[i]Collaboration between idlehands and RoadRash[/i]

[b]McCall Ranch, early afternoon, one day prior to the attack on the Beringer wagon[/b]

He watched the large red ants climb over the stones tumbled in the dusty loam soil, carrying on with whatever mission held them to their mindless course. Benjamin Ross leaned back against the bark of the honey mesquite, the shadows of the feathery leaves dancing on his weary face. He held a small wooden box on his thigh, sitting with his left leg extended at a stiff angle. Calloused fingers tapped the carved lid, a crude cross worked into the oak that was held together with brass hinges and a lock. It once held a Bible at an old Mexican church, according to the man who had sold it to him, taken as a souvenir of the war. Inside held salvation for him, though no words were balm anymore. No promises of long dead men and their God, he had seen enough to know that. 

Forgetting the ants, he unlocked the box and lifted the lid, the sunlight illuminating the glass vial and metal syringe nestled in the red velvet lining. There was a silk handkerchief, crinkled and stained, but it once was ivory with fine blue flowers stitched along the edges and the initials of a golden haired beauty from Houston. Benj had carried it through the war, even after the promise turned to ash once he received her letter to inform him of her impending nuptials. Ignoring the memories, he tossed it aside in favor of the thin leather belt coiled at the bottom of the box. 

There was not much left in the vial, the last one he had from San Antonio and he cursed under his breath. Benj would need to find a new source or risk getting sick and he dreaded the feeling. A knot of anxiety tightened in his gut and he filled the syringe, forcing himself to be sparing. Just enough to stave off the pain of his leg and the inevitable agony of withdrawal. He rolled his sleeve of his rough work shirt, the blue faded with sweat and countless washings. He flexed, the ropey muscles of his forearm stood out he sought a vein that had not decided to call it quits. His right arm was marked with the evidence of his use, dark bruises along the inner elbow and no matter how much he searched, Benj could not find a good spot. Sighing, he rolled down his sleeve, it was useless to look at his left, it was much the same if not worse. 

Finally he pushed his trousers down to expose his left thigh, finding a vein under the pale skin and injected his relief. Sinking back against the trunk of the tree, he breathed out, feeling the anxiety and cramps fade away as the floating bliss took him. Closing his eyes, Benj let it take him, pushing away thoughts of anything but the reprieve from the pain. 

The sun had shifted, the shadows stretching along the grass as Ben finally mounted his grulla mare and followed the tracks of the stray cattle to the creek. The lean cow that seemed to be the leader of the runaways shook her long horns in irritation, snorting as he waved his hands to push them back from the lusher vegetation. His mustang cut off the wiley old cow, forcing her away from the creek until she finally gave up and the longhorns trotted after her. Benj patted his horse’s neck, “Good thing you’re better at this than me, old girl.” 

Benj looked them over as he herded the cluster of cattle along, Joseph McCall’s cattle were longhorns, feral cattle rounded up when he returned from the war a few years back. A lean long legged breed descended from Spanish cattle, they were capable of surviving the rugged south Texas conditions. Each one was marked on their boney hip by the conjoined eights of the McCall brand. Among the dozen he was bringing in, he spotted two with a different marking. 

“Shit...” he muttered, two red cows bore the lazy H, a brand from a ranch farther to the east. Likely they had wandered off and were missed by the hands but it was not a wise thing to be caught with another man’s property. Bringing them up to the main herd, he waved his coil of rope at the two heifers, forcing them apart from the group until they trotted off on their own. 

Benj could see the lean familiar figure on the paint horse and waved at him, heading the pair of cows towards the foreman. “Mr. Cothran, we have some guests.” 

Bill sat lazy in the saddle, the reins held loosely in his left hand, his right drumming idly on his thigh. He quirked a graying eyebrow as Benj approached, and leaned over to spit a stream of tobacco juice from the generous hunk he was gnawing. 

“Guests, eh?” He gave Injun a nudge and the gelding wandered towards the returning cows, his perpetual frown deepening as he eyed the errant brands. 

“Them’re Dominguez’s cows. Gotta be what, fifteen miles between them an’ us?”

Bill chewed for a few moments in silence, then spat again. It was unusual for just two cows to stray that far from their home range. While small groups would sometimes break off from a larger herd, it was rare that they would go wandering without the safety of numbers. Fearsome as longhorns were, they were still cattle, and there were still predators who would make a meal of them. Besides, Bill knew Dominguez, and he knew the men who worked his range. They were damned good hands, and wouldn’t have let their animals wander that far from the herd.

