The Taylor County War (6 page)

“Brandy?”

She looked up at Billy, tears
leaking from her eyes.

***

Union suit held together with
safety pins and dried blood crackling as he gingerly came down the
stairs at Miss Abby’s, Billy Below set his mind on the Sheriff’s
office. Rolling R hands’d attacked kids on a school outing. Sheriff
Satterlee needed to know real story from someone who was there.
Namely, Billy Below.

He squeezed Brandy’s hand. “Thanks
for putting me back together,” he said, quiet like. “I’d stay a
mite, but I gotta go tell the sheriff what happened.”

Brandy’s tears were gone, but she
still frowned with concern. “Billy Below, you listen to me. Don’t
you go getting yourself shot up no more, you hear? I’d rather you
came around without holes in your hide.”

He squeezed her hand again. “Soon
as I get some cash,” he said, “I’ll be back to pay you for the
sheet . . . and whatever.”

Brandy’s laugh tinkled. “Whatever,
you say. I’ll show you what that means, Billy Below. Just you come
back and we’ll ‘whatever’ all night.” She raised her voice. “Miss
Abby, Billy Below’s leaving.”

Miss Abby’s petite frame appeared
in the door to the back room. “You take care, Billy Boy,” she
called. “Come back soon.”

“I will, Miss Abby, you know
that.”

She laughed. “I reckon you will,
boy. Knowing you and all.”

“Much obliged, Miss Abby. Much
obliged.”

Billy left Brandy at the door.
“I’ll be back soon as I can, Brandy,” he said.

“I’m here,” she said, and gave him
a peck on the cheek.

Billy hung his gun rig over the
saddle horn and climbed aboard the horse he’d left at the hitching
rail. He walked it back toward Useless Grant Street. Just a half
block past the Wolf’s Den at Fourth Street, Billy turned north
toward the Sheriff’s Office. Sam Gardner, cigar in the corner of
his mouth, stood at the window of the Marshal’s Office as Billy
rode by. He seemed to be watching something in the next county,
judging from the faraway look in his eyes. Billy paid no mind. His
business was with Sheriff Satterlee.

Two horses stood in front of the
Sheriff’s Office, and Billy didn’t recognize either one. He stopped
the nondescript brown he rode at the south end of the hitching
rack, and climbed stiffly off. Damn. Getting shot in the butt was a
pain in the ass. Billy grinned at his own joke. He looped the reins
over the hitching rail, lifted his gunbelt off the saddle horn and
considered strapping it on. The twinge in his butt told him not to
do that yet, so he carried the rig over his left arm as he strode
into Satterlee’s office.

“Rustlers, I tell you. Bent on
stealing stock off our range.”

Billy’d seen that cockeyed hat
before. The speaker had his back to the front door as he leaned
over the sheriff’s desk and shoved his face into that of Deputy
Zachary. The man in the cockeyed hat rode with the Rolling R bunch.
He’d been with them when Obie Wilkins was shot -when Billy Below
was wounded, too, for that matter.

“Sheriff’ll be back soon,” Zack
said. “Just hold your horses. Him and Laban’s down to Crib Town.
Been a little scrap down there. Be back purty quick, I reckon.”

“Rustling’s a hanging crime,
deputy. If you all don’t get up and after them, we’ll get them on
our own. Already had a bit of a shootout with some of them today.
Couple of our boys took lead. Bad. I’m here to swear out a warrant
for some a’ them rustlers.”

“You know who they were?”

“T-Bar-B men. No doubt about it.”
The cowboy in the cockeyed hat fairly spit the words out.

Billy let the door close, and
quietly retreated back to the horse. For the first time, his eyes
went to the brand on its left hip. Rolling R. Shit. If he was
caught riding that horse, he’d hang.

With his gunbelt dangling from the
crook of his left arm, Billy did something cowboys rarely do. He
started walking. He turned his back on the sheriff’s office and
headed south on Fourth Street. He crossed the street so he’d be on
the far side, away from the Marshal’s Office when he passed. He
kept his head down, with his hat pulled low over his eyes, and he
walked as fast as he could without looking like he was in an
ungodly hurry.

Luckily, no one stopped him before
he reached the Wolf’s Den. Ira Breedlove’s pa owned the T-Bar-B.
Even if Ira and his pa didn’t see eye to eye, blood had to count
for something. Billy pushed through the batwings of the Wolf’s
Den.

Wesley Quaid stood at the far end
of the bar, his elbows hooked on the polished surface and his left
boot hooked on the rail that ran down the bar about a foot from the
floor. “Good gads, Billy. What the hell happened to you? You look
like something the old cat drug in. Some kinda near-dead rat.
What’s up?”

