Badlanders (4 page)

“Behave yourself,” Alexander said. “Especially when we arrive. We must make a good first impression.”

“Or what? People will talk about us behind our backs?”

“Isolda, please,” Edana said.

“Oh, posh to you.”

“The other thing I should mention,” Alexander said, “is that Mr. Wells warned us to be on our guard.”

“Against what?” Edana asked.

“He wasn't specific. He merely mentioned that we shouldn't expect the same civility we're accustomed to back East.”

“I know,” Isolda said, and grinned. “Maybe he was warning us to watch out for all that rampant vice.”

“We'll find out soon enough,” Alexander said.

W
hiskey Flats wasn't what Isolda Jessup had expected. The few towns they'd passed through south of the Badlands had been little more than sleepy hamlets, and that was being charitable. The people were slovenly and unkempt, the buildings dirty and run-down. As the stage rolled into Whiskey Flats, she poked her head out, expecting more of the same, took one wondering look, and said in delight, “Oh my.”

“What?” Edana stuck her head out, too, careful to put a hand over her hair to keep it from being mussed by the wind. “‘Oh my' is right.”

Alexander turned and looked out. “Well, now. This isn't at all as Franklyn Wells told me it would be.”

Whiskey Flats bustled with life and vitality. The main street had been lengthened, and the frame buildings that lined it stood two and in some instances three stories tall. Several saloons were slaking the thirst of those who couldn't do without liquor. A general store sat on one corner. There was a millinery with a sign written in pink letters and a blacksmith's attached to a livery stable.

“I thought Mr. Wells told you there was one saloon and not much else,” Edana said.

“He did mention it had grown once the construction on the ranch started,” Alexander said. “And that it would grow even more once the cattle arrived, which they have. But still.”

“I like what I see,” Isolda said. From the rustic population to a lot of men walking around with guns, to dogs and pigs and chickens being allowed to run about as they pleased, the place had a wild atmosphere that appealed to her.

“It's very unorganized,” Edana noted.

“Isn't it, though?” Isolda said, and laughed.

The driver had to yell at a few people to get out of the way. It seemed that everyone felt they could walk down the middle of the street if they so pleased, or stand talking and force riders and wagons to go around.

“These people have no manners,” Edana said.

“Now, now, sister,” Isolda said. “We left culture east of the Mississippi. Out here it's life in the raw.”

“Don't talk like that,” Alexander said.

“Like what?”

“About things being raw. It's unseemly for a lady.”

“Oh, Father,” Isolda said, and laughed again.

Their stagecoach came to a stop near the livery stable. The driver jumped down and opened the door, announcing, “We've arrived, folks.”

“Are you sure?” Isolda said.

“Ma'am?”

“Isolda, behave,” Alexander said. He waited while they descended, then climbed out and bent his legs a few times to relieve the stiffness from sitting for so long. “Quite the town they have here.”

The driver, a middle-aged man with a paunch and a trick eye that twitched a lot, nodded. “They say there's a shootin' or a knifin' at least once a month.”

“Where did you hear that?”

The man shrugged. “Drivers hear all sorts of things.
Whiskey Flats is part of my regular run. It ain't often someone hires a stage for private, like you done.”

“What a wonderful idiom you use,” Isolda said.

“Ma'am?” the driver said.

“Pay her no mind,” Alexander said. He looked up and down the street. “I suppose our first order of business is to get word to the ranch that we've arrived so they can send someone to pick us up.”

“You're bound for the Diamond B, I take it?” the driver said.

“I've been hired to run it,” Alexander informed him. “How about if I hire you to ride out and have them send a wagon for us and our bags?”

“Sorry, mister. I don't have the time to spare.” The driver turned to the back of the stage. “I have to get on to the next town.”

“How long does it take to reach the ranch from here?” Alexander asked.

“I hear it's about three hours by wagon,” the driver said. “Sooner if you ride. Find yourself a local and they'll do it for a dollar.”

“I could ride out and have them send a wagon,” Edana offered.

“Or we can hire a wagon and go ourselves,” Isolda said.

The driver shook his head. “Not if you have a brain, you won't. Where do you reckon you are, anyhow? St. Louis?”

“How dare you talk to us like that!” Isolda bristled. She never could let an insult pass.

