Buck and the Widow Rancher (2006) Read online

  ‘No, you’re right, of course. Forget I said anything.’

  Nodding to the man, Buck pushed through the door and out into the sunshine.

  Coming into the restaurant, he saw that the banker had just reached Matilda’s table. He was pulling out a chair when Buck walked up and, smiling at the young woman, took a chair on the other side of the table.

  ‘Huh, Mrs Randle,’ Blount said, frowning in Buck’s direction, ‘this business might be better discussed privately.’

  ‘Mr Blount, I believe anything you have to tell me can be said in front of my friend Mr Armstrong,’ Matilda answered.

  ‘Well, if you insist.’ Obviously the banker wasn’t happy with it, but went on, ‘I am very sorry about the death of your husband and hope you accept my condolences. However, even with such a terrible thing happening, business must go on. It pains me to trouble you with this, but the due date on your note is just a week away.’

  ‘My note? What note would that be, Mr Blount?’

  ‘To be clear, it is a note the bank holds signed by your late husband. According to the law, with his death that becomes the obligation of the next of kin, and that, I’m afraid, is you.’ Sincerity seemed to seep from the banker as he explained, hands held out with palms up and his smile appearing gentle and sad. Buck smiled at Matilda.

  ‘How much is this note for and when did Virgil take out this loan?’ he asked.

  ‘Stranger,’ – the sound of sincerity was gone, replaced by a mixture of anger and authority – a banker’s voice – ‘this matter is between Mrs Randle and the bank. You have no place in this.’

  ‘Mr Blount,’ Matilda asked gently and with a great smile, ‘How much is this note for and when did Virgil take out this loan?’

  Buck smiled at the growing frown on the banker’s face. ‘About two weeks before his untimely death, Virgil came into the bank and took out a loan for twelve hundred dollars which he said was to be used to purchase a Hereford bull. Under the terms of that loan, the amount plus interest is to be paid off in monthly instalments with the first payment due and payable in seven days from today.’ Finished, Blount settled back in his chair, keeping his eyes on Matilda, not even glancing in Buck’s direction.

  Matilda looked down at the table for a few minutes and then taking a sip of coffee from her cup, looked back across the table. ‘Thank you, Mr Blount, for bringing this to my attention. Now, if you’ll excuse us?’

  That wasn’t what he had expected, it was clear. Glaring at Buck, the banker stood and nodding to Matilda walked out of the restaurant.

  ‘Buck? What is happening? Virg wouldn’t do something like that without our talking it over. We discussed everything and the purchase of a bull wasn’t in the plans until next spring.’

  ‘I don’t know. It seems that someone is trying to dump a big load on you. There’s that gambler trying to call a gambling debt, some rustling and now a bank note. And all this coming at you since your husband was murdered and left by the side of the road. I don’t know what I can do, but maybe it is time to send a letter to the governor’s office.’

  CHAPTER 4

  Getting back to the ranch just as darkness came on, Buck joined Matilda in the cook shack for a late dinner of steak, potatoes, and snap beans, topped off with a big piece of apple pie. All washed down with cups of coffee from the jug the cook’s helper never let get empty.

  Spreading his bedroll on one of the empty bunks in the bunkhouse, Buck spent a full night without being shot or having a rock or stick poke him in the back. Up before the sun peeked over the far rimrock, he was pleasantly surprised to find that Freddie had already made coffee. Before finishing his first cup of the strong black brew, a plate covered with slices of ham, eggs and thick slices of bread was put before him.

  The big black stud horse had heard him coming and was waiting at the corral gate when Buck, carrying his saddle and gear, got there. Within minutes, and after telling the cook’s helper to tell Matilda that he’d be back in a day or two, he was riding. Maybe there wasn’t much he could do about a gambling debt or a bank loan, but seeing about rustlers seemed like a good idea.

  Finding the ranch crew and making sure they knew what he was doing on the property seemed like another good idea, but not one easily done. Matilda had never mentioned exactly how big the ranch was and probably didn’t know. From the river west to the rimrock, from the bridge to the south and again to the foothills on the north didn’t suggest how many acres. Shortly before the sun reached its highest peak for the day Buck had found out for himself just how big the Rocking C was; from every high place he could find all he could see was more ranch. It was a thin wisp of smoke that led him to the crew.

