Collection 1988 - Lonigan (v5.0) (4 page)

It was Lonigan's sudden move that decided it. His first two shots knocked Casselman staggering and his third dropped Shain dead in his tracks. “Drop it, Short!” Lonigan yelled, and switched both guns to Papago Brown.

Then, suddenly, it was all over and where the cannonade of guns had sounded there was stillness, and somewhere down the valley, a quail called plaintively in the late dusk. Gunpowder left an acrid smell that mingled with the wood smoke of the freshly built fire.

D
ANNY LONIGAN LOOKED down at Hoey Ives. Caught in the crossfire of Calkins's and Lee's guns, he had been riddled with bullets before he could more than fire his first shot.

Ruth, lying on her face, had a rifle on the two startled men near the wagon. The cook held an old muzzle-loading Civil War rifle on them, too.

Calkins swore softly. “You oughta give a man warnin', Lonigan,” he objected. “That was too sudden. They might have got us all!”

“Nuh-uh,” Lonigan said quietly. “You see, I noticed that they were depending on the warning of the rifles. They didn't really expect anybody to take a chance. You see,” he grinned grimly, “I noticed that none of their rifles were cocked! I knew I could get off several shots before they could cock and aim again.”

“Yeah,” Laredo said, “and what about Ives? What did you think he'd be doin'?”

“What he is doin',” Lonigan said quietly. “You see, I've rode the trail with you hombres before. Nobody needed to tell me what would happen. I knew.”

He turned his head and looked at Olin Short. “You,” he said, “would have sided me to help Miss Gurney in the cabin that night. I didn't want to kill you. Get your horse and slope. Take those others with you. And don't let 'em cross the trail again. As for you, Short, at heart you're too good a man for an outlaw. If you're down in Texas, stop by the G.”

When he was gone, Lonigan turned to Ruth, who had got shakily to her feet, keeping her eyes averted from the fallen men. Taking her arm, he led her away from them, and away from the fire.

“We'll do what you said,” Ruth said finally. “We'll drive to Nebraska and feed the stock there. Would you,” she hesitated, “would you consider the foreman's job? I mean, in Calkins's place?”

“Why, no, I wouldn't.” She turned toward him, half in surprise, half in regret. “No, I like Calkins, and he'll make a good foreman. The men like him, too. Besides, I've other plans.”

“Oh.” The word sounded empty and alone. “I…I hoped we'd see more of each other. You see, Dad…”

“We'll see more of each other, a lot more. When you put Hoey out as foreman and Calkins in, and again when you hit ground and grabbed that rifle, you showed what I said was right, that the old man bred true. You got what he had. You've nerve; you've iron in you. It's a line that should be carried on, so I'm not goin' to be your foreman.
I'm goin' to marry you.”

She blinked.

“Just like that?
Without any…”

“Courtin'?” He grinned. “Ma'am, there's no preacher this side of Dodge. Believe me, by the time you get there you'll be well courted, or my name ain't Lonigan!”

“Don't I get a chance to say yes or no?” she protested.

“You can say yes,” he said, “if you say it fast, but for the next thirty minutes you're goin' to be busy.” He put her chin up and his arm around her.
“Mighty
busy,” he said softly.

Somewhere down the valley a quail called plaintively into the darkness, and the stream chuckled over the stones. It probably had considerable to chuckle about.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

T
HE
B
UNKHOUSE

In the earliest days ranch buildings were apt to be whatever could be thrown together in a hurry, and they often looked it. Corrals were usually made of poles cut from the nearest trees, often those growing along some nearby creek. Later, when time and money permitted, the ranch house was enlarged and often a bunkhouse was built to accommodate the regular hands, which might number from two to twenty, depending on the size of the ranch and the season. At round-up time there was a demand for additional help.

There would be rows of bunks, usually two-tiered, along the wall or walls, a table, and some benches or chairs. Depending on when and where the bunkhouse was built, it might have a fireplace or a potbellied stove, and also depending on where the ranch was, there might be an outside mirror and a small stand for a water bucket and basin. Nearby would hang a roller towel.