“Well, that ain’t right, that’s for sure. Ain’t no reason for his cattle to be this far west, especially just a couple of ‘em. They’d have stayed with a bigger group. Good eye, Benny. Took you damn long enough to get ‘em over here though.”

He stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled, drawing the attention of the two dark hands who were with them. 

“Vasquez! Castillo! C’mere. Somethin’s afoot.”

As the two approached Bill pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his mop of hair, wiping the sweat on his trousers. 

“Where’d you say these two were, Benny?”

Benj reached up and adjusted his battered black cavalry hat, his chestnut hair shaggy and unkempt under it. “Picked them up near Black Creek, must have wandered through the water for a bit as their tracks had disappeared, took a while to pick it back up.”

He lied casually, it came too easy these days to the former Ranger. Little things mostly, covering his habit from the prying eyes of his company. Rubbing the bridge of his nose with his gloved hand, he continued, “About two miles north.”

Gesturing back where he had come to the line of mesquite and huisache trees. “I didn’t see anything else, just the cattle tracks.”

As they spoke, another hand arrived trotting his horse quickly up to Bill, “Senor Cothran.”

The vaquero ignored Benj and directed his attention to the foreman, “We’re short five head, I counted them twice.” 

Bill swore, silently begging forgiveness from God and his mother both, before nodding in acknowledgement of the news.

“Alright, Rios. Ride on back to the herd, keep watch on ‘em with the other guys. Benny, you think you can back-track these two if we go back to where you found our cows?”

Benj nodded, lifting the reins, “Sure thing, but we’re losing light.” 

He turned his mare Lucy and tapped his heels to her flanks to canter back where he had come from. Following the path, they passed through brush, prickly pears snagging at their clothing. Deer liked to hide among them to eat the ripe fruit and as they rode by they flushed a few young whitetail bucks, sending them bounding through the trees. Soon the sound of running water could be heard and they emerged onto the banks of Black Creek. 

Pointing down to where the sandstone bank dropped away to a gravelly wash that lead to a swath of lush grass, “I found them down there having a fine old time.”

Bill surveyed the scene quietly, the wheels turning behind his blue eyes. He pulled his Winchester 1866 from its scabbard and jacked a round into it, then slid it back into place. Behind him Castillo checked his revolvers in their holsters and Vasquez made sure his battered Spencer was loaded and ready. 

“Benny, that rifle of yours loaded?”

“Always,” he patted the Henry rifle just behind him on his saddle, the Colt Navy pistol holstered  on his hip. “I didn’t see any prints down this way but we can follow where the two red heifers came from. Across the creek most likely, going east. I’ll check.”

He crossed the water, the sturdy little mustang navigating the slick stones with ease and emerged on the other side. From his saddle he looked around, furrowing his brow. The light was fading as the sun began to set and he would need to get down and look closer. With a grunt, he dismounted, the movement awkward as his left leg could not bend like the other. Benj scanned the mud, making out the pair of tracks leading to the creek and followed them to the brush. He noted the broken branches and disturbed vegetation, they had definitely come from the east. 

Standing straight, he continued to follow the game path, his gloved hand pushing aside the spiny mesquite limbs. He froze at the sound of a distant horse neighing, it came from in front of him rather than behind. Crouching as well as he could, he moved forward, his hand on the polished wood grip of his revolver. Benj slowly removed his hat, squinting in the light of the setting sun as he peered through the undergrowth. Ignoring the thorny branches, he stayed hidden as he spied the small camp. 

Four men sat astride their horses, leaning back and chewing on jerky though Benj was too far to hear their murmured conversation. They were dressed in worn sturdy clothing and wide brim hats, like any cow hand, but their lack of a campfire and array of weapons made Benj suspicious. In the quiet of the falling evening, he could hear the occasional lowing of cattle but could not see them. Rustlers. His experience tracking outlaws told him they were up to no good. They did not behave like cowboys on the trail but as thieves trying to hide. Benj licked his chapped lips, his leg was starting to protest and throb at the bent position. He had seen enough and he backed away, careful not to disturb the foliage around him.

Moving as swiftly and silently as his bum leg would allow Benj made his way back to where he had left Lucy and waved at the trio, beckoning them to cross but put his finger to his lips.

