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  Remarque’s Law

  Ben Joyner has no argument with the people who built their homes on the grassland near Pecos, but the cattlemen have long considered the range their own domain and now trouble is brewing. Rancher Gus Remarque is Ben’s boss and believes that the dollar a day he pays buys not only a man’s labour but his loyalty, too. The time is fast approaching when that loyalty might involve killing or being killed, and Ben wants to wash his hands of this dispute: he did his fighting during the war. So he quits the ranch and rides east without any intention of ever returning to that part of Texas. But a strong-willed woman and two would-be horse thieves alter his plans and he’s back on the streets of Pecos when bullets begin to fly.

  By the same author

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  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

  To the Far Sierras

  Black Hills Gold

  Feud Along the Dearborn

  Remarque’s Law

  Will DuRey

  ROBERT HALE

  © Will DuRey 2018

  First published in Great Britain 2018

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2808-9

  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

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  PROLOGUE

  Marty Levin had halted on a lump of land from where he could see across the slow moving herd to the river beyond. His face was set with unusual sternness and he barely acknowledged Ben Joyner’s presence when the younger man pulled up alongside.

  ‘Fixing to brew coffee here?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Not here.’ Marty’s reply was uttered barely above a hoarse whisper but it was clear that his decision was related neither to need for rest nor time of day.

  ‘Never liked this place,’ he said. He raised himself in his stirrups and set his eyes on a spot along the riverbank ahead. ‘Fifteen years,’ he muttered then turned to Ben. ‘Fifteen years and the grass still doesn’t grow properly.’

  Ben, too, made himself as tall as possible in the saddle, attempting to see what Marty saw, but although his eyesight was keen, he detected nothing in the grass’s colour or length that set it apart from the rest of the pasture. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  Marty removed his hat and wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his brow before speaking. ‘This is where Mr Remarque caught those Mexican sheepherders. He hates sheep. Won’t tolerate them on his land.’

  Although this was the first time he’d heard of a conflict involving either shepherds or Mexicans, Ben wasn’t surprised by the revelation. Being so close to the border, such confrontations had surely been inevitable, and his employer’s attitude to sheep was no different to that of other cattlemen. The belief that sheep destroyed that grazing land which was the mainstay of their great herds marked them as another enemy to be repelled. Gus Remarque’s rough justice in defence of his land had been at the core of many stories, which involved battles against Apache raids and tracking down rustlers who had tried to make off with his stock.

  But currently there was a different tenor to Marty’s voice. There was no hint that this tale would be embellished in the normal manner of bunkhouse bravado, indeed, there was no guarantee that Marty would expand on the few words he’d spoken. Ben figured it was the current situation that was raising bad memories in Marty’s mind. Already that morning, the long-serving Long-R rider had indicated a tree from which two rustlers had been hanged shortly before Ben’s arrival, as though he was reliving in his mind all the violence of the past.

  Without a prompt, however, Marty spoke again. ‘Killed them all,’ he said, his voice a coarse rumble. ‘Killed them and burned every carcass. Men, sheep and dogs. The fire smouldered for two days. Smoke spread across the river. Smell lingered for a week and the cattle still won’t eat the re-grown grass.’

  Ben surveyed the herd. He couldn’t identify any stretch of land from which the cattle were shying away, but he figured that Marty’s comment was more a transference of his own aversion to the place rather than a genuine observance of the behaviour of the animals in his care.

  ‘Mr Remarque’s a fair boss to those he employs; he’s straight about what he expects for the money he pays. To others he’s a stone wall and won’t give an inch. I haven’t always agreed with his decisions but I take his money so I don’t go against him. But he was wrong that day, Ben. Those Mexicans had no intention of settling on this range. They were heading north where the grass is greener and lusher. If he’d left them alone they would have passed over his range within a couple of days. There was no reason to kill them the way he did, no need to slaughter all those animals.’

  They sat for a few moments in silence, Ben mulling over Marty’s story, knowing that he was stressing the fact that age wouldn’t soften Mr Remarque’s character.

  Out of the blue, Marty asked, ‘Thinking of quitting the Long-R?’

  Ben nodded. ‘It’s on my mind.’

  Marty’s face twisted as though bothered by the sun. His eyes narrowed to thin slits but they remained fixed on Ben’s face. He’d formed a high estimation of the young man’s character and didn’t want to be wrong. If he asked another question he might not like the answer, but the stopper was out of the bottle and it was necessary to examine the contents.

  ‘Because of Mr Remarque’s speech?’

