A hill of beans, p.2
A Hill of Beans, page 2
Mac took another step and stood over him, wavering slightly, his still-balled fists hanging loosely at his sides. He wasn’t the type to stomp a man when he was down, so as far as he was concerned the fight was over.
It suddenly became apparent there were others ready to make sure of that when the sound of pistols being cocked caused Mac’s head to snap around and he found himself staring into the gun muzzles of the other two riders who’d been with the tall man when Mac first rode up.
“Does everybody in your outfit draw on every stranger you see?”
Before either of the gun-toters could respond, a new voice called from a short distance away, “Hold up with those guns! What’s going on here?”
Mac and the other men turned their heads to watch the approach of two figures on horseback. One was broad-shouldered and erect in the saddle, the other, trailing a few feet behind, was barely discernible in the murkiness of the night.
The front rider reined in when he got within a few feet and revealed himself to be an elderly gent with bristly white sideburns and thick, contrastingly black eyebrows currently bunched together in a fierce scowl. In the same raspy voice that had called out a moment earlier, he spoke again. “I asked a question, blast it—what’s going on here?”
“It’s this hombre,” said one of the cowboys, jerking his chin toward Mac. The speaker looked to be in his middle twenties, with a narrow face, sleepy eyes, and an unruly tangle of fiery red curls poking out from under the front of his hat. He went on, “When he rode up out of nowhere, Roman took him for one of the rustlers who must have got separated from the rest of his bunch. Roman tried to get the drop on him, but the sneaky devil sucker-punched Roman and knocked him down.”
“He didn’t try to get the drop on me,” Mac countered hotly. “He flat-out tried to shoot me, is what he did! He would have, too, if he hadn’t forgotten to reload his gun after firing off all the rounds working to slow the stampede. When his hammer came down on nothing but spent cartridges, you bet I tore into him. I don’t see how anybody can claim I threw a sucker punch, though, not when he was already waving a gun in my face. If he’d had any bullets left in it, I’d be the one laying in the dirt—pumped full of slugs!”
The older gent peered intently at the red-haired cowboy. “That’s a little different than the way you told it, Sparky. Any truth to his version?”
The puncher addressed as Sparky shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Well, it all happened pretty fast . . . I mean, Roman did draw his gun and all. Like I told you, he figured he was lookin’ at one of the rustlers . . . and why else would this stranger pop up out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“I can answer that,” Mac was quick to say. Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, he went on to explain, “I was camped a couple miles back. Right in the path of your herd, as it turned out. When I recognized the sound of a stampede—a sound I know all too well, from having been in my share—I saddled up and rode out to see if I could help. And I did, too, doggone it. If there’s an honest man in your outfit, somebody surely must have seen me.”
“I can vouch for his claim,” spoke up the second of the two newly arrived riders, moving up alongside the white-haired man.
Mac’s first reaction was a surge of relief, grateful that someone had spotted him and was willing to say so. A moment later, when he got a better look at the second rider, he found even more to appreciate. Because what he saw, moving her horse forward out of the twilight murkiness, was a very attractive young woman returning his gaze with a self-assured boldness.
She appeared barely past twenty, a mane of thick chestnut hair spilling from under a cocked Stetson to frame a face highlighted by intelligent, challenging eyes and a wide, lush mouth. Below that, womanly curves filled out the standard trail garb she wore just fine, and it was all Mac could do to keep from gawking like some calf-eyed fool.
CHAPTER 3
“Assuming that paint horse standing over yonder belongs to the stranger,” the girl continued, “I spotted them right in the thick of turning the herd. And like he said, it looked to me like he was a big help.”
“That hardly sounds like the actions of a rustler,” the old-timer said, frowning thoughtfully. “Unless, that is, Roman was right to suspect this fella might be part of the crew that hit our herd and somehow got separated from the others.”