  Riding closer to the smoke he started coming upon more and more beeves. All during his ride he had seen small bunches of nondescript cattle here and there but as he neared where the men were working the numbers increased. Finally from the top of a small rise he could see what was happening. The smoke came from a pair of fires in which the handles of a dozen or so branding irons stuck out. As a rider roped a calf or yearling from the herd and dragged him toward the fires, another man, on foot and wearing leather gloves, would take an iron and burn the brand into the squalling beef. If a bull, another man would step in and in one quick swipe castrate the animal, smearing the wound with a dab of sticky black substance. Once released the calf would rush back to find his mother and the pair would find themselves herded out of the bunch and left to wander off.

  Other riders circled the herd and in turn sent their loop over the next young animal to be branded. Still others could be seen in the distance herding small gatherings toward the holding herd. As Buck watched he had to nod in appreciation at the organization he saw. Whoever was in charge was doing a good job of getting the most out of his men without overworking anyone. A movement to his left caught his eye and looking he saw a horseman coming his way. He was, he figured, about to meet Hank the foreman.

  ‘Morning,’ Buck said as the other rode in. Tilting his hat back on his head, Buck had placed both hands on his saddle horn. ‘Just appreciating the work going on down there and glad I’m not part of it.’

  ‘They’re a good bunch of hands,’ the foreman allowed. ‘Anything in particular we can do for you?’

  ‘Well, maybe. I’m Buck Armstrong. Out here looking things over for Mrs Randle. She tells me you found some sign recently that made you wonder about rustlers.’

  Hank slowly took in the big man and his mount. Nodding he smiled. ‘Yeah, I figured it’d be you. Miz Randle told me you’d be coming around sooner or later and I gotta tell you, I’m glad it’s sooner. She’s got enough on her plate to have to worry about some curly wolf cow-thieves.’ Sticking his big rope-scarred hand out, he added, ‘I’m the foreman, Hank Bowers.’

  Taking the hand, Buck asked about the possibility of cattle rustlers working the area.

  ‘Naw, we haven’t lost any head in a long time. Fact is I can’t recall ever losing any. Oh, the odd cow’ll be cut out and run off. I figure that’s just some sodbuster from down south putting in a bit of winter eating. But this time, well, I think it was more than that. Probably some thirty or forty head.’

  ‘Any idea of how many riders were doing the job?’ Buck pulled the makings from a shirt pocket and, after offering the sack to the foreman, rolled a quirley.

  ‘Maybe half-a-dozen riders,’ Hank answered, shaking out the tobacco into the thin paper and rolling his own smoke. ‘It was on south of here, over near where the bluff peters out. That rimrock just fades away the further south you go. South of the property a ways it almost melts into flat land. A lot of dry land farming down there. The herd looked to be pushed south, but I doubt if any of the farmers down there saw them. I expect they were headed out into the flats and around. Go south far enough and you come to the Big Valley railhead. That’s where all the ranches in this area and those further down the valley ship their livestock from.’

  Watching the hands work the herd below, Buck asked, ‘Exa
ctly where did you find the sign?’

  ‘East of here and a little south. When you get close to the rim watch for a big tall slab-sided rock sticking straight up. It goes up a couple hundred feet, I’d guess. Some dude once explained that way back when, that was the inside of a small volcano. I don’t understand it exactly, but the story is that over the centuries the volcano cooled and the mountain around the hard rock weathered away, leaving that finger sticking up. I dunno about that, but we use that landmark as the southern boundary.

  ‘Anyway, just a bit south of there, close to where the land slopes up is where we found the trace. It was a couple of days old to look at it so we didn’t follow it. Maybe should have, but we were starting this gather and had other things to worry about.’

  Buck carefully put his cigarette out and, settling his hat squarely on his head, thanked the foreman. ‘Well, I don’t know what I’ll find now, but guess I’ll go take a look. Thanks for your help, Hank. I’ll probably see you back at the ranch, sooner or later.’

