This Calder Range (2 page)

The conviction that he'd found his home range swelled in his chest. This was his. This would be Calder land. “I'm filing on this stretch of river,” he stated as Barnie licked his cigarette together.

Every cattleman knew that laying claim to a narrow stretch of the allowed 160-acre homestead tract gave control of an entire region—a minimum of ten miles on either side, or as far as a cow could walk to water. Elbow room increased it by at least another ten miles, and sometimes more. Barnie had already agreed that if Benteen found the right rangeland, he'd file on the adjoining stretch and turn it over to him, which was a common practice of the day. The additional 160 acres would give him breathing room—with more to come.

Texas had given Benteen his fill of being hemmed in and crowded. He'd been a boy at the close of the Civil War, but he'd seen the changes that had come with Reconstruction—few of them good. There had been too many lost causes in his young life. Here was the place for new beginnings.

“Come spring, I'll bring up a herd,” Benteen stated in a spare, even tone while Barnie cupped a match to the hand-rolled cigarette and bent a little toward the flame. “If all goes well, I'll be back before the end of next summer. Do you think you can hang on here till then?”

“Reckon,” Barnie drawled. He was younger by two years than Benteen. “What do you suppose yore pa'll do?”

Benteen looked into the distance, a net of crow-tracks springing from the outer corners of his eyes. “I don't know.” The sun-browned skin became taut across
the ridgeline of his jaw. “The Ten Bar's got him choked off the range. But he's a stubborn man.”

His father, Seth Calder, was a good man—a strong man. It was possible he could have been an important man, but he had a blind spot, a fatal flaw. He didn't know when to let go of a thing that was dead. The War Between the States had ended years ago, yet his father continued to argue the South's cause, insisting Lincoln had thrown a political blanket over the true issue of states' rights that had prompted secession and turned the war into a question of slavery. That position hadn't made him popular with those in power in a Reconstructed Texas.

His support of the South during the war had left him nearly broke at its end. He struggled to rebuild his modest ranch, only to be wiped out by the Black Friday crash in the Panic of '73. Judd Boston's Ten Bar had survived the crash unscathed. While Seth Calder had to sell cattle, Judd Boston had purchased more, until Ten Bar herds flooded the range, leaving little room for Seth Calder to expand without overstocking the land. He was crowded into a small corner of ground that could barely support a cattle operation, but he wouldn't budge.

And Seth Calder wouldn't let go of the idea that his wife would come back to him. Benteen had spent most of his childhood waiting for a mother who never returned. She had chosen his name at birth—Chase Benteen Calder. Chase had been her maiden name, and Benteen the name of a cousin. His given name was rarely used by those who knew him. Even as a child, he'd been called Benteen.

When he was six years old, his mother had run away with a so-called remittance man—a ne'er-do-well paid a regular allowance by his moneyed English family to stay away from home. His father had always claimed that he'd lured her away with his talk of New Orleans, San Francisco, London, and Europe, of fancy gowns and jewels. After twenty years, Seth still believed she'd
return to her husband and son. Benteen didn't. And, unlike his father, he didn't want her to come back.

There were times when a man should stand and fight—and other times when he should cut and run. Benteen saw that, but he doubted that his father would. In Texas, they were outnumbered by memories of the past and a series of present circumstances. Tomorrow was here in Montana Territory. “What about Lorna?” The closeness that had developed between them allowed Barnie to ask the personal question.

“We'll be married in the spring before the herd starts north.” There was no more reason to wait. Benteen had found the place that would give them a future. And that was all that had been keeping him from setting a date for his wedding to Lorna Pearce. His gaze was sure and keen, a little on the reckless side. “The next time I leave Texas, it will be for good.” He was going to cut all ties, and whatever was left behind … was left behind.

Fort Worth, Texas, was the jumping-off point for herds heading north on the Chisholm Trail. It was a boisterous, bawdy cow town, catering to the needs of the cowboy. Merchants sold supplies of flour, sugar, coffee, molasses, prunes, cigars, and other items to the trail outfits. There were saloons, dance halls, and sporting women to make sure the cowboy didn't get bored before he left.

