Stands a Calder Man (7 page)

“Let's get that buckboard over by the depot.” Nate pushed his lanky frame into motion, but Webb dawdled a second. His gaze traveled after the rumbling wagons, trying unsuccessfully to pick out the one the young woman had climbed in.

When the freight was secured in the back of the wagon, they headed back to the main part of town. The general store had the distinction of being the original building in the small settlement. It bore little resemblance to its log-cabin beginnings, especially with the false front dressing up the entrance side. Although it still bore the name of Fat Frank Fitzsimmons, his widow had sold it several years ago when Frank died and she decided to go back east where she had family. The new owner was a man named Ollie Ellis, middle-aged and aggressive in seeking trade with the ranchers in the area. He believed in serving his customers, anxious to discover their needs and fill them so they wouldn't take their business elsewhere. Few ranchers did.

The Triple C Ranch represented a big account to the merchant. When Webb walked into the store, Ollie Ellis came out from behind the counter to greet him. He was a stocky man with a shock of sandy hair, businesslike in his attitude, “It's good to see you again, Mr. Calder.” Even though Webb was the son of the owner, Ollie always addressed with the respect he felt was the due of the heir apparent to the Calder Cattle Company. “We've been having a fine spring, haven't we?”

“The weather has held nicely so far,” Webb agreed, resenting that he was acknowledged and Nate was relegated to second place in importance.

“Hello, Nate.” Ollie was freer with the cowboy, a back-slapping quality to his greeting. “How's the tobacco holding out?”

“I'll be needing another can,” Nate replied, not seeing the slight Webb saw.

Taking the list of needed supplies from his pocket, Webb handed it to the store's proprietor. The man looked it over without comment as he walked behind the counter.

“Did you happen to notice those wagons filled with new settlers that went through town just before you came into the store?” the merchant asked as he began filling the order.

“We were down at the station when they came in.” Nate nodded in reply. “They are figurin' to file homestead claims hereabouts.”

“That's what I heard. Rumor is they are going to start streaming to this area.” Ollie Ellis looked skeptical. “It's for sure the railroad is out there beating the drums to bring them in.” Aware of where his loyalties belonged, he quickly made certain Webb was informed of them, too. “'Course, I don't put much stock in all that talk about turning this land into one giant wheat-field. This has always been grazing land for cattle or sheep—and before that, for buffalo and antelope.”

“That's what they said before the farmers started fencing in Kansas and stopping all the trail herds.” Some of that Webb remembered from his childhood, “Dodge City is about as tame as towns come now, filled with farmers on market day instead of cowboys blowing off steam after months on the trail.”

“That's true,” the merchant conceded. “But I don't see farmers taking over Blue Moon and turning it into a farm town. Not that I wouldn't appreciate their business,
you understand. New customers are always welcome in my store, but a man just doesn't forget his regular customers. That's like biting the hand that feeds you.”

“This bunch doesn't look like it came with much money in its pockets,” Nate remarked. “So I don't think they'll be doin' too much buyin' for a while.”

“I noticed there are a couple of new buildings in town,” Webb said.

“A guy named Wessel owns one of them. He's a land speculator, from what I've heard,” Ollie replied. “He dresses real flashy—wears a white suit. He tells me that a bank is going into the second building.”

“A bank? In Blue Moon?” Nate looked more than skeptical.

“That's what he said,” the merchant confirmed, and smiled crookedly. “If those new settlers are as broke as you think, they'll need a bank to loan them money for seed.”

“The land's free.” Nate looked at Webb as he spoke, recalling the phrase he'd used at the station. “But they'll have to sell their souls to grow anything on it.”

A humorless smite of agreement flashed across Webb's mouth. “While you fill our order, Ollie, Nate and I are going over to the saloon.”

“I'll have it ready for you in less than an hour,” Ellis promised.

“There's no rush.” He knew they wouldn't be in any hurry to leave the saloon to make the long ride back to the ranch.

Up until ten years ago, the saloon had been a small room off the general store. Then the railroad had put a spur into Blue Moon and Sonny Drake had arrived in town and built a roadhouse, complete with a bar to lure trade into his establishment. Competition and an expanding merchandise business had combined to finally close the saloon side of the general store.

