Buzzards Gotta Eat

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Buzzards Gotta Eat

Olin Thompson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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Copyright © 2008 by Olin Thompson

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ISBN: 978-0-945949-54-1

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PROLOGUE

Early June, 1896

Dad, the woman whined.

I said, 'no.' And I mean no! the crusty old man said firmly, snatched at his paper, and made a snapping sound of the sheets before him as if to punctuate his firm resolve.

But, don't you realize what this could mean? If we don't we'll be left behind once again, she continued to argue even though it was evident the old fool was not going to respond.

You heard me, he mumbled.

Arabella Farness looked at her father and knew without a doubt he'd crossed over the edge from hard headed to downright insanity.

The money was there, but it wasn't enough. She needed more. Much more. She could make this work with more. All he had to do was let a mortgage out at less than 2 1/2% and she could manage the finances.

Her father had told her, for years and years, and she was tired of hearing it, but he had told her that the ranch was clear and she was the only heir and he wasn't going to leave a disease riddled loan on the books. He compared it to a cow with hoof and mouth disease left for a legacy.

Borryin' money ain't never a wise de-ci-shun, he lectured. He lectured on it over and over for years.

She knew, though, that if he borrowed enough to make major changes in the size of the property, leasing another 50,000 acres from the government and buying up all the freeholds around the i north edge of the basin, changes in the size of the property would make it invaluable. Borrowing was the least of her concerns. Paying it back would be a simple matter.

Ben, she said later that night on the porch when he came to call, he won't do it. It's got to be done and done now. I can't imagine these people waiting longer. Maybe by the Fall, early Winter at the latest.

Whatchew want me to do, honey? Ben asked and chewed on something he'd pulled from the wilting flowerbed in front of the porch.

I've got only one choice, Ben. I have to be the heir to a large ranch and able to sign the documents myself. If I don't, well, you and I will die poor, she lamented.

Aw, shucks. We got our own selves to be together, he said romantically.

She almost hit him. She wanted to strangle him sometimes. He was a hearty fellow. Big and strong. He had the clever quick wit of a more mature man. But sometimes, well, sometimes he was thick. His wit notwithstanding and his thick attitude, she felt his physical attraction as a mighty thing that infected her as if he were the narcotic she needed to sooth out the bumpy road she faced. She loved to run her hands over his big muscular chest and find the nipples turn rock hard. As hers did.

Ben and Arabella had been lovers since they were kids. When Arabella went away to school he stayed and got mediocre grades. When she came back he seemed to brighten and though he was never going to be her equal mentally, he was a match for her voracious appetite for physical love.

I have a plan, she said as later in the darkness of the night they lay in the hay in the barn near the ranch headquarters.

What? he asked slugishly.

Who's there!? her father's voice was strong and angry, coming from somewhere near the barn door.

Me, Dad, Arabella answered sweetly. She straightened her dress and began to move around.

Get down here. Who's up there with you? Ring Farness called.

No one. I just come up here sometimes to think. You made me think about things tonight, she told him so he'd not be upset if he saw Ben Coburn.

Who's that? Ring asked and climbed the ladder with the kerosene lamp guttering away, lighting the night.

No one, she said sweetly. Just you wait a minute and I'll be down, she added.

Ring didn't wait and climbed up higher. His lamp held over his head he peered into the darkest corner of the loft.

Damn you, Ben Coburn, Ring Farness groused. What's goin' on here?

Arabella Farness wanted to tell him all about it. How she and Ben had been laying together, how he'd finally satisfied her after years of trying without success.

Damn you! Ring screamed. Ruin my daughter will you? Ben had tried to button his trousers and failed to get them straight. Little did he know how important that small detail would be in the next few moments.

Stop! Arabella screeched at her father. Stop it, Father. She pushed at the elderly man to leave and go back down the ladder and said in her harshest voice, Don't cause any more trouble.