  Since the end of the War Between the States, the flow of immigrants from the east had increased and Texas was as eager to encourage settlers as every other state. Ex-soldiers of both armies, eager to find new homes for their families, were moving into the area. The land office in Fort Worth was specifying sections of open range available for settlement and newcomers were building homes and fencing off land that Gus Remarque had always deemed his own. For years he had defended it and wasn’t prepared to lose it. The settlers must go. The previous evening, Gus had addressed his crew with words that proved his patience was at an end. The tactics he had used so far to dissuade the newcomers had had little success. Now he was prepared to adopt whatever measures were necessary to remove them and expected those he employed to carry out whatever instructions he issued. The crew had listened to and accepted the ranch owner’s assertions with neither acclaim nor protest. He was their employer; accepting his dollar was an agreement to undertake whatever task he demanded. Herding cows or trampling down a neighbour’s vegetable patch was all the same to them.

  ‘I’ve been thinking of moving on for a while,’ Ben replied. ‘Thought I might give railroad building a try.’

  There had been a lot of talk about the cross-conti
nent railroad that was under construction.

  ‘Heavy work,’ observed Marty.

  ‘Better pay,’ Ben told him.

  They both knew they were skirting the real issue. Ben said, ‘Look, Marty, I did my fighting back east. I was one of the lucky ones: I survived four years of hell and didn’t come west to take up arms again.’

  Marty rubbed his jaw. ‘Sometimes it’s necessary,’ he said.

  ‘Sure it is,’ Ben agreed, ‘but I don’t see this as one of those occasions. I don’t have any cause to fight the people who are building homes along the river.’

  ‘Mr Remarque says they are stealing his land,’ Marty said. ‘He’s tried talking to them but they seem too stubborn to take his advice.’

  ‘It’s free range, Marty. They’ve filed on it. They’ve got papers from Fort Worth that back up their claim.’

  Marty scoffed at that argument. ‘People have come with papers in the past but Mr Remarque is still here.’

  Ben guessed that that had been in the early days of statehood, when Mexico still insisted that the Nueces River was the border with the United States of America, not the more westerly Rio Grande. Aggrieved Mexicans had tried to regain land from which they had been forcibly dispossessed. Persistent claimants who weren’t satisfied with Texan rebuttals of gruff incivility were repelled with gunfire. Many a Mexican who came seeking justice re-crossed the Rio Grande hanging over his own saddle.

  ‘It might be different this time. These are Americans with deeds issued by our own government,’ Ben argued. ‘These people have legal documents, Marty.’

  ‘Mr Remarque decides what’s legal around here,’ Marty said.

  Gus Remarque’s fierce attitude had established his authority in this area and he wasn’t prepared to succumb to anyone who threatened it. As a consequence, no one was permitted to settle on his land. Anyone suspected of rustling was lynched without trial.

  ‘Used to decide, Marty, but times are changing. Men who fought in the war aren’t going to submit to any man’s threats, no matter how powerful he believes himself to be.’

  ‘You sound like you’re siding with these settlers.’

  ‘I’m not against them. I’ve talked to some of them. They’re good men trying to do their best for their families.’

  ‘Reckon you’re talking about the big red-haired fellow.’

  Ben Joyner squinted at the other rider. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Ah, come on, Ben,’ Marty said, his tone half serious, half humorous, neither teasing nor sincere. ‘I’ve seen you sparking with his daughter.’

  Ben turned his head away, unwilling to betray his sentiments on the matter. Even though Marty was the person closest to being a friend on the Long-R, the war had taught him that friendships were liable to sudden cessation, so he never related his deepest thoughts to anyone. He shrugged dismissively, but knew that if he did leave this territory along the Pecos, Lottie Skivver would be the only person he’d rue leaving behind.

  ‘What I’m saying is that it’s time for me to move on. I never did intend pushing cows all my life and I have no taste for pushing honest people either. This isn’t my fight.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of people he’d spoken to since arriving in this one-street town, and they didn’t include the woman crossing the street in the direction of the hotel whose porch he sat upon. Her business, he supposed, was with someone within the building, but her determined gaze was fixed on him as she advanced, her stride purposeful as though she had a quarrel to settle and no time to lose in doing so. She wore a wide-brimmed hat with a flat crown that protected her head from the growing heat of the day and shaded her eyes from the bright morning sun. Her upper body was covered in a red checked linen shirt accompanied by a plain blue scarf tied tightly around her neck. Black lace-up boots showed below the heavy hide skirt that reached from waist to calves. The city-style of her footwear was at odds with the less refined appearance of the rest of her apparel.

  ‘Are you Joyner?’ she asked, speaking before halting, as though the brashness of her approach would establish a position of superiority. The terse tone was matched by a facial expression of unremitting sternness, a proclamation that she would tolerate no obstruction to her purpose, whatever it might be. Ben figured she’d be a fearsome opponent if she had a gun strapped around her waist. As it was, he remembered his manners, rose to his feet and removed his high, grey hat.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘You’ve been in the chaparral country, out by the Pecos.’

  Ben Joyner didn’t know the source of the woman’s information but couldn’t deny its accuracy. ‘Spent some time there,’ he told her.

