S TRACKS

CHAPARRAL RANGE WAR

CHAPARRAL RANGE WAR

Dusty Richards

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

CHAPARRAL RANGE WAR

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley edition / February 2013

Copyright © 2013 by Dusty Richards.

Cover illustration by Bruce Emmett.

Cover design by Edwin Tse.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-0-425-25722-7

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61904-9

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TO MY READERS

I do lots of research for these historical fiction books. I have a great Texas history authority, Charlie Eckhart. He's written me many pages about the Texas Rangers' history and their operations over time. One thing he told me: It was after 1872 that they started to spell
Ranger
with a capital
R
. Because my readers are used to seeing the words
Ranger
and
Rangers
with a capital letter, and because I respect the current name of this proud law-enforcing agency, I am abiding by that spelling convention in this book. Stop when driving through Waco, Texas, and visit their wonderful museum. A very interesting true history of them can be found in all their displays and in their library.

One story is about a local lawman telegraphing to Austin for help in handling a situation that had gotten out of hand. The head of the Rangers sent one man, and the red-faced lawman who met the train asked why he hadn't sent a dozen Rangers.

The Ranger said, “One problem, one Ranger.”

When you get time, check out my website, dustyrichards.com. I try to keep up a list of my appearances on the website. I do answer questions from readers' e-mails, which takes time each day. My e-mail address is [email protected].

In June 2012 I became the president of Western Writers of America. This organization represents so many great Western writers, songwriters, singers, and poets. I want to thank them for electing me. It is a great honor to serve in the boot steps of so many great writers—especially those of my late friend Elmer Kelton.

God bless America and all of you. Western literature is still alive and entertaining you. Thanks for reading mine.

Dusty Richards

ONE

A
FTER DAYS OF
rocking to and fro in his Dietrich Heye saddle while crossing the southern New Mexico/Arizona Territory, Phillip Guthrey thought his eyes felt fried to the core by the glaring sun. With the hipshot horse stopped on the side of the mountain, he could make out the dried-up stage stop and smattering of buildings called a town: Steward's Crossing. A streak of green cottonwoods softened the brownish chaparral-and-cactus-clad countryside where the San Pedro River ran north, bisecting the Tucson stage road. Somewhere off in the spiny brush and tall cactus, some topknot quail kept whit-wooing. A blast of oven-hot air struck his face. He'd surely at last found the true gates to hell, he reflected, then he chuckled to himself. This must be the place where God left his sandals when he finished making the entire world.

Out of habit, he shifted the holster on his hip to its accustomed place. One thing he still possessed was his scalp, and he hadn't seen an Apache buck except for a few falling down drunk ones since he left Lordsburg, New Mexico. He booted Lobo, his Roman-nosed bay gelding, off his resting spot. Ugliest horse Guthrey'd ever owned, but unless his fortunes rose, he'd be riding him into the next year. Stoutly built with a split mane, the bay stood about fifteen hands, and as Guthrey's old buddy Charlie Stone up in Silver City had said about the gelding, “You couldn't kill that cuss 'less you cut his head off.”

Maybe at the settlement down there he could find a drink of sweet water or some good whiskey to cut a trail down his dust-coated throat. Chuckling to himself about his seemingly hopeless situation—trapped in an unforgiving land—he figured his next drink would more than likely only be a double shot of rotgut in some sour-smelling cantina. A nudge with his spur and he headed Lobo off the mountainside back to the Tucson stage road and toward the settlement set under the cottonwoods across the shallow stream.

When he reached the sparse, two-block business district, he spotted three men in the otherwise empty street who were obviously braced for a gunfight, one of them looking like he was just a boy. Wary of being caught in their cross fire, Guthrey checked his horse short of them. In a flash he became doubly wary as the feeling that he was about to ride into something violent and dangerous made the skin crawl on the back of his neck. With Lobo shut down, he tried to decipher the situation from a respectable distance.

“This ain't none of your damn business, stranger,” said a well-dressed man standing under the shade on the porch of the corner saloon, smoking a cheroot cigar, and acting like he was in charge. “Just keep moving, saddle tramp, if you like breathing.”

The man's words, which were intended to drive him away, stuck in his craw instead. “Looks to me like that boy down there is on the receiving end of a bad deal.”

“He got himself into it,” the dressed-up man said, not looking aside when he spoke.

“Way I'm looking at this, I don't like the setup. It ain't looking fair enough to me. Them two facing him down are gun hands, and that boy, well, he looks like he ain't old enough to drink in a bar.”

“He's old enough to die. What's your name, stranger?” The fancy dresser barely cast a quick glance at him before turning back as though he had a stake in the outcome before them.

