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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Fence Buster
Tom Sheehan
When Hugh Brickley, hired gun and hired thug and hired fence buster, tore down a cattleman’s barbed wire fence, he sawed off the bottom of the fence posts, cut the wires, and dragged the fallen sections into whatever place of growth he could find … scrub brush, high grass, copse, wadi, or behind a mass of rocks. The dragging maneuver usually knocked down some original trail signs, but set new ones easily noted soon enough.
Each amounted to a threat as big as life; someone was out to wreck a rancher’s fortunes.
After each incident, Brickley managed to make his way, by devious routes, to where payment was put into his hands only by the man who hired him. It worked quite well for him over half a dozen states and territories, all the hiring men knowing there was a mail delivery point where any piece of mail was eventually picked up by the addressee. Histrionics, rumor, and bar talk solidified Brickley’s advertised wares; everybody knew how to contact him, how to hire him and his arsenal of tools.
So it was that a nosy mail clerk in East Texas at first watched for mail that was addressed to “HB, General Delivery, Albuquerque, New Mexico.” The clerk’s name was Thurston Fuzzwick, never on a cattle drive, never on a posse, never in either of the two saloons in High Grace, Texas. In fact, never on a horse more than the first two minutes of terror that overcame him on his first and most unforgettable attempt. But he had heard two men talking about “the hired man” as they waited in line at the general store one evening just after he closed the post office in the front room of his parents’ home, each of them on their sick bed and waiting to die.
“Nobody knows him other than HB, General Delivery, Albuquerque, New Mexico,” one man said to the other, “and he does anything wanted but always for the price arranged beforehand.”
That discussion was altered a few days later, when the topic was the same. “Damned sheriff of Albuquerque should be able to grab him easy enough,” the other said.
“You think that’s the only place he picks up mail? Think again. I bet he has dozens of places like it all over the west.” Conjecture moved into the company of rumors.
So Fuzzwick began to look for “HB” no matter the address as long as it was in care of General Delivery, anyplace in the states or the territories.
It was a slow four months later, the area generally quiet, when he spotted a letter addressed to “HB, General Delivery, Norton, New Mexico. Please hold.”
Fuzzwick knew Harland Graves had mailed the letter. “For my cousin over there, Fuzzy. Ain’t seen him in a hundred years could be.” Harland Graves worked for the Lazy Dog Ranch, owned by Harry Crawford who’d once been the warden of a penitentiary in the territory, now a big cattle rancher who managed always to step on toes the way he might have stepped on prisoners under his care. He was, as some said, “Meaner ‘n beans in an ole pot too close to the fire.”
Fuzzwick, feeling rich and elated with his new knowledge, arranged to accidentally talk to Sheriff Max Barclay at the first opportunity. That too came at the general store, but outside this time.
“Oh, hello, Sheriff. Hope it’s been a nice day for you.” He meant what he said, even feeling solicitous.
“Hi, Fuzz,” the sheriff said. “Hope your day is as good. I just had a great meal at Molly’s Place. I ain’t seen you in there in a while, Fuzz. You get tired of the meals?’
“No, Sheriff, I have to spread my purchasing powers amongst my customers. You know how it is.”
“Sure do, Fuzz. Anything else on your mind these days?” Fuzzwick had not, in recent months, gone out of his way to talk to the sheriff. This was a new attempt. It made the sheriff curious.
“Oh, I was listening to a couple of folks talk about this “fence buster” who goes around knocking down fences, renting out his gun, etcetera. You know how it is, the talk all over town.”
“You know anything else, Fuzz? Anything new or different from what folks all over talk about?”
“You know the story of his mail drop in Albuquerque, New Mexico? HB, General Delivery, Albuquerque?”
“I heard about that, Fuzz. ‘Bout everybody has. There something new to it?”
“I think he’s got a general delivery address over in Norton, in New Mexico.”
“How’d you know that, Fuzz?” He wanted to say “by peeking at the mail” but that’d just spoil what the postman had to offer.
“A local sent a letter to “HB, General Delivery, Please Hold, in Norton, New Mexico territory.”
“You going to tell me who?”
“I’m not supposed to talk about the mail, you know. There are rules.”
“You ain’t told me anything yet that I don’t know could have happened a half dozen times already.” That’d put Fuzzwick off his guard.
“Really?” Fuzzwick was intrigued. “Well, I guess I can’t tell you who wrote it, but I can tell you who sent it for him. Harland Graves, that’s who.” There! It was done, as far as he could take it.
The sheriff nodded, turned on his heel, and walked away. The connections, in all quarters, had been made.
For two weeks, he kept check on all new riders coming into High Grace. On late evenings, he had a glass of beer at Silver Spur Saloon with a few friends, said his goodnights, and left. Behind the livery, the owner trotted out the sheriff’s horse and waited on him.
“Be careful, Max,” the livery man said. “You’ll be on your own out there, wherever it is you’re going. And I don’t want to know. That’s your business, not mine, but I’ll keep my mouth shut. Good luck in whatever you’re at.” He patted him on the back as Barclay mounted his horse and walked him into darkness.
On a Saturday evening, under a half moon, two weeks to the day he started his watch, from a growth of trees and brush, he heard a rider on the road leading to the Lazy Dog Ranch, owned by Harry Crawford, the former penitentiary warden.