Like Ollie Ellis, Sonny Drake catered to the local ranchers and their hands, happy to serve them whiskey,
then rent them a room to sleep it off when they had too much. The separate building with a bar on the first floor and a half-dozen small sleeping rooms upstairs also had the added enticement of being only a dozen yards from a log shack located in back of the building where Miss Fannie Owens quietly plied her ancient profession.

In the early noon hour, there was only one customer leaning against the long bar made out of hand-carved wood, imported all the way from Chicago. When Webb and Nate walked into the local roadhouse, the interior seemed dark after the bright sunlight. Sonny was sweeping the floor, most of the chairs still turned upside down on the tables, with the exception of one. A curly-haired man had set the chairs upright and sat reclining in one with his boots propped atop the table. A whiskey bottle was on the table within reach to fill the shot glass he was nursing.

His gaze lifted from its study of the contents when he heard the combined jingle of spurs. The hard, brooding look that had been on his face vanished when he recognized Webb. A smile broke across his face, giving it the good-natured expression Webb usually associated with Doyle Pettit. Doyle was a couple of years younger than Webb, the son of a rancher. Only Doyle wasn't just the son of a rancher anymore. His father, Tom Pettit, the owner of the TeePee Ranch, had died three years ago, and it now belonged to Doyle.

“Hey, Webb, Nate. Come on over here and join me!” He waved them to his table. “It's been a helluva long time since I've seen you fellas! Sonny,” he called to the husky owner/bartender. “Bring these boys some glasses.”

“What are you doing in town?” Nate pulled out a chair and slumped into it, resting his arms on the table.

“I'm drinking to the end of the cattle business.” Doyle lifted his glass in a mock toast, then downed the drink.

It was fairly common knowledge among the ranch community that the TeePee had been going steadily downhill since Doyle had taken charge. It was a combination
of poor management and a declining cattle market.

“You aren't thinking of selling out?” Webb raised an eyebrow, surprised that Doyle might be quitting. It was good land, the best next to the Triple C.

“Hell, if the cattle prices get any lower, I won't have a choice.” Momentarily disgruntled by the implied failure, Doyle Pettit refilled his glass, then poured whiskey into the two that Sonny set on the table.

“They'll go up. They always do.” It was just a matter of riding out a poor market and paring down expenses.

“I laid off most of my hands yesterday.” Doyle sighed. “I just barely met the spring roundup payroll. I'll let them all go if I have to, but I'm going to hang on to that land. It's going to be a gold mine.”

“No cowboys mean no cattle, so I don't know where you're going to find that gold,” Nate said dryly.

“Gold as in wheat.” A bright gleam leaped into his hazel eyes. “Wheat means land. And, Lord knows, I own enough of it.”

“You don't really believe a fella can grow wheat out here?” Nate scoffed, eyeing the rancher as if he'd lost all his wits.

“Hell, no, I don't believe it, but those drylanders do.” Doyle laughed. “When all that free land gets snapped up, they're gonna start buying it.”

There was sense in what Doyle was saying, but Webb couldn't approve of the plan. The idea of breaking the TeePee up into wheat farms seemed a traitorous act for a cattleman. He kept his silence only because Doyle had been a good friend for so many years.

A lull followed that was silently critical. Swinging his feet off the table, Doyle sat up and leaned forward, anxious to convince his friends of the wisdom of his plan.

“It's the smart move,” he insisted. “Those suckers coming out here are hungry for land. Nothing is going to stop them. Now that they have started, it's going to be like a flood. You just watch; the land values around here are going to shoot sky-high. It isn't going to matter
anymore how many head of cattle you own. It will be how much land. Anyone who tries to stick with ranching is a fool. A man can get rich with land.”

“You overlooked something.” Nate shifted in his chair. “Every boom has a bust. When those farmers can't grow a crop to meet their notes, they're going to lose their land.”

“That's the beauty of it.” A grin spread his mouth wide. “Think of how many times a man can sell the same chunk of land!”