“They call me Captain Guthrey. Ain't my given name, but it'll do. What's yours?”

“Harvey T. Whitmore.” The man said it like it should have impressed him.

The gunman on the right never looked back Whitmore's way. “You dealing your hand in this, Cap'n Guthrey?”

“That depends. Two of you bracing that boy ain't really fair. He ain't got a Chinaman's chance against either of you.”

“Mister, you're butting in where you damn sure don't belong,” Whitmore said with the snarl of a mad dog.

“I don't see you out in the street bracing him, Mr. Whitmore.” Guthrey squeezed his eyelashes down a notch and kept his right hand loose in case he needed to draw.

“Drifter, I can have you shot off that damn horse with the snap of my fingers.”

“Snap them, you son of a bitch, because that will be the last thing you do on this earth.” After his remark to Whitmore, Guthrey's chest filled fast with lightning anger.

“I know him, boss. He's an ex-Ranger captain, and I ain't having no gunfight with him.” Then the gunman on the right put his palms out wide and slow-like, and he backed away.

“Go get your horse, Hanks. You're fired,” Whitmore said to him with a wave in the air to discard him.

“Hey,” the second ranny standing in the street said. “I'm quitting, too.”

Whitmore's eyes flew wide in disbelief. “Some saddle tramp rides into town and you two turn chicken on me? Neither of you will ever get another job in Arizona. I'll see to that.”

“I guess this party is all over.” Guthrey booted Lobo up the street to where the young man stood. He set the cow pony down right before him. Not even dry behind the ears, the boy couldn't have been out of his late teens.

“Son, how did you get into this mess anyway?” Guthrey asked, rubbing the rim of his calloused hand over the whisker stubble on his upper lip while he considered the youth.

“My name's Dan Bridges.” His words came out like a quick dam release. “They—well, someone shot my dad, Harold Bridges, in the back two weeks ago while he was cleaning out a spring up in Congress Canyon.”

Guthrey turned in the saddle. He noted that the fancy dresser was gone from the saloon porch. Good enough for the moment. No sign of his two ex–gun hands anymore either. He turned back. “Did you outright accuse them of doing that?”

“I did. Guess I overloaded my ass, mister.”

“Kinda,” Guthrey agreed and with a frown. Then he asked, “Who is this Whitmore?”

“He thinks he owns this whole country. He's owner of the V Bar 6.”

“I could see that part about him. About him thinking he owned everything out there under a cactus.” He dropped out of the saddle and pulled down the crotch of his pants and chaps. “What does your family own?”

“We own—me and my sis—”

“We better get out of this street, might be some runaway horse come knock us over.” He herded the youth to the side by the hitch rail in front of the saddle shop.

“Yes, sir. They said you use to be a Texas Ranger. Is that so?”

At the side of the street, Guthrey hitched Lobo to a rail. Then they squatted on their heels in the shade of a palm frond porch to palaver.

“I've been with that outfit too. Anyone else around here bucking this guy?”

“He's bought out or run off about half the folks that used to live around here. My dad wouldn't sell to him.”

“So he's got you and your sis left to turn out?” Squatted on the ground with him, Guthrey made a quick check of the area and, satisfied there was no threat, he shifted his weight to his other leg.

“No, really there's others opposed to selling out, but they all go armed and watch everything.”

“You have any clue who shot your father?”

“I've been thinking one of Whitmore's range riders. Dad wasn't the first one they caught off by hisself and back shot him. There's been others.”

He took a hard look at the boy. “Where's the sheriff? The Arizona law?”

“I heard the biggest donor to his last campaign for office was Whitmore. He's over at Soda Springs at the county seat.”

Satisfied there was more to this situation than he knew, he looked around mildly at the near-empty street. “Where did Whitmore go to?”

“I imagine he went out the back way to get more of his hired guns.”

“Probably did. How old are you?”

“Seventeen, why?”

“Don't take any offense. I know you're edgy about your father's death, but it's not smart to go up against those kinds of rannies that he's got hired.”

“Then what are we going to do?”

“Hold on, I'm thinking.” There had to be a way to pin Whitmore's ears back, but at that very moment he didn't know how. He'd heard lots about Arizona's territorial law situation. Each county had a sheriff and, besides collecting taxes, they were the law in that county like it was a state. And you could be wanted in one jurisdiction and ride over the county line and no one arrested you. But that still didn't mean there weren't judges who were no-nonsense providers of the law. He hated seeing injustice, but what was he getting himself into? He was no longer a Texas Ranger, and besides, he was in the Arizona Territory.

“Why don't you ride out to our place to stay for a little while?” the boy asked. “And we can go around and you can see the rest of the small outfits' side of things.”

