Badlanders (2 page)

L
ice McCoy was dozing in his chair in front of his fireplace when his dog commenced to bark and growl. It took a bit for the barking and growling to seep through Lice's besotted brain and to bring him out of the chair with an oath. Shaking his head to clear it, he went to the gun rack and took down his shotgun. “Must be that damn bear again,” he muttered.

Lice always kept the shotgun loaded. He lived miles from anywhere in the heart of the Badlands and never knew but when hostiles or a wild animal might pay him an unwanted visit. The bear was the latest to give him fits. A big black, and not, thank the Lord, a griz, it had been nosing around his place a couple of times now, even though he'd fired in the air once to scare it off.

“This time I'll shoot it dead,” Lice vowed as he moved to the front door to his small cabin.

“Lice” was his nickname. His given name was Isaiah Pickford McCoy. His mother had called all seven of her children after biblical prophets. Lice never liked his much. He liked being called Lice even less. But then, he never liked to take a bath, either, which was why he
always crawled with lice and was forever picking them off. So the nickname stuck.

Now, stepping out into the cool of the night, Lice leveled his shotgun and hollered, “Where are you, bear?” He hoped his shout would be enough to drive it off.

His mongrel, tied at a corner of the cabin, was still raising a racket, its hackles raised and teeth bared.

“Where is that critter?” Lice said, sidling to his dog's side. He didn't have a name for the dog. He just called it “Dog” and let it go at that. Thinking up a name was hard work, and work was one thing Lice avoided if he could.

Dog rumbled deep in his chest.

Lice peered in the direction the dog was looking and gave a mild start. It wasn't the black bear, after all. Two riders were approaching. His first thought was that they must be Injuns, but no, he could make out hats and saddles. His second thought was that they must be owl hoots. “Hold it right there.”

The pair complied and the smaller of the two called out, “Would you be Mr. McCoy? Mr. Isaiah McCoy?”

“Who the hell are you?” Lice demanded. He didn't like visitors. He didn't like people, period. Which was why he lived so far from everybody. He wanted to be alone and to be left alone. Unfortunately his constant craving for alcohol meant he had to go into town every couple of weeks for a bottle. But that was a small price to pay when the rest of the time he lived in cherished solitude.

“Franklyn Wells, pleased to meet you,” the small man said cheerily.

“What do you want?” Lice didn't like having his dozing interrupted. “It's damn late to be traipsin' over the countryside.”

“We're here specifically to see you, Mr. McCoy,” Wells replied. “I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but we've come a very long way and I wanted to conclude our business as soon as possible.”

“What sort of business do you have with me that you show up now? It must be pushin' ten o'clock.”

“I'll gladly tell you all about it if you'll lower that cannon,” Wells said.

“Not hardly,” Lice said. “How do I know you ain't outlaws?”

The other rider spoke in a deep, low voice. “Would outlaws ride right up like this? Use your head, old-timer.”

“I am usin' it,” Lice rejoined angrily. “Some outlaws are trickier than others. You might have rode up thinkin' I'd think you must be honest folk, and then you gun me in the back.”

“We're not here to harm you in any way,” Wells said. “I assure you.”

Lice snorted. “You expect me to take the word of a gent I don't know from Adam? You must reckon I'm stupid.”

“Please,” Wells said. “Lower that shotgun so we can talk.”

“You have one minute to tell me what you're doin' on my place and then I let fly with buckshot,” Lice said.

The other rider raised his deep voice. “Enough of this. Jericho.”

“Jericho?” Lice repeated. “That's a city, not a prophet, you lunkhead. Don't you know your Bible any better than—” He suddenly stopped. A hard object had been pressed to the side of his head, and he heard a gun hammer click.

“I'll say this only once,” said someone in a manner that sent a shiver down Lice's spine. “Hand the howitzer to me or I splatter your brains.”