Bill gave Injun a gentle nudge, slowly making his way through the shallow water of the stream and pulling alongside Benj. He drew his rifle from its scabbard, the two hands with him readying their weapons as well. Benny wouldn’t have shushed them if there wasn’t trouble, and trouble was what he’d expected from the start of things. Cattle didn’t just wander 15 miles without help. His heart was beginning to thump; it always did before things got violent. No amount of experience could make a man immune to that fear. Nevertheless, his voice was calm and even.

“C’mon boys, let’s go take a look.” 

He slid from his horse and made his way slowly through the brush until he could see the camp. He studied the four distant men for a moment.

“Them fellas look like [i]vaqueros[/i] to you?”

“No sir,” Castillo whispered.

“Dominguez start hirin’ white folks since I last saw him?”

Castillo shook his head. “No. Most of them are his [i]primos[/i].” 

“Didn’t think so.”

Bill pulled back, wandering to his horse and pausing only to toss his tobacco before climbing back into the saddle.

Benj tongued the inside of his cheek, this would end badly but for which side was what concerned him. Rustlers were dangerous because in these parts they were killed on sight, hanged from the tallest tree if they wanted to be civilized. Feeling pleasantly light headed he listened to them speak in hushed voices and he slid the rifle from his saddle and cradled it in his arms, waiting for the foreman’s lead. There was a time when he would have made the call but those years had passed, he was no Ranger or officer, he was just a crippled ranch hand. Benj gazed through the tangle of mesquite at the men, if there was cattle then the four sitting around with the horses were not alone. At least one, maybe two would be with the herd.

Bill took a quick look at the men around him. Castillo’s face was blank, but Vasquez gave him a confident nod and hefted his rifle. He’d been in rough spots with the two Mexican hands before; he wasn’t worried about them. His gaze did linger on Benj, though. Despite his being a Ranger, Bill had never seen the new hand in action. They’d only been riding together for a few months. It was nowhere near the time required to build up solid trust in a man, especially when you were about to ride into a situation where lead would probably fly. Mentally shrugging away the thought, Bill gave Injun a nudge and started leading the group forward.

“We’re gonna get to the end of the brush here,” he said, “and then spur it on hard. I want to cover that ground fast. If they raise guns, shoot ‘em down. Otherwise, no killin’ unless it has to happen.”

Bill didn’t bother to wait for a response. He spurred hard the moment Injun’s nose reached the scrubline, leaning into the saddle and smoothly rolling with the mustang’s charging gait. His Winchester was at his shoulder, sights lined up with the body of the foremost rustler as Injun’s hooves pounded the earth beneath him.

The men turned almost as one, shouts of alarm ringing out as they pulled at their reins and turned their horses to meet Bill and his company. They had them dead to rights; only a fool would try and pull a weapon as things stood for them. 

The Double Eight hands covered the ground quickly, and Bill slowed Injun to a stop with gentle pressure from his legs. He kept his rifle raised, taking quick stock of the men.

“Easy there, boys,” Bill said, his voice full of calm authority. “Let’s not let things get out of hand here.”

One of the rustlers edged his horse forwards, his hands spread out away from the guns holstered at his hips. He was tall, well built, probably in his middle thirties. There was a gleam in his eyes that Bill didn’t like, and he gave them all a cocky grin.

“Don’t want any trouble here, sir,” he said. “Just wonderin’ why you’re comin’ at us with guns out is all.”

Castillo and Vasquez fanned out, putting a bit of distance between them all and drawing beads on different men. 

“Them ain’t your cattle,” Bill said simply, jerking his head towards the herd that was now visible. “Nobody runs Lazy H around here except Dominguez out East a ways, and he only hires Mexicans. Now, since none of you boys look to be the Spanish-speakin’ type, I’m gonna say that you stole them cows. You know what we do to rustlers, right?”

Two of the men twitched a little at that, obviously growing nervous. Their leader smiled, and the fourth stared at the armed Double Eight riders with wide eyes. Bill swore as he caught a glimpse of the fourth rustler. He was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and Bill knew him on sight.

“Samuel?” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Sam Lyons? What are you doin’ out here with these folk, boy? What would your mother think of this?”

The lad gulped but said nothing, his eyes fixated on the gun in Bill’s hand.

Benj leaned forward as Lucy bolted after Injun, the grulla mare cantering to catch up and he gripped his rifle in his hands. His left leg threatened to give, he could no longer balance up in the stirrups as he once did when he rode with the Rangers and then the cavalry. Luckily, it was a short distance and he pulled up, the mustang standing calm even as the tensions rose. He aimed casually at the leader, the one with the shit eating grin plastered on his face. Benj  scanned the others and he could see the herd of cattle down in an arroyo grazing. There might be another rustler, maybe two if they had that many, it seemed about fifty or so. He could also see some of the brands, mostly the Lazy H but a few Double Eights as well. 