It was a town with growing pains. Main and Houston streets were paved, although many argued “paved” was not the right term to describe them. The El Paso Hotel was a three-story building of gray limestone, so things were looking up. But there was a definite lack of sidewalks. No one in Fort Worth was too concerned about the rival Western Trail taking the trail herds away from the much-traveled Chisholm.

But the trailing season was over for this year. Fort Worth was quiet on the November afternoon Chase Benteen Calder rode in. His clothes were stiff with trail grime, gathered over the long miles from the Montana Territory. A scratchy beard growth shadowed his rawboned features, making him look tougher. The edges of his hair had a dark copper cast. It was rough hair—heavy hair, curling thickly into the scarf tied around his neck and knotted loosely at the throat.

With the packhorse in tow, Benteen walked his mount to the livery stable. He wasn't a man to let his eyes be idle, thus his restless gaze continued its survey of the surrounding streets and buildings and the people in town. He halted the bay in front of the stable's open
doors and dismounted, stepping onto hard-packed ground. The smell of dust and the rank odor from the stable rose strongly around him. A man with a gimpy leg hobbled out of the shadowed interior.

“Hey, Benteen,” he greeted. “I thought you'd quit these parts.”

“In time, Stoney.” He gave him a thin smile, weary like the man.

The rattle of an approaching buggy drew his glance to the street. Benteen recognized Judd Boston at the reins, accompanied by an escort of riders. The owner of the Ten Bar was dressed in a dark suit and vest, the starched white collar of his shirt circling his throat. The bowler hat atop his head further distinguished him from the riders. The power that came with prosperity was evident in the studied arrogance of his posture.

For all the dandified appearance of Judd Boston, Benteen didn't make the mistake of seeing softness. Beneath those Eastern clothes, the man's burly frame was put together with hard muscles. Benteen knew the instant Judd recognized him. The line of his mouth became long and thin as he pulled within himself.

After the long journey, Benteen was tired, dirty, and irritable. He wanted nothing more than to take a bath, have a cold beer, and see Lorna—in that order. He wasn't in the mood for a conversation with Judd Boston, but he had little choice.

He had never liked the man, but he didn't figure it was necessary to like the person he worked for. Benteen couldn't pinpoint the reason he didn't like Judd Boston. Maybe it was because he was a Yankee or because he was a banker—not a true cattleman. Or maybe it was his clean white hands that caused Benteen to distrust him—so clean and white, as if they'd been washed too many times.

The buggy pulled up close to the livery stable, the escort of riders fanning protectively along the street side. Other ranchers rode into town alone, but Judd Boston never went anywhere without a mounted guard.
It was another thing that raised questions in Benteen's mind. Was it a guilty conscience, or did the banker-rancher like the implied importance of possessing a retinue of underlings?

“Calder!” It was a stiff command for him to approach the buggy.

The ordering tone straightened his shoulders slightly, but Benteen allowed no other resentment to show. He walked to the buggy with the loose, unhurried stride of a rider, each step accompanied by the muted jangle of his work spurs. He stopped beside the buggy, saying nothing because he had nothing to say.

His silence didn't set well with Judd Boston. The man had eyes as black as hell. They burned with what he saw as rage. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I expected you back two months ago.”

“I had some personal business.” It was a flat answer, showing neither respect nor disrespect. Benteen was aware of the man's dangerous patience. It was the cunning kind, content to wait until the right moment. Benteen was reminded of an alleycat he'd once watched while it played with a mouse.

“I hired you to do a job, Calder.” The statement insinuated that he had failed to do it.

It ran raw over his travel-weary nerves. “Your herd was delivered to the Snyder outfit with only ten head lost on the drive.” His sharp glance picked out Jessie Trumbo among the escort of riders. “I sent the money from the sale back with Jessie. You've got no complaint coming.”

“It was your responsibility to bring that cash to me. Not Jessie's,” Boston insisted coldly.

“It was my responsibility to see that you received it,” Benteen corrected the phrasing. “You did.” There was a rare show of irritation. It didn't seem to matter anymore whether he offended Judd Boston or not. “I hired out to boss your herd and drive it through to Wyoming. After that I was to pay off the drovers with the proceeds of the sale and return the balance to you.
The job's done. You may have paid my wages, Boston, but you don't own me. No man owns me.”

