Chapter 15
Outside Bosler Wyoming 1875
It happened again. Someone has been at the herd. We have two thousand head of cattle out there and only one hundred calves, Walcott said to himself. The rustlers have been taking their pick of Isom’s cattle.
Walcott dreaded having to tell Isom and stand there while he threw a tantrum describing what he would do to the son of a bitch who stole from him.
Major Frank Walcott had been foreman of the Circle L, Olive’s ranch since1869. He arrived in the Wyoming territory after mustering out of the Confederate Calvary where he saw more death and carnage then he cared to remember, the worst being the Battle of Mesilla at Mesilla New Mexico. He was second in command to Colonel John Baylor. They defeated the Union Forces there and were heading up to the Colorado Territory to take Denver. This country could have been theirs and he felt they would have taken it if it had not been for those devils from Pike’s Peak. There were close to three hundred of them and they joined the Union reinforcements arriving from California. He and Colonel Baylor were driven back into Texas where they remained until the end of the war. Pike’s Peak, damn, defeated by a bunch of sod buster’s from a place named after a loser, Zebulon Pike, who was unable to climb the fourteen thousand foot mountain; yet it gets named after him. It was like everything having to do with that damn war, nothing turned out the way it should have.
Major Walcott drove cattle north from Texas to Wyoming and Montana more than any man he knew. He was good at what he did, just as he was good at soldiering. If they had won the war, he would still be an officer, probably a full colonel by now. But they hadn’t, and he needed to get over it.
He saw Tom Corlett’s weathered face as he approached on his big Appaloosa gelding. When he came within yelling distance, Walcott said: “Tom, looks like we lost calves again to someone running irons.”
Many herds were started with a fast horse, a long rope and a running iron. Some rustlers used a cinch ring, a horseshoe or a bit heated in a fire. They also used running irons which are long slender metal rods with curved tips or rings that can modify almost any brand.
“You’re kidding me. When do you think that happened?”
“Don’t know and don’t care. Get back down there and pick out a half dozen good men and meet me back here. I ‘spect Olive will want us to put an end to it; so we better get to it.”
As Tom turned and spurred his big gelding down the arroyo, Major Walcott looked over the herd of cattle and couldn’t help but think of Isom Prentice Olive and what it would be like telling him the news that most of his calves had been rustled. Olive was a little gnome of a man, barely 5’4” and appeared as round, as he was tall. He had no neck to speak of and his chin dropped to his chest in rolls. His thinning hair was forever greasy and hung in strands down the back of his neck. As repulsive as he was to look at, he was more disturbing to listen to. His voice was high-pitched with a nasal twang and that annoyed the hell out of Walcott.
Olive inherited his holdings from his father, who died when he stepped off the boardwalk in Bosler in front of the Bucking Horse Café and was run down by a wagon full of Brule Sioux. They were heading back to the reservation after a night of drinking as much “fire water” as their buffalo hides would buy them. All six Indians mysteriously disappeared the next morning and were found a week later, shot in the back of the head down by the Snake River up in Columbia County. Most folks figured it was the doings of Isom and some of his men but nothing was done about it. Walcott knew it was Isom and he knew which men he took with him. It was those two squirrelly guys out of southwest Texas, Rory Lovell and Jasper McCabe. Walcott didn’t want anything to do with either of them. Two others, Turk Turner and Willie Reston were no longer with them. Olive knew better than to ask Walcott to do something like that. He was a wrangler, not a gunman. Now if they stole some cattle, Walcott would do what it took to get them back. To shoot a rustler was one thing, but to gun someone down with no proof of wrong doing was something Walcott wouldn’t do. Leave it to the law that’s what they are there for. Oh well, what the hell, they were only Indians, he thought.
Tom was riding back with Ben Jones and Bill Walker, two big boys who had a reputation for fighting whenever the opportunity made itself available. Also riding with him was D.E. the Texas Kid Brooke, who had a short fuse and was seen most nights practicing his quick draw with his two Colt .45’s. Walcott didn’t like him much. He overheard Gabby talkin’ to him one day after The Kid was bragging on how he could ride a horse.
“Anyone can do a job on a good horse, Gabby said, but it takes a hand to a job on a bad horse. You best keep your mouth shut and your eyes open and learn from some of the really good cowboys we got here like Tom and the Major.”
The Kid turned his horse and spurred him away while bumping into Gabby’s to show him his disrespect. Frank didn’t like him before and that act of defiance didn’t gain him any favor that’s for sure.
Also with them was Sam Clover, a quiet man who signed on with the outfit in Casper and who Walcott didn’t know much about, and then Nick and Ray Champion, two boys from Abilene, Texas, who ended up in the Wyoming Territory after being chased out of Texas by some woman’s husband who didn’t take a likin’ to havin’ a couple of cowhands servicing his lady. Walcott was pleased with Tom’s choice. These boys would be willin’ to go most places to take a fight.
“OK, let’s head out. We need to talk to Mr. Olive.” The group of riders pushed their mounts at a gallop across the plains toward the Circle L, Olive’s ranch, which was located a good three hour ride to the north. The Major would make sure they wouldn’t run their horses to death as some were wont to do when the horses didn’t belong to them. Olive had supplied horses to most of the boys. Of course, the Major and Tom Corlett preferred to ride their own mounts. A good horse knows instinctively what to do when you have been working cattle for as long as they had. When you get a horse like that, they become priceless and you don’t want to part with them. They make your job a lot easier than having to teach a green horse how to herd cattle.