“All I'm sayin' is that you'd better take a look around. A good look. You see many females in the streets? You do not. But you will see a lot of cat-eyed gents who have no more respect for womanhood than they do anything else.”

“Is that your way of saying they're godless ruffians?” Alexander said.

“They ain't saints.” The driver started unloading.

“Colorful, isn't he?” Isolda said.

“Perhaps we should take his advice and stroll about,” Alexander proposed. “Ascertain for ourselves what the place is really like.”

“I could stand to stretch my legs,” Edana said.

Isolda strolled slowly, amused by much of what she saw. Men spitting tobacco juice. Men scratching themselves where no man should touch in public. And the profanity. She saw a dog lift its leg at a hitch rail.

“Barbaric,” Edana said.

“I agree,” Alexander said. “These people are unbelievably crude. It's as if they don't care what others think of them.”

“I like it,” Isolda said.

“You don't mean that,” Edana said.

“But I do,” Isolda insisted. “When have I ever cared what anyone thought about me? I only have because Father and you made me. But this”—and she gestured at the whirl of activity—“is me.”

“You're being ridiculous,” Alexander said. “Your mother was always a proper lady, and so are you.”

They came abreast of the Three Aces. Through the front window they could see it was packed, even though it was only the middle of the day. Boisterous babble and mirth spilled out, along with the tinkle of glasses and the tinny music of a piano.

“Who says this place doesn't have culture?” Isolda said.

Alexander was about to walk on when the batwings slammed open and out stalked three men. All three wore wide-brimmed hats and revolvers. One of them wore two with ivory grips. They hadn't shaved in days, and they were in need of baths.

The man wearing two revolvers had a scar on his left cheek. Stopping short, he leered at Edana and Isolda. “Look at this, boys. What do we have here?”

“My daughters,” Alexander said coldly.

The man with the scar came off the boardwalk. He
looked Edana and Isolda up and down, a lustful gleam in his eyes. “You two fillies are right pretty.”

Isolda looked him up and down and imitated him, saying, “And you, you randy goat, are right ugly.”

The man with the scar grinned. “I like a sassy gal. They're more fun under a blanket.”

“Now, see here,” Alexander said, moving between them. “I told you they're my daughters.”

The man blinked as if surprised. “So?”

“So you'll treat them with respect, you obscene specimen.”

“What did you just call me?”

The other two sauntered over on either side of their companion. One was lanky, with a hooked nose and big ears. The other had bulging eyes and a froglike aspect enhanced by his bulbous lips.

It was the lanky one who snickered and said, “He called you a specimen, Scar. I heard him clear as day.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” said the frog.

Alexander half turned to Isolda and Edana. “Come along,” he said, but before they could take a step, the man called Scar barred their way.

“You're not goin' anywhere, mister. Not until you explain what you just called me.”

“I won't be treated like this,” Alexander said. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“You're mud,” said the lanky one.

The frog chuckled and said, “Good one, Grat.”

“Well, he is, Tuck,” Grat said.

Isolda had listened to enough. She refused to be treated so shabbily. Especially by men who appeared barely intelligent enough to know their right hand from their left. Moving past her father, she poked Scar in the chest. “Now, see here. You'll leave us be and go about your own business or there will be hell to pay. You hear me?”

Scar didn't act the least bit concerned. Or mad. Instead he laughed and said, “Listen to her, boys. This gal
has got a lot of spunk. I like that almost as much I like sass.”

“She's a cow,” Grat said. “A cow with spunk, but still.”

“What did you just call her?” Alexander said.

“Let's go find the marshal,” Edana proposed. “He'll put a stop to this nonsense.”

The one called Tuck snorted. “Shows how dumb you are, lady. There ain't any tin stars in Whiskey Flats.”

“What?” Edana said.

“There's ain't no law, you stupid woman,” Tuck said.

“Don't talk to my sister like that,” Isolda said. She was simmering inside. “It makes me mad.”

“What will you do?” Scar said. “Take a swing at us.”

He and the others laughed.

“If she doesn't, I might,” Beaumont Adams said from the doorway of the Three Aces. Pushing through the batwings, he strolled out. He was dressed in his frock coat and white shirt with a string tie and a pair of polished boots. His black hat was low over his brow, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun.

Scar scowled. “Stay out of this, gambler.”