Depending on the nature and upbringing of the cowboys, the bunkhouse might be neat or untidy, but there was often a former soldier or sailor who, due to training, kept his possessions in one place and his bunk made up. There was also apt to be old coats hanging from pegs or nails along the walls, coal-oil lamps with reflectors, a worn pack of cards and perhaps a checker-board and dominoes for entertainment, when there was time for it. Bedding was usually furnished by the ranch, but a good many drifting cow punchers carried their own. Most bunkhouses were simply places to sleep, but cowboys often added their own ideas of decoration to make them more homelike.

Owners and cowhands ate at the same table on most ranches, and there was little conversation. Eating was a serious business, and the hands usually washed up, slicked down their hair, and headed for the table. Once the meal was finished, they went back to the bunkhouse to sleep, or perhaps for some talk around the corral.

The larger the ranch, in most cases, the greater the distance between the owner or superintendent and the working hands. On many ranches the wife of the boss—and his daughters, if he had any—put the food on the table and often cooked the meals.

These practices varied widely, depending on the situation and the attitude of the owner and his family. On the larger ranches a cowhand might never see the inside of the big house, nor did he particularly wish to. The cowboy had his own pride and did not wish to intrude or be intruded upon. Although he might have only a “ten dollar horse and a forty dollar saddle,” the idea that he might not be the equal of any man never entered his head, and if there were any doubt about it, he could always get up on his horse and ride off into the sunset.

Young people being what they are, there no doubt were cases when a cowhand married the boss's daughter. But then, as now, the boss was usually looking for an advantageous marriage for his daughter and a drifting cowhand was not likely to be among those considered. If there was not a likely young man on a nearby ranch, there was always the chance of meeting one after cattle sales in Kansas City or Denver, where wealthy cattlemen often congregated to relax away from the ranch. The Brown Palace Hotel in Denver was for many years just such a mecca for cattlemen and their families.

R
EGAN OF THE
S
LASH
B

D
AN REGAN CAME up to the stage station at sundown and glanced quickly toward the window to see if the girl was there. She was. He stripped the saddle from his horse and rubbed the animal down with a handful of hay. Lew Meadows came down from the house and watched him silently.

“You don't often get over this way,” Meadows said, pointedly.

Dan Regan paused from his work and straightened, resting a hand on the sorrel's withers. “Not often,” he said. “I keep busy in the hills.”

Meadows was curious and a little worried. Dan Regan was a lion hunter for the big Slash B outfit, but he was a newcomer to the country, and nothing much was known about him. There were too many men around the country now, too many that were new. Tough men, with hard jaws and careful eyes. He knew the look of them, and did not like what that look implied.

“Seen any riders up your way?”

Regan had gone back to working on the sorrel. He accepted the question and thought about it. “Not many,” he said, at last. “A few strangers.”

“They've been coming here, too. There's a couple of them inside now. Burr Fulton and Bill Hefferman.”

Dan Regan slapped the sorrel on the hip and wiped his hands. “I've heard of them. They used to waste around down to Weaver.”

“Having a daughter like mine is a bad thing out here,” Meadows told him, the worry plain in his voice. “These men worry me.”

“She looks fit to hold her own,” Dan commented mildly.

Meadows looked at him. “You don't know Fulton. He's a lawless man; so are they all. They know what's happening. The word's gone out.”

“What word?” Dan asked sharply.

Meadows shrugged. “Can't you see? The Slash B runs this country, always has. The Slash B was the law. Before Billings time this was outlaw country, wild and rough, and the outlaws did what they wanted. Then Cash Billings came in and made law where there was none. He had an outfit of hardcase riders and when anybody overstepped what Billings thought was proper, the man was shot, or ordered out of the country. They made a few mistakes, but they had order. It was safe.”

“The country's building up now. There's a sheriff.”

Meadows spat his disgust. “Bah! Colmer's afraid of his shadow. Fulton ordered him out of the saloon over at the Crossing the other night and he went like a whipped dog.”

“What about the Slash B? Has it lost its authority?”

“You don't hear much, up there in the hills. The Slash B is through, finished. Cash is a sick man, and that nephew of his is a weakling. The foreman is drunk half the time, and the old crowd is drifting away. That's why the wolves are coming. They know there's no bull moose for this herd. They want to start cutting it for their own profit.”