“Gotta talk to Ira. Where’s he
at?”

“Where’s Ira anytime, day or night?
Back in that office of his, counting his damn money.”

Billy nodded his thanks to Quaid
and limped by him, headed for Ira Breedlove’s office.

“Damn, Billy. You look like hell,
if you don’t mind me saying so. What’s that? Someone shoot you in
the ass?”

Billy didn’t turn around and he
didn’t slow down. “Yeah. I been shot in the ass. Not that it’s none
of your business.”

Quaid held both hands up, palms
out. “Whoa. Whoa. Just asking. Looks like you could do with a new
union suit and a shirt, that’s all.”

The men at the poker table didn’t
even look up. The whiskey bottle on the table still held more than
three-quarters of amber spirits, and the talk amongst the players
was desultory, languid, unhurried. The real contest of wills over
the pasteboards had yet to begin, it seemed.

As they ignored Billy, he ignored
them. At the door to Ira’s office, he rapped, then called, “Ira.
Ira Breedlove. It’s me. Billy Below.”

“What the hell, come on in.”

Billy juggled the knob and pushed
the door open. “Rolling R’s hitting T-Bar-B, Mr. Breedlove. Your Pa
needs help.”

“Shit, man. Least you could do is
get dressed. What’s this? Coming in here in your union suit, and
all ragged at that.”

“Gave my shirt to Marcus to make a
bandage for Obie Wilkins, Mr. Breedlove. He got lung shot. Needed
the shirt more’n me.”

“Why’d a little kid get lung
shot?”

“Rolling R waddies come a-shooting.
Obie got in the way of a bullet. They was flying fast and thick,
too. Lanny Taggart’s dead, so’s our new hand Lige Henry. Took some
lead myself, but it ain’t bad. Brandy over at the cathouse fixed me
up right.”

“Rolling R?”

“Yep. That funny waddie with the
cockeyed hat, the one with the brim turned up in front, well, he’s
up to the sheriff’s office saying us’ns was rustling. Taking
Rolling R stock. He stood right there in front of Zack, accusing
us.”

“But they shot Obie?”

Billy bit his lip. After a moment,
he said, “Yup.”

“Damn. That’s not right.”

“That Rogers man ain’t right, Mr.
Breedlove. He’s leaning mighty hard on your Pa. Be righteous if
you’d lend a hand. Send over some gun people or something.”

“The old man doesn’t care much for
me,” Breedlove said.

Billy said nothing.

“Much. Not much, he don’t. I don’t
wanna herd a bunch of dumb cows all my life, and that makes him
mad.” Breedlove seemed to be talking to himself. “‘Built this here
spread all by myself, he says, you should be proud to take over.
That’s why I sent you off to school, so you’d have smarts that I
ain’t got.’ That’s what he said.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr.
Breedlove, without some help, your pa’ll get run over roughshod.
I’m just a cowboy, but ’less I miss my guess, that Rogers man’s
planning to run this whole county.”

“Shit. I don’t really want to get
caught up in some range war.”

“Mr. Breedlove. Old Mr. Breedlove’s
your own pa.”

“That he is. Not sure if that’s my
bad luck or his.”

“Blood’s thicker’n water, Mr.
Breedlove. That’s what they say.”

Ira Breedlove didn’t answer. He
paced the room. He fingered his ribbon tie, the ruffles on his
white shirt, the cufflinks at his wrists. He ran his fingers
through hair that was just beginning to thin. “Damn,” Breedlove
said softly, then raised his voice. “Quaid. Wesley Quaid. Get your
ass in here.”

Quaid’s head popped in the door.
“You calling me, Ira?”

“You gone deaf? Get in here.”

Quaid stepped in.

“You’ve been hitting me up for work
since you got here, Quaid. You ready to earn your keep?”

Quaid’s smile wasn’t pretty. He
pulled a nickel-plated Colt from a tooled black holster hanging
from a belt that looked to have about twenty-four cartridges in it.
“I’ve been keepin’ my gear clean, just for you.”

“Want you to go with Billy here
over to the T-Bar-B. Seems the Rolling R’s pushing my pa, trying to
drive him out. I don’t want him driven out.”

Quaid nodded. “I’ll get my
paint.”

“Mr. Breedlove,” Billy said. “I
ain’t got a horse.”

Breedlove turned on Billy. “How’d
you get in?”

“Rolling R shot mine. I picked up
one of theirs to ride in to see the sheriff. Left him in front of
the sheriff’s office. You got one I can ride back to the
ranch?”

