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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781449068486 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 03/10/2010 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 120 |
| File size: | 134 KB |
Read an Excerpt
The Cut Bank River Range
By Suzie Shumway
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2010 Suzie ShumwayAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-6846-2
Chapter One
Cattle bawled and milled around In the Cut Bank stockyards. Two cowboys on sweating horses rode out from a filled crowding pen, and expertly cut out twenty-two head of fat four year-old steers and pushed them toward an empty crowding pen, where cowboys on foot prodded the stubborn critters up a chute into empty stock cars. Three chutes kept the mounted cowboys busy cutting out of the main herd, while the cowboys afoot kept a steady stream of cattle going into the cars. This activity was broken only when the railroad engine moved ahead with the loaded and sealed cars, and at the same time spotted empty cars at the chutes' mouths.A tall man perched on the top of the stockyards corral, watched the loading with satisfaction plainly expressed on his weather-beaten face for the expert cow work which, seemingly, was being displayed for his special benefit; or possibly it was the satisfaction of knowing that he, Spike Malone, owned the cattle and felt proud at the moment of his accomplishment.
Another rider who did not seem to be one of the cow outfit was busy in the main herd. He was principally interested in the brands on the cattle and rode slowly back and forth through the herd, flicking the end of his lariat rope at the snuffy wild cattle so that they pushed each other around and made it easy to see the brands they were carrying. (These brands had been burned deep in their hides with a red hot branding iron when they were small calves.) This rider, being satisfied at last, reined in his horse close to the fence, stepped off and climbed up to the top pole and sat close to Spike.
At a distance the two men looked alike. Both were tall and lean with smooth range-built muscles that only a man can acquire from long hours in the saddle on the open range. However, at close quarters there was a great difference in them. In age the brand inspector was young, not more than thirty at the most. His eyes were the only indication that he held a responsible Job, and that he had accepted that responsibility. They were smoke-grey in color, steady, and with a certain depth to them that suggested honesty; also a determination and temper that boded ill for wrongdoers.
"Didn't see any strays, Spike, and stuff like you're loadin' should bring a top price and probably a premium." Ance Strong produced a Bull Durham tobacco sack from a shirt pocket and started to roll a cigarette, his strong brown fingers working fast and expertly. His facial expression showed plainly that the words he had just spoken were almost a speech, in his estimation.
Spike shifted his position and watched the riders below him for a long minute before answering; then completely ignoring Ance's compliment inquired, "How long can a man ship cattle like these with rustlers workin' the range unmolested. We elected you sheriff, Ance, with the understandin' you'd put a stop to them fellers, and I'm tellin' you we expect some results now. How about it? Are you makin' any headway?"
Spike's temper flared up as he talked, until his steel blue eyes looked as hard as chipped ice then his wrath slowly receded and the angry look in his eyes was slowly replaced by one of admiration for the young, lanky sheriff at his side. As he spoke again his voice was controlled with a tone of apology for his hasty words.
"We don't expect the impossible, Ance, but we are still losin cattle, plenty of them. Doug tells me we'll be lucky to make two shipments of cattle this fall, and before these brand artists started workin', I never made less'n four shipments. So you can see the loss I'm takin'. It's enough to make a man angry, isn't it?"
Ance took a long puff on his cigarette and blew the smoke carefully away from him before answering. "Sure is, Spike, and I've made some headway but not enough to make any arrests yet; however, I believe my deputies and I have traced this rustlin' to that outfit which moved in a couple of years ago. Remember, they bought the old Bar Eleven spread on Livermore Creek. There is brush covered range that they could use for hold-out pastures and they work a bunch of rannies that look tough enough to do anythin'. Neither one of the bosses are married, and we've watched them close enough to believe they're on the dodge from somethin' worse than rustlin', maybe down Texas way or Oklahoma. As yet though, we can't get anythin' definite on them."
The last of the steers were put in a crowding pen and one of the horsemen rode toward Spike and Ance, as Ance finished speaking.
Doug Kells, Spike's range boss, rode across the now empty stockyards and when he was within hearing distance said, "The bovines have got wheels under them. I guess they're ready for you, Spike. Good luck to you, and I hope you reach Chicago for a risin' beef market."
"Guess they are, Doug. I'll be back in time to train ride the next shipment. In the meantime, you're the ramrod, so act accordingly. Only thing I want you to see to is make Mike and Pat change off stayin' with Dot at the home ranch. That Mike's just like his Dad (meaning himself). He'd stay home all the time, and let Pat stand night guard and ride circle day herd clear through beef roundup."
Doug smiled as he replied, "O.K., Spike, I'll tend to it."
The engine on the head end of the stock train gave three shrill blasts of the whistle, signaling their intention of moving out of the stockyard siding to the main line for the first lap of the trip.
Spike and Ance climbed down from the fence and walked toward the caboose coupled at the tail end of the stock train. That caboose would be Spike's home until he reached Chicago. Spike stepped aboard the now moving caboose. Ance walked on toward the courthouse and his office.
