“Wonder how the boys are makin’ out back at the ranch,” Cotton Madden said suddenly. “I really do miss ol’ Tom. He’s been like a daddy to me … not that he’s that much older, only he’s been a man grown ever since I first knowed him.”
“He’s a good man. They’re both good men.”
“You’re from Tennessee?” Cotton asked.
“Cumberland country,” I said, “but nobody’s waiting for me back yonder.”
He glanced at me. “You on the dodge?” It was a question nobody asked out here, but I didn’t take it wrong, coming as it did from Cotton Madden. So many men out here had left home for reasons of health.
“No,” I said, “and there’ll be a time when I go back. There’s some folks I want to straighten out a mite.”
Suddenly we heard a horse whinny, and you never saw two men roll out of sight so fast. But it was Buck, my buckskin, packing my gear. He’d come on our trail and followed it right along. I never was so glad to see a horse in my life, and it beats all how attached a man can get to a piece of horseflesh. Best of all, I had my outfit back, and my own rifle.
We hazed the cattle west and south, and the sagebrush levels fell away before us, or lifted in slow waves of hills, one no different from another. There was a reason for our dropping by Cheyenne, for we needed another cowhand—perhaps two if we were to drive this herd north. Moreover, there was a good chance that Tarlton would have gone there, if he was alive.
Cheyenne was in cattle country. The cattlemen had started moving into the area several years before, and by this time they were well established. I’d find friends here, I knew.
It was a wild, wild town. It had been hell on wheels, the end of the track, and many of the saloons and gambling houses were still active. It was not a big place … at its biggest there had been several thousand people there, most of them passers-by, but the ones here now were about half passers-by and about half folks who were settled, or who planned to settle there.
Leaving Cotton with the cattle, I rode into town, and first off I saw a man with a star. Now, the man wearing the badge was usually a solid citizen, although sometimes he was an ex-outlaw. When I pulled up my horse, this one looked over at me and I swung down. He was a tall, well-setup man with a brown, drooping mustache. He was neatly dressed and carried himself with a confident air, yet without arrogance.
“Marshal,” I said, “I’m with a cow outfit, and I need a couple or three cowhands. I want solid men who’ll ride for the brand, no dead beats and no rustlers.”
He took the cigar from his mouth. “I might find some men,” he said. “Where you ranching?”
“We’ve just started,” I answered. “We drove a herd into the Hole-in-the-Wall country a few months back.”
He stared at me. “You must be crazy! That’s right in the heart of Indian country.”
“It’s good grass, and there’s water,” I explained, “and when I left there’d been no Indian trouble. Only trouble we’ve had,” I added, “was with Caxton Kelsey and his outfit.”
That stopped him, as I expected it would. “Kelsey’s at the Hole-in-the-Wall?”
“No, sir. He’s riding for Laramie right now, or maybe trailing us here. He’s got blood in his eye and he’s hunting me.”
So I gave him the whole story, right from the beginning, and he stood there and listened, chewing on his cigar, his eyes sweeping the street. It seemed to me that it was in Cheyenne the way it had been in Abilene, and if I wanted the law to understand my position I’d best tell my story first. If there was a gun battle he would have no choice but to treat both sides the same, unless he knew the real truth of the matter.
Kelsey’s name helped. He was a known bad man—not only a bad man with a gun, but an outlaw. In those days, when you said somebody was a bad man you did not mean that he was necessarily an evil man. It might just mean that he was a bad man to tangle with. Kelsey was all of that, but he was more. LaSalle Prince had an even worse reputation, and Andy Miller was a bad one, too.
“When you pick your enemies,” the marshal said, “you pick them tough.”
“They picked me,” I said. “I came to Wyoming to ranch, and if there’s trouble it will be because they come riding to fetch it.”
The marshal tipped his hatbrim down. “So happens,” he said, “that I’ve got a lobster up there in my jail right about now that might be just the man you want.”
“In jail?” I sounded skeptical.
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t point you down the wrong trail. He’s a good man.” He grinned at me. “He’s just full of coekleburs and sand, and he wants to fight everybody in town. But I happen to know that out on the range he’s a first-class cowhand.”
He reached into his pocket and took out a key. “He’s over at the jail, and his name is Corky Burdette. He can ride anything that wears hair, and he’ll fight anything that walks. You go let him out and tell him I said he was to go to work for you.”
“Marshal, there’s one more thing. Have you seen or heard anything of Bob Tarlton? Or Handy Corbin?”
“Tarlton’s a cattle buyer, isn’t he?”
“He was … he’s my partner.”
“Good reputation.” He rolled his cigar in his lips. “I know Handy Corbin, too. What’s he to you?”
“He works for me. He’s a good hand.”
“Yes, he is that.” The marshal took his cigar from his mouth and glanced at me sharply. “Did you know he was a cousin to LaSalle Prince? They grew up together.”
Well, you could have knocked me down with a pencil, I was that surprised. I could only shake my head. Corbin had said nothing about knowing Prince. In fact, he had not said anything about himself at all, nor had I expected it.
The marshal turned away. “If I see them, I’ll let them know you’re in town.” And he walked away down the street.
The jail had a cubbyhole of an outer room, with a desk and a chair, and a saddle thrown into one corner. There were two cells, each with four bunks, and Corky Burdette was seated on a bunk in one of the cells, riffling a deck of worn cards.
He was a square-jawed man, and I found that he had a blunt, whimsical way about him. He glanced up at me. “The marshal is out,” he said. “If you want to leave a message, just whistle it and I’ll try to remember the tune.”
“I met him up the street. He said you were a good hand with stock, as well as a peaceful, contented man.”
“I’ll bet he did. What else did he say?”
“That you were to go to work for me.” I held up the key. “He also gave me this.”
“Work for you? The hell I will! When I get out of here I’m going to look up a guy I know, and—”
“Why waste your time fighting around here? Come with me and you can do something besides beating up sod-busters.”
“What if I don’t work for you?”
I shrugged. “In that case I throw the key away. The nearest locksmith is in Denver, and it would take a few weeks to get word down there, get that locksmith sobered up, and talk him into making a new key. Then it would have to be brought back here from Denver. Of course, Indians might lay for the man bringing the key, and it might get lost. In which case they’d have to go back down to Denver, find the locksmith, sober him up—”
“All right, all right! I can read sign as well as you, mister. Where’s your outfit?”
“Up in the Hole-in-the-Wall country.”
“What? Are you off your rocker? A man could get himself killed up there.”
“You scared?” I said. “Are you a fighter, or just a Saturday night drunk?”
He came ofl the bunk. “Open that door and I’ll show you!”
“You?” I sneered at him. “Why, I’d pin back your ears, grease your hair, and swallow you whole. If you ever take a punch at me I’ll bounce you so high they’d have to shoot you to keep you from starving to death.”
He chuckled suddenly. “Open the door, boss, you’ve hired yourself a boy.”
Once outside the cell, he took his gun belt and rifle from a hook behind the door, and shouldered the saddle.