The Bolas Page 4

  ‘Huh, what do any of ’em want? Time. She wanted time to settle up.’

  ‘How much does she owe you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not a fortune,’ the trader rasped. ‘Does it matter? Bluestem’s down an’ out.’

  ‘But we’re not on the way up,’ Marge snapped back. ‘Hell, I wonder why I chose half-bakes like you two. I’ll have to whup Ogden on my own. The next time Bluestem brings a wagon to town, let them have their supplies.’

  ‘Yeah sure, an’ who pays?’ Mower leaned forward, his big pasty features real close to Marge. ‘You think I’m goin’ bankrupt to advance you an’ your own plans?’

  ‘Just give them what they want,’ Marge repeated and stood up. ‘You have no choice. Either look like you’re grubstaking Bluestem, or lose your investment in Bolas. You understand?’

  Mower shifted his feet with unease and confusion. Acutely aware of being dismissed and of Foote’s silent sneer, he moved back a step.

  ‘There’s only been a couple of things in my life I’ve really wanted,’ Marge continued. ‘Bluestem should have been one of them. Would have been if. . . .’

  ‘If a big freight outfit hadn’t decided to camp alongside the creek, an’ if Elmer Broad hadn’t met someone else.’ Mower angrily supplied a finish to what Marge had started to say.

  Marge decisively lifted a half-full tin mug of stale coffee from Mower’s work desk, and without expression, she hurled the contents up and across Mower’s front. ‘Give them what they want,’ she said coolly. ‘Trick me, and I’ll see you get stuck like the pig you rightly are.’

  Mower had an uneasy recall of the two men he’d sent out to Bluestem. He’d done it in a turn of bluster knowing that Mollie Broad couldn’t even offer them a good breakfast. He considered mentioning it, but Marge’s hard-nosed stance was disturbing.

  ‘Mal Deavis killed Redbone, yesterday,’ he offered instead. ‘He was scouting the Cholla.’

  There was a heavy ensuing silence, and Marge carefully replaced the empty mug on the desk, gave both men a questioning look and walked towards the door. She stood in thought for a moment, and her voice was neutral. ‘We all know what to do now,’ she said.

  The office door clunked shut behind her, the two men standing thoughtfully quiet until the store’s front door also closed.

  ‘Wheew. You get grasshoppers, prairie fires an’ drought, then Marge Highgate comes sashayin’ along, eh Pres?’

  Mower was at a loss as to what reaction to give, even what to say. He slumped into a chair and leaned back, his chin sunken against his wet shirt front. ‘Why don’t you go to hell,’ he muttered.

  ‘Not quite time,’ the sheriff snorted derisively. ‘But I’m probably on the way,’ he added, and followed on after Marge.

  Mower looked around his empty office, his glance settling on some of the papers that had been dirtied by the coffee. Among them were bills for the Bluestem spread, and with a violent gesture he swept them to the floor, cursing his predicament and most everyone else he could think of.

  Chapter 6

  The leaves of the big cottonwood that sheltered the ranch house were dry and wilted. It was mid-afternoon, most of the heat was burnt out of the day, and the lack of a breeze that brought only dust was a good thing. Will and Latch had spent eight hours riding line on Bluestem’s boundary. Bolas gunhands had given up their pursuit when the two men approached the security of the home yard.

  Ben Shoeville and Henri had ridden their shift, and now Will could see the crowns of their colourless range hats as they returned along the dry wash. He was resting with his back against a veranda upright. In the tired stillness he fixed his attention on a distant cloud. If rain came now, fell for long enough it could still save Bluestem. He knew of the desert’s lust for life, its unique capacity to flower and die. If the moisture could be held, Hog Flats could provide once again. When the ranch house door opened he caught the drifted aroma of soap and Mollie Broad. ‘So, how do we, you, us, get a few hundred head of beef to market?’ he asked, starting on his train of thought.

  Mollie sat down on the top step and looked openly at the new hands. ‘Depends. If it was Bolas I’d be shipping to Whiterod. There’s big new yards up there.’

  ‘Yeah, except Ogden can’t drive to Whiterod. Condor Pass would be too much for any herd. We’re talking cows, not pronghorns.’ Will rolled his body forwards, stepped down to the hard ground. ‘Besides, the beef that’s boxed in is Bluestem, and the only way out’s towards White Mesa.’

  Mollie screwed up her face, narrowed her eyes as she looked at Will. ‘Preston Mower always handled the buying from this valley. Most shipments went to the army buyer at Tyler’s Post, the rest to Sweetwater.’