“Come on, Father,” the girl said in an impatient tone. “Even if that were the case, what sense would it make for him to stick around? Once the cattle started running, he could have easily ridden away and eventually caught back up with the others. And especially, why would any rustler put himself at risk to help stop a stampede he was involved in starting to begin with?”
By this point, the man Mac had knocked down—referred to as “Roman”—was struggling to get back up. He groaned as he pushed himself onto one elbow, gasping and wheezing as he tried to pull some air back into his lungs.
“Sparky, Nolan,” the white-haired man barked. “Climb down and give him a hand.”
The two cowboys promptly proceeded to do as ordered.
The white-haired man’s gaze returned to Mac. “Young fella,” he said, “my daughter has me ready to give you the benefit of the doubt. But before I’m willing to commit, I think it’s only right to allow Roman a chance to have his say. In the meantime, my name is Norris Bradley. I own the Rafter B spread down in Bellow County, Texas. The longhorns you apparently helped stop from running themselves to ruination are mine. This is my daughter, Colleen”—a tip of his head toward the girl—“and you’ve already, er, made the acquaintance of my son Roman.”
Mac winced inwardly at the revelation that the man he’d knocked down was this old rooster’s son.
“How about you? You got a name?” Bradley wanted to know.
Mac answered, “Mackenzie. Dewey Mackenzie. Most folks just call me Mac.”
“I don’t give a hoot what he’s called,” growled Roman, now having been helped to his feet. “What matters is what he is—and that’s a dirty stinkin’ rustler!”
“Now hold on a minute,” Bradley responded. “You’ve already made your opinion plenty clear. Trouble is, there’s some pretty convincing evidence you’re mistaken.”
“The hell I am,” Roman snapped back. “If this ranny ain’t up to no good, then what’s he doing sneakin’ around the edges of our herd as soon as we got ’em stopped?”
“That’s already been answered,” his sister told him. “You would have heard if you hadn’t been so busy trying to pick yourself up off the ground.”
Roman glared at her. “Yeah, and why was I on the ground? Because I was quick to have this varmint pegged for what he was and what he was up to—looking to pick out a few more cows he could steal to go with however many his buddies already slicked away before they started the stampede.”
“So you tried to shoot him on the spot?” Colleen accused. “Without taking even a second to try and find out if there was another explanation?”
“His showing up the way he did was all the explanation I needed!”
“And if you’d succeeded in jumping to that conclusion and following through with it,” Bradley said, “you very likely would have shot an innocent man.”
“Innocent? How in blazes can you—”
Bradley made a slashing motion with his hand. “Shut up! You and that hair-triggered temper of yours. Isn’t the trouble it’s gotten you in ever going to teach you to hold it in check—at least once in a while?”
Roman looked torn between anger and puzzlement. “I don’t understand, Pa. What did I do that was so wrong? What about this piece of trail trash makes you think he’s so innocent?”
“Because the reason this man is here is that he risked his neck to pitch in and help turn our herd. Does that sound like something a rustler would do?”
“Who says he played any part in turning the herd?” Roman demanded. “You taking his word on that?”
“I say he played a part. A big part,” Colleen spoke up. “I already told you, I saw him right in the thick of it.”
“You!” Roman practically spat. “You’d say that just to spite me.”
“Now don’t you two start in,” Bradley warned.
The cowboy referred to as Nolan, a lean, middle-aged man with a face worn beyond its actual years by long exposure to the wind and sun, cleared his throat.
“I, uh . . . I kinda saw the same as Miss Colleen,” he said. “That fella and his big paint, they helped turn the herd right enough. I seen ’em right there toward the front, makin’ a big difference.”
Roman shot him a dirty look.
“Okay, that settles it,” Bradley said. “Here’s what I suggest we do. No, make that what I say we’ll do. Nolan, you and Sparky stay here with the herd. They’re tuckered out, I don’t think they’ll spook easily again. But hang around, keep an eye on things, and keep ’em soothed just the same. I’ll send a couple other boys to relieve you in a few hours. The rest of us are going on back to our camp. We’ll finish sorting this out when we get there, and get a general idea of how many cattle we lost on the way.”
