Roy Dudley Brambles and Tangles Page 1

CHAPTER 1

   A man would think I'd have my head up and my eyes on the scenery seeing as how I was scarce a year from riding with Jeb Stuart's Cavalry.

   And I did in a manner on speaking. My head was in the clouds and my eyes on the sky as I yodeled a song in a voice I'd been informed was more suitable for hog calling. At any rate, I hadn't any idea where the first shot came from. For a frozen moment I wondered if it were a shot, but I'd heard the wicked buzz of bullets before. I did the sensible thing a little late. I bailed out of the saddle. Somewhere between my first movement and when I hit the ground, a second bullet burned across my right shoulder. It was fast, that second shot.

   My reflexes were working fine by then. I located the probable source, largely by sound and a sounder instinct. The rifleman was above me and in a nest of boulders. Fortunately, I had landed on the downhill side of the horse, so I kept going, hitting a steep slope and tobogganing on the seat of my pants. It wasn't very dignified, but it placed me out of sight fast. I scrambled behind a nest of rocks, undecided whether to rub my toboggan or shoulder first.

   I heard my horse running and seeking the high spots. At least he had sense. A revolver isn't good odds against a rifle, but I didn't have red hair for nothing. I pulled out my Navy Colt, moved the cylinder off the empty chamber, and began stalking the rifleman, my temper up. From a happy, singing man, I was back in the War again.

   I had spent a good deal of the time scouting afoot in the war, so I wasn't an amateur. And, I'd found me being a little smallish felt almighty good when I furnished the target.

   I Injuned amongst the rocks, never catching a glimpse of my attacker. I worked away from him, down the trail, and crossed over, sweating and some scared. Nothing. The trees were sparse and inclined to be runty, but there was rocks aplenty and a fair covering of chaparral.

   Having second thoughts, I crouched in the cover of brush where only an eagle could spot me. My first anger had evaporated and I was feeling a touch of caution. The Ryder Clan ain't long on caution and mine didn't last long.

   Once more I snaked my way among the rocks until I was sure I was above the point of ambush. Nothing happened, nothing moved. I crawled along easy now, certain somehow that the rifleman was long gone, but for once keeping my head down. I was on my belly, my revolver pushed ahead of me, my eyes seeking the safest passage and plotting my course.

   The sun was hot on my back, the rocks under my hands uncomfortable to the touch. It was the War again, but not much like Virginia and the Carolinas. There had been heavy woods there, sudden streams, and the fields of great plantations, good cavalry country, most of it. Here a mountain goat would be a better cavalry mount.

   Although close to the place where the shots had originated, I didn't expect the marksman to be there. I played it cautious anyway. I glimpsed a flash of white between two rocks and paused. A piece of paper likely. I waited, scanning the surrounding terrain carefully, but my eyes returning to the bit of white. It could be a trap but I didn't think so. The War had whetted my senses to a fine edge and I didn't feel any sense of danger. Or was the War too far away, too long ago?

   How long did it take to loose that fine edge?

   I stood up slowly, prepared to hit the ground. Nothing. The sun struck sparks from a trace of mica. A dust devil lazed in the valley below. My horse was a good mile away, across the valley, grazing his way to the corral. I cursed under my breath.

   My friend had wedged a dirty piece of paper under a small stone, a sheet torn from a note book like most punchers carry. Written in crude block letters was the single word, "Sucker." The edge of the paper had been weighted with two empty .44 caliber casings. He made me a present of this much information. He carried a .44 rifle, like most, and carried a cow country note book, like most. He told me more though, and I don't know that he'd planned on this. He knew me, knew how I'd react.

   That narrowed it down some. He smoked. Two crushed cigarettes in brown paper wrappings lay nearby.

   While tracking him, I scouted out some scuffed prints and got a fair idea of the size of his boots, his height and his weight. A body that can read sign can tell a great deal from a man's tracks. My man was probably above average in height, judging from the length of his stride and size of his boots. He was more than medium heavy. This much was clear despite the lack of a good track. He wasn't much at moving on a rocky slope and had stumbled a mite. I worked out his trail to his horse, not learning much more.

   The horse had been tied for a good bit judging by the droppings.

   A big horse, heavy and with a bad caulk on the left rear foot. I pulled some hair from the brush. A bay horse.

   I had a notion to follow the horse afoot but pulled up. If my man knew me as well as I thought, he might figure me for that too. And, like I'd said, a revolver ain't good odds against a rifle.

   I figured that the country was for certain heading for a range war, but why shoot at me? So far I'd played it neutral, right down the middle, refusing to choose a side.

   Farmers and ranchers are like sheep and wolves. They just never get along. They use the land for different purposes and those purposes never meet. Nesters, the ranchers called them that farmed. The name took some of the dignity out of raising crops. Seemed to me there was room for both, especially since most farming here abouts was on marginal land. I held the only decent farming country under by brand.

   Of course, us ranchers had been here first. However, the fact was that most cattlemen had not troubled to prove and record the land they claimed. They took all they could hold with rope and gun, and that was the way she laid. Farmers moving in and proving on unrecorded land was poison to their souls. Maybe they had some justice on their side.

   Maybe too, I took a more lenient view because my father had proven and recorded two sections and had deeds to two more sections that were used by the Broken Bit. Him being dead and me the only survivor, the land belonged to me perfectly legal. Twenty six hundred acres ain't much of a ranch in this country, but I also owned some good valley land--and water, I had plenty of water. Some of that land would make good farming.

   By rights, nesters had no business on my land, legal right that is. Of course, cowmen felt the same, only without having the benefit of my deeds. I tolerated one family I'd cottoned to. The rest I'd run off. Now a squatter is a different creature than a farmer or a nester.

   A squatter moves in where he has no legal right--on another man's land.

   It was squatters I run off.

   There was more to it, of course. Cattle were stolen, crops were burned, and there was considerable bickering. Now someone tried to force my mind.

   The big outfits wanted me to swing my weight their way. I'm not sure why, but I reckon it looked better if all ranchers stuck together.

   I wasn't small and I sure wasn't big when it came to ranching. However, I wanted to be neutral. I couldn't see burning and killing for land that wasn't rightly yours, or rightly some other rancher's. I'd seen enough of that in the War. Now it appeared someone did more than ask, they were pushing me.

   A big man on a bay horse could be Dan McGowen. He was a sort of rallying point for the nesters. He knew my ways. We'd fished, hunted and drank together. Even fought. Maybe that was what I was supposed to think. A few years ago I'd have been pulling at McGowen's tail feathers in a matter of hours, but the War had taught me to look past the obvious. Chasing the obvious could get me killed--or McGowen.

   A bay horse wasn't hard to find, and McGowen moved like a cat among the rocks. Besides, If Dan had wanted to take a shot at me he'd of told me first. At least I hoped so. Trouble can change a man's ways.

   I reached the ranch after dark, my feet sore and my temper on an uneasy leash. Mike McGarrity met me, flashed the lantern briefly on my face and said not a word.

   "Where is everyone?" I snapped.

   "Lookin' for you."

   "Hell's bells, you'd think I wore three cornered pants."

   Mike didn't answer. He was smart.

   "Did my horse come in?" I asked, cooling down some.

   "Couple hours ago."

   "Some brush popper took a couple shots at me."

   "Missed?"

   I grinned, suddenly seeing some humor in the situation. "Hit me square in my disposition. I dearly hate walking."

   Mike heaved a sigh of relief. "See hide or hair of him?"

   "Nope. But he was big. Tall and heavy. Not too good in rough country."

   "Hank's holding some supper."

   "Watch yourselves riding," I warned.

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