Vigilance Committee War Read online

  Turning back toward his horse he stopped when the sheriff put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Now let’s wait a minute. If there’s someone hanging as you say, he isn’t going anywhere soon.’ Glancing up at Buck and Louie, he smiled. ‘Now, Freddie, take your time and tell us what you saw. What are you doing coming into town so early in the morning, anyhow?’

  ‘I was coming into town when I saw him,’ said Freddie, slowing down as he explained. ‘Had a list of things Ma wanted from the store and couldn’t wait till Saturday to come get. Left home early so I could stop down there where the bridge over the river is. Good fishing right there and, well, I don’t get away from my chores too often, ya know. Anyway I was hurrying old Homer here, he’s getting on and don’t like to go faster than a walk. But I was pushing him so I’d have plenty of time to fish. It was after sun-up but likely before the store was opened.

  ‘Y’all know that stretch of scrub trees on the far side of the bridge? The road through those woods twists around a bit between the trees and I was gigging old Homer along and wasn’t paying no mind to anything else. When we came outa the trees old Homer shied a bit off to one side and stopped. I was about to jab him in the ribs when I looked up and there the man was, hangin’ off the side of the bridge, his feet just about dippin’ in the water.’

  ‘Could you see who it was?’ asked Sheriff McDonald.

  ‘Nope. His face was all purpled up and kinda hanging off to one side. Didn’t look like anyone from around here. Nobody I’d ever seen before.’ Glancing at the folks listening to what he had to say, he squared his shoulders and, trying to sound grown-up, nodded like he’d seen his pa do. ‘I reckon it was someone caught stealing horses or something. Pa says them what goes taking livestock what don’t belong to them should oughta get hung. That’s what Pa says.’

  McDonald turned to where Buck and Louie were sitting. ‘Most likely the work of the Vigilance Committee. Probably letting you two know they aren’t afraid of you. Well,’ he motioned to the boy, ‘y’all go on over to the store and get what your ma sent you for. I’ll go get a wagon and ride out to the bridge. It probably isn’t a good thing for a youngster like yourself to be seeing such things.’

  Chapter 13

  It was just as Freddie described. The man, the bottom of his worn canvas pants dripping wet, was swinging from a rope tied to the side of the log bridge.

  It didn’t take them long to get the body down and laid out on the bank of the slow moving river.

  ‘Nope,’ said the sheriff after taking a long look at the body, ‘isn’t anyone I’ve ever seen before. From the looks of him, his clothes are all dusty and all, I’d say he’s likely been travelling.’

  ‘A cowhand, I’d say,’ said Buck, pointing to the dead man’s boots. ‘No gun belt but his pants are worn like he usually had one. No hat either. Bet when you look in his pockets you won’t find much of anything. I’ll bet who ever hung him up took everything.’

  Louie climbed up on the bridge and stood taking a long look around. ‘Sheriff, this is the road out to the big ranches, isn’t it? Well, I’ll make my own bet. Buck, bet you fifty cents this gent was hung up by someone knowing we’d be riding this way. They wanted to make sure we got their message. Can’t see if anyone’s been watching to make sure. Could be a small army hidden back in that bunch of trees over there.’

  ‘Hmm, you could be right. And if so, well, they succeeded – we got the message. Too bad for this gent, though.’

  ‘This isn’t going to stop you, is it?’ asked the sheriff.

  ‘Nope. It don’t change anything. Louie and me, well, we haven’t been paid yet, but now I’d say we got a more personal reason to put an end to this. If the Committee is going to go killing men, trying to warn us off, our message is it isn’t going to work.’

  Chapter 14

  Leaving the body to the sheriff, Buck and Louie rode on. According to the directions Sheriff McDonald gave them, the stage road north out of Auburn wound around passing by most of the ranches in the valley. Louie wasn’t as calm as he appeared. Seeing a fella hanging from the bridge and being sure someone was watching made him a little nervous.

  He’d been riding alongside Buck Armstrong for quite a while. Long before they left the Rangers. He’d been there the day Buck defied Sergeant Healy. The Sergeant had led the Dunn’s Fort detachment ever since the war over slavery ended. Story goes he’d been one of the early volunteers signing onto the Rangers about the time Texas cut away from Mexico.

