Stands a Calder Man (16 page)

A couple of cowboys were coming out the door as Webb went in. They were laughing and talking loud, but the noise they were creating seemed a whisper compared to the din that Webb found inside. Nearly every outfit within miles seemed to be represented in the throng of cowboys filling the roadhouse. It took him a minute to spot the Triple C bunch and work his way across the room to join them.

“Webb!” Young Shorty Niles slapped him on the back and pushed him up to the bar. “Hell! I thought you were holdin' down the fort!”

“I got bored and thought I'd better check to see what trouble you guys were getting into,” he replied and ordered himself a beer.

“Why, we haven't been in any trouble, have we, boys?” Shorty asked and received a chorus of vigorous negatives. “We just been picking out the gab we're gonna dance with tonight. There's a whole passel of 'em in town.”

“If I was you boys, I wouldn't be sashayin' too close to them honyockers' daughters.” The warning came from a man outside their group, his voice thick with contempt for the homesteaders. “You just might catch somethin'.”

Webb glanced down the long bar, finding the lantern-jawed man who had made the sneering remark. Hobie Evans rode for a neighboring ranch. He was good at his trade by all accounts, but some said he was a hundred and seventy pounds of solid mean. He was certainly no stranger to trouble, whether of his making or someone else's.

Feeling the eyes of the Triple C outfit on him, Hobie Evans turned his head slightly in their direction, but remained leaning on the bar, hunched over his drink. Around his eye there were the fading colors of a bruise.

“Catch what?” Young Shorty wanted to know, a devilish light dancing in his gaze. “Some farmer's fist in the eye?” Chuckling laughter circled through the Triple C riders. “Ain't that where you got your shiner, Hobie?”

As he pushed away from the bar to face his questioner, Hobie appeared ready to take umbrage at the question. But his glance swept the Tanks of the Triple C outfit and he thought better of it.

“Yeah, I got this from a nester,” Hobie admitted, pointing to his blackened eye. “But the last time I saw him, he was stretched out on the ground, and he wasn't lookin' so good, neither.”

“What happened?” someone behind Webb asked.

“He claimed I broke the law—said I couldn't spit in the street.” Hobie pushed out his chest, his mouth curving down in a jeering smile. “So I proceeded to tell him that we made the law around these parts long before he came here; then I spit on his shirt and asked him if he liked that better. When he threw a punch at me, I just naturally had to defend myself.”

The laughs were louder the second time around, showing support for the tough cowboy's actions. Webb's mouth widened into a smile as he leaned sideways against the bar and sipped at the foaming mug of beer.

“This is our town,” Hobie declared, raising his voice to make himself heard throughout the room. “Them funny-talkin' nesters think they can just come here and
start tellin' us what we can do in it. We was here first. I say, if they don't like it, they can get out!”

There was a rumble of agreement and nodding heads throughout the- room. Satisfaction glinted in Hobie Evans's eyes when he heard the response. He stood a little taller, sure of his support.

“They're a plague, that's what they are. Worse than a bunch of damn ‘hoppers. Look at the way they're eatin' up the land till there ain't a blade of grass left.” He paused, listening to the murmurs in the room. “Has anybody even lifted a hand to stop them?”

This kind of ugly talk didn't set well with Webb. “You're forgetting something, Hobie.” He didn't raise his voice, but it carried clearly through the suddenly quieting room. Webb didn't change his position or even raise his glance from the beer mug. “Those drylanders have every right to claim government land—same as you.”

“I wouldn't have figured a Calder would be stickin' up for them against his own kind.” Hobie eyed him with derision. “Maybe your pa's spread is still sittin' pretty, but you better take a look at the rest of the ranches around here. They're handin' out walking papers right and left. And it's all on account of those farmers.”

“Every ranch is feeling the pinch of the low cattle prices,” Webb replied, turning his head to study the man. “If some cowboys are let go, you can blame the cattle market.”

“Some cowboys.” Hobie scoffed at the phrase and turned to the room of men. “How many of you here have drawn your last pay for a brand? I wanta see a show of hands.”