The rider was secretive, moving slowly, attentive to any odd sound in the night. Barclay believed him to be the man who had been summoned by the letter Crawford had sent to “HB Norton, New Mexico.” To the “fence buster” or worse. Already the sheriff had poured over any and all disputes and on-going problems that Crawford had with his neighbors. He found a couple of significant issues that a hired gun or fence buster could promote, incite, and finish off, one way or another.
From another position, on a limb of a tree, with the ranch house in view, he saw a light go on about 20 minutes later. When it went out, he waited below the tree with his horse, heard the dark rider pass in the night and head off to the north.
Barclay was ready for this turn of events. From his saddle bag he withdrew some burlap sack material that he wrapped his horse’s hoofs with. Trailing the dark rider was easy, for he knew exactly where he was headed, to a new string of barbed wire fence that a neighbor, Bruce Livingston, had erected on his property and which abutted Crawford’s land. The fence sat directly in the way of a creek that ran entirely on the Livingston’s property for more than a mile before it turned onto another neighbor’s land. Several significant incidents had spun off the fence being erected; some of Livingston’s men had been hurt by unknown riders. The signs pointed directly at Crawford’s interest in the water.
The mysterious rider, if it was HB as Barclay had assumed, proceeded directly to the newly erected fence, dismounted, pulled a small saw from his saddlebag, sawed the bottom portion of four fence posts, cut the barbed wire connections in several places, and watched as the two loose sections of wire and poles fell to the ground. He tied a rope to one end and dragged it with his horse to the edge of a copse.
The gap in the fence seemed wide enough to drive a whole herd through, but driving cattle was not necessary. The smell of water would bring cattle closer to the break, and eventually through it. The cattle making the move would belong to Crawford. The fence buster was obviously hired by Crawford. The benefits, so far, belonged to Crawford.
The one drawback to all Crawford’s apparent gains was Sheriff Max Barclay, courtesy of postmaster Thurston Fuzzy Fuzzwick, both citizens of HIgh Grace. The outlook was in Barclay’s hands and he thought about the possibilities, the turns that could come in the road ahead. He had his rifle at the ready and when something dropped from the saddle of the mystery rider and fence buster, causing him to dismount, Barclay put a round between the man’s feet.
“Don’t move, Bucko, or the next round goes into soft flesh.”
He was now within 20 feet of the fence buster. “With your left hand, unloosen your gun belt and let it fall to the ground. I’m not taking any chances with you. Make a mistake and you’re dead.”
The mystery rider said, “Who are you, mister? You willing to take chances with your life over a hunk of fence.”
“I’m the law hereabouts, Mister. That’s who I am. Do what I tell you and don’t you gamble your life over somebody else’s fence. That’s what I got to say and there won’t be much more.”
“I got some high powers in my corner,” the fence buster said. “Real high powers. You best be careful who you pull the trigger on. You might be pulling it on yourself.”
Barclay said, “You haven’t got the power of the good Lord in your back pocket, Mister, and you sure don’t have the powers of High Grace in that same pocket. So, one hand, your left, like I said, and drop the belt.”
The gun belt hit the ground with a soft thud.
“Move over close to the broken section on the ground and pull the fence pole back this way. Do it careful.”
“What are you up to, Sheriff? I tore it down. I ain’t about to put it back up.”
“Don’t worry about that, Mister. I’d guess you to be Hugh Brickley. I’m Max Barclay. You’re going to lie down on that wire, on your stomach, else you get the next round in one of your knees. I’m not sure which one yet.”
“I ain’t putting no wire on me.”
“Just do as you’re told,” Barclay said. “I’m going to tie your legs and hands.”
“I’m Brickley and I’ll sure as hell owe you after this.” He lay down on the section of fence, on a tough twist of wire, knowing there was no way he could twist about suddenly and try to escape. With ease Barclay tied his legs with a piece of rope. Then he placed a pair of manacles on Brickley’s wrists.
It was simple enough then for Barclay to bring Brickley’s horse to the prisoner and toss him over the saddle. “You don’t have to ride too far like this. Just until I have a few more men around me. I could get lonesome out here.”
Barclay mounted his horse and led the other horse through the break in the fence. From behind them, from out of the false dawn gray as feathers in the rain, and from the direction of Crawford’s ranch, came the sound of galloping horses. Barclay spurred his horse and ran him toward the Livingston ranch up along the creek. He fired three shots from Brickley’s pistol in the air to attract the ranch hands.
A few minutes later, from the direction of Livingston’s spread, several riders came galloping and were hailed by Barclay. “Max Barclay here,” he said, “and I got a prisoner who just cut out a section of your fence. And I think some Crawford riders are coming to see what’s going on.”
“Don’t worry none about them, Sheriff,” yelled out one of the Livingston hands. “We’ll have the whole gang here in a couple of minutes. If there’s anybody doing anythin’ to anybody, we got some settlin’ of our own to take care of.”
The arrest and trial was quick and Hugh Brickley, the HB of General Delivery, was carted off to do his sentence in the penitentiary. Crawford’s part in the matter was handled privately by the sheriff and the judge, and Crawford sold off his ranch, as suggested by the judge in a most sincere manner.
The sheriff and the postmaster of High Grace agreed they’d share with nobody the circumstances of how the fence buster was caught. They didn’t even tell the judge, Thurston Fuzzwick worried the word might get back to Washington. He didn’t think he could get work anyplace else. The sheriff agreed with him on that account.
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