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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Rustlers at Cedar Springs
Paul Peppers
This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and locations are fictional. Research for this story came from two articles, the "BIG DIE-UP," by H. Allen Anderson and “FENCE CUTTING," by Wayne Gard, from the Handbook of Texas Online.
The introduction of barbed wire during the 1800’s changed the nature of the range. Before the wire anyone could graze and water cattle no matter who held the deed to the land. The “free rangers” (landless cattlemen) fought against the trend toward fenced land, often cutting and pulling down any fence they encountered. This practice resulted in escalating violence and bloodshed between those parties both for and against the fence.
About twenty head of desultory looking cattle bunched up at the wire fence. Two men on horseback came up close behind them. The biggest of the men was mounted on a buckskin that shifted from side to side nervously as he spoke. “Ho, neighbor,” he said and displayed a big fake looking smile. “I’m Joe … McMillon. We are just passing through sir. If you will be kind enough to open your gate we will be on our way.”
I examined the two hombres with a cynical eye. I was in no kind of a charitable mood and decided they were both probably tall. I have developed a profound dislike for men bigger than I am and, since I am only five foot six and weigh around a hundred and sixty pounds, that includes just about everyone. “I ain't about to allow you two through here with them scrubs,” I said. “Where’d you boys get them cows anyway? Some of them brands look a might chancy.”
McMillon took a long look to the right and then another to the left. Split rails and barb wire stretched into the dim distance on both sides. His big smile melted into a hateful look. “You got no call to keep us out,” he said. “God didn’t write you no deed to this here land.”
“The next best thing,” I said, “Old man Shireman has got a deed that is from the state of Texas and it says the land belongs to him.”
The other hombre gave me a dirty look placed two fingers to his lips and squirted a stream of tobacco juice; some of which splattered my boot. I could tell he was some kind of gun hand - fancy clothes and fancy boots. He was also riding a fancy white gelding and his waist was shod with two ivory handled revolvers. He wasn’t content to remain silent. “This ain't your grass son,” he said. “This is the good Lords grass.”
I looked down at the tobacco spit on my boot before replying and my anger began to rise. “Why so particular? You got the whole rest of Texas to work with.” I was just beginning to get the tilt of the conversation and to regret removing my gun belt. I had hung it along with my shirt on a post a few lengths from where I was standing.
“You need to shut that smart mouth of yours,” he said.
“Listen to Fisher boy that’s good advice.”
“Shireman owns this land; bought and paid for,” I retorted. “If you two don’t like it take it up with the sheriff.”
McMillon laughed and it had a nasty sound. “Sheriff Kelley ain't going to be around to do any more listening boy.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant but I didn’t have any time to think about it. In one quick motion Fisher un-sheathed a rifle from his saddle scabbard and leveled it at me. “You are getting tiresome.” He muttered something to McMillon and the latter began to uncoil a bullwhip.
“That mouth of yours has done earned you a whipping.”
I made a run for my pistol but stumbled and cried out as the bull whip wrapped around my naked midriff and jerked away leaving a bleeding welt behind. Another crack of the whip and the skin on my cheek ripped streaming blood down my jaw. I heard the whip whistle again but managed to scramble out of its path. With little chance of making it to my guns I set out at a run for my horse.
“Run yeller,” McMillon shouted.
I leapt to horseback expecting a bullet in the back at any second. Casting a look back I saw the two men laughing like cowboys at a barn dance. They both looped a rope on the gate and began to back their horses until the wood was pulled into a mass of loose timbers. Fisher noticed me and put the rifle to his shoulder. The shot kicked up dust close by and since I didn’t have a hankerin to get shot just then I put heels to that mare’s flanks and lit out of range of that long gun. The welt across my face burned like fire and blood seeped from the wound on my stomach. But the shame of running burned hotter than a brand. I felt a coward even though little choice had been given me in the matter. “You’ll pay,” I muttered. You’ll both pay.”
“That’s a nasty cut son.” Shireman dabbed a poultice on my wounds with a cloth that he could scarcely hold due to his swollen arthritic hands. “Now hold still son - my shaking and you’re shaking might not go together.”
I reckoned the old man was doing all of the shaking but, made no comment on the matter. The old rancher examined the gash on my face. “It's deep but you’ll heal.”
“I seen them pull the gate down Tom. I should have stayed I know. I should have done something…” To Bill it seemed like he was under a dark cloud.
“You done right son. They had the drop on you and would have killed you sure.” Tom finished his ministrations and began wrapping a strip of cloth around the young man’s waist.
That old man had been good to me. He’d give me a job when no one else would give me the time of day. And now I had repaid him by letting the fence be torn down. Likely his horses were gone too. “Tom, I’m - I am going to make this right.”
The old man went to a cabinet by the ranch house door and brought out a holster and pistol. “Here boy, take it.”
I was slipping into my blood stained shirt. “What about you? I can’t take that.”
“Take it boy. We got work to do and you will need the right tool for the job. Anyway, I can’t use it anymore on account of my hands. I still keep cleaning it though - do me a favor and keep it.”
I drew the weapon, admiring the heft of it. It was shiny with gun oil. “Thanks Tom,” I said simply. “I need it so, I thank you.”
Tom laughed. “Don’t you worry the cost is coming out of your pay. Now this here is my weapon of choice.” He took a double barrel shotgun from the gun cabinet. “This here is a Manton and Son fourteen gauge that I ordered out of the catalogue. I’m a little shaky on my aiming these days so I plan to skip that and go straight to the shooting part.”
I could not suppress a laugh.