Doug and his cowboys rode toward their roundup wagon to get a hurry-up supper before they packed the cook's outfit and moved back to the open range, for on the morrow they would start the circles to roundup another beef herd.
As the twilight of the coming night became noticeable, the cloud of dust at the empty stockyards raised by the milling beef herd, settled slowly back to earth. Lights twinkled in windows and along the streets of the little village surrounded by miles of rolling prairie range land.
Chapter Two
The Cut Bank River stock range covers a vast amount of acreage. Canada borders it on the north and the Rock Mountains on the west. To the south and east a definite line was never chartered. The range is divided by the Cut Bank River, which flows from west to east. Spike Malone controlled everything north of the river to the Canadian line, some seventy-five miles in width, and he built his home ranch at the protecting base of Square Butte.South of the river several smaller outfits ran a pool, meaning that on roundups each individual outfit furnished cowboys and equipment according to the amount of stock they owned. They worked under the same system as the large outfit for spring calf branding and beef roundup in the fall. There were warm cabins located at strategic points for their winter cowboys who gathered poor cattle that needed special feeding.
West of the Square Butte ranch, where the Rocky Mountains join the rolling prairie hills, is located the Bar Eleven headquarter buildings and corrals; which had been known as a straight, well-kept outfit, operating on neither a very large nor a very small scale, until it changed owners.
There was little known about the new owners except that one was tall and loose-jointed. He went by the name of Miller. The other was just the opposite, short and spare, and known as Bart. They named their holdings, "The Livermore Cattle Company." These two men did not show friendliness to anyone, so nobody visited at their ranch. They lived to themselves with a tough looking crew to do their range riding.
South of the Bar Eleven ranch buildings over a high timbered ridge which sloped down and bordered the Cut Bank River, and south of the river a short distance, among a clump of willows in an open park, was located the headquarters of a goat ranch. The owner was a newcomer to the Cut Bank River Range.
Ordinarily the cowmen would have given anyone owning goats orders to move on but in this case their sympathy was aroused, so he was allowed to stay unmolested. When cowboys would meet the goat herder, they tried to make conversation but soon gave up, and the rumor went around that he was 'loco' but harmless. And when he visited the ranches, they usually talked to him to be polite but soon gave up attempts at conversation because he would only shake his head in a dull sort of way, and no one knew whether he understood them or just wasn't interested. He never stayed at any one ranch long enough to become a nuisance.
The goat herder's place appeared, to people passing by, more like a trash pile than one inhabited by a human being because of its rambling, half-tumbled down brush-corral, where the goats came to bed down at night as if they sensed protection to rest and chew their cuds unmolested. By day they herded themselves, browsing in the nearby willow thickets or grazing on tender green grass that grew in the open places.
The largest part of the cleared acreage was fenced with poles, where buffalo and bunch grass grew abundantly. A small stream fed by springs flowed across the fenced area, making it a perfect horse pasture. A worn path led to the door of what appeared to be a shanty. It was built of logs with a shale rock outer wall for security and warmth against cold winter winds, but it resembled mostly the work of a man 'gone loco' from being alone too much or just born that way. Nobody knew which or cared.
Beyond the balanced rock that served as a door to the shanty, the place appeared entirely different. At one end of the large room was a cleverly built, securely constructed, rock fireplace with a blaze crackling under pots from which came the odor of cooking food. The walls along each side were lined with home-tanned furs of local animals, On the floor were many clean and warm fur rugs, and also on the home-made bed in one corner of the room. In a large woven willow chair, placed where the light from the sun shone in through a lattice work of rock securely mortared together, sat the owner. His lean strong-muscled body gave him the appearance of being much taller than his actual six feet. A grey stetson hat pushed back from his broad, high forehead, reclined on thick wavy brown hair. His grey eyes had a serious expression as his long slender fingers strummed' cowboy songs on a guitar, and his rich mellow voice harmonized with the music.
When the shadows of evening lengthened, the young man rose from his willow chair, carefully put the guitar in its case, snapped the lock securely and hung it on a wooden peg on the wall. Then, turning, he walked across the room until he stood before a photograph of a woman with kindly face and eyes that had a striking resemblance to his own. He seemed to read the affectionate inscription, "To My Darling Son, Jimmy", which was in the delicate: writing of a woman. He spoke to the picture as If it were alive and could hear him, saying, "I feel thy spirit strengthen me in times of dark despair and temptation. God keep thee safe, protect they soul, Till we meet at the Holy Shrine of Jesus." Obviously, this was an every day sacred ritual.
