Riding the Line Read online

  Riding the Line

  The flare-up between Zeb Walters of the Red Hammer ranch and Broken Arrow’s top-hand, Jim Braddock, is brief and unexpected. It earns Zeb a lump on the head, a night in the cells and a five dollar fine. The cause is a mystery to everyone, including Jim Braddock, but over the following days, the event becomes a major talking point in Big Timber, giving rise to much gossip and speculation.

  It is several weeks, however, before Jim and Zeb meet again, this time on the snow-swept bank of a creek that forms the boundary between the two ranches. The outcome leads to death and violence, lost trust, a new ally, the threat of range war and a noose around Jim Braddock’s neck.

  By the same author

  The Hanging of Charlie Darke

  The Drummond Brand

  In the High Bitterroots

  Return to Tatanka Crossing

  A Storm in Montana

  Longhorn Justice

  Medicine Feather

  Arkansas Bushwhackers

  Jefferson’s Saddle

  Along the Tonto Rim

  The Gambler and the Law

  Lakota Justice

  Crackaway’s Quest

  Riding the Line

  Will DuRey

  ROBERT HALE

  © Will DuRey 2017

  First published in Great Britain 2017

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2230-8

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Will DuRey to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  PROLOGUE

  Nobody really knew the cause of the flare-up in The Garter, not even Jim Braddock, who was a major player in the incident. It was two days after payday and, in keeping with custom, riders from the Broken Arrow spread had ridden into Big Timber at the earliest opportunity to sample the entertainment on offer. That boiled down to whiskey, a nickel-and-dime card game in one of the saloons and the company of one of their girls for an hour. More wranglers and drovers who were flush with their month-end dollar-a-day pay from the other outfits in the vicinity were also in town, their needs no different from those of the hardworking Broken Arrow crew.

  Zeb Walters had a wife and daughter, so when he drifted into The Garter among the Red Hammer cowboys it wasn’t to flip a dollar to one of the girls and make use of one of the rooms along the upstairs balcony. He’d worked on Charlie Grisham’s spread for eight years and was reckoned to be one of the smarter fellows who pushed cows for a living. With a family in tow when he arrived in Big Timber, folk had expected him to work his own strip but nothing had come of that. Eight years on he was still working another man’s cattle. After buying a beer he looked around the room, then pulled out a chair at one of the tables where a poker game was in progress. He knew all the people gathered there: two men who lived in Big Timber, a wrangler from a small ranch south of town and Jim Braddock from the Broken Arrow.

  Compared to the big money games that were common in the cities, rich cow towns and mining camps, they were playing for pennies, but these were men cautious with their money, anxious to make it last until the next payday. However, Lady Luck had chosen that day to drape herself around Jim Braddock and hadn’t released him. As the hours passed more than one player remarked upon his formidable good fortune and quit the table to find a game in another part of The Garter or a saloon elsewhere in town. Zeb Walters had not quit, insisting that his luck must eventually change. It hadn’t, and exchanging cold beer for shots of rotgut whiskey didn’t improve matters either. He became more angry and more drunk with each losing hand.

  Jim Braddock and Zeb Walters weren’t friends but neither were they enemies. They’d known each other for several years but past hostilities between the men who paid them had prevented any real friendships from being formed between riders of the opposing outfits. Still, Jim didn’t want to take all of the other cowboy’s pay; he had had his own bleak periods of seeking handouts from his bunkhouse cronies when he’d done foolish things. It would be worse for Zeb with a family to support, but the decision to keep playing wasn’t Jim’s to make. It was accepted practice to play on if the other man was determined to try to win his money back. Zeb had ignored the counsel of one or two friends during the session, had refused to leave the game.