For the moment, Guthrey didn't have an honest excuse not to do just that—'cept he'd left law enforcement for good, he'd told himself when he rode out of Texas. This wasn't his war. He had no reason to get involved—except for a strong principle about right and wrong that, in this case, ate at him like a starving rat in his stomach.

“Get your horse. I'll go along and see if I can do something for you.”

“Whew, thanks, mister. I'll be right back with him.”

“Whoa, my name's Guthrey or Cap'n. I ain't no
mister
anybody.”

“Thanks, Guthrey.” And the boy tore out, about to lose his six-gun out of his worn-out holster. He shoved it back down on the run.

Guthrey closed his eyes in disbelief at the sight of the kid's actions. That boy was damn sure not gun-qualified to get in a shoot-out. Why, they'd have cut him down till he looked like Swiss cheese. Lord, lord, all he wanted to do was to find some day work on a cow outfit, earn a little change, and get on his way again. He suspected now that was never going to happen here.

* * *

I
N A FEW
hours Guthrey and Dan rode up a well-watered side canyon. To him that meant the potholes in the creek had water in them. Gnarled, twisted trunk cottonwoods told the story that there was water underneath them in good supply. Wind rustled through the dollar-size leaves on a strong current accompanied by the chirps of lots of birds that had taken quarter in them.

The Bridges siblings owned the 87T Ranch. The ranch house was a low-walled affair, log and adobe. Alongside were pole corrals, some outbuildings, and a creaking windmill. A young woman came out and waited for them to arrive. She was attractive enough, with her tied-up red hair looking real bright, and the smile under her freckles was an honest one. She was way too young for Guthrey's tastes, but he planned to be polite to her.

“Where did you go, Dan?” she demanded.

“Aw, to town.” He dropped out of the saddle like he didn't want to talk about it.

Guthrey nodded sharply at her and reined in his ugly horse so he could lean his elbow on the saddle horn. All his life he'd rode handsome horses and made it a point especially around women to have a horse he could be proud of. He dismounted quickly and came around the front of his horse's head,

“Howdy.” He looked into her green eyes. She was a pretty girl who, by his estimate, was maybe a year older than her brother.

“That's Guthrey. He used to be a Texas Ranger and, well, he saved my life today.” Downcast, the boy took off his hat and beat his leg with it.

“What did you do, Dan?” She looked at him in horrified shock. No answer. She whirled to stare up and down at Guthrey. “What did he do?”

“I'd rather he told you, ma'am.”

She shook her brother's arm. “He saved your life? How? Why?”

My, my, she sure was a fiery redhead when she got upset. Guthrey tried not to laugh at her impatient anger, but she sounded more like Dan's ma than his sister.

“I accused them of shooting Dad, and they challenged me to go out in the street.”

“Oh no!” she shrieked. Holding her cheeks in her palms, she looked to be beside herself. “What did this man do?”

“His name is Guthrey. You should have seen it. Oh, it was wonderful what he did. First he called Whitmore a son of a bitch. Then when his two gunmen heard Guthrey's name out loud, they got more pale faced than I felt. Whitmore fired one of them and the other guy quit.”

“You aren't a gunfighter, Dan. What's wrong with you, doing such a foolish thing? How could I run this ranch without you?”

“We can talk about it later. He's our guest,” Dan said.

She straightened her back, recovered her composure, and nodded. “I am sorry for acting so upset, Mr. Guthrey. But he's the only kin I have left alive.”

He half smiled. “Now, that's all spilt milk back there; we sure can't sop it up and save none of it. I talked to your brother about it too. I think it was something he had to get out of his system, and lucky there was no harm done. And one more thing, you need to call me simply Guthrey. No
mister
about it. I'm not fancy nor anyone important. I was just passing through and saw some inequities in his situation with those men and him.”

“Inequities?”

“Yes, ma'am. Now let's calm down. He's unscathed. That Whitmore knows his pedigree now and I'd like to”—he swiveled around looking for a likely place—“take a bath somewhere, then shave and clean up.”

“I'll get you a towel,” she said.

He caught her arm. “Now, darling, I have one of those. I just need a place or tub to do it in.”

“My name is Cally. Short for California. My mother always wanted us to move on over there.”

“Cally, it's my pleasure.” He took off his weathered Stetson and shook her hand. He felt they'd made a small peace treaty to get along.

“We have a sheepherder's shower behind the house. No one will bother you and the water will be sun heated—some.” She wrinkled her nose at the notion it was warmed any at all.

“Thanks. I can handle that.”

“Mister—” she called out. “I mean, Guthrey—do you plan to stay with us?”