This Calder Range (42 page)

The four riders rode into Miles City at a shuffling trot. Benteen split away from Woolie, Zeke, and Bob Vernon as they turned their horses into the hitchrack in front of the land office. There were two ways of acquiring title to land under the Homestead Act. One required a five-year residence and improvements, while the second, called commuting, gave title after six months and payment of $1.25 an acre. Woolie, Zeke, and Bob were about to “commute” their claims. It had taken a chunk out of Benteen's ready cash, but it was a quick, sure way of stopping Judd Boston's plans.

Benteen dismounted at the newspaper office and tied his horse to the rack. A couple of soldiers from the fort walked by, but the dusty street was relatively quiet on the August day. He looked across the street to the row of angular buildings. The sign on one read “The First Texas Bank of Montana,” the one owned by Judd Boston.

His spurs clinked as he walked into the newspaper office, breathing in the strong smell of ink. A mustached man seated at a desk looked up with an absent frown, then stood with a certain briskness.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I want to put an advertisement in your newspaper,” Benteen replied.

The man reached for a paper and pen. His hands appeared to be permanently stained with ink. “Just tell me how you want it to read and I'll write it down for you.”

“‘I, Benteen Calder, do hereby notify the public that I claim all the land …'“He described boundaries that encompassed more than a half a million acres.

After he had finished, the pen continued to scratch across the paper for a few seconds more. Then the newspaperman read it back to him to be sure he'd gotten it all. He looked at Benteen and gave a wry shake of his head.

“These damn things always read like a legal notice,” he declared.

“Legal or not, they work,” Benteen replied. “How much do I owe you?”

The advertisement was one of many land-grabbing tactics practiced in the West. Such claims of stock range had no basis in law, but ranchers observed such statements of ownership by fellow ranchers. Where no law existed, they created their own code. It was another occasion when the Golden Rule came into play: you respect another man's claim to boundaries, and he'll respect yours.

As Benteen left the newspaper office, he noticed a man hurrying into the bank at a running walk. He took his time untying the bridle reins and stepping into the saddle, but the man didn't come out. He walked his horse down the street to the land office where the three Triple C horses stood slung-hipped in the shade. Reining his horse to the end post, he swung down. There seemed to be a heated discussion going on inside the building—angry voices carrying out to the street. Zeke was fixing to grab the short man behind the counter by the shirt collar when Benteen walked in.

“What's the problem here?” Despite the low pitch of his voice, the demand stopped all movement. The land clerk behind the counter was wet with a nervous sweat as he glanced uneasily at the three angry cowboys.

“This puny pen-pusher is tryin' to stall us,” Woolie complained with a contemptuous fling of his hand.

“Yeah,” Zeke chimed in. “The sonuvabitch is sayin' he can't find the records we filed on our land.”

From the back of the building there was the sound of a door being opened and closed. Someone had come in through the rear entrance.

“I'm not saying I don't have them,” the agent said. “They seem to be mislaid. I can't take your money until they're found. Maybe if you came back later—”

“There he goes agin,” Zeke flared.

“Why don't you let us help you look for them?” Bob Vernon suggested.

“These are private government records.” The agent shook his head. “I can't let just anyone go through them without authorization.” A man appeared in the doorway to a back office and motioned to the agent that he wanted a word with him. He looked very much like the man Benteen had seen hurrying into the bank a few minutes ago.

“You know those records are here, Benteen,” Woolie said. “You want us to take the place apart? We'll find 'em.”

“I don't think it will be necessary,” he murmured as he watched the two men conferring in whispers. A set of papers was passed to the agent. “I have the feeling it's already been straightened out.”

The agent returned to the counter with the papers in hand. “Here's the records.” He smiled tightly. “Just misplaced, that's all.”

With the filing records verified, the cash payments were made and title given to the three 160-acre parcels. The cowboys promptly signed the land over to Benteen.

“I was a landowner for five minutes,” Woolie declared. “Don't that call for a drink, Benteen?”

