James Axler – Trader Redux

Ryan shook his head sorrowfully. “Yeah. No way we can repair that.”

“Mean losing some of the provisions,” Trader said. “Pack animals are already carrying good loads.”

J.B. disagreed with him. “Not like when we left that place, Trader. We’ve eaten a fair bit since then, as well as using some of the ammo.”

Abe nodded. “True. I reckon we can strap blankets and stuff on the saddle horses.”

“Why not use the four blacks? Shame to let good horses go to waste.” Trader fingered his Armalite. “Least we can do is butcher a couple of them.”

“We got meat.” Ryan looked at the matched team. “Fine animals. Be a shame to slaughter them just like that. I reckon we could use them to barter for more food.” He was proved right the next afternoon.

They had seen a side trail, with a notice warning strangers that it was the Springham Ranch. “You got business then come ahead, but if you don’t then you best keep out. Ignore this and you don’t even get buried.”

“Friendly,” Abe commented.

“Businesslike,” Trader said.

TRADER WAS RIGHT.

They passed two sec gates, each time being looked over by hard-eyed, unsmiling men who wanted to know what they wanted at the spread. The guards waved them through when they were satisfied, muttering into short-range walkies the news of the four strangers’ arrival.

Before they got to the main house, which was built like a miniature fortress with an encircling moat and gun towers, half a dozen more cowboys halted them.

“You want to deal them blacks?” asked the ramrod, a tall man in a poncho, smoking a narrow cigar.

“Sure. For provisions,” Trader replied. “Like to know who I’m talking to.”

“Name doesn’t matter. Deal with me, you deal with the Springham place. All you need to know, old-timer.”

Ryan felt the sudden tension and wished he was on his feet rather than high in a saddle. If Trader had one of his red rages, then there would be a lot of blood spilled.

“Shame that your ma and pa never bothered to teach you any manners and respect,” Trader said, the Armalite balanced easily on his lap.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, old man, talking to me like that with two guns to your one?” He laughed. “You sure got some nerve.”

“I’m called Trader. This is Ryan Cawdor, J.B. Dix and the little guy’s Abe.”

“Trader’s long dead.” But the note of confidence was gone. Ryan could see the other six hands shuffling and glancing at one another. “Died up near the South Fork of the Brazos.”

Trader sniffed. “I don’t have the time to talk to the performing bear. I got four good wag horses to deal. You want to do it, then let’s get on. If you don’t, then move out of my way, kid.”

“You really Trader?”

“One way to find out and” He stopped, swallowing, controlling himself with a visible effort. “We got off on the wrong foot here. We carry on and there’ll be some widows and orphans by sundown. Can we trade?”

“Yeah, sure,” the cowboy replied quickly. “Sure.”

It didn’t take long.

Everyone involved knew the quality of the four black horses, and there was little attempt to haggle.

At one point Ryan noticed a short, stout man with gray hair walk out onto a balcony at the front of the house and study the proceedings through a pair of binoculars, the sun glinting off the lenses.

“That Springham?” he asked.

The ramrod looked around. “Sure is. Grandson of old man Springham.”

“Bart the name of the grandfather?” Trader asked.

“Yeah. Founded this spread. Comanche got him, hunting south. Must be thirty years ago now. What’s left of him got brought back and buried in the family mausoleum out back by the stream. You knew him?”

“I knew him.”

THE SUN WAS SINKING behind the hills as they finally got off the Springham land, with an extra packhorse in tow and enough smoked and cured meat to keep them going for at least the next three weeks.

Trader reined in his gelding and looked back, his face splitting into a broad grin.

“What’s so funny?” J.B. asked.