Stands a Calder Man (23 page)

Since Snake M planned to send its outfit out on roundup the following day, nearly all its riders except those at line camps were at the ranch's headquarters checking gear and equipment and selecting the remuda string when the wagonload of drylanders rolled in. It headed straight for the five-room log house. Ed Mace was on the porch to meet them before they got out of the wagon.

All the hands had noted the arrival and were dawdling at their various chores while keeping an eye on the group of drylanders talking to their boss at the main house. The half-breed Bob Sheephead sauntered over to where Hobie Evans was repairing a weak cinch strap. He squatted down beside him and turned a piece of rotting leather from a bridle over in his hand, as if it were the object of interest.

“What do ya s'pose they want here?” the crow-haired cowboy asked Hobie. “Reckon they come cryin' about their wheat?”

“I reckon.” Hobie pulled on the cinch to test its strength and shot a glance through the tops of his lashes at the ranch house. “Looks like we're gonna find out.”

Ed Mace was striding toward the barn area where most of the riders were idling. The four homesteaders in their odd-looking farmers' garb followed in his wake. Hobie noticed the dislike in his boss's expression when he glanced impatiently over his shoulder at the trailing drylanders, and smiled to himself.

“Listen up, all of you.” Ed Mace called for the attention of his men while the drylanders made a short arc behind him. “These . . . gentlemen”—he deliberately hesitated over the polite term—“have come to
inform me that some of the cattle that strayed off our range the other day got into one of their wheatfields. They also claim that three of you chased the cattle around that field, doing even more damage.”

Dropping the cinch strap, Hobie Evans rolled to his feet and pushed his way to the front of the riders. “I think, boss, that they're talkin' about me an' Ace an' the breed. We rounded up a bunch of cattle that got into somebody's wheatfield.”

“He's the one.” The owner of the wheatfield confirmed it and pressed a hand to the gash along his cheekbone in bitter memory.

“And you're the one that came runnin' out there, flapping your arms like some damned crow.” Hobie flung a pointing arm back at the man, then looked at his boss. “We could have gotten those cattle out of there with hardly any damage to the wheat at all if he hadn't interfered. You know what those range cows are like. They're wilder than a jackrabbit. He comes out there and waves his arms, and they took off in all directions.”

“He struck me with a rope and tried to run me down with his horse,” the owner charged.

“You jumped in front of my horse,” Hobie countered. “If I hadn't slapped you out of the way with my rope, he'd have trampled you.”

“That is a lie.” Franz Kreuger stepped up. “But we did not come here because Otto was struck. We are here because your cattle damaged a wheatfield. Your own men have confirmed it. We demand that you pay for the wheat your animals destroyed.”

“It seems to me that my cattle wouldn't have laid waste to so much wheat if it hadn't been for the actions of this . . . gentleman.” He indicated the owner with a derisive flick of his hand. “He claims he lost his entire crop. I'm willing to settle damages with him, but I won't pay for the whole field.” He named a figure well below what the group had petitioned to receive.

“But I spent more than that for the seed,” the homesteader protested and turned to the other three for support.

“It is not enough!” Franz Kreuger asserted angrily. “It is not fair.”

“That's my offer.” Ed Mace challenged them without wavering. “If you don't like it, take your case to the judge and
wait
for him to set a trial date—and
wait
for the verdict.” He stressed the verb to indicate the time that would pass. “That's your choice. Either
wait
and see if the judge agrees, or take my settlement—in cash, right now.”

The homesteader looked to Franz Kreuger for guidance, as did the other two, including Stefan. Franz eyed his opponent with a cold, measuring look.

“This judge, do you know him?” he demanded.

A smile broke across Ed Mace's expression. “Judge Paulson? Why, we grew up together.”

Franz Kreuger breathed in hard and turned to the homesteader. “Take his offer. If he doesn't give it to you, he will use it to buy the judge.”

The morning side of the roundup was spent combing the coulees and hollows for cattle. The cowboys fanned to the far corners of a given section of range and drifted any cattle they found toward the center in an ever-tightening circle for the afternoon sorting and occasional branding of any beasts they'd missed in the spring gather.