  A look of dawning appeared on Will’s face. ‘Yeah. Anywhere but south,’ he said.

  ‘What does that mean? What are you thinking?’ Mollie asked.

  ‘I’m thinking Mower’s got an eye for a chance like a turkey buzzard has for a turkey with a limp. Him and Ogden. Perhaps the Apache were right all along. Land belongs to nobody. When this drought breaks there’ll be grass enough for everyone. Where will Ogden and his Bolas be then?’

  ‘Still here? Won’t they be the everyone, by then?’ Latch suggested tentatively, avoiding the eye of Mollie or Will.

  Along the blistering road from the creek, Shoeville and Henri bobbed and shimmered almost as optical illusions, dissolving, re-emerging as horse riders as they entered the yard. They dismounted, pushed their mounts into the gloom of the barn before walking to the group gathered around the veranda steps.

  The silence was charged as they all took it in turns to look at one another. ‘I reckon there’s some bad medicine headed this way,’ Shoeville said, breaking the suspense.

  ‘Yes. Maybe it would be better if Miss Mollie stayed in town,’ Henri put in.

  Will bent down and picked up a handful of warm dirt, kept his face averted as he let it fall through his fingers. ‘We certainly ain’t headed for a clambake . . . a rehearsal for Thanksgiving,’ he added.

  Mollie turned towards Shoeville, looked for something to read in his face. ‘I can hear you all out. But don’t forget whose ranch this still is, Ben,’ she said.

  Shoeville spat out the pebble he was rolling around his mouth. ‘If . . . when shooting starts, we don’t want you here. Of course we don’t. That’s the nub of it.’

  ‘Will says there’s Bluestem beef up there.’ Mollie’s head moved in the direction of the pass. ‘That means there’s others . . . elsewhere.’

  Shoeville levelled a positive gaze at her. ‘Then we go get ’em. Chowse ’em back into the valley.’ He then looked towards Will and Latch for their approval.

  ‘Or arrange for the law to get it done,’ Will offered instead.

  Henri grimaced. ‘Turner Foote’s not in the cattle business,’ he said, resenting the thought.

  ‘Did you see him as you rode through town?’ Mollie asked of Will.

  ‘No ma’am. Only Mower and a few people along the creek.’

  ‘Goddamn creeks’ll be the death of me,’ Mollie murmured wryly. ‘Well right now, Foote’s the weak link . . . like a rotten door hinge.’ She stood up and shook the dust from her clothes. ‘Ben, have you figured what we’re all going to do?’

  Shoeville had a shell belt hanging from one shoulder. His face was damp and strained, his eyes almost shut against the brassy glare. ‘If it’s Bluestem, it’s ours. There’s not much more to say.’

  ‘Tell it to the law first, Ben.’ There was an uneasy silence between the two men, then Will continued. ‘That’s what the law’s meant to be there for. If it doesn’t work, then we’ll do it Ogden’s way.’

  ‘I’d like to override half o’ that idea,’ Shoeville said.

  ‘I know you would.’ Will’s face was impassive. ‘But longer term, you want the law behind you, not riding shotgun for Bolas.’

  ‘OK, we’ll try it civil and legal like,’ Shoeville said glumly. ‘But only until the very second it don’t work.’


  Latch looked at Will and winked. ‘Gives a new meanin’ to “livin’ for the moment”,’ he agreed. ‘Me an’ Henri can stay here an’ take care o’ things . . . in case some of ’em pay us a visit.’

  ‘While me an’ Ben mosey on into town,’ Will said.

  Mollie nodded her understanding of their decision. She watched them walk into the barn, then without another word, turned and re-entered her ranch house.

  ‘Pack horse’ll come in real handy,’ Will said, picking up a halter and blanket. ‘We’ll take it . . . pick up supplies at the mercantile.’

  ‘Todo? Mower? Hell, great idea,’ Shoeville almost spat his keenness. ‘But he’s still goin’ to demand payment.’

  Will gave a thin smile. ‘It don’t look like it, but I’m wearing a few hundred dollars. Me and Latch will be only too pleased to throw in with the Bluestem pot. We’ll regard it as an investment.’

  Shoeville studied Will through the gloom of the barn. ‘You sure don’t look like no meal ticket,’ he growled.