“Why, Mr. Scar Wratner, how rude of you,” Beaumont said jokingly. “Would that I could, but these are my premises.” He smiled at Isolda and Edana. “I was lookin' out the window and couldn't help noticing the predicament you ladies are in.”

“What's a predicament?” Tuck asked.

“It means trouble,” Grat said.

“Why in hell does everybody around here use big words?” Tuck said.

“It's not that our words are so big,” Beaumont said. “It's that your brain is so puny.”

Isolda laughed.

“You shouldn't ought to stick your nose where it's not wanted,” Scar Wratner warned him.

“I'll stick it where I please,” Beaumont said. “You'd be well advised to light a shuck while you still can.”

Scar lowered his hands to his sides so they brushed his
Smith & Wessons. “Are you threatenin' us, gambler man?”

“Perish forfend,” Beaumont said. “It's not me you have to worry about. It's the quick-draw artist who works for this gentleman here.”

“Do I know you?” Alexander asked.

“Unless I'm mistaken, you're the new boss of the Diamond B,” Beaumont said. “Mr. Jessup, isn't it? And these would be your girls. Franklyn Wells mentioned you on his last visit. He likes to stop in and wet his whistle.”

“What quick-draw artist were you talkin' about?” Grat asked, his hand hanging near a nickel-plated Remington.

“You boys really ought to get the lay of the land before you go around annoyin' folks,” Beaumont said. “Annoy the wrong one and he's liable to squish you.”

“What the hell are you talkin' about, mister?” Tuck said. “How did squishin' get into this?”

“It's what he likes to do, I hear.”

“Who?”

“Who have we been talkin' about?” Beaumont said. “The gun hand. I heard him with my own ears. He likes to squish things.”

“You're makin' no kind of sense,” Scar Wratner said. “Go back inside and have your fun with your customers.”

“And miss the fireworks? Not on your life.” Beaumont leaned against a post and folded his arms. “I might finally get to see how good he is. I've been wonderin' since I first set eyes on the gent.”

“On who?” Tuck practically snarled.

“And you called this lovely lady dumb?” Beaumont said. “She has more brains in her little finger than you do between your ears.”

“Don't start on my brain again,” Tuck said, his jaw twitching.

“What was that about finally seein' how good this gun shark of yours is?” Grat said.

“I keep tellin' you. He's not mine. He rides for the Diamond B. He's pards with the foreman, and gossip has it he's bucked more than a few gents out, permanent, down to Texas. Neither he nor the foreman take any guff, so this should be doubly interestin'.”

“What, consarn you?” Tuck said in exasperation.

“The gun battle,” Beaumont said.

“We'll have one with you if you don't come clean,” Scar declared.

Beaumont smiled. “That gun shark and that foreman I just told you about?” He nodded up the street. “Here they come, and they don't look any too happy. Now, why do you suppose that is?”

Isolda laughed.

N
eal Bonner was a cattleman through and through. He'd been born on a small ranch in Texas and grown up around cows. From an early age he'd fed them, milked them, shoveled the manure of the milk cows in the barn, herded the cattle out on the range, roped them, branded them.

Anything and everything that had to do with cattle, he'd done, and learned to do it exceptionally well. Which was why, at the unheard-of age of twenty, he'd been offered the job of foreman at a neighboring ranch, the much larger Bar H. He did so superb a job there that two years later an even larger ranch, the Circle T, hired him away. He'd been there three years when Franklyn Wells came calling on behalf of the Portland Whaling Consortium and their newly created Badlands Land and Cattle Company.

Evidently Wells had gone around asking ranchers all over west Texas who they'd pick as the top three foremen, and Neal's name had been on many of the lists. But Neal liked the Diamond T. He liked the owner, he liked the men who worked under him, and he liked the land.

At first Neal had told them no. He admitted he was flattered and thanked them for their interest, but he would stay where he was.

Franklyn Wells was persistent. He wouldn't take that no for an answer. He paid repeated visits, six in a span of two months. Each time he offered Neal more money. But when Wells saw that it wasn't the money Neal loved, but the cattle, Wells shrewdly stressed the things a cowman would care about. How Neal would oversee more cattle than most foremen. How every aspect of their tending was completely in Neal's care. The ranch manager would run the ranch, but Neal, and only Neal, had oversight of the cattle.