Lice believed him. “Sure, mister,” he said quickly. “Go easy with that hardware.” He held the shotgun to one side, careful to keep the barrels pointed at the ground. A hand reached out and took it, and the object gouging his head went away.

“Come on in, Neal. The old tom cat has been declawed.”

Lice looked at the man who had taken his shotgun, and swallowed. He flattered himself that he was good at reading folks, and this one was a curly wolf if ever he saw one. Raising his hands, he said, “Take whatever else you want. Just don't kill me.”

The man in the black hat and shirt was holding a pearl-handled Colt in one hand and the shotgun in the other. Unexpectedly, he twirled the Colt forward a few times and then backward and slid it into his holster with a flourish, all as naturally as breathing. “No one's goin' to kill you, you old goat.”

Lice was terribly confused. He decided to keep quiet and await developments. The man at his side scared him. He knew a gun hand when he saw one.

The other pair rode up and dismounted.

“Let's try this again,” Franklyn Wells said. “You can lower your arms. I was serious when I told you we're here on business.”

His confusion climbing, Lice shook. He also shook the hand of the man with the deep voice, a big cowboy with as strong a grip as Lice ever felt. “It sure is strange, you showin' up out of the blue like this.”

“How about if we go inside and I explain everything?” Wells proposed.

Lice was relieved when only the little fella and the big cowboy followed him in. The gun shark stayed outside. Lice indicated his table with its two chairs and stepped to his own by the fireplace. Crossing his legs, he folded his hands in his lap and waited.

The scary fella had given the shotgun to the big cowboy and now the cowboy propped it against a wall.

“This is Neal Bonner, by the way,” Franklyn Wells introduced him. “He'll be the ramrod, I believe it's called, for the Badlands Land and Cattle Company.”

“The what?”

Wells took a seat and set his bowler on the table. “The firm I represent. I'm a lawyer. I'm here on their behalf to make you a generous offer.”

“Mister,” Lice said, “I hope to hell I'm drunk and dreamin' all this, because it makes no kind of sense.”

“Permit me to enlighten you,” Wells said. “The BLCC needs land, and lots of it. Some months ago, Mr. Bonner and I looked over this part of the Badlands, and he's of the opinion that it can be turned into a profitable cattle enterprise. Nearly all of it qualifies under the Homestead Act and can be filed on, with two exceptions. The first is Whiskey Flats. The second is your homestead.”

Lice didn't know where this was leading, so he didn't say anything.

“My employers regard the town as an eventual supply hub for their ranch. But your homestead is another matter. Your land is at the very heart of their proposed enterprise.”

“I don't mind havin' a rancher for a neighbor,” Lice said.

“They'd rather avoid that situation, if they could.”

“How's that again?”

“Think of it, Mr. McCoy. The Diamond B will have thousands of head of cattle. Perhaps hundreds of thousands if all goes well. And if your homestead is in the middle of the ranch, they'll be trampling all over your property unless you put up a fence. Not only that, the cattle will have to be driven around you to get from one place to another. Does that sound logical to you?”

“I don't know about logic, but I know I like it here,” Lice said.

“I don't blame you,” Wells said. “This site of yours is ideally located.” He paused. “You have your own well, we're given to understand.”

Lice nodded. “I dug it my own self. Plumb surprised me, how the water came pourin' out of the ground like it did.”

“Water is one thing my employers need to ensure that their ranch is a success. Which is another reason why they've authorized me to offer you a substantial amount to buy you out.”

“Is that why you came all this way?”

“None other,” Wells confirmed.

Lice became angry. He'd meant it when he said he liked living there. The winters were harsh, but he always stocked up on firewood and bottles and got by until spring. “You can turn around and go back again. I'm not sellin' out. Not now. Not ever.”

“You haven't heard my offer yet,” Wells said.

“I don't want to hear it.”

Undeterred, Wells said, “They've left the amount to my discretion. And after meeting you, and this short talk we've had, I feel confident in proposing to purchase your homestead for the princely sum of three thousand dollars.”

