Range War (9781101559215) (3 page)

“
Si
, senor,” Porfiro said. “Until they came our valley was peaceful.”

“Where are these cowboys? I didn't see any sign of them.”

“At the south end of the valley,” Porfiro revealed. “There are eight of them and they brought over a hundred cows.”

“That's all?”

“I know what you are thinking. But they have many guns and we have only a few. And besides, I do not believe in killing.” Porfiro sadly bowed his head. “A lot more of them are coming, senor, along with a great many more cattle.”

“They told you this?”

“
Si.
When they first came, they invited us to eat with them and some of us went. We thought they were passing through, as you gringos say. But that was not the case. They told us they are making Hermanos Valley part of their range, and we must take our sheep and leave. Can you imagine?”

Yes, Fargo could. Cattlemen and sheepmen were always at odds. In Texas and elsewhere they had clashed and spilled blood on both sides. With more and more cattle ranches starting up thanks to the demand for beef from back East, the problem was bound to get worse. “I'm sorry for your troubles.”

Porfiro looked at him. “I almost believe you mean it.”

“I do,” Fargo said. He was a firm believer in every man, and woman, being allowed to live as they damn well pleased without interference from anybody.

Porfiro's brow knit and he bit his lower lip. “You sound sincere, senor. I wonder . . .”

“Wonder what?” Fargo prompted when he didn't go on.

“I wonder if you would be willing to help us.”

“Help you how?”

“Go to these cowboys. Talk to them on our behalf. Plead with them to take their cows and go before more lives are lost.”

“I doubt they'd listen.”

“You are a gringo, as they are.”

Fargo laughed. “That doesn't count for much. If I was one of them, if I was a cowboy, it might. But to them I'm as much an outsider as you are.” He shook his head. “It wouldn't do any good.”

Just then there was a knock on the door and in came Delicia. She stopped and put her hands on her hips and glared at Fargo.

“What do you want, granddaughter?” Porfiro asked.

“Granddaughter?” Fargo said.

“We are all of us related in one manner or another,” Porfiro said.

Delicia tapped a foot. “I want to know what he has been telling you. You are too trusting, grandfather. We should have done as Carlos wanted and slit his throat.”

“I love you, too,” Fargo said, and winked.

A red flush spread from Delicia's neckline to her hairline. “You are not nearly as funny as you think you are.”

“For your information,” Porfiro said, “I have asked him to go to the cowboys on our behalf and ask them to leave our valley.”

“You did what?”

“He declined.”

“Of course he did,” Delicia said. “What does he care if we live or die? He is no better than they are. If we were not in your wagon I would spit on him.”

“There are better ways of swapping spit,” Fargo said.

Delicia balled her small fists. “I think I am beginning to hate you.”

“I want to make love to you, too,” Fargo said.

She took a step and hissed through clenched teeth. “You are the most aggravating man I have ever met.”

Fargo winked again. “That's why you want me.”

Porfiro snorted.

“Don't encourage him,” Delicia said. “He is playing with us. He doesn't know how to be serious.”

“Tell you what,” Fargo said, grinning. “I'll go talk to them for ten kisses.”

“What?”

“I'll talk to these cowboys and after I get back you give me ten kisses.”

“
Estas loco
, gringo,” Delicia said. “You're crazy. I will do no such thing.”

“Afraid you'd like it too much?”

She became even redder. “Grandfather, how can you sit there and let him talk to me like this?”

“You are a grown woman. Fight your own fights,” Porfiro said.

Fargo stood. “That's all right. I figured she wouldn't go for it. She must not care for her people as much as she claims.”

“How dare you?” Delicia said, and poised to throw herself at him. But she must have changed her mind because she straightened and said, “Very well. Go talk to them for us. And when you get back, you shall have your ten kisses.”

“Better practice your puckering,” Fargo said.

Hermanos Valley wound like a snake. Here and there fingers of forest and rocky spines thrust from either side so that at most only a quarter-mile stretch was visible at any one time.