Gradually, Wells wore Neal's resistance down. Wells's crowning argument was the challenge of it all, to make a ranch succeed where none had succeeded before, to wrest a cattle empire from the untamed wilds, as the early Texas pioneers had done.

Neal gave in and said yes, with one condition. Jericho must go with him or he wouldn't go. There was no debating the issue. It was Jericho or it was no.

Wells had been puzzled by the request. He'd assumed it was because Neal and Jericho were friends, and said as much. Neal's reply had enlightened Wells to the true nature of Westerners.

“Jericho is more than my friend. He's my pard.”

Only then did Wells see that when a man called another his pard, the bond ran deeper than any except marriage. Men stuck with their pards through thick and thin.

They did everything together. They shared everything together. Their pard came before everything else, and they'd die for him if they had to.

Wells had been curious. He'd pried into how the bond between Neal and Jericho came about. And one night, over brandy in the parlor of the owner of the Circle T, Neal Bonner told a story not even the owner had heard.

Neal was at the Bar H at the time. He'd gone into the
nearest town, Benton—or Benton City, as some called it—to pick up the mail. Since he had a few hours to kill before the stage arrived, he'd decided to treat himself to a drink. One and one only. He'd gone into the Longhorn and over to the bar and had no sooner taken his first sip than trouble started.

Some men were playing poker. One of them was half-drunk, and in a loud and obnoxious manner started complaining about how much he had lost, and how he wouldn't have lost it if he wasn't being cheated.

The accusation froze everyone in the saloon. It was the worst insult anyone could give, short of calling someone a horse thief.

The bartender hollered over, “That's enough out of you, Lindsey. You've had too much to drink. Go home and sleep it off.”

“Like hell I will,” Lindsey replied, and stood. He was a big man who liked to throw his weight around even when sober, and who had made more than a few peace-loving townsmen dance to the tune of his six-shooter. “One of you is dealin' from the bottom',” he snarled at the other cardplayers, “and I have a good idea who.”

That was when Neal set eyes on Jericho for the first time.

Jericho was one of the men at that table. His head was down, but just then he'd raised it and said to Lindsey, “No one is cheatin'. If they were, I'd know.”

“Who the hell are you?” Lindsey demanded.

“Jericho.”

A murmur spread through the saloon. Neal overheard enough to gather that the name wasn't to be taken lightly.

Lindsey didn't seem especially impressed. “Jericho, you say? I've heard of you.”

Jericho didn't say anything. In his left hand he held his cards. His right was under the table.

“I've heard you're supposed to be considerable shakes with a six-gun,” Lindsey went on. “Well, I can shoot, too.”

“Don't go there,” Jericho said.

“I'll do what I damn well please,” Lindsey said. “And I don't much appreciate you buttin' in.”

“You should take the barkeep's advice.”

“Who's he to tell me what to do?” Lindsey snapped. “Who are you to tell me the same?”

Neal had been surprised when Jericho set down his cards and stood.

“You're right. I shouldn't ought to stick my nose in. It's a bad habit of mine. I reckon I'm done with this game.” With his left hand Jericho scooped up his money and stuck it in a pocket, then turned to go.

Lindsey stood there, staring. No one could say what made him do what he did next. Neal's best guess was that Lindsey was looking to add to his reputation as a bad man to trifle with. It was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that explained why when Jericho had taken a couple of steps, Lindsey clawed for his six-shooter.

Nor could anyone say what prompted Neal to do what he did next. He couldn't explain it himself. All his life he'd minded his own business. He never got involved when a fracas broke out. He never raised a finger to stop a shooting. But as Lindsey started to draw, Neal shouted, “Look out!”

Jericho was already in motion. He must have sensed something or seen Lindsey out of the corner of his eye because he whirled even as Neal yelled, his pearl-handled Colt seeming to leap into his hand. He fanned two shots from the hip so swiftly they sounded like one.

Lindsey was jolted onto his bootheels. “No!” he bleated, and keeled onto his back with his arms outflung. He lay gasping for air and staring at the ceiling.

No one moved. No one spoke.

Jericho came around the table. He watched Lindsey gasp, and said quietly, “You made me rush it.”

“Damn, you're quick,” Lindsey got out, and stopped gasping.