“Why not?” he agreed, but paused as the three cowboys headed for the door and the waiting saloon. Benteen glanced at the agent. “Be sure and give my regards to Judd Boston the next time you see him.” The
man paled and stammered around for an answer as Benteen walked out the door.

Montana's Ten Bar ranch house was made of logs and board planks, more compact and without the luxuries of its Texas counterpart. Judd Boston sat back in a cowhide-covered chair and contemplated the shape of one of the duke's cigars. Loman Janes helped himself to a shot of whiskey from the decanter sitting on the small round table.

“I'd sure as hell like to know how Calder found out about it,” Boston muttered aloud.

“Are you sure Giles didn't know about your plans?” Loman questioned. “You know he's got ideas about that Calder woman. Maybe he's tryin' to get in good with her.”

“The only way he could have known it is if the duke had told him. George swears he didn't discuss it with anyone else. The man may be a pompous ass, but he's not a liar.” He clamped the cigar between his teeth and puffed on it. “I don't know how he got wind of it.”

“Maybe you'd better send Webster a telegram tellin' him to hold off buyin' all those cattle you were fixin' on bringing up here until we find some range to put 'em on,” Janes suggested. “This place won't support that number. If they made it through a winter, they'd still have it grazed to the roots in a year.”

“Grass isn't the problem. It's water.” Boston knew that from his experience in Texas. “And I'm not sending any telegram to Webster rescinding my order. We've still got time to find some land. It would have been straightforward and clean if we could have picked up those three claims of Calder's. I wish that land belonged to anyone but him.”

“Why should we care?” A puzzled and wary look crossed Janes's face. The comment smacked of fear, and he had no time for a man who showed yellow.

“If I go after his land after that business with his
father, he's liable to take it personal. I've had my fill of vendettas.”

“Vendetta? Never heard of it.” Janes frowned.

“It's a killing feud between families.” His name hadn't always been Boston, but that was part of the buried past. “Maybe I can buy a couple of his water rights.”

“He'd be a fool to sell.” Loman Janes shook his head at the thought. “Why should he? He's got no reason to sell when he can use it himself.”

“He might if he suddenly needed money,” Boston suggested, and thoughtfully tapped the ash from the cigar. “A man never knows when the sky might fall in on him. It could happen even when it's looking the brightest.”

Loman Janes was relieved to hear that kind of talk. For a minute he thought he had misjudged Boston. He didn't respect a man who turned from a fight, but Boston was just being cautious. Loman knew about feuds. His family came from Tennessee, so he didn't see why Boston thought it was something to be avoided. But Boston was the brains of the outfit.

“What do you want done?” Loman asked, and downed the balance of the whiskey in his glass.

Boston took a puff on his cigar. “Got a match?”

Line camps were outposts of the ranch, forming an invisible perimeter to be ridden by cowboys unlucky enough to be assigned the lonely job. The Triple C was already too big to be manned solely from the central ranch quarters that the cowboys had already dubbed the Homestead. Since cattle had no notion of boundaries and had roaming tendencies, line riders formed a kind of living fence, patrolling between their camp and the next one up or down the line. They held in their own cattle and turned back the neighbor's.

It had been a while since Benteen had checked on Shorty. He rode into the prevailing wind, blowing hot,
dry air from the southwest. He could smell the smoke from Shorty's campfire when he was still two miles away.

Benteen wasn't sure the exact moment when he realized the bruise on the southern sky wasn't gathering stormclouds. It was billowing smoke. The dry grasses of the plains had become a vast tinderbox, making them ripe for fire.

He whipped his horse into a flat-out run, racing straight for the growing clouds of black smoke. The red line of the fast-creeping flames was in sight when he spied Shorty trying to drive a crazed bunch of Longhorns across a creek. It was the only place that offered a natural firebreak for miles. Benteen swung his horse toward the creek to lend Shorty a hand.

Six of the steers took off, and they had to let them go in order to get the other forty-odd head across the creek. Once they had the cattle on the other side, they continued to drive them, gathering more animals as they went along—coyotes, rabbits, antelopes. A mile and a half from the creek, they left the herd to circle back to make another sweep for any cattle they may have missed.

