ranch. Already two bloody feuds and range wars ripped at Texas counties and none knew the cost in lives and misery they brought to the suffering citizens of the areas involved. Another such affair could start those fools in Washington thinking about trying to reinstitute Reconstruction and, by cracky, that might be enough to restart the Civil War. Texas, least affected Southern State in the war, a nation of born fighting men who learned to handle weapons almost before they could walk, had never taken kindly to Reconstruction or having the “if he’s black he’s right” policies of the Radical-Republicans up North forced on them. Another non-Texan governor, such as Davis might see the entire State torn apart by further civil conflict. Other than the most bigoted, Southern-hating, liberal- intellectual Yankees, no man in his right mind wanted that.
“It needs action,” the Ranger captain drawled.
“But?” asked Howard. “There’s a ‘but’ in your voice.”
“I’ve only three men in camp out of my entire company. One with a broken arm, one with a bullet-busted thigh and the third’s flat on his back with lead in his chest cavity.”
“Three—out of twenty?”
“The rest are all out handling chores,” Murat explained and went on hopefully, “Shall I go?”
“I can’t spare you, Jules. You’re needed here, organizing and attending to enlisting more recruits.”
“Danged if I don’t resign and re-enlist as a private. I’ll send off the first of my men to come in. Although the Lord knows when that’ll be.”
“Let’s hope it will be soon,” the Governor answered.
Clearly the interview had ended and Howard never wasted time in idle chatter. Coming to his feet, Murat turned and walked from the office. Before the Ranger reached the door, Howard had taken up a report from an Army commander and started to study the problem of controlling the Comanche Indians.
On leaving the Governor’s office, Murat collected his horse and rode down town toward the Ranger barracks which housed Company “G.” Once clear of the State Capital’s area, Austin looked pretty much like any other cattle town. Rising along the wheel-rutted, dirt-surfaced street, Murat gave thought to his problem. No matter how much he wished to take action and, if possible, prevent another range war blowing up, he could do nothing until one of his men returned from the various tasks which held their attention.
A small, two-horse wagon came slowly along the street toward Murat. In passing, its driver—a tall, thin, dirty-looking bearded man in a frock coat, top hat, dirty collarless white shirt and old pants—caught Murat’s eye and gave a slight jerk of his head. So slight had been the motion that a less observant man than Murat would have missed it. Even seeing the nod, Murat gave no sign but rode slowly on. After passing Murat, the man turned his wagon and drove it along an alley between two buildings. Murat rode on a short way before swinging his horse into the space between a saloon and its neighboring barber’s shop. Beyond the buildings lay a small, deserted street and the wagon had halted along it. Riding up to the halted wagon, Murat looked down to where its driver stood examining a wheel.
“In trouble, Jake?” he asked.
“Danged wheel’s near on coming off,” the man replied.
“Let me take a look.”
Swinging from his horse, Murat walked to the wagon and bent down to inspect its wheel. Doing so put his face near to the man and the stench of unwashed flesh wafted to his nostrils. Murat wondered if Jacob Jacobs ever took soap and water to his hide, but did not ask. Jacobs was a pedlar, but who augmented his takings by acting as a gatherer and seller of information garnered in his travels around the range.
“You interested in running irons, Cap’n?” Jacobs asked in a low voice, bringing up the matter in the middle of a louder tirade about the poor quality of workmanship in the fitting of the wheel.
“Depends where they are,” Murat answered.
“Up to Caspar County.”
“I’m interested. What do you know?”
“I’m a poor man, Cap’n. There’s no money to be made by a poor old Jewish pedlar these days.”
“Or a Ranger captain,” Murat countered.
“Heard about all the trouble and went up there special, me being a public-spirited citizen and all,” Jacobs put in. “It’s allus been poor trading country up there and I lost business.”
“Who’s behind the stealing?” Murat asked, cutting off any further descriptions of Jacobs’s self-sacrifice.
“A woman.”
It said much for Murat’s self-control that he showed no emotion at the words even though disbelief welled in him. His eyes studied Jacobs’s face, but he read nothing in the pedlar’s expression.
“Does she have a name?” Murat asked.
“Like I said, Cap’n, I’m a poor man.”
Taking out his wallet, Murat peeled off a ten-dollar bill and slipped it into a grimy palm that engulfed it like a large-mouth bass sucking in a shiner minnow.
“Who is it?”
“Name of Ella Watson. She runs the Cattle Queen.”
“Can you prove it?” asked Murat.
“Proof the man wants!” yelped Jacobs in what, if possible, was a
The last words came out in a much louder, complaining tone as a man walked from an alley behind them and passed by. Like all informers, Jacobs knew full well the delicate nature of his position and the danger it involved. He had no wish to become known as one who passed on confidential information to law enforcement officers and took all precautions possible to avoid raising suspicions. Not until the man had passed out of hearing distance did either the pedlar or the Ranger captain resume their conversation.
“I sure as hell haven’t had ten bucks worth yet,” Murat warned as the other seemed inclined to edge around the question of proof.
Which same proved to be a powerful argument and one which Jacobs could understand right well. He knew Murat paid high for information, but expected service and accuracy in return for the money spent.
“I don’t know much about it,” Jacobs admitted. “Wasn’t there for more than two days, pulled out as soon as I learned who was behind it. I figgered you’d want to know as soon as I could make it.”
“Likely. Who-all’s in it with her?”
“She gets some of the fool young cowhands to do the stealing. The young ’uns who haven’t got too much good sense but like to feel a gal’s leg now and then. Pays them for what they steal and gets the money back in her place when she’s paid them. She’s a might smart woman, Cap’n.”
“Sounds that way,” Murat grunted. “Nothing more you can tell me?”
“Not about her. Don’t know where she gets shut of the stuff once it’s been stolen or even where she keeps it while she’s waiting to sell.”
That figured to anybody who knew Jacobs. While the man willingly sold his information, he never took any extra chances in gathering it. However, Murat decided he had a start, a point where whichever man he sent up to Caspar County could make a beginning in breaking the spate of cow stealing. There was another point, a matter of some importance which Jacobs failed to mention.
“How about Bat Gooch?”
“He’s been there for just over a week and—how’d you know about him?”
“My mother had a voodoo-mama nurse,” Murat answered, cursing the slowness of the mails. When Governor Howard’s letter was dispatched Gooch still had not arrived in Caspar. Not that Murat intended to enlighten Jacobs; it did the Ranger captain’s prestige no harm to have Jacobs think he knew more than his actual knowledge. “Has he done anything?”
“Not much. Hasn’t made him a bounty yet that anybody knows about. Crither’s saying his losses’ve been cut already though.”
Strange as it may seem, the news did not relieve Murat’s anxiety as much as one might expect it to. If the fear inspired by Gooch’s name and evil reputation had scared the cow thieves off the Forked C range, the bounty hunter ought to be spreading the sphere of his activities real soon. From what he knew of Gooch, Murat reckoned the man would not be content with just wages and was likely to seek out victims on the neighboring ranges. Sure, Murat wanted to drive the cow thieves off the range and stop their activities, which Gooch’s presence might do—but