  Low murmured curses and the occasional blazing-eyed look across the table at Jim had made everyone aware of Zeb’s growing belligerence, but they weren’t unaccustomed to that. Zeb often grumbled, often conveyed the impression that the fates had conspired to make every event in his life a failure, but it never developed into anger, he had no reputation for violent behaviour. So his sudden awkward lurch to his feet as Jim reached across the table to scoop up the pot that contained the last of Zeb’s money came as a surprise. The clumsiness of his abrupt movement caused his chair to overturn and topple to the floor and it was its clatter that gripped the attention of everyone in the room. All eyes turned in that direction, watched as Zeb hunched his shoulders, his right hand hovering close to the butt of his holstered gun. He extended his left hand in accusatory fashion, his mouth was open, saliva dribbling from the corner and words were forming in his mind but were unable to find their way to his mouth. Everyone knew he was dangerously close to calling Jim Braddock a cheat.

  Jim Braddock was no more a gunfighter than Zeb Walters, but that day, with the other man unsteady with drink, the Broken Arrow rider would have had little trouble in beating his opponent to the draw. Throughout his life he’d seen men die; from the war years, through cattle drives and rough railhead towns, to warding off rustlers and riding with justly formed posses in pursuit of killers and robbers. He wasn’t a man who enjoyed killing but nor was he one to avoid it if it was the right thing to do. He’d won twenty-two dollars from Zeb Walters that day, which, in his opinion, wasn’t worth dying for, but if Zeb had reached for his gun Jim would have killed him. That was the way such matters were settled, but the long barrel of Sheriff Stone’s Colt struck Zeb Walters on the side of the head and the Red Hammer rider slumped unconscious to the floor.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It wasn’t dawn; perhaps it would be another hour before sufficient light penetrated the interior of the small line shack to enable Jim Braddock to find his boots, fill the coffee pot and see his breath hovering in the air. It was the cold that had awoken him; had, in fact, kept him on the edge of wakefulness throughout the night despite being wrapped in the new grey blanket he’d brought from the bunkhouse stores. If he hadn’t been under orders to be tough on Dean Ridgeway he wouldn’t have endured the torment. He would have supplemented the warmth provided by the blanket by heaping his big coat over it, thereby ensuring a good night’s sleep, but he’d made some bravado statements about it not yet being winter, with the result that he would have lost face if he’d taken steps to relieve his suffering. So he’d persevered in silence. Although he’d expected a colder night, its severity had caught him by surprise. In hindsight, he should have packed the stove with logs to keep it alive and let its heat ward off the night chills, but he hadn’t and he’d had to face up to the consequences; lacking a good night’s sleep meant the day ahead would be all the more arduous.

  Across the room, where he lay on a rolled-out mattress, Dean Ridgeway cursed, using an expression that not only spoke of his gross discomfort but also included imprecations wishing evil upon his father and Jim, both of whom he blamed for his current plight. The bitter words were uttered no louder than the laboured, teeth-chattering exhalations of breath with which the
y were intermingled but Jim had heard them throughout the night, at first with humour, then with a level of sympathy and now with a degree of annoyance.

  ‘I don’t care if you are the boss’s son,’ he snarled, ‘but if you call me that name again I’ll beat you stupid, tie you across your saddle and send you back down to the ranch.’

  ‘You’re awake!’

  ‘Of course I’m awake. Who can sleep with you yammering like an underpaid gal in Miss Lily’s house.’

  ‘Wish I was there now,’ Dean grumbled, ‘being warmed by Rosie.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Jim, ‘are you cold? Well put some clothes on and light the stove.’

  Defensively, Dean repudiated Jim’s suggestion. ‘I didn’t say I was cold.’

  In the darkness the older man grinned. ‘Well,’ he said in a grumbling tone, ‘you’ve spoilt my sleep so we might as well have some coffee.’