A haze of smoke and ash filled the air to choke them. Benteen tied his bandanna around his nose and mouth to filter out some of it. The wind seemed stronger, the heat from the fire creating its own draft.

He shouted to Shorty, “I don't think the creek will stop it! The wind's too strong!”

Shorty nodded and pointed to Benteen's right. A finger of smoke was rising from the grassy bank on this side of the creek. From the smoke, a tongue of flame shot up and began devouring the dry grass.

“We'll never hold it here without help!” Benteen waved Shorty away from the creek.

About a mile away, a jumble of rocks had been thrust from the earth. Its natural barrier would flank the wildfire on one side. Benteen pulled in his horse
and brought it to a plunging halt. The bandanna had fallen to his chin.

“Here comes Barnie and Ramon!” Shorty called to draw Benteen's attention to the riders galloping into view.

“Shoot a couple of those steers,” Benteen ordered, and reached for the rope tied to his saddle.

Shorty wheeled his horse after a small group of bawling steers trotting away from the smell of smoke. Benteen watched Shorty ride up to the first steer and drop it with a pistol shot through the back of the head. Almost able to feel the heat of the fire, Benteen glanced over his shoulder to see the steadily advancing red glow. The black smoke nearly blocked out the sun as it filled the sky, towering above them with ominous intent. He rode over to the two dead steers to lend Shorty a hand.

The steers were skinned on one side and ropes were tied to two of their feet. When Barnie and the Mexican vaquero, Ramon, reached them, all Shorty had to do was hand them each a rope. They galloped off, dragging the bloody carcass of the steer to the fire line. Benteen and Shorty mounted their horses and wrapped the free end of the ropes around their saddle horns and took off with the second carcass, dragged between them.

When they reached the narrow line of flames, Benteen jammed his spurs into the panicking chestnut and leaped the horse over the fire onto the hot and blackened ground. Running parallel with the flames, he was on one side and Shorty was on the other. The bloodywet carcass was towed down the length of the flames, smothering it dead as it went.

The heat was blistering, drying the sweat from his body the instant it reached his skin. He choked from the smoke, his lungs straining for air. There was no thinking, only doing. The fire had to be stopped. The stench of burning blood and air was powerful.

Benteen and Shorty had to frequently change sides
so the horses wouldn't be crippled by prolonged running on the burned earth. When it seemed they would ride in this fiery hell forever, the flames were out. Benteen unwrapped the rope around the saddle horn and let it fall, leaving behind the charred remains of the steer. The four riders came together in a small cluster and let their trembling horses rest. Their faces and clothes were blackened with smoke and ash, its smell hanging heavy on them. Benteen took a long drink from his canteen. The water in it was hot, but it was wet.

“How many cattle do you figure we lost?” His voice was a croaking sound, and he took another drink.

“Fifty … a hundred head. Maybe more,” Shorty answered. “I know there was a big bunch trapped in a draw.”

Barnie was having trouble gathering enough spit to lick his cigarette paper together. Finally he gave up and carried it to his mouth, indifferent to the tobacco spilling out. He felt around in his pockets, then looked at the others.

“Anybody got a light?” he asked.

“You serious?” Shorty stared. “If you want to smoke, just breathe in, you stupid sonuvabitch.”

Benteen was too tired to laugh.

Webb ran ahead of him to the cabin, hardly able to see where he was going with Benteen's hat falling down around his ears. He pushed the door open, then turned to wait.

“Mommy!” Webb called as the hat turned askew. “Daddy's home an' he's all black. Come quick an' see!”

The door was opened the rest of the way by Lorna, who came in response to her son's call. Astonishment wiped the slight frown from her forehead as she stared at him with her mouth opened.

“There was a prairie fire,” Benteen explained his appearance. “We managed to put it out.”

“Are you all right?” A little shiver broke the motionless
grip of surprise. She moved toward him, her hands raising hesitantly to touch him. “You look charred.”