It began slowly, first one man lifting his hand, then another and another. When Webb finished looking around the room, about half the cowboys present indicated they were out of work. He hadn't known it was that bad.

“Ain't all of us got a pa that owns the place,” the cowboy reminded Webb with deliberate sarcasm. “And
if the cattle prices are bad, who's to blame for that?” Hobie wanted to know, then supplied the answer himself. “It's the farmer. The price of grain's so high that the farmers are sellin' it over there in Europe instead of fattenin' cattle with it. They can get more money for their grain than they can for cattle, so they ain't buyin' any steers at the market. They're gettin' rich an' takin' over our grassland, and we aren't doin' nothin' about it.”

“There ain't nothin' we can do,” a disgruntled cowboy grumbled. “The government's given 'em the land.”

“Somebody should take it away from them,” Hobie suggested and watched the reaction. “Since when has anybody in this territory paid attention to what a bunch of politicians in Washington do?” There was a stirring of discomfort and little, if any, sound of agreement. “Hell, this ain't wheat-growin' land,” Hobie argued. “They passed the law without ever comin' out here to look at it. They made a mistake, and we'd just be puttin' it right.”

“What you're suggesting is against the law,” Nate pointed out dryly.

“What law?” the cowboy countered. “Washington law or range law?”

“Ain't you heard, Hobie?” someone piped up from the back of the room. “They've hired a lawman. Blue Moon's got its own town sheriff now.”

Webb lifted his head, his features sharpening. There was a similar reaction around him at the announcement, indicating the knowledge wasn't widespread.

“You can just bet that sheriff was hired to protect those nesters. None of us have ever needed to hire anyone to protect us,” Hobie declared. “We were able to look after ourselves.”

“What about the stock detectives and the wolvers?” Webb offered. “They were professionals hired by ranchers to track down rustlers and wolves. It seems to me you're talking out of both sides of your mouth.”

“We sure didn't wait around for a sheriff to do it for
us,” Hobie reminded him. “If we had depended on the law, all the cattle would have been rustled. When the law fails us, we always step in and do what needs to be done. We don't go around bellyachin' about it.”

“Ya know, it strikes me that—” Nate took out his tobacco and paper and began building himself a smoke—“that our problem is no different than the Indians' was. No matter how many times we fight, we just keep gettin' pushed back farther. There's more of them than there is of us, and they just keep comin'. We get rid of one, an' three more take his place.”

The ground swell of agreement that had begun with Hobie's remark leveled off at Nate's sobering comparison. Like everyone else, Webb had the feeling that Nate's observation was a little too close to the mark.

Before the silence began to grow heavy, Young Shorty slapped Nate on the shoulder just as he was about to lick his cigarette together. It slipped from his hand, tobacco scattering to the floor, leaving Nate only with the paper between his fingers.

“You know what they say, Nate,” Shorty declared. “If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. And that's just what I'm aimin' to do. I'm going to latch myself on to a purty farmer's gal and dance till the sun goes down.” His jubilance was contagious, livening up the leaden atmosphere in the bar. Shorty waved a hand at Hobie. “Belly up to the bar, Crazy Horse,” he said, likening the cowboy to the famed war chief of the Ogalala Sioux. “And I'll buy you a drink.”

The invitation broke the spell Hobie had cast over the room, and the noise level rose once more. When Sonny Drake, the bartender and owner of the establishment, brought the whiskey bottle over to refill their glasses, Shorty slapped his money on the counter.

“Dancin' is thirsty business. You better give me two bottles to take along,” he stated, then looked at the nearly full mug of beer Webb was nursing. “You'd better drink up, or you'll still be here when they call out to choose your partners.”

* * *

In the open area behind the lumberyard, a bunch of boards had been nailed together to make a crude dance floor. A flat-racked hay wagon sat at one end, all strung up with banners, to form a stage for the band. A crowd had already begun to gather, an assortment of wagons and buggies rimming the perimeter.