  ‘Oh, one other thing. There’s a couple of sheepherders that run their flocks down there. Just to let you know. Maybe they saw something, if you should happen across them.’

  Reining the black away, Buck nodded and headed south.

  It was much later in the afternoon when Buck found a small spring and watered his horse. Hoofprints, not only cattle, but that of deer and other wildlife had led him to the spring that was hidden behind a thick growth of brush. Only the bushes close to the water were green, the outer layer sunbaked and brown. Anyone missing the animal tracks could very easily have ridden on by and never known there was water there.

  Riding on he sighted the towering rock finger and even from a distance could tell it was a good marker. Straight and slick-sided, it was as Hank said, very identifiable.

  Again it was the smoke that gave him direction. Making his way around the base of the monolith Buck came upon a herd of woollies. The smoke was pouring out of a tin chimney pipe sticking at an angle out the side of a canvas-covered wagon. Stopping well away from the wagon, Buck raised one hand and yelled out, ‘Hello the wagon.’

  A door, unseen from where he sat, opened in the back of the wagon and an older man stepped down. After taking a minute to inspect the visitor, the man waved Buck in.

  ‘Welcome, stranger. Welcome to my fire. It is good for you to arrive now as we can be hospitable and invite you to share our supper.’ The man was, Buck saw as he climbed down from the saddle, older than he first thought. Wrinkles lined his sunbrowned face and under a narrow-brimmed floppy hat, hair that had once been black was streaked with gray and hung down to his shoulders in uncut strands. Sharp black eyes watched as the horseman loosened the saddle cinches and removed the bridle bit. Looping the reins over the saddle horn, Buck let the big black search out the few tufts of dried grass missed by the sheep. Too close to the wagon, he thought.

  The sheep, some standing, most lying about in a huge cluster, had not shown any fear or excitement on the rider’s approach. Buck didn’t know much about sheep, but the Professor had once explained that most cattlemen were wrong, the two herds could live in close proximity to each other.

  ‘My son will be joining us soon,’ the older man said. Then, pointing to his chest, he added ‘My name is Juan Navarro and this is my flock. They have had a good day of grazing and will now rest and be ready for what tomorrow brings. Here,’ he went on, motioning to Buck, ‘get comfortable and I will bring the coffee pot from the wagon.’

  Finding as soft a spot as he could, Buck had no more than settled down when the grizzled old man came out with an enameled pot and three off-white mugs.

  ‘My son will be along in a few minutes. I am sure he will be glad to see we have a guest for dinner. Following the flock often gets lonely and a guest is a wonderful way to end a beautiful day, wouldn’t you say?’ His speech was almost without accent but something made Buck realize he was a foreigner.

  Almost as if he had read the big cowboy’s mind, Juan Navarro explained, ‘We are Basque. Herding and caring for sheep is a long tradition in our country. My son is part of the old country and part of this new land. The customs are different and caring for the flock is too often a lonely time. Mt son will enjoy your company as he is not used to being without people around him.’

  Buck relaxed with the cup of fireside coffee but when hishorse’s head came up and turned to look off to one side, he noticed. Moving slightly and adjusting his holstered six-gun, the big cowboy was watching as a second man came striding through the brush and into camp, a lamb tucked under one arm. It was obvious these two men were related. The younger man stood straight where his father’s shoulders were slightly stooped. Where the older man’s hair was mostly gray streaked, his son’s was shiny black. Both were weeks from the barber’s shears. However the chief difference, Buck was quick to notice, was that while the father was friendly and welcoming the son was not.

  ‘Who are you?’ he greeted Buck, stopping and standing straight and stiff. Before he could respond, Juan Navarro chastized his son. ‘He is a guest in our camp, Jose, and will be treated with respect.’ Gone was the soft melodious voice.

