This Calder Range (Calder Saga 1)
After he had finished, the pen continued to scratch across the paper for a few seconds more. Then the newspaperman read it back to him to be sure he’d gotten it all. He looked at Benteen and gave a wry shake of his head.
“These damn things always read like a legal notice,” he declared.
“Legal or not, they work,” Benteen replied. “How much do I owe you?”
The advertisement was one of many land-grabbing tactics practiced in the West. Such claims of stock range had no basis in law, but ranchers observed such statements of ownership by fellow ranchers. Where no law existed, they created their own code. It was another occasion when the Golden Rule came into play: you respect another man’s claim to boundaries, and he’ll respect yours.
As Benteen left the newspaper office, he noticed a man hurrying into the bank at a running walk. He took his time untying the bridle reins and stepping into the saddle, but the man didn’t come out. He walked his horse down the street to the land office where the three Triple C horses stood slung-hipped in the shade. Reining his horse to the end post, he swung down. There seemed to be a heate
d discussion going on inside the building—angry voices carrying out to the street. Zeke was fixing to grab the short man behind the counter by the shirt collar when Benteen walked in.
“What’s the problem here?” Despite the low pitch of his voice, the demand stopped all movement. The land clerk behind the counter was wet with a nervous sweat as he glanced uneasily at the three angry cowboys.
“This puny pen-pusher is tryin’ to stall us,” Woolie complained with a contemptuous fling of his hand.
“Yeah,” Zeke chimed in. “The sonuvabitch is sayin’ he can’t find the records we filed on our land.”
From the back of the building there was the sound of a door being opened and closed. Someone had come in through the rear entrance.
“I’m not saying I don’t have them,” the agent said. “They seem to be mislaid. I can’t take your money until they’re found. Maybe if you came back later—”
“There he goes agin,” Zeke flared.
“Why don’t you let us help you look for them?” Bob Vernon suggested.
“These are private government records.” The agent shook his head. “I can’t let just anyone go through them without authorization.” A man appeared in the doorway to a back office and motioned to the agent that he wanted a word with him. He looked very much like the man Benteen had seen hurrying into the bank a few minutes ago.
“You know those records are here, Benteen,” Woolie said. “You want us to take the place apart? We’ll find ’em.”
“I don’t think it will be necessary,” he murmured as he watched the two men conferring in whispers. A set of papers was passed to the agent. “I have the feeling it’s already been straightened out.”
The agent returned to the counter with the papers in hand. “Here’s the records.” He smiled tightly. “Just misplaced, that’s all.”
With the filing records verified, the cash payments were made and title given to the three 160-acre parcels. The cowboys promptly signed the land over to Benteen.
“I was a landowner for five minutes,” Woolie declared. “Don’t that call for a drink, Benteen?”
“Why not?” he agreed, but paused as the three cowboys headed for the door and the waiting saloon. Benteen glanced at the agent. “Be sure and give my regards to Judd Boston the next time you see him.” The man paled and stammered around for an answer as Benteen walked out the door.
Montana’s Ten Bar ranch house was made of logs and board planks, more compact and without the luxuries of its Texas counterpart. Judd Boston sat back in a cowhide-covered chair and contemplated the shape of one of the duke’s cigars. Loman Janes helped himself to a shot of whiskey from the decanter sitting on the small round table.
“I’d sure as hell like to know how Calder found out about it,” Boston muttered aloud.
“Are you sure Giles didn’t know about your plans?” Loman questioned. “You know he’s got ideas about that Calder woman. Maybe he’s tryin’ to get in good with her.”
“The only way he could have known it is if the duke had told him. George swears he didn’t discuss it with anyone else. The man may be a pompous ass, but he’s not a liar.” He clamped the cigar between his teeth and puffed on it. “I don’t know how he got wind of it.”
“Maybe you’d better send Webster a telegram tellin’ him to hold off buyin’ all those cattle you were fixin’ on bringing up here until we find some range to put ’em on,” Janes suggested. “This place won’t support that number. If they made it through a winter, they’d still have it grazed to the roots in a year.”
“Grass isn’t the problem. It’s water.” Boston knew that from his experience in Texas. “And I’m not sending any telegram to Webster rescinding my order. We’ve still got time to find some land. It would have been straightforward and clean if we could have picked up those three claims of Calder’s. I wish that land belonged to anyone but him.”
“Why should we care?” A puzzled and wary look crossed Janes’s face. The comment smacked of fear, and he had no time for a man who showed yellow.
“If I go after his land after that business with his father, he’s liable to take it personal. I’ve had my fill of vendettas.”
“Vendetta? Never heard of it.” Janes frowned.
“It’s a killing feud between families.” His name hadn’t always been Boston, but that was part of the buried past. “Maybe I can buy a couple of his water rights.”