Benteen headed back toward the buggy where he'd left Lorna and Ruth, but there was no sign of them when he reached it. The near horse of the matched bay team nuzzled his shirt sleeve. Benteen stroked its nose as he took a frowning look around, finally spotting them three wagons away talking to Gil Brickman's wife from the Bar M.

“Ah-oo-gah!”

The sudden and loud sound startled the horses. Benteen grabbed hold of the reins under the chin strap and quieted them, but they continued to move restlessly, rolling an eye toward the noisy contraption rumbling past them. Benteen glanced at the new-fangled automobile with disgust, and its aproned and goggled driver with more.

“Tom Pettit would rise out of his grave if he knew what his boy was spending his money on.” It was Ed Mace who spoke, his approach covered by the noise of the auto's combustion engine.

“That's a fact,” Benteen agreed. “I don't know what he's going to do with that thing way out here.”

“Drive it up and down the street, I guess.” Ed Mace shook his head at the wasteful use of money. “There aren't any roads around here for those horseless carriages. And there won't be for twenty, thirty years or more, I'd wager.”

“It's just a toy.” Benteen relaxed his hold on the reins now that the horses had settled down. “You've heard the Pettit boy is selling off parcels of his ranch to the homesteaders, haven't you?”

“I heard it, but I didn't want to believe it.” Ed Mace nodded as anger flashed in his eyes. “There's a lot more ranchers that are thinking about selling off some of
their land to try to stay afloat until the cattle market turns around. Some of the prices those drylanders are paying for worthless land make it mighty tempting.”

“It looks like easy money, I guess.” Benteen sighed heavily.

“Damned easy when the banks are charging ten percent interest!” the rancher declared. “I swear they're being run by a bunch of damned shysters.” The line of his jaw hardened as he surveyed the cluster of farm wagons in the area. “Did you ever think you'd feel out of place here, Benteen? And more keep coming every day.”

“It's just the beginning, I'm afraid.” He hadn't found any way to stop it.

“You don't know the half of it,” Ed declared. “This country is growing too fast. Little one-building towns keep poppin' up all over the place . . . with names like Popular and Love joy. It's like somebody plunks down a shack in the middle of nowhere and calls it a town.”

“They're worse than a plague of grasshoppers,” Benteen admitted. “They're covering more ground than any grasshopper cloud.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we ought to dose them with kerosene and set them afire. Burn 'em up like we do ‘hoppers.” He eyed the families of homesteaders as they gathered in bunches around the dance floor. “Listen to them jabbering. Half of them don't even speak English. And the other half—I wouldn't trade you an old bull for the other half.”

A short, wide-hipped man dressed in western clothes ambled toward the two ranchers. He didn't appear in any hurry to reach them, using the time to size the pair up. Benteen caught the flash of a star on the man's shirt, and his eyes narrowed.

“I don't think we've met yet,” the man declared when he stopped in front of the two ranchers. “The name's Potter. The town hired me on as sheriff to keep the peace.”

“I reckoned that's who you were.” Ed Mace nodded and openly showed his indifference to the authority the
man supposedly represented. “I'm Ed Mace. I own the Snake M Ranch, east of here.”

“Benteen Calder, with the Triple C.” He courteously offered his hand in greeting and felt the fairly young man press his hand into his palm, without exerting the effort to shake it.

“I've been meaning to ride out to both your places,” the sheriff said, giving the impression he didn't rush into anything. “I'd like you to speak to your boys and ask them not to make any trouble. I know when they come to town it's natural for them to feel kind of frisky. I don't expect that you control that, but I'd like you to see to it that they don't bother any law-abiding folk.”

“I don't suppose they will as long as you see to it that your law-abiding folk don't bother them,” Ed Mace challenged.

“That Hobie Evans rides for you, don't he?” It was a statement of recollection rather than a quest for information.

“He does.” The rancher's look almost dared the sheriff to say more.

“It was nice meeting both of you gents,” the sheriff drawled and nodded to each of them in turn. “This is a day for celebration. I hope your boys behave themselves and don't step out of line. I wouldn't like to have to arrest anybody on the day of our nation's independence.”