  A strong-willed man, Healy’s reputation was one most Rangers looked up to. He’d fought in the US–Mexican war and then when Rangers were given the job of cleaning up the Indian troubles, he fitted right in. For a long time warriors from both tribes, Apache and Comanche, had ravaged settlements, stealing cattle and killing whites. It took the US Army and the Rangers a long time to get control of things. Healy came out of it with nothing good to say about any Indian. Or any Mexican, for that matter.

  The problem Buck stepped in was over a Mexican vaquero. Feliz Lopez y Gonzalez had been one of the best horsemen in the area. Ranchers had brought their rough strings to him for saddle-breaking for at least a half-dozen years. Feliz had a reputation for doing a good job. When he delivered a string of ten mustangs to the city corral, was when things fell apart. According to Feliz, the owner of the horses, a German rancher named August Hertzog had offered him his usual fee when he took on the job. Feliz had a new girlfriend, a pretty young woman living in Mex town. He had seen a beautiful spirited filly, a pinto, at Hertzog’s ranch when he went to gather up the mustangs. Rather than the money, Feliz offered to do the work on Hertzog’s horses in trade for the pinto. Witnesses said later Hertzog had agreed.

  When Feliz delivered the string to the city corrals, as he was supposed to, Hertzog pointed to a broken-down old mare.

  ‘That’s yours now. We’re even.’

  Feliz shook his head. ‘No, señor, that is not the pinto we agreed on.’

  ‘Well, Mex, that’s the horse you’re getting. Take it and be damn glad you’re getting that much.’

  Feliz looked around and saw only white faces. Turning away, and ignoring Hertzog’s laughter, he walked over to the Rangers’ office. Explaining what had happened, Sergeant Healy frowned.

  ‘You sure you’re telling it like it was? I know that German, he can be ornery. But far as I know he’s always been fair. You musta made a mistake.’

  Feliz didn’t argue. Simply turning away, he climbed onto his horse and rode home.

  A few days later Hertzog came into town and went straight to the Rangers’ office. There he told Healy someone had stolen a young filly from his corral. Buck Armstrong was given the job of bringing in Feliz.

  ‘And if he puts up a fight,’ said Healy, ‘go ahead and shoot him. It’ll teach those damn Mexicans a lesson. It’d save us from having to hang him.’

  Louie, a distant cousin of Feliz, told Buck about the men who had said they witnessed the deal the horse-breaker had made with Hertzog. Buck hunted up the men and heard again how it had happened. Taking it back to Healy, Buck said he didn’t think bringing in Feliz was right.

  Healy hadn’t gotten along with Buck in the past and when he argued, the Sergeant saw a way to get rid of him. Buck was fired. Louie, standing alongside Buck while he talked, tossed his badge onto Healy’s desk alongside Buck’s.

  The two men rode out together and found out later Feliz had been brought in and judged guilty and was hung. It was after the hanging was near forgotten that Hertzog was seen selling the little pinto to a man travelling though the area.

  Louie kept scanning the land around as they rode on out to the Frying Pan ranch.

  ‘Hell, I can’t get rid of the feeling we’re being watched.’

  Buck reached out and scratched the head of his black stud horse. ‘Maybe. But I reckon Ol’ Horse here will let us know if anyone comes out of the brush. He don’t like other boy horses and loves getting close to any and all girl horses.’

  Louie laughed and s
tarted relaxing.

  The stage road, in places not much more than a pair of wagon-ruts cutting into the sod, stretched out through some of the best graze land Louie thought he’d ever seen. Unlike the dryness of back in town, the grass they rode through was good green cover. The only cattle they saw were in the far distance, so far away they couldn’t tell if the animals were longhorns or Hereford short horns.

  ‘Good-looking country for cattle,’ said the man. Louie had grown up on his pa’s cattle ranch, leaving only when tiring of the hard work and looking for adventure. Joining the Rangers gave him all that and more. ‘Pa did a good job, raising cattle and selling his herds to some of the bigger outfits when they was making up to take a drive north. Guess he’s still back there, doing what he’d always done. Boy, he’d certainly like a piece of this land.’

