The longhorn was a good enough beef critter when he could get enough to eat and drink, but in Texas they might live miles from water, drinking every two or three days, in some cases, and walking off a lot of good beef to get to water.
But in these mountain valleys where there was water a-plenty, there was no need to walk for it and the eastern stock did mighty well. And nowhere did we see the grass all eaten down. There was enough feed to carry more stock than was here.
The only two Fetchens I saw were men I remembered from that day in Tazewell. Their names I didn’t learn until I heard them spoken around the roundup fire.
Clyde Fetchen was a wiry man of thirty-five or so with a narrow, tight-lipped look about him. He was a hard worker, which was more than I could say of the others, but not a friendly man by any way of speaking. Len Fetchen was seventeen or eighteen, broad-shouldered, with hair down to his shoulders. He didn’t talk at all. Both of them fought shy of Galloway an’ me – no doubt told to do so by Black.
Others came to the fire occasionally, but those were the only two I saw. Them and Russ Menard.
Meanwhile we were doing a sight of work that a body couldn’t see around the branding fire. We were doing our work back in the hills, wherever we could find Half-Box Hitch cattle. All their brands had been altered by now, some of the changed brands so fresh the hide was still warm, or almost. Wherever we found them we dabbed a loop over their horns, threw them, and rebranded with a Pig-Pen, which was merely a series of vertical and horizontal lines like several pens side by each. A brand like that could cover everything we found, but we were only hunting stolen Hawkes cattle. We took turn and turn about bringing cattle to the fire, and the rest of the time we roamed up and down the range, sorting out Hawkes cattle.
Russ Menard spent mighty little time working cattle, so he didn’t notice what was going on. The Fetchen boys brought in cattle here and there, mostly with their own brand. At night Briggs and Walker could usually manage to cut out a few of them and brand them downwind from the wagon, out of sight in some creek bed or gully.
By the third day half the hands on the range had fallen in with the game and were rebranding the rustled cattle as fast as we were. On the fifth day, James Black Fetchen came riding down from the hills with Russ Menard and six of his riders.
Evan Hawkes was standing by the fire, and when he saw Fetchen coming he called to Ladder Walker. The tall, lean Half-Box H puncher looked up, then slid the thong off his six-gun. The cook took another look, then slipped his shot-gun out of his bedroll and tucked it in along his dried apples and flour.
Cap Rountree and Moss Reardon were both out on the range, but it so happened I was standing right there, taking time out for coffee.
Fetchen rode on up to the fire and stepped down, and so did Menard and Colby. Fetchen turned his hard eyes to me, then to Walker at the fire. The cook was busy kneading dough. Tom Sharp was there, and so were Rodriguez and Baldwin, who was repping for a couple of outfits over on the Cucharas.
“I want to see the tally list,” Fetchen said.
“Help yourself.” Hawkes gestured to where it lay on a large rock, held down by a smaller rock.
Fetchen hesitated, and looked hard at Hawkes.
Russ Menard was looking across the fire at me. “You one of them gun-fighting Sacketts?” he asked.
“Never paid gun-fighting no mind,” I said. “Too busy making a living. Seems to me a man’s got mighty little to do, riding around showing off his gun.”
He got kind of red in the face. “Meaning?”
“Meaning nothing a-tall. Just commenting on why I don’t figure myself a gun-fighter. We Sacketts never figured on doing any fighting unless pushed,” I added.
“What do you carry that gun for?” he demanded.
I grinned at him. “Seems I might meet somebody whose time has come.”
Black Fetchen had turned around sharply, his face red and angry. “What the hell is this? You’ve only got thirty-four head of JBF cattle listed.”
“That’s all there was,” Hawkes said quietly, “and a scrubby lot, too.”
Fetchen stepped forward, the color leaving his face, his eyes burning under his heavy brows. “What are you trying to do? Rob me? I came into this valley with more than a thousand head of cattle.”
“If you have a bill of sale,” Sharp suggested, “we might check out the brands and find out what’s wrong. Your bill of sale would show the original brands, and any stolen cattle would have the brands altered.”
Fetchen stopped. Suddenly he was cold, dangerous. Me, I was watching Menard.
“You can’t get away with this!” Fetchen said furiously.
“If you have any brand you want to question,” Sharp said, “we can always shoot the animal and skin it. The inside of the hide will show if the brand has been altered.”
Fetchen glanced at him, realizing that to check the brand would reveal the original alteration, the change from Hawkes’s Half-Box H to his JBF Connected. Frustrated, he hesitated, suddenly aware he had no way to turn.
Hawkes, Sharp, and Rodriguez were scattered out. Baldwin stood near the chuck wagon, and all of them were armed. Ladder Walker had released the calf he had been branding and was now standing upright, branding iron in his left hand.
And there was me.
To start shooting now would mean death for several men, and victory for nobody. Fetchen started to speak, then his eye caught the dull gloss of the shotgun stock, inches from the cook’s hand.
“While we’re talking,” I suggested, “you might tell Costello he should be down here, repping for his brand. We have business to discuss with him.”
“He’s not well,” Fetchen replied, controlling his anger. “I’ll speak for him.”
“Costello is a very good friend of mine,” Sharp said, “and a highly respected man in this country. We want to be sure he stays well. I think he should be brought down to my place where he can have the attention of a doctor.”
“He’s not able to ride,” Fetchen said. He was worried now, and eager to be away. Whatever his plans had been, they were not working now. His herd was gone, taken back by the very man from whom it had been stolen, and the possibility of his remaining in the area and ranching was now slim indeed.
“Load him into a wagon,” Sharp insisted. “If you don’t have one, I’ll send one up, and enough men to load him up.”
Fetchen backed off. “I’ll see. I”ll talk to him,” he said.
Right at that moment I figured him for the most dangerous man I’d ever known. There’d been talk about his hot temper, but this man was cold – cold and mean. You could see it in him, see him fighting down the urge to grab for a gun and turn that branding fire into a blaze of hell. He had it in him, too, only he was playing it smart. And a few moments later I saw another reason why.
Moss Reardon, Cap Rountree, and Galloway had come up behind us, and off to the left was Kyle Shore.
Fetchen’s gang would have cut some of us down, but not a one of them would have escaped.
Russ Menard looked at me and smiled. “Well meet up, one of these days.”
“We can make it right now,” I said. “We can make it a private fight.”
“I ain’t in no hurry.”
James Black Fetchen looked past me toward the chuck wagon. “Judith, your pa wants you. You comin’?”
“No.”
“You turnin’ your back on him?”
“You know better than that. When he comes down to Mr. Sharp’s, at Buzzard Roost, I’ll be waiting for him.”
The Fetchens went to their horses then, Russ Menard taking the most time. When he was in the saddle, both hands out in plain sight, he said, “Don’t you disappoint me, boy. I’ll be hunting you.”
They rode away, and Tom Sharp swore softly. With the back of his hand, he wiped sudden sweat from his forehead. “I don’t want to go through that again. For a minute there, anything could have happened.”
“You sleep with locked doors,” Galloway said, riding up. “And don’t answer no hails by night. That’s a murdering lot.”
The rest of the roundup went forward without a hitch. The cattle were driven in from the hills and we saw no more of the Fetchens, but Costello did not come down from the hills. Twice members of the gang were seen close to the Spanish Peaks. Once several of them rode over to Badito.