We rode hard for the fenced pasture but the damage had been done. Most of the fence was down along with the gate and the horses were gone. It was plain that the rustlers had taken them along. I could see the tracks of them horses mixed in with the cattle tracks. Tom took in the sight and hung his head. “Well, I’m ruined,” he said. He removed his hat and rubbed his thick fingers through his grey hair. “I put all of my wealth into them ponies…”
“We will get them back.” Tom was my friend and I didn’t like seeing my friend like this. All of the life seemed to have drained from him. He slumped in the saddle and didn’t speak for some seconds. “Tom,” I began, “I’ll take…”
Tom’s back seemed to stiffen and he sat up straight clinching his hands so tight on the reins I could hear his swollen knuckles cracking. “I ain't about to let our hard work prosper them thieves,” he said. “I will get them ponies back or die trying.”
That old man was tough and I was proud to call him friend. “That’s what we’ll do,” I said with more confidence than I really felt.
The trail was an easy one to follow. We tracked them boys for the rest of the day and through the night. It was clear the thieves favored speed over caution and their confidence galled me. They were making no effort at all to disguise their passage.
“Them boys is as dumb as a box of rocks,” Tom said. “What were their names again?”
He broke into my thoughts and I was glad for it. “McMillon and Fisher.”
“Hmmm, what do you reckon makes them fools believe they can get away with taking our stock and leaving a trail that a blind man could follow?”
The bandage around my middle had become soaked with sweat and the sweat made the wound sting. “I reckon they think I’m a damn yellow coward is what.” I fairly snarled the words. “I mean to break them of their misguided assumptions.”
Conversation was sparse after that and we covered ground mostly in silence. Toward morning the tracks grew increasingly fresh and the sound of cattle close. Riding into a stand of birch we stopped to rest a spell. The horses were played out, and the old man didn’t look any to spry, so I left him watching the animals while I eased up to a point from which I could observe the two rustlers. Both men were watering their horses by the edge of the creek smoking and passing a bottle like they hadn’t a care in the world. The cows and horses were waist deep in the river cooling off. Having seen all I needed to see I headed back. “It’s them two polecats alright,” I told him. “I would like to get them afore they cross the river Tom but, them’s your horses so, it’s your call - how do you want to play it?
“Give me a few minutes to circle around so’s I can Indian up on them from the rear,” he said. “Then if they get frisky I’ll unload this scatter gun into their backsides.” Tom laughed at the prospect. “That should pull the reins on their getty up.”
“That suits me.” I checked the loads in my pistol. There was fixing to be a killing and I didn’t plan on it being me. “I need to settle up with them two snakes.”
Without another word Tom mounted settled the shotgun across his saddle and trotted off at a wide angle to the rustlers. I have to say that I was plagued by doubt though I never would have admitted as much out loud. I had never been in a gun battle nor had I ever hunted a man with the intent to kill him. I waited and worried over my fear like a dog worrying a bone but after a while I felt calmness start to come over me. The forest I stood in had never been logged. It was all old growth timber and I could sense the spirit of the place eternal and timeless. Some of that place just seemed to rub off on me and my doubts vanished. I had no way of knowing how long a time had passed but mounting the mare I trotted out of those trees just nursing that knot of cold resolve with the prospect of killing one or both of those two skunks. One thing I knew for certain - McMillan would die.
I was in clear view but it was a while before they noticed me and they noticed me at about the same time. I saw that Tom had Fisher covered so I put him out of my mind.
The second McMillon laid eyes on me he went for his gun, displaying a casual scorn for fair play, and spurred his horse toward me firing all the while.
I drew the big colt and it bucked in my hand, booming like a cannon, and belching a cloud of smoke but I missed my first shot. One of McMillon’s slugs tore into my horse and she buckled under me. By some miracle I hit the ground rolling and managed to keep a hold on my gun. With the ground under my feet to steady my aim I fired and did not miss again. The round struck McMillon’s arm causing him to fall from horseback dropping his gun. He turned to run then but my next shot caught him on the side of the head removing his hat and a generous chunk of his skull in the process. All conscious motivation left the man’s limbs and he hit the ground, like a spent cartridge, his momentum driving him face first into the muddy earth. I kept my eyes on him as I walked forward admiring my handy work with satisfaction.
“Looks like you got the job done,” Shireman said.
My friend had Fisher covered with the shotgun. Fisher would not meet my eye and didn’t seem inclined to give me anymore trouble. “Looks like we did,” I said.
“This here is our witness,” Tom said, prodding Fisher with the business end of the gun. “If he knows what is good for him he will tell the truth. They might not hang him if he does but we definitely will if he don’t.” Old Tom cackled a laugh. Fisher reached for his rifle but froze when he heard the sound my gun being cocked,” Tom said. The glee in his voice was plain to hear. “I warned him that I had an itchy trigger finger but he acted like he didn’t believe me. Best put your hands up,” I told him. “I got an itchy trigger finger.” Fisher’s started to relax his hands. Shireman clucked disapprovingly. “This is a fourteen gauge son,” he said. “And I am curious myself - if I fired both barrels would it cut you in two or not?” Fisher’s hands shot up quickly. Tom sighed. “Oh, well, I guess we’ll never know...”
My horse was dead and I sure hated to see it. It had been a good horse and deserved better - but, at least it had been a quick death. The bullet had entered the animal’s eye killing her instantly. “Looks like I need a horse,” I said.
“Help yourself to McMillan’s buckskin,” Tom said. “He sure won’t be needing it.”
After the gun play things seemed almost dreamlike. Together we tied Fisher up and put him across his own saddle. Then I went about transferring my gear to the buckskin.
Old man Shireman took on a worried look as he surveyed the horses and cattle. He removed his hat and ran arthritic fingers through his limp grey hair. “Lord have mercy,” he said. “I reckon we will have to get to work on that pasture fence for these here ponies. And now we got these darn scrub cows to deal with too.”
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