Lice was dumbfounded. That was more than he'd ever had at one time at any point in his entire life. More than he could ever dream of having. It was far more than his property was worth. Which made him suspicious. “Why so much?”

“I've already told you,” Wells said. “It wouldn't do to have your place in the middle of the ranch. Plus, you have water, a valuable commodity. My employers can afford to be generous to expedite things.”

“Lordy, the words you use,” Lice said.

“Big words or little, they all mean the same. Three thousand dollars. What do you say?”

“I don't know,” Lice said. He honestly and truly didn't want to sell. But three thousand! His mind reeled at how many bottles he could buy. To say nothing of a new rifle and some new clothes and a new pipe. His brain flooded with images of his richness.

“I happen to have the money in my saddlebags,” Wells mentioned. “All you will have to do is sign several documents I've brought and the money is yours.”

“You have it with you?” Lice said. “You must have been awful confident I'd sell out.”

“Not that so much,” Wells said, “as I believe in always being prepared. I brought the money in case you agreed.
It saves me having to ride all the way back and then pay you a second visit.”

“That's smart,” Lice had to agree.

“What do you say?”

“I still don't know,” Lice said. “How much time do I have to think it over?”

“Take all night if you have to,” Wells said. “My friends and I will make camp just a little ways off, and I'll come over in the morning to hear your decision. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

“It does,” Lice said. He'd be the first to admit he wasn't much of a thinker. Not a quick one, anyhow. He did his pondering nice and slow and came to his decisions only after a lot of deliberation. “I'm obliged.”

“No, Mr. McCoy,” Wells said, “we're the ones who are grateful that you'll consider our offer.” He stood. “I'll leave you to get to it. It's been a terribly long day and I would like to turn in.” Shifting, he said, “Coming, Neal?”

“Hold on,” Lice said. “I'd like to talk to the cowpoke alone, if you don't mind.”

Franklyn Wells stopped in midstep. “Whatever for?”

“That's between him and me.”

Wells looked at Neal Bonner and shrugged. “I don't see why you need to, but I don't see any reason not to, either. I'll wait with Jericho.” He touched the brim of his bowler and went out.

“Is it me or does that gent have the talkin' talent of a patent medicine man?” Lice joked.

“He does at that,” Neal said.

“Which is why I want to talk to you,” Lice confessed. “You have an honest face. That law wrangler is too oily and that gun gent is spooky. But you're normal, like me.”

“You can't know how I am,” Neal said. “I haven't hardly said a thing since I got here.”

“See? You're even honest about that,” Lice said. “So tell me. What do you think of this here offer of theirs?”

“It's generous,” Neal said. “The filing fee for your homestead was, what, eighteen dollars? You don't have
more than a hundred in improvements, if that. And you haven't done a lick of farmin' or ranchin', as required by the law.”

“There's the cabin,” Lice said. But the cowboy was right. He'd done the bare minimum.

“Which they'll likely tear down to make room for their own buildings,” Neal said.

“But I like livin' here,” Lice said yet again.

“I don't blame you. It's quiet and peaceful. If I had a place of my own, I'd likely live off from everybody, too. Only I'd raise cows for a livin'.” Neal gazed at the cabin's simple furnishings. “I reckon you aimed to live out your days here. But the thing is, you can do that most anywhere. You can find another spot, build another cabin, and have enough money to last out your born days, besides.”

“You're not sayin' that just because you stand to be their foreman?”

“You asked my opinion,” Neal said. “And the other thing is, no one else will ever make you an offer like this one. Not unless another conglomerate comes along, and how likely is that? This is one of those once-in-a-lifetime deals. Just like their offer to make me their foreman.”

“I told you that you were honest,” Lice said, and smiled.

“What will you do, old-timer?” Neal asked.

“What any sensible coon would do.”