Fargo rode at a walk. The day was bright and warm. For the first few miles he'd passed hundreds of sheep. After that there was only grass until he came on a few cattle and after that a few more. He was surprised not to find any cowboys.

Porfiro had been right; their camp was at the south end of the valley. Eight of them were sitting around a fire drinking coffee and talking and laughing. They didn't spot him until he was well around the last bend. Jumping up, they came to meet him, some with their hands on their six-shooters.

“Hell, he ain't one of them,” the youngest cowboy declared. “They don't wear buckskins, and he ain't Spanish.”

A tall man in chaps with a scar on his left cheek took a few steps in front of the rest. High on his right hip was a Remington. “Howdy, mister. We took you for a sheepherder and almost shot you.”

Fargo drew rein and leaned on the saddle horn. “Nursemaiding a bunch of woollies isn't for me.” He didn't add that neither was nursemaiding cows. Not that he had anything against either profession. He liked to wander too much—to always see what was over the horizon—to ever settle into a steady job.

“What do you do?”

“Scout, mostly,” Fargo said, and gave his name.

“Griff Wexler,” the tall cowboy said in his pronounced Texas drawl. “I'm ramrod for the Bar T. Ever hear of it?”

Fargo vaguely recollected that it was one of the biggest outfits in west Texas. “You gents are a bit off your range,” he remarked.

“Last fall a couple of the boys came up into the Guadalupes to hunt elk and stumbled on this here valley,” Griff said. “When they got back they told Mr. Trask. He's always on the lookout for new graze.”

“I saw a few cows,” Fargo said.

“Before long there'll be thousands.” Griff motioned at the fire. “Light and set a spell. We have coffee if you're of a mind.”

“I'll take you up on that.” Fargo dismounted. A couple of the cowboys nodded at him by way of greeting. A short puncher with a lot of muscle handed him a tin cup.

“Here you go, mister. Shorty is my handle.”

Fargo hunkered and held the cup in both hands and sipped. “One thing about cowhands,” he said by way of praise, “your coffee could float a horseshoe.”

The youngest cowboy chuckled. “We use it to remove paint, too.”

Griff Wexler had his thumbs hooked in his belt and was tapping the buckle. “So you saw the mangy sheep,” he said.

“And the sheepherders.”

A cowboy swore and spat and another patted his six-gun and said, “I'd like to put windows in their noggins.”

“Did you talk to them?” Griff asked.

“They didn't give me much choice,” Fargo said. “They thought I was one of you and hankered to slit my throat.”

Griff looked at the others. “See? That proves what those mutton eaters think of us.”

“Seems they blame you for killing three of their own,” Fargo mentioned, and gazed about the camp. “But I don't see a dog anywhere.”

At his comment all the cowboys stiffened and Griff Wexler said, “What's that about a dog?”

“They claim you set one loose on them.”

“That's a damned lie,” Griff declared. “They said that to make us look bad.”

“I saw one of the herders with my own eyes,” Fargo said. “His throat was torn out.” He swallowed more coffee. “I saw the dog, too.”

Griff took a step toward him. “You sure enough did?”

“I saw . . . something,” Fargo said. “Its eyes, anyway. It came close to my fire last night.”

“And it's killed three of those sheep lovers, you say?” another cowboy asked.

“So they told me.”

“It don't make sense,” Shorty said.

“No, it doesn't,” Griff said. “Killin' them
and
our cows? What the hell is goin' on?”

“What was that about your cows?” Fargo said.

“Somethin' has been at them,” Griff answered. “We found six so far clawed and bit to ribbons.”

“But whatever killed them didn't eat any of the meat,” another puncher remarked.

Fargo was as puzzled as they were. “It hasn't gone after any of you?”

Griff Wexler scowled. “Our third night here, we heard it howlin' off in the trees. Two nights later Shorty, there, was ridin' herd and . . .” He stopped. “Why don't you tell it, Shorty?”