His eyes settled on Mac. “That includes you. I figure, at the very least, we owe you a place to bed down for the night and a hot breakfast in the morning. You got any objection?”
Mac considered. He tossed a couple of quick glances to the two Bradley siblings. One was looking at him invitingly, the other menacingly.
“No,” he replied to their father. “No objection at all.”
CHAPTER 4
By Mac’s reckoning, they covered more than four miles before reaching the Rafter B night camp. That was how far the stampede had carried the herd. Along the way, Bradley tallied an even two dozen carcasses of unfortunate critters who’d fallen and been trampled by their own kind. In all likelihood, ten or a dozen more lay unseen somewhere out in the darkness.
Also on the way, Mac was able to show the others the remains of his campsite. There wasn’t much to see except for a scorched patch of ground where his campfire had been and a few tatters of his bedroll fluttering up out of the mangled ground. The coffeepot he’d left behind was kicked and stomped to oblivion. Luckily, most of his gear was in the saddlebags that he’d thrown across the paint’s back along with the saddle when he hurriedly mounted up and rode away from the spot.
This meager bit of evidence was further proof to back up Mac’s story that he wasn’t part of any rustling crew. He could see acceptance and added conviction of this on the faces of Bradley and Colleen, but Roman only continued to glower, not willing to give an inch on what he stubbornly had his mind made up to believe.
As they progressed toward the camp, they were joined by other Rafter B riders who’d gotten strung out chasing the herd, among them Bradley’s middle and youngest sons—Henry and George, respectively. Henry was fair-haired and handsome, middle twenties, with a sun- and wind-burned face and a quiet, easygoing manner that seemed in sharp contrast to his hotheaded older brother. George was not only the youngest brother, but he was also a year or so younger than Colleen and came across as a rambunctious sort with boyish good looks, a thatch of curly hair the same chestnut color as his sister’s, and an excitable air about him that kept him talking and asking questions.
A third man to fall in with them was introduced as Shadrach Hopper, the Rafter B ranch foreman and trail boss of the drive. By the bullwhip coiled around his saddle horn, Mac recognized him as the rider he’d spotted cracking that whip on the opposite side of the herd as they were riding hard to get the critters halted. Hopper was a tall, ruggedly built man, with an easy Texas drawl and seen-it-all-before eyes set between deep crow’s-feet on a battered, weathered face just this side of homely. He looked pretty good in Mac’s eyes, however, when he promptly spoke up and stated his recognition of Mac and his paint horse for their involvement in curbing the stampede.
This final unsolicited testimony from Hopper pretty much sealed the deal on everybody accepting Mac for what he claimed to be. Everybody but Roman, who didn’t voice any further argument but remained silent and continued to wear a bitter scowl.
The camp, when they finally reached it, was found unscathed by the runaway cattle and also left unbothered by the rustlers who had set the stampede in motion. The way the whole thing had happened, Bradley explained to Mac during the ride in, was that a pack of rustlers had hit the outer edges of the herd, driven off forty or fifty head for their own purposes, then hoorahed the remainder of the restless longhorns into a stampede to distract the Rafter B crew while the rustlers made their getaway.
The pattern was recognizable because Bradley, during a trip into a nearby town for supplies a week back, had been warned by the store clerk there about reports from other drovers who’d had their herds hit in that manner. So, even though Bradley and Hopper kept everybody as vigilant as possible, the men pulling nighthawk duty tonight had been spread too thin to catch the wide-loopers before they were able to strike again.
“I got six men pushing eight hundred head of cattle,” Bradley lamented. “Plus myself, our chuckwagon cook, and Colleen. She mostly takes care of the remuda but can punch cows with the best of ’em if need be. It’s a whale of a job, but by Jove, we’ve made it this far, and it’ll take a sight more than tonight’s trouble to turn us back.”