“It don't sound right to me.” Nate shook his head.

“It's no different than horse-trading,” Doyle declared. “If the buyer can't see for himself that the horse is spavined, then he deserves what he gets.”

It was apparent that Doyle considered the comparison an adequate justification. Webb also realized that Doyle had covered every angle. This wasn't just idle talk to be bandied around the table and forgotten. It was going to be followed through.

“What do you say about all this, Webb?” Nate turned to him, seeking vocal support for his opposition.

“I say it's a damned good thing old Tom Pettit is dead and in his grave.” There was a certain stiffness in his movements as he took a quick swallow of whiskey.

Doyle reddened slightly, his hazel eyes narrowing. “My pa was just like yours is, Webb. All he knew was cattle and that ranch. As far as he was concerned, there wasn't any world outside the boundaries of his range. That's old-time thinking. He put nearly thirty years of his life into that ranch. When he died, he left me a bunch of cattle, but no money-—not a dime after thirty years. That's what you're going to get, Webb—cattle and all the headaches that go with them. I'm not going to waste my life the way my pa did.”

“A man's gotta do what he thinks is right,” Webb murmured, but Doyle's words had made him uneasy. This time it had nothing to do with being the son of Chase Benteen Calder and the future owner of the Triple C. It was something else that gnawed at him. Some new thought that hadn't occurred to him before.

“Your pa left you a good piece of ranchland,” Nate reminded him.

“And I'm going to take that land and turn it into money,” Doyle stated, less defensive. “I've been talking to Harve Wessel about maybe setting up a partnership. Have you met him yet?” He shot a glance at Webb.

“I've only seen him.”

“That guy could sell beaded moccasins to reservation Indians,” he declared with a grin. “We've been considering buying up some land for speculation. Since his heart attack last winter, Evan Banks is talking about selling the old Ten Bar spread. Harve is sure we can convince the bank to loan us the money to buy it.”

“Instead of being cattle-poor, you're going to be land-poor,” Webb warned.

“I'll be land-rich,” he corrected and let his glance swing back to Webb. “If your pa was smart, he'd sell off at least some of his land. The days of the big cattle ranches are over. He'd better be thinking about trimming down the size of the Triple C, or he'll find himself losing it all.”

More than an hour went by before Webb and Nate took their leave of Doyle and left the saloon to get a bite to eat. They paused outside the door, studying the one-street town. Nate hitched his pants higher on his hips and darted a squinting glance at his friend.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Webb didn't have to ask what he meant. “I think Doyle is going to do it. He's going to sell off the TeePee.”

The knowledge didn't set well with either of them. Times change, and both men had seen a lot of change. More was coming, it seemed, and they didn't like the looks of it.

Surrounded by the rolling plains of eastern Montana, the immigrants listened wide-eyed to the man in the white suit. Tall stalks of grass rubbed their heads against his knees. Harve Wessel had carefully chosen
the place for his lecture on the dryland method of wheat farming. As far as the eye could see in any direction, there was virgin grassland, government land free for the taking. Time and the elements had carved a cutbank into the side of a small rise in the land, giving him a naturally elevated platform from which to speak.

With the confidence of a salesman convinced his product was sold, he invited questions. “Is there anything you don't understand about the dryland method?”

Everyone looked around to see if anyone else was going to speak. Stefan Reisner made a negative shake of his head when the locater Harve Wessel looked squarely at him. He was in the front row of the immigrants, with Lillian standing by his side, her head tipped slightly back to view the locater.

“Now, for those of you who are short of funds”—which was virtually all of them, as Wessel knew—“I can help you obtain a loan from our new bank—your new bank—so you can buy seed and the equipment you need. The interest is ten percent, but the land is free.” he emphasized. “Any questions?”

“What will we do about a place to live?” someone asked.

“Wagons or tents will get you through the summer until you sell your first crop. There's going to be a lumberyard in Blue Moon where you can buy wood to throw you up a place. Borrow money from the bank for that, if you don't want to wait. Or”—he paused—“you can build you a sod house out of all this ‘prairie marble.'”