Trouble, I'll damn well give you trouble, young lady, he said and grabbed at her arm.

She twisted, his grasp slipped, and her father fell over backward with a grunt, a gagged noise coming from his throat, and kerplunk, onto the hard floor of the stable.

Dad? Arabella asked softly, peering into the darkness where the once lit, now dark, kerosene lantern had brightened the dingy space. Dad, she called softly once more.

She had no idea what the results of the fall were. Perhaps it was all for the best since if he were badly hurt she could take over the everyday running of the ranch and finally make a damn profit, she thought. If he's dead, all the better, she concluded her thinking.

What is it? Ben asked, disheveled and curious.

He doesn't answer. I don't know if he's hurt or..., she didn't finish.

She lifted her skirt and turned to climb down the ladder to make sure of the victim's condition; touching him she found no pulse, no heart beat, no breath.

Looks like, she said up into the darkness, he broke his neck.

Oh damn, Ben said. How we gonna manage this? he wondered.

Dense goof, she thought, exasperated.

Sure as hell solves a lot of our problems, Arabella Farness said as she scrambled back up the ladder and went to Ben in the loft and insisted he do the same thing all over again that he'd done just a few moments before.

He wheezed and breathed hard afterward, but everyone seemed happy with the results.

Especially Arabella Farness.

Chapter 1

Slow down Slim! Jim jammed his feet against the splash board as the stage started suddenly.

Jim Plant had known the driver as Slim, Lean, Bean (for beanpole), Slick, and Shorty for so many years Jim had forgotten what the man’s real name was. Now, as dust was kicked up by the six horses ahead, he tried to remember it again just to yell at the driver, but Jim Plant couldn’t think of the man’s name, so Jim just yelled. Again. Slow down Slim! Yaw! was the only answer Plant got.

The stage careened around the corner of the dusty street in the sun bleached town and Jim thought the wheels would rise off the ground; but the vehicle only tipped and swayed on the soft springs to rock back and forth until it came to level. Jim shook his head, grabbed the Winchester tighter, pushed his feet a little harder, yanked his wide brimmed hat snugger, bit down on his cut plug a bit firmer, and thought he’d be tense as a board when they got to San Blas called Sand Blasted by the natives, he recalled seventy miles off in the high New Mexico desert.

Yaw! Slim yelled once more and the horses seemed to respond. They began to pick up an extra beat as they ran down the long slope to the hole in the floor of the long valley. They’d be slow rising out the other side, but there was another long slope and another rise after that. Fortunately, Jim noted, the road was smooth as an old worn floor. Otherwise the stage coach would, more than likely shake apart.

Jim glanced at Slim and saw a wild grin on his gnarly misshapen face; his white hair flying in the wind from under the aged wet with sweat, and a heavily rime stained Stetson. Without inventorying the old man further, Jim knew Slim had been in fights from Boston to Yuma and usually lost, but a gamer the whole time; his nose was nearly flat from the poundings, his teeth were misshapen and several were missing, his ears were curled differently than any Jim had ever seen, and Slim smiled with a crooked grin which was often mistaken for pleasant. Jim had made the error once also, trying to be friendly, and received a sting of curses for the effort, so he decided the old jackass wasn’t worth wasting time on except to drive the damn coach. Jim spit out the plug and finger cleaned the excess from between his teeth, and wiped his hand on his grimy trousers.

Yaw! It was a twelve hour ride, uncomfortable as hell, Jim thought, the whole way. Might as well try to get settled, he concluded and looked around for something to jam against the side of the high seat; he found nothing. The leather cushion below him had been worn through by different shaped butts over the years and cheap as Terse Allan had been when he was owner, he wasn’t about to make comfort of the guard or the driver a priority. Jim didn’t think Terse had made comfort of the passengers a big issue either. But as new owner, Jim silently vowed he would from now on if Slim continued to drive this way.