  ‘Ever meet a man called Henry Tippett?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Think about it,’ she ordered, as though the speed of his reply was a reflection of insincere thought rather than honest certitude. ‘He’s twenty-three now. A couple of inches below your height. Brown hair. Dark eyes.’

  It was a description that fit a thousand men and she was as much aware of that fact as he was. ‘He would be with an older man,’ she continued. ‘His uncle, Carlton Wellwin.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Henry is my son,’ she said, as though that might produce a different answer. ‘Carlton’s my brother.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he said again. ‘Can’t say I’ve met either of them or heard anyone speak their names.’

  Ben expected those words to put an end to the encounter. He had no information to pass on, and therefore saw no reason for their conversation to continue. The woman, however, remained where she stood, her eyes fixed on his face as though expecting dogged resistance to shake from him the information she was seeking.

  ‘Ma’am?’ said Ben Joyner, prompting her to speak if she had more questions to ask.

  ‘Stop calling me ma’am,’ she snapped. ‘My name is Elsa Tippett.’

  ‘Is there something else I can do for you, Mrs Tippett?’

  Her brown eyes flashed and her lips twisted, signs that the man’s formality still gave rise to irritation, but she disguised the fact when she spoke again. ‘Yes, there is. You can escort me to Pecos. I believe my son got that far. I want to find him, Mr Joyner, but I can’t do it alone.’

  Ben Joyner shook his head. ‘You’ve set yourself an audacious task,’ he told her, ‘but I can’t help you.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ she said. ‘You’ve just come from that country. With your knowledge we’ll be able to travel quickly. How many days has it taken you to get here?’

  ‘Mrs Tippett,’ he interrupted, trying to judge his next words, not wanting to give offence but keen to extricate himself from the woman’s plans. ‘Mrs Tippett, it wouldn’t be proper for you and me to travel together.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Mrs Tippett, you don’t know anything about me.’

  ‘Mr Joyner, issuing such a warning is testament to the fact that you are not a man I need to fear. Do you intend to rob me, Mr Joyner, or threaten me with harm? Are you a killer?’

  For a moment, the memory of sighting along a rifle barrel filled his mind, along with images of distant men in grey tumbling as the weapon spewed out flame and smoke. ‘Of course I don’t mean you harm, Mrs Tippett, but such an arrangement could only cause damage to your reputation.’

  ‘I’m a fifty-six-year-old widow who sacrificed reputation for survival a long time ago. If I’d allowed my life to be ruled by the prejudices of my neighbours, I would have never left Columbus, Ohio.’

  ‘Mrs Tippett!’ Ben Joyner’s tone reflected his exasperation but she refused to acknowledge his attempted interruption.

  ‘I came all this way with just Mr Raine for company and attracted neither harm nor scandal. I have no reason to expect that will be altered by travelling with you.’

  Mr Raine was an unknown quantity to Ben Joyner. He neither knew Mr Raine’s relationship with Mrs Tippett nor the manner in w
hich they had travelled to this small town. No doubt train and stagecoach had figured large in their arrangements but those modes of transport were unavailable between this town and the Pecos River. There was neither the comfort of padded seats when on the move nor accommodation of the meanest kind at the end of the day. Long hours in the saddle were sufficiently torturous, but when united with meagre provisions and only hard ground for a bed they became conditions capable of dissuading tough men from ever leaving home again.

  ‘Mr Raine came with you from Ohio?’ asked Ben.

  ‘St Louis,’ she affirmed. ‘We met in St Louis.’

  ‘He came here with you?’

  ‘He did, and he would have gone on with me if he hadn’t fallen foul of a terrible accident.’

  ‘He’s injured?’

  ‘He’s dead. Tripped over a stray dog and fell under the wheels of a passing wagon. Killed instantly. So I’m in need of another travelling companion, someone who can guide me to Pecos.’

  ‘I’ve just left there,’ Ben said. ‘I’m going in the opposite direction.’

  Elsa Tippett drew back her shoulders. The accompanying intake of breath suggested she’d identified a flaw in Ben Joyner’s character and that she was prepared to lower her own standards to accommodate him. ‘I’m sure we can agree a suitable sum in recompense for your time,’ she said.

  Ben didn’t reply instantly. The hesitation was caused by his need to find the right words to convince the woman that he didn’t want to be involved in her scheme, but Elsa Tippett put a different interpretation on it. She was sure she’d found the chink in his armour and, with the application of a bit more pressure, would be able to buy his services.

  ‘Do you have someplace to be?’ she asked, her tone suggesting that she knew he’d drifted into town with neither a final destination in mind nor the prospect of employment in his immediate future. ‘How far is it to Pecos?’ She paused for only a moment before answering her own question. ‘Four days? You can be back here in a week or ten days. I’ll pay you fifty dollars for the delay.’