“Not much to tell,” Shorty said. “I was singin' to the cows to keep 'em calm and almost didn't hear the damn thing come up behind me. If my horse hadn't caught its scent and made a fuss, it would have jumped me. I'm sure of it.” He stopped. “As it was, I turned and saw somethin' big slinkin' toward me. I drew my pistol and shot at it but I was so spooked I missed and the thing ran off.”

“What was it?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Shorty replied. “All I know is it's big and has a long tail.”

“That leaves out a bear,” another cowhand said. “Bears ain't got tails to speak of.”

Griff was scratching his head. “I reckoned maybe the sheepherders sent it after us but now you say it's after them, too. What in hell is goin' on?”

“If I can find its tracks I can tell you what it is,” Fargo said. He had more experience at tracking than most any man alive.

“Good luck, mister,” Griff said. “Those cows that were killed? We looked all around their bodies and there wasn't a print of the thing anywhere.”

“There had to be.”

“Did you find any around that dead sheepherder?”

Fargo shook his head.

“There you go,” Griff said.

Fargo knew it was pointless but he had promised he would try so he said, “The sheepherders wanted me to give you a message.”

“Did they, now?”

“They would be pleased as could be if you would kindly leave their valley.”

Several cowboys cursed and muttered.

“
Their
valley?” Shorty angrily declared. “They never filed a claim on it. Our boss checked.”

“How about you give them a message for us?” Griff said. “I'd go myself but they're liable to take a potshot at me before I can have my say.”

“I suppose I could.”

“Good.” Griff's smile was vicious. “You tell those miserable mutton lickers that when the rest of our outfit gets here, we're goin' to run them and their hoofed locusts out. They'd best light a shuck while they can.”

“What if they won't go?”

“That's fine with us,” Griff said, and patted his Remington. “Whether they do or they don't, we'll be shed of them one way or the other.”

“Damn right we will,” Shorty said. “They don't leave, this valley will run red with blood.”

It was late afternoon when Fargo started for the sheepherder camp. The sun was low on the horizon and the shadows in the timber had lengthened.

The Bar T hands had been friendly enough. He hadn't learned a whole lot, although one thing was certain: barring a miracle, Shorty's prediction was bound to come true.

Fargo took to thinking about Delicia and the ten kisses he'd earned. He grinned in anticipation—and suddenly became aware of movement on the slope above. He was close to the west edge of the valley, only a few yards from the tree line, and he saw . . . something . . . dart from behind a pine tree and around a thicket.

Drawing rein, Fargo palmed the Colt. He'd had only a glimpse but he was sure it wasn't a deer or an elk. It was too low to the ground. “I wonder,” he said, and reined into the trees. There was a chance it might be the creature that killed Ramon and the others. Cocking his Colt, he warily approached the thicket.

The Ovaro didn't shy or whinny. He found out why when he rounded the thicket and a coyote lit off up the mountain. He didn't shoot it. Coyotes were seldom a threat. Not long ago he'd been tied to a tree by an enemy and several coyotes had tried to eat him but that was a special circumstance.

Fargo twirled the Colt into his holster and resumed his ride. The sun was halfway gone. It didn't worry him that the wolf or dog or whatever it was might soon be abroad. Shorty's experience suggested it was gun-shy.

If he had any sense, Fargo told himself, he'd be on his way to Dallas. He had no stake in the sheepmen/cattlemen war shaping up. He should make himself scarce and let them do as they will.

But there was Delicia.

Fargo envisioned her eyes and those long legs of hers and felt a twitch below his belt. He'd be the first to admit that women were his weakness. He liked bedding them more than he liked just about anything. Give him a willing filly, and a bottle or three of whiskey, and he was as content as a man could be.

Fargo smacked his lips. He wouldn't mind a drink right about now.

In the forest above, a twig snapped.