The Plains of Laramie

“Just thinkin’, Wes. I rode down to get Link Tolliver last evenin’, an’ he wasn’t there. But three more Tollivers were, an’ they aren’t attractive specimens, either.” He scratched his head and yanked his gracefully curved Stetson lower on his head. “Wes, can you go out an’ sort o’ keep those Prouty boys from doin’ anythin’ rash, like ridin’ down to Tolliver’s for the balance o’ the day?”

“I can sure try, Jack. Maybe their dad’ll help by tellin’ ’em to stay on the Pothook.”

“Yeah, I reckon he might at that. Well, ride on over there an’ keep those fire-eaters off Tolliver for today. After that, I won’t care. I’ll have the bushwhacker in jail, where I can keep an eye on him, an’ those boys won’t be gettin’ into serious trouble by tryin’ to do him in.”

“Seguro, jefe, I’ll do my damnedest. S’long.” Wes swung through the door to the musical accompaniment of his tinkling spurs with their huge Chihuahua rowels. “Keep an eye on them Tollivers. If there’s three more of ’em now, you’d better step light.”

Masters nodded without answering and sat for another five minutes or so after young Flourney had gone. When he emerged from his office, and tightened the cinch on his horse at the hitch rack, four graying cowmen came up beside him. He turned to face them. “Howdy, gents. Out kind of early, aren’t you?”

The spokesman for the quartet nodded brusquely. “We’re on our way to havin’ a showdown with that there coyote who owns Cobb’s Ferry now.”

Jack shook his head peremptorily. “You boys stick to the cow business an’ let me handle Tolliver.”

“Not by a damned sight, Jack. He’s got a necktie party comin’ up, an’ the decent folk hereabouts figger he’s due to get it?”

Masters’s eyes were grave and unblinking as he surveyed the red-faced cowmen. “You fellers go down there an’ there’ll be shootin’. Link Tolliver’s got some kinsmen down there with him, an’ they look like pretty fair gunmen to me.” He swung up on his horse and looked down with a frown at the ranchers. “Anyway, this is my job. I don’t come out to your ranches an’ butt in an’ I don’t want you fellas buttin’ into my lawing business. Stay away from the ferry, boys, or I’ll toss the whole damned bunch of you in the calabozo.”

The big man snorted violently and glared at the sheriff. Masters fixed him with a cold, menacing stare and his voice, always slow and soft, was very quiet when next he spoke. “I mean it, boys. Stay away from Tolliver’s place.” The cowmen watched him ride out of Mendocino without saying a word. Somebody suggested getting an early morning eyeopener and they adjourned sullenly to the Goldstrike.

Link Tolliver was waiting for him. Jack could see him standing in the clearing before the adobe hut as he jogged down the path toward the river. Jack’s eyes were slitted and wary without a nod or a word as he rode up. Link was armed this time; a battered old six-gun was strapped low on his thigh with a thong around the massive leg. A Winchester carbine was leaning lazily against his arm.

“Get your horse, Link!”

Link’s muddy eyes were hard and staring. “What fer, lawman?”

Jack didn’t relax; he sensed a stall. “Rope it, Link. You know damned well what for. Get your horse an’ damned fast!”

“Not by a damned sight! Ain’t no lawman goin’ to come a-ridin’ onto my propitty an’ commence orderin’ me around.”

Masters relaxed his arm, and his mouth was a bloodless line over wolfish teeth. “You’re comin’ to Mendocino with me on a horse or across one. Shootin’ Ned Prouty in the back is attempted murder hereabouts. You’re goin’ to answer for it. Now either get your horse or fill your hand.”

Tolliver’s lined, bewhiskered face split in a sardonic smile. “Look behind you, Sheriff. They’s three hombres that done slipped up on you, an’ a word from me’ll send you to hell in a hand basket.” The evil smile widened as Jack held Link Tolliver with his deadly stare. Suddenly Tolliver’s face lost the smile and his eyes bugged a little. He was staring into the maw of a cocked six-shooter in the sheriff’s hand. He hadn’t seen the hand dip toward the holster at all; he licked his lips with a furtive tongue.