At Bill’s words, Benj looked over at the young man. Samuel. He looked just as guileless as his brother had at that age. Forcing himself not to look at the kid and focus on the biggest threat, he could not keep the unwanted memories from bubbling to the surface in his drugged mind. His Sam, his younger and only brother, must have looked that terrified the moment the Union ball struck him. The letter said he had not suffered but Benj had seen enough war to know that was bullshit. Swallowing hard, he blinked at the flashes of his brother’s face overlapping the boy’s visage in front of him. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his face as he breathed harder. The logical corner of his mind knew it was just the trick of the morphine and memory but the idea this Sam was his Sam nagged at him. 

Bill was still looking at Sam Lyons when he caught movement from the corner of his eye.
Vasquez shouted a warning, and then guns were crashing. Bill snapped his eyes back to the leader of the rustlers in time to see him pulling his revolver from its holster. His rifle was still centered, and he squeezed the trigger, the Winchester bucking against his shoulder. The target pitched backwards off his horse and hit the ground hard, his gun skittering off into the dust. The other two rustlers tumbled from their saddles as bullets tore through them.

There were shouts of surprise from among the herd of stolen cattle and Bill saw two men on horseback spur their way free, making a break south.

“Castillo! Vasquez! [i]Vamos a agarralos![/i]”

The vaquerros shouted and spurred their horses, tearing off after the two fugitives, and Bill turned his attention back to Sam. The boy was panicked, his eyes wide and terrified as he pawed at his holster. Bill worked the lever, another round cycling into the chamber with a crisp clack.

“Don’t do it boy!” Bill shouted, raising his weapon and thumbing back the hammer. “God dammit, don’t you do it!”

Sam fumbled his pistol into his hand, and Bill fired. The bullet caught Sam squarely in the chest, his horse reared, and he tumbled to the ground. Bill threw his rifle aside and leapt from the saddle, kneeling beside the young man. His heels dug weakly at the dirt for a moment, red spreading across his chest, and then he was still.

“God dammit, boy,” Bill said quietly, shaking his head. “What the hell am I gonna tell your momma?”

“Sam!”

Benj shouted his name when he saw the burst of red from the boy’s chest. He had shot one of the hands after firing at the leader. The man had been hit in the neck with a bullet from the .44 rifle and he bled out quickly in the dust. His head reeled and he dismounted with a grunt, his left leg buckling but he caught himself on the saddle. Limping over, he made sure the man was dead and the other hand lay crumpled where he had fallen off his horse, the pool of blood leaking from the hole in the man’s chest. He kicked the pistol out of his hand just to be sure and hobbled over to Bill and the boy. 

He stood behind the foreman, watching the life fade from the boy’s wide green eyes. Benj looked away, looking at the trees gilded in the last of the sunlight. He took a deep breath, willing the image of his brother to leave the boy’s face, for the grass and stone to return and the pile of grey clad bodies to vanish like the ghosts they were. He had no idea if his brother died that way, only that he was shot in the chest. Benj had not been there, only a letter from one of his cousins spoke of Sam’s death in battle on some patch of Virginia soil. Shaking his head to try and clear it he looked over Bill’s shoulder, “The rest are dead. Want me to go and...check the cattle?”

Whatever he wanted was better than staring at the dying boy and having his mind play tricks on him.

Bill crouched silently beside the fallen boy, his mind elsewhere. Distant gunfire echoed back to the two cowboys, then faded. Several minutes later the returning forms of Vasquez and Castillo came into view. Finally Bill sighed and stood, walking to his saddle. He pulled his battered shotgun out of his rolled blanket and tossed it to Benj, then took down the blanket and shook it out.

“Round up the rustlers’ guns and horses. No sense leavin’ ‘em for the Apache to find. We’ll sell ‘em off in town. Then go help Vasquez and Castillo round up the cattle and get ‘em ready to drive back to the herd. I’ll take care of the boy.”

He brought the blanket over to Sam’s body, taking the pistol and tossing it into the dirt by Benj’s feet. 

“Leave the rustlers to rot. We’re bringin’ Sam home to his folks,” he said quietly. “His momma will want him buried proper.”