The Bolas Read online

  The Bolas

  Will Chalk and his partner set out to deliver horses to a US Army post near the New Mexico border. But when they meet a fellow Texan being troubled by a ruthless land-grabber, their thoughts of returning home are put aside.

  From the timberline of Condor Pass, Bruno Ogden is defiling the ranchland of Hog Flats to such an extent that grazing livestock becomes impossible. Furthermore, in nearby White Mesa, a few influential townsfolk are also involved in a dramatic scheme to drive ranchers off their land, and that includes Mollie Broad and her waterless ranch.

  When unnecessary and cowardly killings take place, Will suddenly finds himself involved. With his tough old partner and a couple of loyal Bluestem workers, he attempts to turn the tables on Ogden and the spread of his Bolas company. But Will knows that mercenary gunfighters are more dangerous opponents than cowboys and hoe-men.

  By the same author

  Glass Law

  The Evil Star

  Run Wild

  The Black Road

  Wolf Meat

  Yellow Dog

  Cold Guns

  Big Greasewood

  Blood Legs

  The Goose Moon

  Miller’s Ride

  The Rosado Gang

  The Iron Roads

  Lizard Wells

  Hoke John’s Land

  Wild Meddow

  Buzzard Point

  Silver Track

  Rising Red

  Cody’s Fight

  Calveron’s Chase

  Stearn’s Break

  The Applejack Men

  Bonachon Blood

  Whitewater Run

  Writing as Abe Dancer

  Ironhead

  The Landbreakers

  The Frightened Valley

  Borderline

  Death Song

  Shot Gold

  Puncher’s Creek

  Hog-Tied

  Freighter’s Way

  Brevet Ridge

  The Bull Chop

  Wolf Hole

  Rio Bonito

  Trailing Wing

  Three Trails

  Teal’s Gold

  Blue Wells

  Sparrow’s Gun

  The Guilty Hour

  Blackwater

  The Border Search

  Houston’s Story

  The Bolas

  Caleb Rand

  ROBERT HALE

  © Caleb Rand 2019

  First published in Great Britain 2019

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2942-0

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Caleb Rand to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Chapter 1

  ‘There’s near twenty wakin’ hours in my day an’ most o’ them’s trouble,’ the proprietor of Todo Mercantile complained. He stepped around the end of the counter, lowered some fingers into the pickling jar and drew out a colourless egg. ‘I don’t need more,’ he added, dabbing excess vinegar to the sleeve of his shirt.

  The man opened his mouth and thumbed in the egg, chewed four or five times, blinked hard and swallowed. ‘How’m I supposed to make business by free handin’ supplies to every starve-out ranch in Hog Flats? With respect, Miss Broad, you’re already in deep enough. Perhaps you should be sellin’ on.’

  ‘I’ll set fire to it all before I do that,’ Mollie Broad replied.

  ‘Right now, that won’t take much more’n a match,’ Preston Mower commented with a smirk.

  The refusal of credit came as a shock to Mollie. She stared mutely at the trader, considered a few words that might influence his sense of right and wrong, if not the reality. The man’s lucrative store was piled high with hardware and consumables. Bolts of calico, hand tools, candy boxes and syrup barrels. Aromas of cheese, smoky hams and tobacco infused the pungent atmosphere.

  ‘See sense.’ Mower’s lips puckered as his tongue worked at lingering fragments of dry yolk. ‘Bolas will buy you out, or run you out. Ogden won’t even make a tally. If I was you, I’d accept their offer an’ start over.’ There was no consideration, only a taunt in his voice. ‘There’s land near the border, an’ those señores are practically givin’ it away. Heard tell they’ll even throw in a pig an’ a goat to get you started.’

  Mollie watched him. The man was big and out of shape, the signs crumpled across his pasty features. She knew he was eager for trouble.

  ‘We’ve all had problems through this dry spell, and Bluestem’s paid its way,’ she said.

  Mower moved over to the window and watched a small herd of horses being driven into the corrals. ‘Not for a moon or two it hasn’t,’ he replied glibly.

  Mollie chewed her top lip. The skin under her eyes was dark and her arms and hands were tacky with perspiration. She smoothed down the front of her dress, shuddered inwardly. ‘I’ll never sell. Not to him or anyone else,’ she said.