  ‘My pa said never to judge a man by the coat he wears.’ Will jerked the cinches before mounting his horse. ‘Before we came here, we ran some of our own broncs into the remuda at Tyler’s Post,’ he explained. ‘The agent there’s paying twenty-five for beef.’ Will half turned in the saddle, held out the lead rope of the pack horse. ‘So, we should be able to pull Bluestem from the chughole, don’t you reckon?’

  ‘Yep. All we’ve got to do’s get there,’ Shoeville grinned. ‘But it’s a good idea . . . generous to a fault,’ he said, and rode into the bright, dusty heat.

  Mower saw them coming. He recognized Will Chalk, shuddered with the anticipation of trouble. He pulled his chair back into the deeper shade of the store, settled down to wait.

  Will and Ben Shoeville nodded good-humouredly as they rode carefully through a band of interested youngsters. They continued down the street to the Bello Hotel, tied their horses and went inside.

  Mower moved outside the mercantile, and leaning against a veranda post, pondered on the optimism of the riders’ pack mule. Then a slight smile lifted one corner of his mouth. Ben Shoeville was faithful Bluestem, no doubt in town to try again for an essential supply. He thought wryly about Marge Highgate’s directive, went back inside to wait for the trade. He had little doubt Shoeville would be thunderstruck when an even more desperate request for credit was granted.

  From the Bello Hotel, Turner Foote first saw the Bluestem men in the backbar mirror. He turned to face them, conscious of the small beads of sweat on his upper lip.

  ‘Shoeville,’ he acknowledged. ‘Who’s the stranger?’ he added as the pair walked up to him.

  ‘New hand. His name’s Chalk, but he does speak for himself.’ Shoeville motioned to the barkeep. ‘Two beers.’

  ‘Hiring, eh? Hmm, I thought Bluestem had gone out o’ business.’ The sheriff stretched out a hand and picked up his glass, drank while his words sunk in.

  Shoeville looked to Will, then back to Foote. ‘Hell no. We aim to get bigger,’ he replied. ‘In fact, you can help us . . . one o’ the reasons we’re here, Sheriff.’

  The barkeep laid change on the bar and stood back. He’d seen something in Ben Shoeville’s eyes that worried him and he backed off further. Most men in his trade kept a shotgun under the counter for protection. He kept that, together with an old storm cellar door he could pull up as a shield against firearms trouble.

  ‘Some of us have been out for a good look around. For one reason or another, poked into places we wouldn’t normally have rhyme or reason to,’ Shoeville continued. ‘Up in the pass, along the Cholla, we discovered a few hundred head of Bluestem beef. They’re all boxed in with good grass an’ plenty o’ water. We aim to run ’em down the line to Tyler’s Post if the weather breaks.’

  ‘That’s a lot o’ beef. All Bluestem, you say,’ Foote spluttered into his glass. ‘At a decent price, it could sure help out the Broad girl.’

  ‘Could help us all out, Sheriff. Trouble is, it’s all on Bolas land, an’ under guard.’

  Foote attempted to calm himself, edge away from fear and confusion. ‘Assumin’ they ain’t all legitimate strays, what would Bolas want or be doin’ with that quantity of Bluestem stock? Hell, they must be hard put to water their own?’

  ‘Looks to me like the Bruno Ogden Land and Stock Company ain’t hard put for anything, Sheriff.’ Will’s voice was just above a hoarse whisper. ‘They’re doing just fine. Of course, they had to make a barrier across the Cholla and divert the creekwater to make it so. As of the moment, Ogden’s made this side of Condor Pass drier than a goddamn tobacco box.’

  Foote waved his empty beer glass. ‘Sounds to me like a case o’ the heat makin’ mad dogs out o’ sane men.’

  ‘I don’t know who or what the hell you’re talkin’ about, but I know that greedy men never know when they’ve had enough,’ Shoeville rasped in reply.

  Foote didn’t bother to continue. He looked in the direction of the barkeep. ‘Fill us up again, amigo,’ he said.

  The pull of futility showed on Will’s face, his grinding jaw. ‘We just told you. There’s Bluestone stock being held in a box canyon. Least you can do is take your sheriff’s badge up there for a look,’ he insisted.

  Foote’s returning glare showed both irritation and concern. ‘You got a lot o’ nose, feller. What would the Bolas company want with Mollie Broad’s wayward stock?’ He shook his head. ‘An’ no stranger’s goin’ to wheedle me into a gimcrack range war.’

  ‘Stranger or not, I’ve seen what I’ve seen,’ Will pushed.