B
eaumont Adams had claimed his usual table and was treating himself to a glass of his best stock. Taking a long swallow, he smacked his lips, smiled with contentment, and began whistling the tune to “Home on the Range.”

Darietta sat beside him, her elbow on her knee, her chin in her hand. It was obvious she was bored and trying not to show it. His whistling perked her interest. “What's gotten into you, Beau?”

“How do you mean, darlin'?”

“Why are you so happy all of a sudden?”

“Nothin' sudden about it,” Beaumont answered. “If you'd been payin' attention when those three gents were in here, you'd know why. But because you're as dumb as a stump, you don't.”

“Here, now,” Darietta said. “You have no cause to insult me.”

“You work for me, darlin',” Beaumont said. “I'll insult you all I want.” He went on whistling but stopped when the batwings parted and in came Dyson and Stimms.

They made straight for his table.

The only other person in the saloon was Floyd, the barkeep.

“It was like you said, boss,” Dyson began.

Beaumont held up a hand. “Take off your hats.”

“How's that?” Dyson said.

“There's a lady present,” Beaumont said. “The proper thing for a gentleman is to take off his hat in her presence.”

“It's only Darietta,” Stimms said.

“She's just a whore,” Dyson said.

Beaumont's smile faded. He placed both arms on the table and there was a
thunk
, as of something hard hitting the wood. “Do I have to tell you twice?”

“No, sir,” Dyson said, and slicked his hat off as quick as could be.

Stimms, his face scrunched in bewilderment, removed his beaver hat and looked at it as if he couldn't believe it wasn't on his head. “This beats all.”

Beaumont sat back and chuckled. “In light of all the changes I foresee for Whiskey Flats, you need to learn more manners, boys.” He gestured. “Enough of that. Tell me what happened. Don't leave anything out.”

“There's not a heap to tell,” Dyson said. “We followed them, like you wanted. It weren't hard since we knew where they were goin'.”

Stimms nodded. “We were careful not to get too close, like you told us.”

“They went straightaway to McCoy's,” Dyson said. “We saw the old buzzard come out and wave his shotgun at them, but that cowhand with the fancy Colt stuck it to his head and took the shotgun away.”

“Did he, now?” Beaumont said, laughing. “And quit callin' him a cowhand. He might work cows, but he's more than that.”

“More how?” Dyson asked.

“He's a squisher. Don't you remember? But go on.”

Stimms said, “We couldn't hear what they were sayin',
but we could see some of it from the light that spilled out the window.”

“The other cowboy and the little feller went inside and were in there awhile.” Dyson took up the account. “Then the little feller came back out. Him and this squisher made camp and then the cowboy joined them and they turned in.”

“We took turns keepin' watch,” Stimms said. “Along about daybreak they were up and about, and not long after, Lice came out of his cabin and they jawed a spell and Lice and the little one shook hands and went back inside. Maybe half an hour later the little one came back out. He was foldin' papers and appeared happy as can be.”

“Do tell,” Beaumont said.

Dyson nodded. “That's about all except for the three of them threw on their saddles and came this way, but they circled Whiskey Flats and kept on goin'.”

“Just like you said they would,” Stimms said.

‘How did you know they wouldn't stop?” Dyson asked.

Beaumont began refilling his glass. “They had no reason to. They'd gotten what they were after. That little feller, as you called him, would want to get the news to his bosses right away.”

“What news?” Dyson asked.

About to raise the glass, Beaumont regarded the pair with disappointment. “Pitiful. You don't have a brain between you. I always have to do the thinkin'. A gold mine has been dropped in our laps and you're too dumb to see it.”

“Those fellers were cowmen,” Dyson said. “How did gold get into this?”

“Have a seat,” Beaumont said.

“At your very own table?” Dyson said in surprise. “The last peckerwood who did that, you shot.”

“He was drunk and wouldn't get up when I told him
to,” Beaumont said. “Have a seat before you make me mad.”

With the air of men roosting on shards of glass, the pair obeyed.