Breedlove heaved a huge sigh. “Good
Lord, man.” He shook his head, then said, “Tell Ben Tolliver over
to the livery to let you have one, and I’ll pay. Now, you and Quaid
ride on out to the ranch and tell my pa I’ll be out directly.”

***

The horse Billy got from the livery
was better than nothing, but not much. But then, sitting on half
his butt like he did, he wasn’t much of a rider either. And Wesley
Quaid riding up ahead, whistling like he didn’t have a care of any
kind, didn’t sit well with Billy, either. Damn. He gigged the
raggedy horse up alongside Quaid.

“You may have to use that shiny
gun, Quaid, and get it dirty.”

Quaid chuckled. “Cowboy, you ain’t
about big enough to teach me anything about guns.” He cast a
sidewise glance at Billy. “You won’t catch me sticking my ass out
for no Rolling R rannie to use for target practice, though.”

Billy grunted and shifted around in
the saddle, trying to find a comfortable position. He couldn’t.
“Getting shot in the ass ain’t fun. Not deadly, but not fun.
Keeping posteriors from the line of fire could become my first
prerogative.”

“Your first what?”

“Prerogative. That’s what they call
the thing you do first of all.”

“Awful big word for a little fella
like you, Billy.”

Billy hid a smile. “I read some,”
he said.

“Figure they’ll come shooting?”

“My ass says so.”

Quaid snorted. “Be good to tangle
with them kid-shootin’ rannies, I reckon.”

“Bastards killed my horse,
too.”

“Get a new one.”

“I’ll ride one from the remuda till
I find the right one to buy, I reckon. Man and his horse kinda need
to be friends. You know, trust each other. Just any cayuse ain’t
about to do.”

“Cowboys.” The word dripped off
Quaid’s tongue like poison.

Billy Below didn’t try to argue
with Quaid. Some people understood what it was like to be a cowboy,
how it wasn’t just anybody who could walk on two legs that could
make the grade, how a man would think nothing of putting his life
on the line for any one of the four-legged critters he was given
watch over. Some knew. Some didn’t. And it didn’t do any good to
argue. He let the raggedy brown drop back some so he wouldn’t have
to talk to Quaid.

The way to the T-Bar-B looked flat
all the way to the banks of the Arkansas, but looks could be
tricky. Box elders marked where water flowed after a rain, and
sometimes they were too thick to get through horseback. Being a
cowboy gave Billy pride in himself and what he could do. As he and
Quaid rode for the Breedlove spread, he automatically checked the
land. Was the buffalo grass ready to be grazed? Any good spots of
Texas bluegrass showing through? Seemed like the more cows came up
from Texas to be shipped east on the railroad, the more bluegrass
grew. Bluegrass fed cows good, so Billy didn’t worry about the
invasion, he just noted where patches grew.

Billy noted black-eyed Susan
blooms, some buffalo burr, cone flower, Indian Blanket, too. And
one of his favorites, the prairie rose. After miles of buffalo
grass and wild rye, dots of red and blue and purple soothed a
cowboy’s eye.

Purple. Whenever that color caught
Billy’s eye, he looked sharply at the flower. Wouldn’t do to have
cows grazing on locoweed. Not all that much around, but enough so’s
a good cowboy kept his eye peeled. And assholes like Wesley Quaid
thought cowboying was a soft job.

“Hey, Billy.”

“Whaddaya want?”

Quaid turned in his saddle. “How
much farther?”

Billy pointed straight ahead. “See
them red ash trees up there?”

A green clump showed on the
horizon. Quaid shoved his chin out. “That stuff up there?”

“Yep. The ranch house is right back
a them trees. Half hour from here, maybe.”

“Good. Wonder if they’s anything to
eat?”

“Twenty-five bucks a month ‘n’
found,” Billy said. “Them’s cowboy wages. T-Bar-B grub’s better’n
most and beats the hell out of beans and beef a man gets on the
trail.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Ira runs the booze part of the
Breedlove bunch. Old man Tobias’s as close to a teetotaler as I’ve
ever seen.” Billy had to grin. Working cowboys and rattlesnake
whiskey didn’t mix well. Any rancher who knew anything knew he had
to keep booze out of the cowboy’s reach outside of town. Old Man
Tobias Breedlove was about as canny as a rancher can be when it
came to cows and cowboys.

As the two riders neared the ranch,
Billy pushed the raggedy brown ahead. He leaned from the saddle and
removed the leather loop from the top of the gate and swung it
open. After Quaid rode through, he closed it again the same way.
Nothing fancy, just something every cowboy did.