  ‘Bluestem beef that’s fit to muster will be rattlebone by now,’ the sheriff said.

  Shoeville grasped Foote by the shoulder and turned him face to face. ‘They’re fat-to-the-ground Bluestem stock, an’ we’re Bluestem riders. You’re sayin’ you want us to sort it out our way?’

  The lawman looked to where Shoeville had grabbed him, took a slow step back. ‘Your way ain’t to go around makin’ wild charges. Bruno Ogden’s as honest as the next man. So’s the way his company operates.’

  ‘Once maybe. Now he’s a cow-thief. A rustler wearin’ store-boughts.’

  Fear now touched at Sheriff Foote. ‘I don’t know what you two are fixin’ to do, but if it’s carvin’ beef from Bolas grass, I’d advise against.’

  ‘If that is what we’re doin’, Sheriff, there’s nothing you can say that changes my mind. Nothin’!’ Shoeville banged his glass down on the bar. ‘Let’s go, Will,’ he rasped. ‘We’ve provisions to get.’

  Foote lost control of his temper. He stepped in front of the two men and held up a restraining hand. ‘Move one cow on to Bluestem, an’ you’ll lose it . . . maybe more. That’s a lawful warnin’.’

  Shoeville cursed, balled both fists. ‘Goddamnit, you’re not telling me to kiss our own beef farewell. Throw your weight around with mescal drunks and tinhorns, Sheriff, but don’t threaten me with your divisive law.’

  Foote wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyes were shifty and vicious. ‘You’re beat, Shoeville, so I’ll take your words. An’ you’ll have the girl use you as bait. When you’re all dead she’ll still be alive. There’s no future in Hog Flats. Not if you buck Ogden.’

  ‘I’ve always been the hopeful traveller, Sheriff, an’ I’m not dead yet.’ Shoeville followed Will to the door, stood for a moment, his angry eyes taking in the uncertain figure of the lawman. ‘Before I’m through, there’ll be others with grass wavin’ over ’em,’ he warned.

  Preston Mower was waiting for them. There was speculation in his cunning eyes, and he wondered if the new Bluestem hand worked on a grudge. If Will was trouble, he knew it rarely came single-handed.

  ‘What can I do for you fellers?’ he asked.

  ‘Fill this order,’ Shoeville said with little regard for civility.

  The trader held out his hand and took the list that Mollie Broad had brought in two days earlier. He looked over Shoeville’s shoulder to the baking street, saw Sheriff
Foote standing under a drooping cottonwood diagonally across the main street.

  There was impending danger in the men’s stance and Mower decided to take a side-step and to hell with Marge Highgate. ‘Are you considering a cash payment?’ he enquired with a slick smile.

  In response, Will pulled some bills from his pocket and handed them over. ‘We won’t be asking for a markdown . . . not just yet,’ he said.

  Mower managed to steady himself from the rising antagonism. ‘I’d like to forget what happened the other day,’ he said, laying the money on the counter. ‘I can back whoever I want. We live too close to be scatterin’ manure on each other’s pastures . . . so to speak.’

  ‘Well, you don’t want to go supporting the flame that fans the fire,’ Will replied acidly. ‘I reckon a man in your position’s got a lot to lose . . . so to speak.’

  ‘We don’t want or need your support, Mower. Just the supplies we came in for,’ Shoeville added.

  Mower turned his pasty features to Will. ‘Someone’s got to give you some advice, cowboy,’ he said. ‘You ought to get from these parts . . . quick. You’re the kind who gets a clock tickin’.’

  Will nodded thoughtfully. ‘And add a good skinning knife to the order,’ he answered.

  Chapter 7

  The range was like carpet pile, ruffled by the relentless blue norther. The sky was coppery, thunderheads building over the distant San Andreas Mountains. To the west and north, rangeland was cut by deep gullies, low eroded rimrock. From atop one of these, Bruno Ogden could make out the irregular shapes and outbuildings of Bluestem ranch.

  ‘We might have more to worry about than cows,’ he said as he pushed his horse through the loops of rock, keeping to the vantage points. He looked over his shoulder, saw the glance between Mal Deavis and Copper John, and reined in.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Deavis answered as he rode up. ‘Right now she’s crazy enough to fight all the law officers east an’ west o’ the Rio Grande.’

  They heard, but didn’t see the approaching rider until his crumpled stovepipe hat showed above the dry wash. The comanchero, Pito, came up to the rim, wiped his face in his hands and glanced at the Bolas riders.