  ‘So, I’ll give you a hundred dollars for the brand,’ Mower half closed his eyes as he replied. ‘I reckon it’ll take more’n an overnight shower to refresh Bluestem. The weather’s agin you, an’ Bruno Ogden won’t rest till he’s driven his beef plumb into White Mesa. Hah, he wants a cattle trail an’ a turnpike . . . even a goddamn railroad, an’ he wants you out o’ the way, lady.’

  ‘I know. But I’ve got the advantage of being here already.’ Mollie’s voice carried a slight tremor, but also a touch of anger.

  The mercantile door pinged its bell on opening. A man stood in the doorway, framed against the light. ‘Which one of you’s Preston Mower?’ he asked, smiling at Mollie. ‘We’ve brought in some horses.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw,’ Mower answered and turned back to Mollie. ‘Look, Ogden’s organizing a trail herd. He’s mad as a peeled rattler . . . ready to fight anyone who tries to stop him from makin’ it to the shippin’ pens.’

  ‘Your pens, Mr Mower.’ Mollie gritted her teeth. She felt a sudden chill in the room, and knew the man behind her must be curious at the exchange.

  Mower spread his hands and shrugged. ‘I’m just warnin’ you.’

  ‘I’m a Texican. And that usually means taking threats badly.’ Mollie raised her chin, fixed her gaze on the trader. ‘If your friend Ogden has a notion to make a fight of it, he’d best look for some other business to get into.’

  ‘Smart words don’t butter no corn,’ Mower answered back as Mollie walked from the store. ‘Take my word for it, he’ll make things so tough for you an’ your Bluestem, you’ll settle for ten cents on the dollar.’

  As Mollie walked from the store the stranger held a folded docket out to Mower. ‘Some are mine . . . the horses,’ he said. ‘I was told you’d pay me separate.’

  Mower read quickly. ‘An’ you’ll be William Chalk?’ he enquired, eyeing the gunbelt and walnut grip of a .44 Navy Colt.

  ‘Yeah, I’m him,’ the man replied, turning to watch the street. He saw Mollie snatch off her bonnet, settle onto the narrow seat of an elderly pie buggy.

  Mower screwed up his eyes again.
‘Can you drive a dozen head on to Condor Pass? Ogden’s waitin’ on ’em.’

  Chalk shook his head. ‘No. I don’t rightly know where that is, but it ain’t where we’re going.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My partner. He’s at the pens.’

  Mower silently considered a moment. ‘Well, how about signin’ up with Ogden?’ he asked. ‘It’ll be fightin’ wages. There’s a land fight in the offin’ an’ he could use a few more guns.’

  ‘Against who?’

  ‘Bluestem.’

  ‘The woman who just left?’ Chalk raised a near incredulous smile. ‘I’m from Littlefield, mister, so that makes me a beef head too. We don’t make our way in the world by fighting each other.’

  ‘I should’ve tagged you for a gunhawk the moment you stepped in here.’ Suddenly there was a shade of mean approval in Mower’s eyes. ‘You a mite proddy about somethin’?’

  ‘No, not yet. And I’m not a paid gun.’ Chalk glanced at the egg jar, thought better of it, and stepped towards the biscuit barrel. He dipped his hand, ignored the look from Mower. ‘Just pay me for the stock and I can ride on.’

  ‘Sure. Whatever you want.’ Mower turned on his heel, went into the office at the rear of the store. He returned a minute later with a slim wad of banknotes. ‘Four hundred an’ fifty dollars,’ he stated curtly. ‘If you’ll just sign the bill o’ sale.’

  ‘It’s five hundred.’ Chalk made no attempt to take the money. ‘That’s what’s on the invoice.’

  With his eyes now glinting with irritation, Mower glared at Chalk. He waved the notes. ‘Four fifty,’ he repeated.

  ‘If reading’s not your problem, what is it mister? I said where I was from, and that don’t make me an Okie half-bake. If you’re balky about the cost, I’ll just take them somewhere else.’