“Drop that rifle, Link.” Hesitatingly the big man relaxed his hold and the .30-30 plopped into the dust. “Now, Link, tell your boys to come around in front of me or I’ll squeeze this trigger.” Link shifted his eyes from beyond the lawman’s horse, then swung his eyes back again. Masters’s fingers tightened on the trigger. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Link, whether I’m shot or not, I can’t miss you at this distance, an’ you know it…even dyin’ I can kill you. Now shuck your pistol an’ call ’em off.”

Tolliver’s beaten expression was redolent with hatred. He called to his kinsmen, explained the situation, and tossed his six-gun to the ground. The three Tollivers came around in front of Jack with enraged and baffled faces.

Without taking his eyes off Link, Masters said: “One of you go saddle Link’s horse an’ bring it around. The other two of you stay here.” The youngest of the three—the one called Ben—slouched off toward the old corral with a snarled oath. Masters wanted to make the others disarm, but hesitated to push his luck too far. The four of them waited in dry-eyed tension until Ben brought back Tolliver’s horse.

“Get aboard, Link.” The sheriff untied his lariat from the swells with his left hand and flipped the noose to Link. “Over your head, around the neck.” He smiled grimly at Link’s flushed, humiliated look. “Now come up close, so’s you’re between me an’ your kinsmen.”

Link was getting redder every second, but he complied.

Masters waved his cocked .45 at the men afoot. “Toss your guns as far out into the river as you can, boys. One false move an’ Link’s a goner.”

The men complied profanely and Jack Masters rode back toward Mendocino with Link behind him, protecting his back. The lariat rope around Link’s throat was his sturdy assurance of seeing another sunset.

Wes Flourney checked into the sheriff’s office when he came back to Mendocino and saw the lamplight coming out of the barred window. He looked owlishly at Link Tolliver in his cell, went back in to the front office, and sighed. “Phew! That hombre looks more like a bushwhacker than a bushwhacker does.” He rolled a cigarette with a weary gesture. “Say, d’ya ever try to keep an eye on two wildcats at the same time? ?Hijo de puta! I have today. Even after old Ned asked ’em to stick around, they was like a pair of fledgling magpies, sore at the world, mad at me fer hangin’ around, an’ sore at the old man, too, fer not lettin’ ’em go over to Cobb’s Ferry.”

Masters laughed and got up, reaching for his hat where it dangled precariously from one tip of a four-point hatrack. “Well, it’s all over now, Wes. Link’ll stay here until Ned can get up and come in to prefer charges, then we’ll have a trial, an’ maybe Link’ll draw a few years.” He shrugged toward the door after blowing out the lamp. “Mendocino’ll be peaceable again now…for a while, anyway.”

Deputy Flourney shrugged out behind his employer and flicked the cigarette into a nearby rain barrel, full of greenish water. “It’ll be a relief, by damn, not to have that nursemaid role any longer. G’night, Jack.”

The sheriff was heading across the dusty road toward his rooms in the Mendocino Hotel above the Goldstrike Saloon when he answered with a friendly little nod: “Buenas noches.”

With the first cold bitterness of predawn Jack Masters sat upright. Wes Flourney, dressed but disheveled, was bending over him, shaking him frantically. “Wake up, Jack, dammit man, wake up.”

“All right, you idiot, don’t tear my arm off. Just what in hell’s wrong with you? Lose your way home an’ hang one on in the Goldstrike?”

“Jack”—Flourney’s voice was high-keyed with excitement—“the gather that was bein’ held below the Pothook, in that box canon the cowmen use to hold their critters before they drive ’em to the railroad over at Rawlins, was rustled clean as a hound’s tooth last night.”

Masters blinked his eyes owlishly at Wes. “How’d ya find out?”

Wes snorted loudly. “Compadre, there’s just about every damned cowman this side o’ New Mexico downstairs in the Goldstrike right now, screamin’ their heads off. They want their cattle back, but more’n that they want someone’s blood.”

Masters swung out of his bed and dressed silently. The fall drive had been in the making for quite a few days now and finally each ranch had shoved its allocated critters into the gather preparatory to the communal drive to Rawlins. It was an annual affair, and Jack knew how the ranchers would feel. He also knew that there would be blood on the moon if their suspicions were ever fixed on specific individuals. He yawned prodigiously, yanked his