Stands a Calder Man (Calder Saga 2)

9

When he rode into town, the street was jammed with people, horses, and wagons. As expected, there were a dozen horses carrying the Triple C brand tied in front of the roadhouse and saloon. Webb dismounted and looped his reins around the far end of the hitching rail.

A couple of cowboys were coming out the door as Webb went in. They were laughing and talking loud, but the noise they were creating seemed a whisper compared to the din that Webb found inside. Nearly every outfit within miles seemed to be represented in the throng of cowboys filling the roadhouse. It took him a minute to spot the Triple C bunch and work his way across the room to join them.

“Webb!” Young Shorty Niles slapped him on the back and pushed him up to the bar. “Hell! I thought you were holdin’ down the fort!”

“I got bored and thought I’d better check to see what trouble you guys were getting into,” he replied and ordered himself a beer.

“Why, we haven’t been in any trouble, have we, boys?” Shorty asked and received a chorus of vigorous negatives. “We just been picking out the gab we’re gonna dance with tonight. There’s a whole passel of ’em in town.”

“If I was you boys, I wouldn’t be sashayin’ too close to them honyockers’ daughters.” The warning came from a man outside their group, his voice thick with contempt for the homesteaders. “You just might catch somethin’.”

Webb glanced down the long bar, finding the lantern-jawed man who had made the sneering remark. Hobie Evans rode for a neighboring ranch. He was good at his trade by all accounts, but some said he was a hundred and seventy pounds of solid mean. He was certainly no stranger to trouble, whether of his making or someone else’s.

Feeling the eyes of the Triple C outfit on him, Hobie Evans turned his head slightly in their direction, but remained leaning on the bar, hunched over his drink. Around his eye there were the fading colors of a bruise.

“Catch what?” Young Shorty wanted to know, a devilish light dancing in his gaze. “Some farmer’s fist in the eye?” Chuckling laughter circled through the Triple C riders. “Ain’t that where you got your shiner, Hobie?”

As he pushed away from the bar to face his questioner, Hobie appeared ready to take umbrage at the question. But his glance swept the Tanks of the Triple C outfit and he thought better of it.

“Yeah, I got this from a nester,” Hobie admitted, pointing to his blackened eye. “But the last time I saw him, he was stretched out on the ground, and he wasn’t lookin’ so good, neither.”

“What happened?” someone behind Webb asked.

“He claimed I broke the law—said I couldn’t spit in the street.” Hobie pushed out his chest, his mouth curving down in a jeering smile. “So I proceeded to tell him that we made the law around these parts long before he came here; then I spit on his shirt and asked him if he liked that better. When he threw a punch at me, I just naturally had to defend myself.”

The laughs were louder the second time around, showing support for the tough cowboy’s actions. Webb’s mouth widened into a smile as he leaned sid

eways against the bar and sipped at the foaming mug of beer.

“This is our town,” Hobie declared, raising his voice to make himself heard throughout the room. “Them funny-talkin’ nesters think they can just come here and start tellin’ us what we can do in it. We was here first. I say, if they don’t like it, they can get out!”

There was a rumble of agreement and nodding heads throughout the- room. Satisfaction glinted in Hobie Evans’s eyes when he heard the response. He stood a little taller, sure of his support.

“They’re a plague, that’s what they are. Worse than a bunch of damn ‘hoppers. Look at the way they’re eatin’ up the land till there ain’t a blade of grass left.” He paused, listening to the murmurs in the room. “Has anybody even lifted a hand to stop them?”

This kind of ugly talk didn’t set well with Webb. “You’re forgetting something, Hobie.” He didn’t raise his voice, but it carried clearly through the suddenly quieting room. Webb didn’t change his position or even raise his glance from the beer mug. “Those drylanders have every right to claim government land—same as you.”

“I wouldn’t have figured a Calder would be stickin’ up for them against his own kind.” Hobie eyed him with derision. “Maybe your pa’s spread is still sittin’ pretty, but you better take a look at the rest of the ranches around here. They’re handin’ out walking papers right and left. And it’s all on account of those farmers.”

“Every ranch is feeling the pinch of the low cattle prices,” Webb replied, turning his head to study the man. “If some cowboys are let go, you can blame the cattle market.”

“Some cowboys.” Hobie scoffed at the phrase and turned to the room of men. “How many of you here have drawn your last pay for a brand? I wanta see a show of hands.”

It began slowly, first one man lifting his hand, then another and another. When Webb finished looking around the room, about half the cowboys present indicated they were out of work. He hadn’t known it was that bad.

“Ain’t all of us got a pa that owns the place,” the cowboy reminded Webb with deliberate sarcasm. “And if the cattle prices are bad, who’s to blame for that?” Hobie wanted to know, then supplied the answer himself. “It’s the farmer. The price of grain’s so high that the farmers are sellin’ it over there in Europe instead of fattenin’ cattle with it. They can get more money for their grain than they can for cattle, so they ain’t buyin’ any steers at the market. They’re gettin’ rich an’ takin’ over our grassland, and we aren’t doin’ nothin’ about it.”

“There ain’t nothin’ we can do,” a disgruntled cowboy grumbled. “The government’s given ’em the land.”

“Somebody should take it away from them,” Hobie suggested and watched the reaction. “Since when has anybody in this territory paid attention to what a bunch of politicians in Washington do?” There was a stirring of discomfort and little, if any, sound of agreement. “Hell, this ain’t wheat-growin’ land,” Hobie argued. “They passed the law without ever comin’ out here to look at it. They made a mistake, and we’d just be puttin’ it right.”

“What you’re suggesting is against the law,” Nate pointed out dryly.

“What law?” the cowboy countered. “Washington law or range law?”

“Ain’t you heard, Hobie?” someone piped up from the back of the room. “They’ve hired a lawman. Blue Moon’s got its own town sheriff now.”