  In a moment or two of silence the two men glared at each another. ‘There ain’t anywhere else,’ Mower started. ‘Ogden buys from me . . . for Bolas. Other outfits are too broke to purchase stock they can’t even water.’

  ‘But you can.’ Distaste was now edging into Chalk’s voice. ‘That paper says five hundred dollars, an’ that’s what I want . . . not a red cent less.’

  Mower was a harsh, unprincipled trader, but he had a wry appreciation of Chalk’s hold-out. He knew Bruno Ogden needed the horses, was reliant on them. ‘The full five then. Hell, there’s already too many chiselers round here,’ he grudgingly conceded. ‘In case you hadn’t already noticed, Hog Flats is hard land to dig over. Not much in the way o’ horseback work either. Bolas is big enough to carry the trouble, though.’

  ‘What is this Bolas?’ Chalk asked.

  ‘Bruno Ogden’s Land an’ Stock Company. Like I said, he’ll be payin’ top rates.’

  ‘Yeah, for guns,’ Chalk reminded Mower. ‘Right now I’m a dollar-a-day man. Be a chill in Hades afore I’m advised by a horse thief.’

  Mower forced out a thin smile. ‘So try Bluestem. They’re goin’ to need all the help they can get, but they’ll probably find your rate a bit sharp. Head west when you leave town. You won’t miss ’em.’

  Chalk looked uncomprehendingly at the trader, dropped a hard doughboy into a shirt pocket, then stepped outside. He looked out at the road in the direction Mollie Broad had driven, then he walked to the corrals.

  Latchford Loke was shoving his way through the snorty throng of horses, cuffing their noses as they tried to bite him. He was older than Chalk, and carried the colour and wiriness of a seafaring man.

  ‘We’ve got work,’ Chalk said, shading his eyes against the sun as it breached the distant San Andreas Mountains.

  ‘Did you get the dollars?’ Loke climbed through the pole bars of the corral, stumbled to the ground and cursed as a fleabit grey snatched at his leg. ‘Son-of-a-bitch. If I’d got some cutters I’d yank them goddamn teeth from its thick head, so help me.’

  ‘I know you would, Latch,’ Chalk replied none too sincerely. ‘But let’s go eat. Then we can push on before dark.’

  ‘Push on?’ Latch exclaimed. ‘Where to? Hell, Will, we’re always in a goddamn hurry. I reckoned on stayin’ the night, an’ there’s the Bello Hotel across the street. I’m gettin’ so dry I’ll soon be spittin’ cotton.’

  ‘From what I’ve just heard, there’s going to be trouble hereabouts, Latch.’ Chalk briefly told of Preston Mower’s idea of a job offer and Latch bristled with offence.

  ‘Sounds more like a cat fight than a range war, but still somethin’ to stay away from, if you ask me.’ Latch bent his head enquiringly, met the shadowed eyes of his partner. ‘I reckon it’s ’cause o’ the girl. We get ourselves into a nice trade an’ you want to blow it wide open,’ the man voiced his indignation. ‘Why the hell can’t we stick to broncs . . . cattle even? They’re not half so much trouble.’

  ‘It’s called Bluestem.’ Will recalled the name which had been burnt into a side panel of Mollie Broad’s old wagon. ‘And the lady’s from Texas,’ he added a tad weaker.

  ‘Hah, should o’ known.’ Latch slapped dust from the front of his clothes. ‘But I’m not fightin’ for more than I have to, or gettin’ paid for.’ He spat dryly, cursed again and muttered. ‘Just one settler for Chris’sakes. I ain’t ever been anywhere called Bello.’

  ‘You have, Latch. But probably never knew it.’ Will grinned. ‘Just one, then.’

  From the window of his mercantile, Preston Mower watched the two men. William Chalk’s confident determination still annoyed him. If he goes up against Ogden, he’ll get his edge dulled he thought, and turned away.

  Chapter 2

  From the porch of her ranch house, Mollie Broad first saw the grullo mare and its slumped rider walking from the wash. Knowing it was Lewis Redbone returning from his exploring of Cholla Creek, she rushed down the veranda steps.

  Henri, the French-Cree metis, was already halfway across the home yard. He was shouting, stretching his arms as if to catch Redbone if he fell from the saddle.