Three hours came and were about to go when the stage rumbled into sight of the relief station on the side of the dry river bed at River Oaks stream crossing.

No one? Jim asked as he watched the yard from the top of the hill nearly four miles off.

Yaw! Slim said, spit a long brown stream off the side, and lashed at the team.

Jim looked down at the Winchester and checked the loads. He had a pocket full of .44 for the rifle and a belt full of .45 for his pistol, but he felt uncomfortable at this moment.

I wouldn’t want to go fighting any battles with only fifty rounds, he thought.

Slow down! Jim yelled at Slim who turned to the Jim once, snapped his head back, and spit another stream in reply.

The stage rattled and tipped again as Slim yanked the leads so the horses nearly flew into the cut back at the edge of the road in front of the stage station.

A loud report from the south and the lead horse bucked twice, kicked its hind legs, arched, threw its head up, and fell in a heap as it tangled the lines and scrambled the other horses in a jumble. A scream from inside the coach pierced the air and chills ran up and down Jim’s spine.

Dammit, I told you to slow down! Jim yelled and jumped clear of the stage as it slid sideways and crumpled, but in a whole piece, into the mass of horseflesh ahead. The tongue snapped and the wagon sat strangely canted against a boulder, like a man with a broken neck.

Shit! yelled Slim and flew off the seat and into the off side lead horse, bounced twice, and his leg was caught in an awkward angle as he landed in the dirt near the yard gate.

Get down! Jim yelled, knowing it did no good to tell Slim anything, since he usually did exactly what he wanted and no one knew why Allan had ever kept the old curmudgeon driving.

Jim remembered when he first came to Clarksville he’d ridden for Terse Allan, but Ring Snoosen was the driver. Snoosen fell in love with a dance hall girl in Sand Blast and fell asleep in her bosom, never to return to Clarksville. He was her manager now and they lived off her earnings, Jim had heard, and couldn’t believe it; but each time he saw them, snuggled and doing what he thought was coochy cooing, he began to believe it. I couldn’t share my woman with another man, Jim decided, but I guess if they’re happy it ain’t none of my business.

And just as suddenly as the rifle had shot the horse, Jim was on the ground between the coach and the horses. He could see through the horses’ fidgety legs that Slim was laying writhing on the ground.

Now the quiet bothered Jim. He was well hidden; but the groaning, leg holding, grimacing old man twenty feet away distracted Jim some.

You all right? Jim whispered. No! Slim yelled.

Jim knew that Slim spoke, mostly, in one word sentences. And curses were the staple of those sentences.

Can you crawl back this way? Jim whispered once more. Cain’t move, the driver said through clinched teeth.

Two words, Jim said softly as he peeked over the edge of the canvas cover on the back of the coach and saw nothing, but one hardly ever saw Apaches in this area and never saw them in any case unless they wanted one to see them.

Jim felt the hair rise on his neck and knew they were in deep water here and could get out only if they were very lucky.

He looked inside the coach and saw the girl shaking and holding her hands over her face, and a godawful straw hat with stupid looking bright yellow flowers had been pulled down tighter, the gingham dress he noted earlier it had been freshly ironed and she looked, he tried to think of a word and came up with, dainty was torn on the shoulder and flesh had been clawed by something inside the coach. A trickle of blood ran off her skin, but it wasn’t bad, Jim felt. He opened the door with a yank which attracted her attention.

Com’on, le’s get outta here, he urged in a hissing voice. She looked up at him, gave a wan and frightened smile, nodded, and began to move.

Stay low! Jim hissed as she started to rise.

She did and he pulled her out of the coach and onto the ground beside him behind the off side rear wheel. They lay beside one another looking through the spokes. Jim thought it little protection, but it was better than the thin sides of the coach since the wheel rundles might distort the pair’s appearance to any shooter.

What happened? the girl asked and straightened her hat again.

Get rid of that thing, Jim said though he didn’t look at her; though, he did note that she was already dirty from the switch yard soil.