  Buck, slowly rolling a smoke, nodded. ‘Yeah, and that’s likely the problem here. A few ranchers wanting to hold on to what they got and are afraid homesteaders will come in and take it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Louie, ‘I just hope we don’t get caught crosswise in this situation. I’m still thinking of that man, Yarberry. And don’t forget Isaac Black. This little job we’re supposed to do has some real chances for getting ourselves hurt bad.’

  The high arched gate over the entrance to the Frying Pan ranch had been built of stone, curving up high and wide. Low stone walls angled off for a short way on either side. A huge plank sign hanging from the arch had the ranch name burned in big letters. The two went under the arch and rode another couple miles before seeing the main ranch buildings. They stopped when it came into view, looking it over. The ranch was a prime-looking outfit. A series of big, well-built barns sat off to one side of the road. Corrals, feed stalls and water barrels were strung out taking care of a herd of short-horned beeves, all looking well-fed and market ready. The big house at the end of the well-trod roadway had been built of peeled logs, all left natural setting off the white window frames. Shadow from verandas across the wide front looked cool and inviting.

  A small group of men leaning on the railing of a corral turned to watch Buck and Louie ride in. The two stopped just before the men, staying in the saddle and keeping both hands folded on saddle horns. This didn’t bother Louie. He’d been riding with Buck long enough; he knew his partner might look relaxed but if need be, was actually capable of reacting awfully sudden.

  ‘You boys looking for something?’ one of the men asked, not smiling. A slender man, slouching while standing a step away from the others. Louie, slowly moving his hand, thumbed the thong off his six-gun’s hammer and kept his smile to himself. The man asking the question wore a holstered six-gun low on his thigh, within easy reach of his right hand. A would-be gun fighter, Louie thought. The belt guns the other men wore were higher, tucked in high up on their hips. This was how most cowboys carried their pistols, out of the way and not likely to get snagged on anything. If any gunplay was to happen, he knew Buck would take out the fast gun first.

  Typical of hired hands on every ranch, most of the men were wearing a variety of once-colorful denim shirts, all sun-bleached and looking faded. Wide-brimmed hats shaded their eyes: eyes watching and waiting. Only the gun fighter was wearing a black wool vest and had a brightly colored bandana tied around his neck. Since the pair rode up, none of the hands had changed their relaxed leaning against the corral poles.

  While they were being studied, both Buck and Louie had been taking in the men and their surroundings. If asked, Louie decided this was about the best-looking operation he’d ever seen. All the buildings were well-kept and not needing paint. All of the corral poles were straight and strong. Even the yard in front of the main house appeared to have been swept. No weeds or grass were growing anywhere they shouldn’t.

  ‘Yeah, we are,’ said Buck finally. ‘Wanting to talk with the owner, Mr Jacobson.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Oh, I guess we’ll talk with Jacobson about that.’

  ‘Ah, hell, Smokey,’ smirked another of the lazing men, ‘you know who these jaspers are. They’s here to put an end to the vigilantes.’ He laughed. ‘Although they may have a bit of trouble doing that, I figure.’

  Buck smiled and pulling the makings from a shirt pocket, rolled a quirley. ‘You say that, you must know something we don’t. Something about who’s on this so-called Committee? Wouldn’t mind hearing about it.’

  ‘Nope,’ said the young man, ‘I don’t have anything to tell you. Exceptin’ it ain’t gonna be as easy as y’all think it’ll be. Hear tell them what’s on the Vigilance Committee are meaner than any second-rate ex-Texas Rangers.’

  Buck ignored the men as he scraped a kitchen match against his pants leg and lit his smoke. Finally glancing back at the men, he nodded. ‘Well, I guess we’ll see, won’t we? Now, can you tell us if Mr Jacobson’s at home?’

  One of the men, slowly glancing right and left at the others, nodded. ‘Guess you’ll have to go knock on the door yourselves. Was I you, probably be best if y’all went around to the back door, though. You know, the servants’ door.’

  Louie chuckled as he and Buck reined their horses around and walked them toward the front.

  ‘Boy,’ Louie said as they climbed out of the saddle, ‘not a lot of friendliness in that bunch.’

  ‘Nope. They didn’t make us feel at home, but then they didn’t shoot us either. Somehow I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had. C’mon, let’s go see what the boss-man has to say.’