  With clenched fists, Ben Shoeville was cursing as he ran past Mollie. ‘Get him into the house,’ he barked as the figure wilted, and rolled silently towards the hard-packed dirt. Mollie saw the bloodied shoulder, the dark stain that filled the front of Redbone’s shirt. ‘Get him to my room, Henri,’ she instructed anxiously.

  ‘Don’t bother.’ Redbone opened his eyes, and with a thick tongue attempted to lick his lips. His face was grey and furrowed with pain, and a bubble of blood appeared from the corner of his mouth.

  Shoeville dropped to his knees, eased the sodden shirt material from Redbone’s belt. He stared grimly at the bullet wound and mumbled more curses. Then he looked up at Henri and shook his head.

  Redbone’s legs drew in slightly and his chest gave a shallow heave. His eyes searched out Mollie who, unable to figure more useful words, was just staring at him.

  ‘Who was it, Lew? Who shot you?’ Shoeville asked.

  Redbone turned his face towards the ranch house, then north and south across the sun-baked land.

  Shoeville took a water bottle from Henri and poured a trickle onto Redbone’s lips. ‘Tell us who it was, Lew. Just give us a name,’ he said. ‘We’ll take care of it for you.’

  Redbone blinked long and hard. ‘Didn’t see ’em. But they’re wirin’ the valley,’ he rasped, and closed his eyes for the last time.

  Mollie moved a step back, looked reluctantly at Henri and Shoeville. ‘No more,’ she started, bitter and quiet. ‘Take your pick of the horses and pull out before Bolas rides in. Unless you both want to end up facing dirt, it’s the best . . . all I can offer you.’

  ‘Like hell.’ Shoeville was influenced by the time Broad was a big name, a power in Hog Flats. ‘This neck o’ the woods ain’t up for sale yet, ma’am. We got to chug through it. You, me an’ Henri. If we all stick it out, who knows?’

  ‘I know that very soon you’ll both come back roped to your saddles like my pa.’ Mollie lifted a hand towards the dark pine spires of Condor Pass, the snow-capped peaks beyond. ‘Sure,
we’re not for sale. But why? For what? Bluestem’s becoming one hell-of-a-size graveyard.’

  ‘Well, your pa would be climbing out of it, if he could hear that kind of surrender talk.’ Wanting to arouse the fighting spirit of the Broads, the man’s words were intentionally harsh. Shoeville watched Mollie, saw a likeness of Elmer Broad in the set of her jaw line, her small hands tough from the drag of hogging ropes.

  ‘Surrender?’ Mollie repeated scathingly. ‘In less than a year, Bluestem’s been stripped to the bone. Surrender’s got nothing to do with it. There’s nothing left, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Then it’ll take the three of us to fight . . . to bring it back.’ Shoeville got to his feet. He stood straight, drew his shoulders back. Twenty-five years ago Elmer Broad had brought him to Bluestem after rescuing him from the grip of border cow thieves. To Ben Shoeville’s way of thinking, there was still a debt needed repaying. He snorted righteous anger, staring off towards Condor Pass. It was where Bruno Ogden’s Land and Stock Company had its holdings, and the thought pounded him like a steam hammer.

  As for the ranch, Mollie Broad had fought a losing battle against nature, its overwhelming forces. Bluestem was now part of a barren wasteland. Along the creeks, juniper and willow were beginning to droop their branches above rock and dry gravel. For a long year, dry winds from the north had ripped at the planks of the barn, warping wagon wheels, driving powdered dirt through cracks, deep into axle bearings. The last vestiges of anything green and succulent had been stripped from the land. Beyond all this, the shimmering sun-baked crags of Condor Pass rose up against a blue sky, a barrier to water and grass.

  Mollie returned Shoeville’s stark look, smiled tiredly at Henri and shrugged. ‘You know I’ve no need for you or Henri any more, Ben. I’ve no money to pay either of you . . . even back wages. Take the shave-tails and ride east . . . north to Santa Fe, maybe.’

  Shoeville dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. ‘With respect Miss Mollie, I’ll leave when I’m good an’ ready. An’ that ain’t just yet,’ he retorted. ‘That probably goes for Henri, too.’