Leaving the Loup Fork, they turned north on the old Overland Stage route. This route had been moved further north nearer Elk Mountain after Indian attacks made it too dangerous to cross. In the last few years, the Indians became a bit friendlier due to the Calvary stationed in nearby Fort Laramie so Walcott wasn’t worried about any encounter with them today. However, after those Brule’s were killed a year back, you never knew what the Indians might be thinking.
The plain was arid and gray. The trees appeared to be parched and dry and the prairie grass snapped beneath the hooves of the horses as they returned to the ranch.
As they approached the valley, everything appeared to be the richest of greens with elegant trees and patches of green buffalo grass blowing in the wind. They saw the smoke from the chimney as they crossed the mesa dropping into the valley. They had seen very little timber since they left the herd but now they were approaching some of the few stands of trees in this part of Wyoming. It sure made for a lovely setting.
When they reached the ranch, Walcott said: “You boys take the horses to the corral and make sure they get plenty of water and hay. Rub ‘em down good too. There are burlap sacks in the barn you can use for that. Stay close by. We might be ridin’ out shortly.”
Walcott swung off his horse and walked to the door and rapped loudly. Soon a young Mexican girl about fourteen opened the door and escorted him in.
“Hi Rosita,” Walcott murmured.
Rosita lowered her head and stepped aside allowing Walcott to enter. Rosita always averted her gaze when they met. Many times when passing the house on his way to his bunk, he could hear her crying. She usually had large bruises on her arms and occasionally on her face. He knew I.P. beat her and sexually used her. He didn’t like it much, but he figured it was none of his business and there was nothing he could do about it anyway if he wanted to keep his job. What difference did it make anyway? She was a Mexican wetback who was probably better off now than the life she was living in Tijuana with her mother, father and ten brothers. They were probably abusing her as well before Apaches stole her and traded her to Olive for a couple of horses and a jug of tequila. At least here she had a nice roof over her head and enough to eat. Olive received pleasure by hurting women that was for sure. Walcott knew that from the times they would go to Chugwater and visit Ella Watson’s place. Ella was also known as Cattle Kate, because she was the wife of a known rustler by the name of Jim Averell. Walcott could hear the screams coming from the room next to the one he was in. His whore told him all the girls hated Olive and she was glad he didn’t pick her that night.
Olive was sitting at the table reading from what looked like a ledger book. He had a grim look on his face and Walcott could only imagine it would get worse once he broke the news of his missing cattle.
“What are you doing here?” Olive asked looking at him with a menacing scowl on his face.
“We got problems boss. Someone has been stealin’ calves again. I think it’s some of them Hole in the Wall boys up in Johnson County.”
“Think it was that damn Red Angus? He’s been selling rebranded cattle up by the Chugwater for the past two years now. We ought to teach that son of a bitch a lesson he’ll never forget.”
Walcott knew that “We ought to” meant he and the boys would do the dangerous work before I.P. came along and did some sadistic thing to the poor bastard, something that filled a hollowness in his warped mind. “Either Red or that new guy up there, Horace Plunkett. He’s been known to take some that ain’t his. We can head up that way and inspect the brands. I know we will find some that have been worked over. We will have to be careful as we don’t want to rile up all those Hole in the Wall boys. All I got is six riders with me and Tom and that sure ain’t enough to go head to head with all them.”
“Well, see if you can get whoever done it down this way. I know how to deal with ‘em and I don’t want anyone interfering with me, especially that damn Sheriff Hayden.
Walcott knew Michael Hayden, the sheriff of Bosler and a good man, had strong suspicions about Isom Prescott Olive being involved in the killing of the Brule Indians near the Rock River last year. The sheriff had been to the ranch a couple of times to question I.P. and told him that he knew he was behind the murders but just couldn’t prove it; not yet at least.
“We will let our horses rest a bit before we head out. I’ll get Tom to make sure we have enough ammo in case we run into some trouble.”
At that, Walcott turned, nodded toward Rosita and left. He could only imagine what sort of torture Isom had in store for those sorry rustlers. Whoever it was, he was glad it wasn’t him.
“Tom, make sure everyone has forty rounds of ammo. We will be headin’ out in about an hour.”
“Okay boss” and with that Tom walked to the bunkhouse where the guns and ammunition were stored.
Two hours later they were crossing the Lodgepole Creek just outside Pine Bluffs, heading north to Chugwater. It would take them a good day’s ride to get there and Walcott didn’t envy the man who rustled I.P.’s calves.
The morning sun was about full, shining on the grass where the dew was giving it the appearance of small pieces of glass, scattered about as far as the eye could see. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the air was still, as if waiting to blow.
There wasn’t much conversation along the way as none of them had a lot in common outside of punching cows. Every now and then the Texas Kid took it upon himself to start bragging on how he took down some cowpoke that had the temerity to draw down on him. Walcott wondered just how much was true and how much was just false bravado. Guess they would find out soon enough. He knew from fighting in the war that the quiet ones were the ones you could count on when things got hot. It was the ones who liked to brag on themselves that seemed to disappear when you needed them the most. He knew Ben Jones and Bill Walker would be in the mix when the shit hit the fan and old Tom would be right there with him. Sam Clover and Nick and Ray Champion were as steady as they come and would stand up to anyone.