Stands a Calder Man (Calder Saga 2)

The breed let out a whoop and all three riders dug in their spurs to send their horses charging to the left. The cattle spooked and took off running, straight into the tall stand of heavy-headed wheat. The cowboys gave chase with deliberate ineptitude and stampeded the cattle all over the field. The churning, pounding hooves, both cloven and shod, trampled down the wheat stalks, ruining wide swaths of the grain. Every time a cow veered off to escape to the range country, a rider raced alongside to turn it back into the field, damaging more wheat.

The frantic homesteader came running through the field, waving his arms to stop the destruction of his crop. Neither the cattle nor the riders paid any attention to him. In desperation, he grabbed at the bridle on the shaggy buckskin Hobie Evans was riding, violating range etiquette that forbids any interference in a rider’s control of his mount. The buckskin reared, lifting the man off his feet and nearly unseating his rider. But the homesteader hung on.

“You must stop!” he insisted. “You’re trampling my wheat.”

“Let go of my horse, you damned honyocker!” Hobie whipped at him with his rope loop and laid a track across the man’s eyes. With a pained cry, the homesteader let go and the plunging buckskin shouldered him to the ground. Hobie indifferently watched the squirming man blindly trying to avoid the horse’s sharp hooves, and didn’t try to rein his horse away from the man. “Can’t you see we’re trying to round up these strays?” Hobie declared in derisive scorn. “We tried to head ’em off before they got into your wheat. You just stay out of the way, nester. We know what we’re doin’.”

With a silent laugh at the drylander’s stupidity, Hobie took off again after a turning cow. This time, he shook out his loop and sailed it around the animal’s neck. He threw out plenty of slack as he set the buckskin to throw its weight in opposition to the rope. The cow was flipped on its back and dragged a half-dozen yards over more wheat before its flailing legs found footing so it could begin fighting and bucking the strangling loop around its neck.

When the three riders finally tired of their fun and herded the small but destructive bunch of cattle out of the wheatfield, there wasn’t much left standing. The homesteader looked about him, his crop virtually ruined. So little of it was salvageable. There was a stark, broken look in his expression as he stumbled toward his family waiting by their sod home. Blood trickled from the ropecut that had nearly blinded him.

Word of the disaster spread through the homesteaders like wildfire. The following day, more than a dozen converged on the stricken homestead to see the extent of the damage for themselves and offer what aid they could. From the group present, Stefan Reisner was among the contingent of four selected to go to the Snake M Ranch owned by Ed Mace and demand reparation. Franz Kreuger was unanimously chosen spokesman for the group. They all piled into one wagon and headed for the ranch.

Since Snake M planned to send its outfit out on roundup the following day, nearly all its riders except those at line camps were at the ranch’s headquarters checking gear and equipment and selecting the remuda string when the wagonload of drylanders rolled in. It headed straight for the five-room log house. Ed Mace was on the porch to meet them before they got out of the wagon.

All the hands had noted the arrival and were dawdling at their various chores while keeping an eye on the group of drylanders talking to their boss at the main house. The half-breed Bob Sheephead sauntered over to where Hobie Evans was repairing a weak cinch strap. He squatted down beside him and turned a piece of rotting leather from a bridle over in his hand, as if it were the object of interest.

“What do ya s’pose they want here?” the crow-haired cowboy asked Hobie. “Reckon they come cryin’ about their wheat?”

“I reckon.” Hobie pulled on the cinch to test its strength and shot a glance through the tops of his lashes at the ranch house. “Looks like we’re gonna find out.”

Ed Mace was striding toward the barn area where most of the riders were idling. The four homesteaders in their odd-looking farmers’ garb followed in his wake. Hobie noticed the dislike in his boss’s expression when he glanced impatiently over his shoulder at the trailing drylanders, and smiled to himself.

“Listen up, all of you.” Ed Mace called for the attention of his men while the drylanders made a short arc behind him. “These . . . gentlemen”—he deliberately hesitated over the polite term—“have come to inform me that some of the cattle that strayed off our range the other day got into one of their wheatfields. They also claim that three of you chased the cattle around that field, doing even more damage.”

Dropping the cinch strap, Hobie Evans rolled to his feet and pushed his way to the front of the riders. “I think, boss, that they’re talkin’ about me an’ Ace an’ the breed. We rounded up a bunch of cattle that got into somebody’s wheatfield.”

“He’s the one.” The owner of the wheatfield confirmed it and pressed a hand to the gash along his cheekbone in bitter memory.

“And you’re the one that came runnin’ out there, flapping your arms like some damned crow.” Hobie flung a pointing arm back at the man, then looked at his boss. “We could have gotten those cattle out of there with hardly any damage to the wheat at all if he hadn’t interfered. You know what those range cows are like. They’re wilder than a jackrabbit. He comes out there and waves his arms, and they took off in all directions.”

“He struck me with a rope and tried to run me down with his horse,” the owner charged.

“You jumped in front of my horse,” Hobie countered. “If I hadn’t slapped you out of the way with my rope, he’d have trampled you.”

“That is a lie.” Franz Kreuger stepped up. “But we did not come here because Otto was struck. We are here because your cattle damaged a wheatfield. Your own men have confirmed it. We demand that you pay for the wheat your animals destroyed.”

“It seems to me that my cattle wouldn’t have laid waste to so much wheat if it hadn’t been for the actions of this . . . gentleman.” He indicated the owner with a derisive flick of his hand. “He claims he lost his entire crop. I’m willing to settle damages with him, but I won’t pay for the whole field.” He named a figure well below what the group had petitioned to receive.

“But I spent more than that for the seed,” the homesteader protested and turned to the other three for support.

“It is not enough!” Franz Kreuger asserted angrily. “It is not fair.”

“That’s my offer.” Ed Mace challenged them without wavering. “If you don’t like it, take your case to the judge and wait for him to set a trial date—and wait for the verdict.” He stressed the verb to indicate the time that would pass. “That’s your choice. Either wait and see if the judge agrees, or take my settlement—in cash, right now.”

The homesteader looked to Franz Kreuger for guidance, as did the other

two, including Stefan. Franz eyed his opponent with a cold, measuring look.

“This judge, do you know him?” he demanded.

A smile broke across Ed Mace’s expression. “Judge Paulson? Why, we grew up together.”

Franz Kreuger breathed in hard and turned to the homesteader. “Take his offer. If he doesn’t give it to you, he will use it to buy the judge.”

13

The morning side of the roundup was spent combing the coulees and hollows for cattle. The cowboys fanned to the far corners of a given section of range and drifted any cattle they found toward the center in an ever-tightening circle for the afternoon sorting and occasional branding of any beasts they’d missed in the spring gather.