Turning quickly about, he strode to the far end of the room and opened the catch on a trapdoor; then reaching inside the box-like interior, he pulled out a dirty foul-smelling pair of bib overalls and an equally dirty jacket. With a disgusted look on his face, he quickly donned the clothes over his neat clean shirt and trousers. Next, he reached to a peg where hung a holstered six-shooter, and after buckling the belt filled with gleaming cartridges around his waist, snapped the gun out of the holster and replaced it three or four times to make sure his draw was smooth. Satisfying himself on that score, he thumbed open the cylinder latch and spun the cylinder around to make certain it was loaded properly. He finally replaced the gun in the leather holster and with a definite effort he forced a blank, foolish expression to settle over his face. He looked at himself in a small mirror to make sure of this; then, carefully, 'he moved the rock door aside and just as carefully closed it from the outside.
After making sure the door was in place and the lock set so that only he could reopen it, he turned and strode rapidly to the barn, through the barn door, and reappeared a few minutes later with a coal-black horse that nuzzled him fondly as he tightened the saddle cinch. He led the horse through the pole gate to open ground and stepped across the saddle. The fine spirited animal tossed his head, started out at a fast running walk and then changed to a smooth mile-eating lope.
As dusk of night settled over the range-land, black horse and rider disappeared over the backbone of the high ridge located between the goat ranch and the Bar Eleven.
The Bar Eleven ranch buildings looked quiet and peaceful among their surroundings of cottonwood timber and willow clumps fully leafed out. The leaves were beginning to turn from green to a golden color, as the frosty nights of Indian summer prepared the Montana vegetation for the rugged storms of winter.
In the kitchen the clatter of tin ware indicated that the cowboys were finishing their evening meal and as they passed by the door they were putting their plates, cups, knives and forks into an empty dish pan for the cook's convenience.
Two men picked up their hats outside the kitchen, placed them on their heads and stood a moment talking as they rolled and lighted cigarettes; then they walked slowly toward the horse corral where nine horses stood saddled, bridled and tied to a pole of the corral, which served as a hitching rack.
The short man seemed to be arguing with his tall partner about something as he said, "I think we're d- fools to raid Malone's range again, or for that matter, anybody's range. We've done well. After the brands heal up on the cattle we worked over today, all the sheriffs this side of the Missouri River could inspect us and not find a thing that would be against the law. So let's think it over tonight, Miller, and probably you'll see things my way in the mornin'." Miller's black beady eyes glistened with greed and temper as he replied, "Bart, you always was a weak-livered, gutless chump, and you've got this thing all wrong. 'Stead of you tellin' me what to do, I'm tellin' you. Maybe you've forgot that little murder deal in Oklahoma. Wouldn't them rannies down there like to stretch your neck, though? Just one little word from me and they'd come all the way here to get you." "H-, you know I didn't kill Sam Crouse!" Bart would have said more but Miller cut him off.
Sh--, you d- fool, don't talk so loud. Do you want all these rannies to know our business? If you didn't shoot him, who did? You was standin' in front of him when he dropped. Witnesses seen you." Miller threw back his head and laughed mockingly.
Bart's face turned red with anger, then paled, and his right hand hovered above his gun butt for a long minute. It looked for a while as though he might draw and chance shooting it out with Miller, who had doubled over to a crouching position which showed all the signs of a fast-draw artist. The killer instinct burned in the eyes that bored into Bart's until, finally, Bart weakened and his hand dropped limply to his side.
Miller spoke soothingly now, like a father might speak to his son" "Now you're showin' some sense feller. We can't afford to fight each other."
Bart's eyes glowed with anger as he openly accused Miller. "Just the same, you killed Sam Grouse, and you know you did. Shot him from ambush behind me, with a rifle, while I was holding him up for his money. I wanted that, but not his life."
Miller retorted threateningly, "You try and tell them fellers, that seen the shootin' from a distance, that you didn't shoot him. They'd hang you before you got through talkin', pardner. Well, anyway we're both outlawed down there and we're makin' good money here. Miller's attitude changed as he talked from ready-to-kill, to gloating.
The greediness in Miller came to the surface as he talked on, sure of himself and blustering, "We wouldn't raid Malone's tonight if it wasn't too good a chance to let go by Spike's in Chicago with a shipment of beef. That leaves Kells and one of the Malone boys with the roundup crew; and Rollins told us, not an hour, ago , that the roundup outfit's camped and will be holdin' a small beef herd in the Steel Coulee, south of Square Butte. The other Malone boy will be at the Square Butte ranch with his sister. She's big enough, and old enough, to take care of herself but we know that one of the Malones always stays with her since her Ma died. She Is a stuck-up, good-for-nothin' brat, if I ever seen one. Thinks she's too good for a feller like me but the day is comin' when I'll put her in her place, Bart, and you know I keep my word."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Cut Bank River Range by Suzie Shumway Copyright © 2010 by Suzie Shumway. Excerpted by permission.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Chapter I....................3Chapter II....................7
Chapter III....................17
Chapter IV....................33
Chapter I A Cold Trail....................41
Chapter II The Trail Leads North....................58
Chapter III Trails End....................86