  ‘Father, you don’t know what you leave yourself open to, letting just anyone come in.’ Keeping one eye on Buck, he bent over and released the lamb who, with a bleat, scrambled away and was instantly lost in the flock. ‘Can’t you see? He is a cattleman. Ask yourself, how welcome have these kind made us feel in their camps?’ Looking eye to eye with Buck who now stood, he went on, ‘I ask again, who are you and what do you want with us?’

  ‘My name’s James Buckley Armstrong, Buck to my friends so I guess you’d better call me Mr Armstrong.’ Buck didn’t soften his words with a smile. ‘I was welcomed into this gentleman’s camp for a cup of coffee. From you? I want nothing from you.’

  ‘Jose, I won’t have it.’ The elder Navarro was angry and let a full load of that anger land on his son. ‘I can’t believe you are acting this way. It is clearly a strong tradition to make every visitor, whether friend or enemy, welcome in our camp. This is how it has always been and in my camp, it will always be.’

  ‘Old man, you don’t know these men. They carry pistols and have no reason not to use them. All too many of these cattle barons believe the land is for their livestock, not ours. You welcome the enemy into your camp; I will not. The lesson taught by the men herding cattle has not been forgotten. I will not sit with this man and drink coffee as if nothing has happened.’ The anger in the young man’s face didn’t ease, and his posture remained rigid and unbending.

  ‘What other men would these be?’ Buck asked, hoping he’d get an answer and not more rage.

  ‘Who knows? Just as every lamb looks like every other lamb to you, every cattleman looks like every other one. Big, self-important and ready to give orders, as if God made the land only for him.’

  ‘Jose, you shame me.’ Juan Navarro had given up. Turning to Buck he frowned. ‘Señor, you have my apologies. This one was turned away from a camp recently and now would do the same to everyone as if that will make everything better. He does not see that one’s anger hurts only the person holding on to it. I am sorry.’

  ‘Mr Navarro, there is no need to apologize. Not all cowmen like sheep and that’s the truth. You’ve been the perfect host and I want to thank you for the coffee. I don’t know what happened to make your son so determined to hate, but you’re right: in the end, if he doesn’t get rid of it, it’ll eat him up.’

  ‘Such self-righteous talk proves nothing. Being chased by big men on horses and having your flock shot into is reason enough for my anger.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t any of your employees. No, it’d be some strangers, wouldn’t it? As if that mattered. Until I see otherwise, I’ll believe all cattlemen are the same, ready to shoot and kill all who are not like them.’

  ‘Unlike you who will welcome only travelers who are just like you. I am out here in this God-forsaken bar
ren wasteland looking for cattle rustlers. Now, if you happened onto a passel of hardcases who didn’t want to be seen and ran you off, then they just might be the ones I’m looking for. When did this happen and where was it?’

  ‘See, just as I said,’ the young sheepherder wasn’t giving up. ‘They were someone else and bad men, not a group of good, honest cattlemen; no. Go look for them all you want, you’ll get nothing from me.’

  Buck shook his head and after shaking the older man’s hand again, tightened up the cinches and without another word, loped out of the camp and away from the bedded flock.

  After making a dry camp a few miles south of the sheepherders’ camp, Buck was up and riding again at daylight. Ranging back and forth, he covered a lot of country and it was getting close to noon before he found what he was searching for – sign that a small herd of cattle had been pushed along.

  The first sign was cow pies that were starting to dry out, two maybe three days, he thought. The breezes that sprung up nearly every evening as the sun went down and things cooled would, he reckoned, have wiped most all hoofprints out. Scouting around, he soon found other piles of dried cow dung. This gave him a direction if not a clear trail to follow. Slowly, ranging side to side, he followed what sign he found, often no more than a wisp of brown hair snagged on a twig or the odd hoofprint protected by a low-lying bush.

  The sun was getting close to dropping behind the mountain range far out to the west when the ears of the big black stud flicked forward and his head came up. ‘What is it?’ he asked, not really expecting an answer. ‘It’s been a long dry march so far, so the chances are good that you got a smell of water. Let’s see what we can see. Maybe, old friend, we won’t have to drink that warm canteen water tonight.’ Squeezing his knees a little, Buck let the horse have its head and sat back, ready for anything.