  After lighting the stub of candle that remained in the holder on the small table, Jim dressed hurriedly and wondered at the logic behind the old man’s efforts to produce a mirror-image of himself in his son. He understood, of course, that the Broken Arrow was Hec Ridgeway’s life’s work and his legacy for future generations. A man like Hec who had built his own little empire would hope for, expect – want – his son to follow in his footsteps and build upon that inheritance, but it was clear to every man who rode for the Broken Arrow that young Dean wasn’t cut out to be the hard-riding, knock-’em-down kind of rancher that was the mark of his father.

  That wasn’t to say there was no good in the lad, nor that he wouldn’t amount to something if left to choose his own way in life. He was bright, intelligent and willing enough to do his share of work; he simply had no interest in cattle and no patience to learn about them or nurse them. If Hec had got the boy interested in the business aspects of ranching, breeding and profit making, Dean might have been an asset to his pa, but sending him out to chivvy dumb critters was more likely to drive him away than kindle any interest.

  Cattle were dumb, Jim believed; sometimes they acted on instinct but never with intelligence. Herding them was a job for those who, like him, were capable of nothing better. Although he didn’t doubt that the old man had his son’s best interests at heart, Jim was sure that treating Dean like a common drover was a waste of the lad’s abilities.

  The cabin wasn’t large, it hadn’t been built to accommodate more than one cowboy, so it wasn’t easy for two big men to get dressed swiftly while stumbling about in the dimness of the confined space. By the time Jim was stamping his feet into his boots, however, Dean was making an effort to get the stove burning. When they’d eaten the eggs and ham prepared by Jim for breakfast, the dim, natural morning light assured them that their working day had begun.

  Ice had formed overnight and sealed the door closed. It required a determined effort from Jim to crack it open. Outside, the sky above was clear but he could feel the stirring of a wind that was carrying the cold air from the Bitterroots. He looked westwards to their dark, ragged outline, turned up the collar of his heavy coat and crossed to the shed where the horses had been stabled. The hard ground was white with ice and frost. Once or twice his feet slipped as he trudged the distance between shack and shed. The warmth that escaped from the small stable when he opened the flimsy door was accompanied by the aroma of fresh manure. Jim was always comforted by the smell; his horse was alive and well, which was essential for his own survival, especially when line-riding at this remote extremity of the Broken Arrow range.

  Dean, who had been banking the stove in an effort to keep it alight until they returned later in the day, joined Jim at the stable.

  ‘What’ll we do today?’ he asked.

  ‘Same as we do every day, round up strays and cut out Red Hammer stock.’ As they led their horses out of the stable, Jim cast a look at the lightening sky. ‘I don’t like it,’ he told his companion, directing his attention to the heavy, cloud-filled northern quarter. ‘If this is the onset of winter it’s going to be long and harsh. Wouldn’t expect it to be this cold for another three weeks and if those clouds are full of snow we need to get the cattle out of the high ground straight away.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s just a squall,’ suggested the younger man.

  ‘You might be right, but let’s get busy and be prepared for the worst.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The highest they’ll stray is the water hole up by the old Indian burial ground.’

  ‘Why don’t they go higher?’

  ‘Nothing grows. They won’t go where there isn’t any grazing.’

  ‘Smart of them to know that,’ said Dean.

  ‘Not smart,’ Jim corrected, ‘just instinct.’

  Like a lot of cowboys employed by his father, Dean knew that Jim wasn’t keen on long conversations. He had a tendency to be abrupt when he was running out of words, a trait that had regularly surfaced during the three weeks they’d been working the line together.

  ‘That burial ground is up north apiece,’ he said, hoping the snippet of knowledge would convince the older man that he had learned a lot under his tutelage. If Jim gave the old man a good report when they got back to the ranch he might never have to live in such primitive conditions again.

  ‘That’s right, but we’ll check the eastern border first. Could be I’ll need you to drive any strays we find over there back across to the Long Valley while I climb up to check the top water hole.’ After a moment he spoke again. ‘Is your rifle loaded?’

  ‘Sure,’ Dean assured him, the expression on his face a clear indication that he didn’t understand the reason for the other’s question.