Jericho frowned. He'd slowly replaced the spent cartridges, and slowly slid his Colt into its holster. “I had it to do.”

“We all saw it,” a cardplayer said. “We'll vouch for that with the marshal.”

Jericho nodded, then did the last thing Neal expected; he walked over to the bar. “I'm obliged for the warnin'.”

“Didn't seem as if you needed one,” Neal said, smiling.

Jericho held out a hand. His right hand. “Jericho.”

“So I heard.” Neal held out his. “Neal Bonner.”

“Cowhand?”

“Foreman.”

“I can work cows.”

“You're lookin' for work?”

“No. But if that's what you do, I can, too.”

Only afterward did Neal realize this was a pivotal moment in his life. On some unconscious level he'd recognized what Jericho was offering, and on that same unconscious level he'd unhesitatingly accepted. “Come work cows for me, then.”

From then on, they were inseparable.

•   •   •

And now, striding down Whiskey Flats's dusty main street, Neal remarked, “They've seen us.”

“The gambler has sharp eyes',” Jericho said.

“I don't know what it's about, but we have to avoid chuckin' lead with the womenfolk so close.”

“That won't be up to me.”

Neal was upset with himself. Franklyn Wells had written him that the new manager and his daughters were expected to arrive this very day, but Wells had intimated it wouldn't be until later. Neal set out from the ranch early that morning with Jericho and another hand on a buckboard, plus an extra horse, but the stage was already there when they arrived.

“Those three folks I brought in?” the driver had said when asked. “They moseyed off not two minutes ago.” He'd scanned Main Street and pointed. “There they are.
And say, it looks as if some hard cases have latched onto 'em.”

Walking faster, Neal asked Jericho, “Do you know those three?”

“I don't recollect seein' them before, no.”

“Must be new in town.”

“New or not, they're trouble.”

Neal girded himself. The three toughs had faced them and spread out. The one in the middle, with a scar on his face, was a rarity, a two-gun man. Usually only green kids wore two six-shooters—or the very few who were the genuine articles and could use both hands as adeptly as most used one. The man with the scar wasn't a green kid.

“Watch the one in the middle.”

“The other two ain't parsons,” Jericho said.

Neal hadn't paid much attention to the Jessups, but as he neared them he did. Alexander Jessup was much as Wells had described him. “Aristocratic, like one of those Roman emperors.” Neal didn't know an emperor from a billy goat, but Alexander Jessup did have the air of someone who carried himself as if he were important.

The two daughters weren't at all what Neal had expected. Wells had written their names and mentioned they were “older girls,” leading Neal to assume they might be fifteen or sixteen or thereabouts. But they were full-grown women, and both of them were easy on the eyes, to boot. At first glimpse, he thought the one with hair like corn silk was a shade prettier. With a shake of his head, Neal put that from his mind.

Beaumont Adams was leaning against a post, and smirking. The gambler smirked a lot, Neal had noticed, the few times he'd been in
the Three Aces.

“Gentlemen,” Beaumont said. “How nice to see you again. Welcome to our street social. Permit me to make the introductions. Mr. Neal Bonner, and Jericho, I'd like you to meet three upstandin' new members of our community. Mr. Scar Wratner and his friends Bird Beak and Toad.”

Isolda Jessup laughed.

The pair on either side of Scar Wratner glanced angrily at the gambler.

“What did you just call me?” said the one who did indeed resemble a frog or a toad. “My name is Tuck. And this here is Grat, not Bird Beak.”

“I'm terribly sorry,” Beaumont said. “They seemed to be the logical handles.”

Isolda laughed once more.

“You think you're so damn funny,” Tuck said. “Keep it up and I'll make you laugh out your ass.”

“Hush,” Scar Wratner growled. He was staring at Jericho.

Tuck hushed.

Scar went on staring. “The tinhorn over there says you're the cock of the walk in these parts.”

Beaumont Adams straightened. “Hold on. I resent that, Wratner. I admit I'm not the most law-abidin' gent, but I play square at cards. Ask anyone. I never deal from the bottom.”

“Good for you.” Scar hadn't taken his eyes off Jericho. “Do you know what happens when there are two roosters in the same barnyard?”

“I do,” Jericho said.

“How about we get to it, then?”