What?

Get rid of that, he turned and pointed his rifle barrel at the hat. Attracts attention. Get rid of the damn’ thing.

She pulled out the pins, took the hat off, rolled on her back and threw it away, into the open. Two rifle shots pounded the air and Jim caught the location from the smoke.

Good, he said, lined up on the tuft of grass and thickly growing redshank beside the road. He looked for something to shoot at, saw nothing, but plowed a .44 into the edge on one side, he quickly levered another round into the chamber and hammered the other side. It seemed nothing happened, but suddenly a volley from somewhere kicked up dirt and dust, rang off the iron band of the wheel, and splattered a spoke.

Roll! Jim felt a hard slam of something against his left shoulder but still urged his passenger, once more, and head pointed to the front of the stage. The girl did as he told her.

It wasn’t likely Apache since it was too far east; nor was it Comanche out here, Jim thought. It was someone trying something, but he wasn’t sure what.

Likely a damned Comanchero stealing horses, he decided. The old man continued to groan and Jim saw Slim held his knee, but was on his side now. If Jim thought about it, he might have noted tears rolled from the eyes of the hardened old man; but, Jim was, as he considered the possibilities, otherwise occupied.

Who is it? the girl whispered at Jim.

Hell, I don’t know. Pardon. I know what you know. Thought, he said and squinted against the lowering sun, it might have been Comanch’, but not too sure now. More’n likely Co-mancheros.

Why’s that?

He wished she’d shut up and just lay there, but didn’t say anything about it; and he was quiet also.

Why’s that? she asked again.

Jim snapped a look at her. Too many damn’ rifles. Pardon. The local tribes ain’t got that many. There’s too many guns for that. And they’re accurate. Most Indians got nothing that shoots that straight. There’s maybe four rifles I figger, he said. After a short pause, he added, At least four men. Might be twenty, but they’da gotten us by now if it was that many. It’s likely white men, outlaws, trying somethin’ and I don’t have the damn’est notion, pardon, why. He looked back over his shoulder and hesitated. I wonder where the station crew is? he asked, mostly to himself.

She seemed to ignore his language or his apologies and lay quietly now.

Jim scooted along the firm ground and finger curled at the girl to follow him. She moved and tried to remain well covered even though her clothing became badly disarranged. Jim saw flashes of flesh and even though he tried to divert his eyes. She didn’t seem to notice his glance, or at least he hoped so.

At least I didn’t leer. I just sorta caught a glimpse. And with that thought he smiled.

What’s your name? Jim asked in low tones. Vera.

Jim, he said and nodded. Jim Plant, he added. He wondered why he hadn’t checked the passenger list more closely before they left. The office manager had it to look at, but Jim had been busy making sure everything was loaded and left that part to Kirk. It was his job, after all.

She said nothing.

The rifles across the road had been quiet for moments now. Jim wondered what it was all about, once more, and decided they must think he and Slim were carrying something. There was no valuable cargo that he knew of.

The next noise was another round of shooting from brush on the verge of the road and another heavy slam against his shoulder, a hammer to anvil feeling in his head, and, just before he went unconscious he felt no pain or hurt, but his leg was pushed hard by what he knew was a bullet. His head dropped back to the ground and lay against the sun heated iron rim of the stage coach and though it would burn a red mark in his skin he had no thoughts, good or bad, about it, since he had no sensation. He went black.

That’s the only one with a gun, the tall bandit with the green scarf over his head yelled to someone.

The girl noted them as they rose, one at a time. Jim had been right, she thought, and she had a sudden notion to take his rifle and start shooting. She tugged at his obviously dead body, whitened and ghostly pale skin of his face told her that; she hoped to get at the rifle and when it cleared she turned to rise and shoot. But there was a big man standing over her, bad acne skin facial features, scar above his eye, several days growth of whiskers, and dirty filthy clothing. She had no reason to category the appearance, but did nonetheless.