The air was crisp and clear, with a little bite to it, as if warning of winter's advent and attempting to hurry riders about their chores. Webs hazed his last bunch of cows toward the bellowing herd, composed mostly of Hereford cattle and crossbreds, milling under a dust pall. A quarter-mile from the noon holding ground, an antisocial cow decided to quit the bunch.

As it bolted for open country, the weary but game bay horse under him made a lightning pivot to give chase and turn it back. But it stumbled on the second stride, nearly unseating Webb, and pulled up fame, favoring its right front leg. With no chance of turning the animal now, Webb figured the tail-high cow was waving good-bye to him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of gray and focused on it. A big, iron-gray horse was flattened out in a run to intercept the cow before it reached freedom. Its rider was none other than his father. As Webb dismounted his lame horse, he watched the rider first check the animal's flight, then block any attempt to proceed until the cow finally gave up and turned to join the herd. There was a lot of cow-savvy evident in the work of both horse and rider, but Webb didn't remark
on it when his father rode over. A man did his job, and if he was good, people noticed. If he wasn't, they noticed that, too.

When his father stepped down, Webb was running an inspecting hand down the bay's right foreleg. “How is it?” the senior Calder asked.

“Looks like a strained tendon.” Webb straightened to pat the horse's neck, already covered in a shaggy winter coat. His father didn't attempt to verify the diagnosis with his own examination. A rider didn't question another man's judgment about his horse. Webb glanced toward the herd and the two riders that had come out to haze his bunch in with the others. “I don't remember when I saw the cattle in better shape.”

“And they wouldn't bring half of what they're worth at market,” his father replied grimly. “I told Barnie to keep back all but the culls and the old stock. We've got more hay this year for winter feed, so we should be able to carry them through till spring. Maybe the prices will be up by then.”

“Sooner or later, the market's bound to turn.” Webb understood the gamble his father was taking, holding that many cattle through the winter.

“Don't count on it coming soon,” his father warned on a heavy note. “Bull Giles wrote that next year doesn't look any better than this one. He said there'd probably be a short rise in cattle prices next spring, but not to expect it to hold.”

There was something else troubling his father. Webb sensed there was a reason behind this information. It was leading to something, but he couldn't put his finger on just what.

“What do you figure—about another week before the roundup's finished?” his father asked with a sideways look.

“Give or take a day.” Webb nodded his agreement with that timetable. They'd been more than five weeks out now, and the long hours were beginning to show on the men and horses.

“There's a bunch of the hands I'm going to have to
let go—just through the winter, I hope,” his father stated. “I can keep the married ones with families on the payroll, but the others—” He shook his head.

Webb frowned. He'd known the situation wasn't good, but he hadn't realized the ranch was in such severe straits that they'd be letting go some of their permanent hands. “Nate? Abe?”

“All of them are welcome to stay on the ranch, sleep in the bunkhouse, and eat in the cookshack, but I can't pay them wages.” Benteen Calder didn't single Webb's two bunkmates out, but he included them by implication.

“We're going to be carrying all these extra steers through the winter—with fewer men?” Webb couldn't believe his father intended to take that gamble.

“I don't have a choice” was the short reply.

There was a moment when Webb couldn't respond. He looked across this land that stretched a man's eyes with its limitless reaches. It was raw and wild, a witness to many changes. Webb saw more on the horizon.

“Maybe it's time to take another look at operations of the ranch,” Webb suggested with a certain grim reluctance.

“What do you mean?” Benteen eyed him with narrowed interest.

“I mean the ranch is solely dependent on cattle. Maybe it's time to diversify into other things.” He moved to the near side of the bay horse and flipped the stirrup over the saddle seat to loosen the cinch.

“Into what? Sheep? The wool market is as depressed as the cattle market is,” his father pronounced. “Between Australia and Europe, they've glutted the market.”

“I wasn't thinking about sheep,” Webb replied, knowing his suggestion would be regarded as akin to blasphemy by his father. “The big money is in grain.”