Meadows nodded toward the house. “Where do Fulton and Hefferman get their money? They spend it free enough, but never do a pat of work. They sell Slash B cows, that's how. I wish somebody could talk to Cash. He doesn't know. He lives alone in that big house, and he hears nothing but what they tell him.”

M
EADOWS WALKED OFF toward the house and Dan Regan stood there in the darkening barn and brushed off his clothes. This was not quite new to him. He had known some of it, but not that it had grown so bad. Maybe if he went to Cash Billings…No, that would never do. Cash knew he had a lion hunter, but he didn't know he was Dan Regan, which was just as well.

Regan was a lean young man, as accustomed to walking as riding. He understood the woods and trails, knew cattle and lions. He was killing a lot of the latter. He walked on up to the house and into the big dining room where they fed the stage passengers and any chance travelers following the route. The table was empty except for a fat-faced drummer with a wing collar, and the two riders Lew Meadows had mentioned.

Burr Fulton was a lean whip of a man, as tall as Regan but not so broad. Hefferman was beefy, a heavy-shouldered man with thick-lidded eyes and a wide, almost flat, red face. He looked as tough and brutal as Regan knew him to be. Neither of them looked up to see who had entered. They did not care. They were men riding a good thing, and they knew it.

Dan Regan had seen this thing happen before. He had seen big outfits lose their power. He had seen the wolves cut in and rip the herds to bits, taunting the impotent outfit that had once wielded power, and rustling its herds without retaliation. It was always the big herds, the strong outfits, that went down the hardest.

He seated himself on the bench some distance away from the others, and after a minute Jenny Meadows came in and brought his dinner. He glanced up and their eyes met quickly, and Jenny looked hastily away, a little color coming into her cheeks.

It had been a month since she had seen this man, but she hadn't forgotten a thing about him, remembering the lean strength of his face, the way his dark hair curled behind his ears, and the way his broad shoulders swelled the flannel of his shirt.

She put his food down, then hesitated. “Coffee?”

“Milk, if you've got it. I never get any up in the mountains.”

Hefferman heard the word and glanced over at him.

“Milk,” he said to Fulton. “He drinks milk.”

Burr laughed. “He's from the Slash B. I think they all drink milk these days!”

Regan felt his ears burning and some dark, uneasy warmth stirring in his chest. He did not look up, but continued to eat. Meadows was standing in the door and overheard Fulton's comment. Now he sat down across the table from Regan and poured a cup of coffee.

“Meadows,” Fulton said, looking up, “do you use Slash B beef? Best around here, and I hear it can be had cheap.”

“I have my own cows,” Meadows replied stiffly. He was a somber man, gray haired and thin. Never a fighter, he had a stern, unyielding sense of justice and a willingness to battle if pushed. He had lived safely here, in the shadow of the Slash B.

“Might as well buy some of their beef,” Hefferman boomed. “Everybody else is!”

Jenny returned and put a glass of milk in front of Regan. Her own face was burning, for the remarks had been audible in the kitchen, and she knew they were deliberately trying to make trouble. It irritated her that Regan took no offense and she was ashamed for him.

Moreover, she was sure that Dan Regan had come to the stage station to see her. Remembering the impression he had made the first time, she also remembered his eyes on her, and how they had made her feel. He was, she knew, the first man who had awakened within her the sense of being female, of being a woman. It was a new sensation, and an exciting one.

The supplies he had bought on his last trip were enough for another month at least, yet he had come back now. Knowing he came to see her, and remembering the excitement he had roused in her on his last trip, she regarded him somewhat as her own. It displeased her to see him sit quietly before the taunts of the two badlands riders.

Meadows was thinking similar thoughts. Jenny worried him. It was bad enough to have a daughter to rear on the frontier, worse when she had no mother. He hated to think of her leaving him, yet he knew when she married it would be a distinct relief. His ideas on women were strict, dogmatic, and old-fashioned, yet he was aware that nature takes little note of the rules of men. Still, the malpais country offered little in the way of eligible males.