“Now, then,” Beaumont said, “I'm goin' to explain things to you two and Darietta here. You're the closest thing I have to lieutenants and you need to know.”

“To what?” Stimms interrupted.

Beaumont frowned. “Ever hear of the army?”

“Why, sure. Everybody has,” Stimms said. “Are you sayin' we're one? How can that be when there're only three of us?”

“Honest to God, I could shoot you.”

“I'm only tryin' to savvy, is all,” Stimms said. “To be smarter, like you're always sayin' you want us to be.”

“I had that comin',” Beaumont said, and sighed. “All right. You know how the army has generals and colonels and captains and such?” He didn't wait for them to respond. “Think of me as the general and you as my lieutenants.”

“Oh!” Stimms exclaimed as if it were the greatest revelation ever. “Now I get it. Lieutenant Stimms. I like the sound of that.”

Beaumont drummed his fingers on the table.

“What?” Stimms said.

“Back in your buffalo huntin' days, did you accidentally shoot yourself in the head?”

Stimms's eyebrows tried to climb into his beaver hat. “If I'd done that, I wouldn't be sittin' here. A Sharps doesn't shoot birdshot. It leaves a hole you could stick your fist through.”

“I can see the hole,” Beaumont said.

“Where?” Stimms placed a hand to the side of his head.

Beaumont extended his arm across the table and jabbed his finger into the middle of Stimms's forehead. “Right there.”

Stimms colored, and Dyson laughed.

“Now, then. Where was I?” Beaumont paused. “If you'll recollect, Mr. Wells informed us that the Badlands Land and Cattle Company plans to start up a ranch. You were right here. You heard him, the same as I did.”

“So?” Dyson said.

“So it hasn't occurred to you how that will change things? There will be someone to run it, maybe his family, and that foreman, and fifty to sixty hands, if not more. Plus those that do work besides tendin' cows. Some of them will have families, too. All of them will need things. Supplies and clothes and tools and the like.”

“It's too bad there's not a general store hereabouts,” Stimms said. “The owner would make a lot of money.”

“Yes, I will,” Beaumont said.

“You own the saloon, boss,” Stimms said. “Why would you give it up to run a general store? You like whiskey more than you do pickles.”

“I really could just shoot you.”

“I think I savvy,” Dyson said. “Beaumont is plannin' to open his own store plus have the saloon. Am I right?”

“You're now my captain,” Beaumont said.

Darietta snorted. “If that's all it takes, you should make me a general. Because if I know you, you won't stop there. You've been sayin' since I met you how you'd like to run your own town someday, or some such nonsense.”

Beaumont Adams smiled, then uncoiled like a striking rattler and backhanded Darietta across the face. He hit her so hard both she and her chair flipped backward, with her screaming in stark terror. The chair turned as she fell and came down on top of her. She went to cast it off, but Beaumont sprang and pressed on the chair's legs, forcing the back of the chair against her neck and chest. “Talk to me like that again,” he growled. “I dare you.”

Chalk white, Darietta stopped struggling and got out, “I didn't mean nothin'. Honest.”

“Since when is it nonsense to want to be rich? Since when is it nonsense to want to be king of the mountain?”

“It's not! It's not!” Darietta squealed. “I apologize. Let me up. Please. This chair is hurtin' me.”

Beaumont bore down with all his weight. “Good. Maybe the pain will teach you a lesson.” Stepping back, he kicked the chair and it slid half a dozen feet. “What do you know, you dumb cow? What do you know about anything? All you've ever done is spread your legs for money, and you barely ever make enough to get by doin' that.” He balled his fists as if to hit her. “I have big plans. Grand plans. Runnin' this two-bit saloon isn't enough. I only own it because the man who built it didn't have the sense to give me a half interest and run it for the both of us.”

“So you snuffed his wick,” Dyson said, and laughed. “I still recollect the look on his face when you shot him between the eyes.”