“Wheat?” The word came out in a low shock of anger.

“They're growing wheat all around us,” Webb reasoned
firmly. “We're already part granger now with all the hay we cut and stack. There's no reason we can't expand the farming side into wheat. It isn't the lack of land that would prevent it.”

The angry pain of disillusionment was in his father's eyes when Webb finally looked at him. “I thought you had some intelligence, but you are as stupid as those drylanders.”

“You mean the ones that are harvesting wheat?” Webb bristled.

“You think I'm gambling because I'm holding over so many cattle. But those drylanders are gambling with
land.
What happens when they lose?”

“Maybe they won't lose.” Webb had seen some of the great shocks of wheat standing in the fields adjoining Triple C range while making the roundup.

“They'll lose, all right,” his father stated in a voice that held no doubt. “This plains country has alternating cycles of wet and dry. Lately we've been enjoying the wet years when there's been adequate rain. But the dry ones will come. They always have and they always will.”

Webb had a cold sensation that wasn't caused by the nipping breeze. He studied his father with narrowed concentration, listening to the words that came from experience.

“You're probably too young to remember what it was like in the early days.” Benteen gave him that much. “Do you see this grass?” He indicated the thick tangle growing tall at their feet. “I've seen it burned brown in the spring of the year, parched roots setting in ground that was dry and hard as a rock. Without the grass for covering to hold the soil, it would have blown away. That's why it's so important not to overgraze it. And those drylanders are plowing up this grass. We'll have a drought again, and when we do, those homesteads of the drylanders will be a desert.” He gave Webb a long, hard look. “Every time you try to make the land be what it isn't, it will turn on you and destroy you. If you
don't remember that, this land won't be here for your son—if you ever have one.”

The grim words seemed to echo in the air as his father turned and swung his lofty frame onto the big gray horse. He reined it away from Webb and pushed it into a canter back to the herd.

After more than a month and a half out on the range rounding up cattle, the band of Triple C riders heading for town were flush with two months' pay and ready to kick up their heels. They'd washed off the grime and sweat, shaved off the scraggly whiskers, and put on their best clothes. All but Webb and one or two others had drawn their last wages, but none of them intended to keep a tight fist on the money. The winter might be lean, but they were going to have one last fling to trade tales about while they were huddled around a heating stove on a cold Montana night.

They were riding along the dirt track that passed for the main road leading into Blue Moon. There were parallel ruts from the wheels of wagons and buggies, while hoofprints pockmarked the ground in between. A dark object was blocking the trail ahead of them.

“What's that?” Nate eyed the black-colored obstacle in their way.

“It looks like Doyle Pettit's automobile,” one of the other riders guessed. “I guess he broke down.”

The possibility presented an opportunity to rag the ex-rancher turned entrepreneur that these mischief-loving cowboys just couldn't pass up. With a whoop and a shout, they spurred their horses into a gallop and descended upon the immobile automobile.

“Hey, boys!” Shorty Niles pointed to the rear tire that had been pried from the wheel with a sprung leaf and was propped against the back fender. “It looks like it threw a shoe.”

Their laughter didn't faze Doyle Pettit as he examined the tube he'd extracted from the tire, trying to find the puncture. The large tool box on the running board sat open, displaying a wide array of tools.

“Go ahead and laugh, boys.” Doyle grinned. “I'll have this tire patched and get to town before you will,” He located the hole. “Ah, here it is.” He picked up a piece of sandpaper and began rubbing it across the area.

“What are you doing way out here in that thing?” Webb leaned over his saddlehorn to watch the curious procedure.

“I went out to Big Jim Tandy's place. He's thinking about selling off some of his land, and I had a proposition to give him that will make both of us a lot of money. You won't believe the prices of land, Webb.” He shook his bead in bright-eyed amazement and reached for a bottle sitting in the tool box. “It's tripled since spring, I swear. Harve Wessel got itchy feet. I bought out his share of our partnership. He thinks he's moved on to greener pastures, but nothing can be greener than right here.”