Well? the voice from somewhere behind her called. Woman! the man in front of her returned the call. The man took his rifle and turned to the driver who still held his knee, but seemed to have relaxed some. Old man! The crusty driver of the incoming stage now turned on his back and closed his eyes as he was clearly in pain. He let out a moan.

Broke, he said softly, but just loud enough it could be heard.

Won’t matter none, the man said and pulled the trigger of what Vera had learned on her way to the harsh West was a carbine. It bucked in the man’s hand and hammered a bullet into the old man, who slammed back against the earth where dust poofed behind him.

Vera thought of screaming, but knew it would be useless. The man who shot would have no less of an urgency to shoot her if she caused trouble. Though, she realized and had learned also on her way West, that the men would hardly ever harm a woman. There were some who would kill just to be killing. This man, she felt, was one of those.

Woman. You make a slight bit o’ trouble and I’ll likely shoot you.

She nodded, loosened her hold on the rifle barrel in her right hand. She sat partly upright, helpless, hopeless, and alone in the middle of the New Mexico desert with four was it Jim had said? bad men doing who knew what? And who knew why?

Two dead men within twenty feet of her, no telling how many inside the stage station, and she lay there at the feet of the ugliest man she ever saw. He was big too.

What is it Rufe? The man with the green scarf tied around his head looked down at her. He didn’t have any expression on his face, but she felt the evil. She knew there was no goodness in the man. None.

Jus’ the woman, Rufe said and pointed the carbine at her, nudged it against her chest and snagged her clothes. Wanna keep her?

Nah, the man snarled and walked to the house.

I’ll take care of her, a young voice said from somewhere. Vera couldn’t see who said it.

The rifle came up and the voice said, Hold it there, Rufe. You ain’t hurtin’ nothin’.

Shut your mouth, Rufe growled and turned back to her, finger flipping the hammer back, and Vera saw in clear reality the finger tighten on the trigger.

Rufe! What? The rifle turned away and Vera sighed.

She looked over and saw a small, younger man, corded trousers tucked into the tops of tall boots, two silver pistols hung in deep brown leather holsters, and he had on a well worn flannel shirt. His hat was thrown back from his head and lay on his back.

A rifle hung from his left hand.

Don’t, was all the younger man said and he said it with such intensity the older man paused.

Vera felt the heat as if it came from fire or anger.

Well, if you don’t like it, Rufe said and started to turn back to her, do something about it smart man.

The gun seemed to jump into the youngster’s right hand. Rufe tensed and his feet began to spread.

Don’t believe even you are that fast, the youthful voice said and Vera saw the smile spread on the kid’s face, but it was a smile of pleasure of a job he was about to do, not happiness or friendliness.

Put it back and we’ll see about that, Rufe said, tension high in the air.

Rufe! Jamey! the green scarf barked harshly.

Yeah, the boy named Jamey said with the smile in place. As soon as Rufe steps away from the woman.

Rufe. Forget it. Put her inside, the man with the green rag on his head said, and nodded toward the stage station building. Don’t be killin’ each other over some slash.

Rufe looked like he’d explode. Vera hoped he’d go away and leave her alone. She didn’t think much of her chances with the boy either, since he seemed as vicious as the other two. She couldn’t find the fourth man and she looked for him when she rose to follow the other men into the house. He wasn’t there and she wondered why. The answer was quick to come.

How’s Stan?

He’ll likely die, Jamey said and pulled a scoop of water from the barrel by the post holding the main roof beam.

Vera looked around the dark room, big table in the center, cooking equipment hung from hooks in the fireplace like they had in the East fifty, even a hundred years ago. The place was a mess, debris never swept out, and cobwebs dangled from the ceiling. Sunlight, the last of today’s, speared through the window and dust hung suspended in the glare. The place smelled of burned food, cigars, dead something, Vera sniffed and made a face