A coldness hardened Boston's broad features. “The job is done and you are done, Calder,” he stated. “I have no use for a man who disappears for two months. You aren't going back on the payroll.”

“Good.” A half-smile skipped across his face. “It saves me the trouble of quitting.”

Their eyes locked, hardness matching hardness. Then a glint of satisfaction flickered in Judd Boston's eyes. “Baker,” he called to one of the riders. “Those two horses in front of the stable are carrying the Ten Bar brand. Catch them up and take them back to the ranch.”

The order seared through Benteen like a hot iron. “You damned bastard.” His voice was low and rough. “In this country, you don't take a man's horse and leave him on foot. I'll bring them out to the ranch myself in the morning.”

“I want them now.” Judd smiled. “I could report them as stolen, Calder.” Without taking his eyes off Benteen, he prodded the hesitant rider. “You heard me, Baker.”

Benteen shot a hard glance at the young rider reining his horse back to walk it behind the buggy. Jessie Trumbo swung his horse to follow him. “I'll give you a hand, Baker,” he murmured. Whether the men agreed or not, they were obliged to obey orders. It was part of riding for the brand. Benteen knew that, and didn't hold their part in this against them.

His attention swung back to the man in the buggy. “I'll get my gear off the horses so you can take them,” he said. “Maybe now I'll have the time to check some of the brands on your cattle. I've always thought how easy it would be to change my pa's brand from a C-to a 10. A running iron or a cinch ring could handle that in nothing flat.”

Judd Boston stiffened. “You're finished around here, Calder. If I were you, I'd clear out.”

A remote smile slanted his mouth. “I planned on it, Boston.”

With a flick of his wrist, Judd Boston snapped the buggy whip close to the ears of the chestnut mare. Benteen stepped back as the harnessed mare lunged forward and the wooden wheels of the buggy began their first revolution. The two remaining riders of the escort fell in behind the buggy.

Turning back to the stable, Benteen walked to the packhorse to unload it first. “You made yourself an enemy, Benteen.” Jessie Trumbo spoke quietly. Benteen still counted the rider as a friend.

A reply didn't seem necessary, but he stared after the buggy disappearing down the street. Most of the men at the Ten Bar were his friends, but there were some who weren't. It was this tangled weave of friendship and enmity in a rough, short-tempered land that kept the aloof interest in his dark eyes. “Is it all right if I stow my gear inside, Stoney?” he asked the stablehand instead.

“Sure.” The aging, semi-crippled man nodded.

Benteen carried the pack inside the stable and into a small office dusty with hay chaff. Opening the pack, he slung the holstered revolver over his shoulder for the time being and removed his rifle. He went back outside to unsaddle the chalk-faced bay.

“Where's Barnie?” Jessie asked, leaning over his saddle horn. “I thought he went with you.”

“He did.” Benteen hooked the stirrup over the saddle horn and began loosening the cinch. “I left him up in Montana Territory north of the Yellowstone. He's lookin' after my homestead claim until I can bring a herd up in the spring.”

“Montana.” Jessie sat up, whistling under his breath in surprise. “Then you are pulling out. You didn't just tell Boston that to be talking.”

“Nope.” Benteen lifted the heavy saddle off the horse's back, a glint of pride flashing in his dark eyes.

“Where you gonna get a herd? Are you takin' your pa's?”

“I thought I'd spend the winter beating the thickets and putting together a herd of mavericks.” Benteen wasn't counting on his father pulling up stakes and going with him, taking what was left of his herd. “I could use somebody good with a rope to come along.”

Jessie grinned. “It'll be pure hell chasin' down longhorns in all that scrub, but it sounds better than ‘yes-sirring' Mr. Moneybags.”

Benteen hefted the saddle onto his shoulder and carried it into the stable to leave it with the rest of his gear. When he came out, Jessie and the young cowboy had ropes around the necks of his two horses and were leading them away. Stoney limped up to stand beside him.