Beaumont stepped back, his fury fading. “I never intended to stay on. Figured I'd save enough to head for greener pastures. But now all that has changed. Now a godsend has been dropped in my lap and I aim to make the most of it.”

“The godsend bein' the new ranch,” Dyson said.

Beaumont nodded, then bent and offered his hand to Darietta. She shrank back, afraid to take it. “Let me help you, damn you. I shouldn't have knocked you down, but you made me lose my temper and you know what happens when I do.”

“Don't ever make the boss mad,” Stimms chided her. “He ain't nice when he's mad.”

“Out of the mouth of idiots,” Beaumont said, and held his hand lower. “Do you really want to make me mad a second time?”

Shaking her head, Darietta let him pull her to her feet. When he swiped at a stray bang, she recoiled.

“Stupid cow.” Beaumont reclaimed his sat. “Someone pick up her chair. Floyd, keep the brandy comin'. If I know Lice McCoy, it won't be long before he pays us a visit.”

It was the next day, shortly after noon, that the man they were waiting for rode up to the hitch rail, visible out the front window.

Beaumont Adams was at his table with Darietta. “Get in the back,” he commanded, and she left without a word.

Beaming happily, Lice alighted, wrapped his reins, grabbed his saddlebags and slung them over a shoulder, and sauntered to the batwings. Pushing through, he called out, “Barkeep! Set me up with a bottle of Monongahela. And not the cheap stuff, neither.”

Beaumont Adams raised an arm. “Bring the bottle over here, and a glass, too. It will be on me. That is, if you don't mind, Lice.”

“Mind a free drink?” Lice said, and chuckled. “That'll be the day. You don't need to, though. I have the money to pay.”

Beaumont patted an empty chair next to him. “I insist. It's the least I can do for the man who has been the cause of my deliverance.”

“You're what, now?” Lice asked, coming over. He placed his saddlebags on the table and sank down.

“My deliverer,” Beaumont said.

“Like in the Bible, you mean?” Lice said. “Hell, you must have me confused with that travelin' parson who came through here about a year ago.”

“Oh, it's you, sure enough.” Beaumont filled the glass Floyd brought and slid it to Lice. “Here you go. Drink hearty. And while you're at it, I'm curious. How much did they offer you?”

“Who is this ‘they'?” Lice asked.

“Play innocent if you want, but everyone knows,” Beaumont said. “Or didn't they tell you they stopped here to ask how to find your place? I treated them to drinks, and the short one let it drop about the ranch and how they were hopin' to buy your land.”

“Darned leaky mouth,” Lice grumbled.

“I'll ask you again,” Beaumont said. “Not that it's any
of my business, but I'd very much like to know how high they went. I shouldn't think more than a thousand.”

Lice snickered. “Shows how much you know.”

“Fifteen hundred, then,” Beaumont said. “Any more than that, they'd have to be loco.”

“Maybe I'm smarter than you give me credit for,” Lice boasted. “Maybe I held out for twice that.”

Beaumont shook his head in amazement. “Three thousand dollars? Is that what you're tellin' me? And all of it there in your saddlebags?”

“Three thousand, yes,” Lice confirmed, and caught himself. “Wait. I never said anything about my saddlebags.”

“You didn't have to. You've never brought them in with you before. Only one reason you would. You don't want to let the money out of your sight. But you had to have a few drinks to celebrate, so here you are, and my nest egg, besides.”

“
Your
nest egg?”

“I need money to improve my saloon and to start up a general store, among other things. Between what I have socked away and your three thousand, I should just about have enough.”

“What in hell makes you think I'm goin' to give you my money?” Lice snapped. “I'd have to be addlepated to do a thing like that.”

“No,” Beaumont Adams said. “You'd just have to be dead.” So saying, he gave a sharp flick of his right arm and a derringer appeared in his hand. Lice bleated and started to throw up his hands, and Beaumont shot him in the face.