  Chapter 15

  The man answering their knock was stockily built, looking to be in his late forties with crinkles around his deep-set eyes. For a moment he stood in the open doorway chuckling, holding the large heavy-looking door open, a slab of wood that had been decorated with carved curlicues.

  ‘Come in, come in.’ He stepped aside to let the pair through. ‘Welcome to the Frying Pan,’ the man said, shaking first one hand and then the other. ‘I’m Carl Jacobson and you have got to be Armstrong and Lewis. I wondered how long it’d take you to get here. Yeah, I know who you are. Winterbottom told me he’d hired you last time I was in town. Here,’ he motioned toward a couple brown leather easy chairs, ‘let’s get comfortable and talk a bit. I saw y’all ride in and figured you’d make your way up here to the house pretty quick so I asked Mirella to make us up a pot of coffee. She’s my housekeeper. And cook and a whole lot of things ain’t none of your business.’

  Sitting down, Louie felt like he’d almost sunk into the softness. Looking around, he saw how big the room was. More of the heavy leather-covered sofas and easy chairs were scattered around than he’d ever seen outside of a big city hotel lobby. A large wood table sat along one wall, all smooth and polished to a slick sheen. Most of the far wall was taken up by a big fireplace, big enough to cook a small steer in. High overhead log rafters were barely visible in the shadows. Trying to decide whether he liked it or not, he looked up when a woman came into the room carrying a ceramic coffee pot and cups on a tray.

  ‘Señors,’ she said, smiling, and placed the tray on a small table in front of the chair the cattleman had taken. Flashing another smile at the men, she turned and hurried out of the room.

  Carl Jacobson had been working for a ranch in Greer County, Texas when as a hired hand driving a herd of longhorns north to market, he came through this area. He took one look and knew he’d found what he had been looking for. To make the drive he’d left his 10-year-old daughter, Rose Marie, named after her mother, with the wife of another hand working the ranch.

  It was a fact; cattle could be moved only a few miles a day. Push them faster than a walk and they would end up at the railhead thin and bony. The contrary beasts just had to eat along the way. Carl, a well-built young man in his early twenties, was a happy man. A good hand and well liked by the other hands, he was a very positive-minded person. When others cursed and yelled at one of the big horned beasts when deciding to walk away from the herd, Carl simply used his big chestnut quarter horse to round up the wandering an
imal.

  It was on one of the drives called the ‘beef trail’, taking a herd across the northern flat lands of the Republic of Texas, that Carl first saw what he wanted; good tall grass, low tableland backed up to a low-lying mountain range. Water, he discovered, was plentiful, with a river a few miles along and signs of seasonal creeks almost everywhere.

  He first saw the place when left behind with Jesus de Valdez, one of the many Mexican vaqueros on the ranch and a jag of cattle too sickly to keep up with the herd.

  ‘Let them to rest up a couple days,’ ordered the trail boss, ‘and if they get better, walk them on. Otherwise leave them be and come on your own selves.’

  Those couple days gave Carl time to ride out and look over the country. The vaquero didn’t mind, being comfortable sitting on his blankets, using his saddle for a head rest.

  ‘Ah, you go ahead, compadre,’ he said smiling, ‘I’ll watch over these darlings and keep the coffee hot.’

  It made little difference to the half-dozen head, they simply went on chomping the tall grass, never missing the rest of the herd.

  For some time Carl had been thinking about finding a place and starting his own spread. It was one of the most popular subjects talked about around the campfire by nearly all the hands. Most of them were young – well, the Americans were anyway. The vaqueros on the other hand were anywhere from ten to fifteen years older. Unlike their gringo workmates, the Mexican cowboys wanted nothing more than to make enough Yankee dollars to support wives and kids.

  It was Jesus’ wife, Mirella, who was taking care of Rose Marie.

  Once the drive was finished and the men paid off, Carl handed in his time.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Georges Collinsworth when Carl told him he was leaving. ‘What’re ya gonna do? Don’t forget you got yourself a young’un to look after.’

  ‘Yep, that’s why I’m moving on. Gonna go into competition with ya,’ laughed Carl, pocketing the coins. ‘Found myself some likely-looking grasslands up in the territories. I figure to start out with a few head we had to leave behind on the drive. Not much for making the walk to the railhead but will breed up to start my herd.’