  ‘Wolves and lions,’ Jim said. ‘They’ll be thinking of winter, too. If they can isolate one of the critters they’ll attack it. Shoot to kill.’

  ‘I know,’ Dean replied, offended by the older man’s implication that he wasn’t tough enough to do what needed to be done to protect the stock.

  ‘Kill as many as you can,’ Jim told him. ‘There’s a bounty on wolf skins.’

  ‘Cats, too?’

  ‘Not a bounty but you’ll be able to sell a good pelt at Morgan Taff’s place in Big Timber. He’ll give you a good price.’

  As they rode away from the line cabin Dean Ridgeway mulled over Jim’s words and questioned him about the value of pelts and their barter value in earlier days.

  ‘Sure,’ Jim assured him, ‘when I first came to these parts it was the most common way of doing business. Paid for all my provisions and ammunition with wolf skins and other hides.’

  ‘Were you a trapper?’

  ‘No, but I learned to skin deer and beaver and anything else I killed. One time I traded a bearskin in a Shoshone village for a whole wardrobe of buckskin: shirt, leggings and moccasins, plus a few trinkets. Got a nice necklace that I used to pay for a girl in a Missoula sporting house.’

  Dean laughed. ‘Bartering in a place like Miss Lily’s?’

  ‘Sure,’ Jim insisted. ‘This girl had a neck two feet long to accommodate all the trinkets she’d earned.’

  ‘Jim Braddock! You are some storyteller.’

  The older man kept his face free of smiles. ‘Reckon if you caught, skinned and treated the pelt of a mountain lion then made it up into a coat for that Rosie gal she’d see her way clear to taking care of you for a week.’

  ‘A week? All that effort must be deserving of more than a week.’

  ‘Careful what you wish for, young Ridgeway. If you insist on more she might regard the gift as a marriage proposal. Then where would you be? What would your father say? He’d probably banish you to this line cabin for a year.’

  With his chin tucked inside the upturned collar of his coat Dean chuckled. Men like Jim Braddock never talked about themselves but they always had good stories to tell. The word marriage lingered in his mind. Of course he wasn’t going to marry Rosie or anyone else from Miss Lily’s place, but where else was he going to meet a girl? There were none to be found while riding the range pursuin
g cows that were only interested in being guided to the next meadow or watering place. The few girls he’d seen in Big Timber hadn’t aroused any especial interest and he was seldom permitted to go further afield.

  ‘Have you ever been married, Jim?’

  The question took Jim Braddock by surprise and without warning the face of Victoria Saddler appeared in his mind’s eye. Demobbed at the end of the war, he’d met and courted her in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. She had been a schoolteacher and, despite his desperate longing to please her, it had soon become apparent that any thoughts of a union between them were doomed to disappointment. She was intelligent in a way he could never emulate and he hadn’t the means to provide for her as any good husband should do. He’d accepted every offer of employment that came his way but at that time, in that place, nothing was permanent, there was nothing long term upon which he could hope to build a future.

  She’d married a dentist and Jim had moved across the border and taken his first job working with cattle; rounding up the longhorns that roamed wild across the Texas scrubland. Marriage was all right for people like young Dean who weren’t handicapped by the lack of intelligence or money, but never again had he considered it. There had been one or two women in his life since then but they had come and gone without prompting thoughts of a permanent life together. Being alone didn’t bother him, what irked was the realization that he was forty-six next birthday and had nothing to show for his life but a saddle, a revolver, a Winchester and about two hundred dollars in the Big Timber bank.

  Before he could give the lad an answer Dean spoke again.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  After a first careful mile to let their mounts become accustomed to the tricky ground conditions, they’d picked up the pace as they’d made tracks towards the creek and Fetterman’s Brook which marked the boundary between the Broken Arrow and Red Hammer grazing lands. Ahead there were two riders with a dozen cows ahead of them. They’d stopped, waiting, it seemed, for Jim and Dean to approach.