“Where are you headed?” Mac had asked.
“Miles City, Montana,” came the answer. Then Bradley added, “I know, you’re probably wondering why we didn’t sell off back at Denver. Could have, would have gotten a decent price, too. I was tempted, believe me. But I’ve had a buyer lined up in Miles City for some time. He locked in on a fair price and is counting on us to come through. I don’t aim to let him down just because the going gets a little tough.”
Mac gave a quiet nod, inwardly admiring that kind of commitment to a deal. In spite of his hotheaded oldest son, Mac decided Bradley was a tough but fair sort, the kind of man who would inspire loyalty in those around him and expect nothing less in return.
The Rafter B chuckwagon cook was a potbellied, bow-legged old rascal decked out in a derby hat and a once-white apron now splashed with so many different food stains that only the strap going up around the back of his neck retained any trace of white. Bradley introduced him as Orson Brandenburger, and the only thing Mac got in response was a grunt and a once-over that didn’t seem particularly welcoming.
“I got a pot of coffee and some fresh-baked biscuits waitin’,” the cook announced. “I figured after all the extra cattle chasin’ and such, you’d come back wantin’ something to put in your bellies, even though you already et supper. I never saw a bunch so quick to have their appetites triggered by the least little amount of work.”
“Must be the high quality of your outstanding cuisine,” remarked George Bradley, “that keeps us clamoring for more.”
“If that was another sarcastic crack about my cookin’,” responded Brandenburger, “just keep it up and see what it gets you, you pup. Might be a big surprise floatin’ in a bowl of stew I dish up especially for you one of these times.”
“Hey now,” protested Henry Bradley. “Don’t take my little brother’s digs out on the rest of us.”
Brandenburger frowned. “I said it’d be especially for him, didn’t I? The rest of you don’t have to worry—though you might want to take fair warnin’ from it.”
Mac couldn’t help grinning to himself. This kind of banter between a ranch crew and the outfit’s cook was as common as fleas on a hound. Sometimes it was good-natured, other times not so much. His own experience as chuckwagon cook on two different trail drives had taught Mac how to toss it back and forth with even the most sour-pussed cowpoke. Luckily for him, though, he’d also learned how to be pretty good at serving up tasty grub, so the ribbing he had to put up with was mostly the good-natured kind.
As for this Brandenburger fellow, Mac was willing to reserve judgment on how deserving he might be of whatever guff he got. But, based on the half-burnt biscuits and overly bitter coffee he served under these less-than-ideal circumstances, Mac’s first impression was that he just might have it coming.
CHAPTER 5
“Hey, lazybones. You going to sleep the day away?”
Mac awoke with a start, surprised to find sunlight pouring into his eyes as soon as he opened them. He was usually an early riser, especially when bedded down in unfamiliar surroundings.
Adding to his surprise was the fact that the voice rousting him was decidedly female. Looking up, blinking and pushing to a sitting position, he saw Colleen Bradley standing over him, wearing a smile even more dazzling than the sun.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” Mac stammered. “It ain’t like me to sleep past sunup. I must have been more tuckered out than I realized.”
“It’s all right,” Colleen said with a gentle laugh. “Pa let everybody sleep a little extra this morning on account of all the excitement last night. Besides, it’s not like you’re part of the crew. You’re our guest, you don’t have any duties. The reason I rousted you, though, was so you wouldn’t miss out on the breakfast Pa promised. If you don’t get over there to the trough and grab your share when it’s dished up, the rest of those inhospitable varmints are apt to gobble it all and leave you nothing.”
“Well, I thank you kindly for that. Since I usually wake with a tolerable hunger, I’d hate to start the day missing out on some good grub.”
Mac threw back his covers and reached for his boots. That was the extent of how far he undressed before crawling into a bedroll. He was grateful for that, what with Colleen standing there now the way she was.
