Border Lords and Armstrong's War Read online

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Jim raised his eyes upon hearing the word “boss.”

  Shank Halsey was grinning like a possum full of pawpaws, and stayed on for awhile talking to Jim about what was going on in Deaf Smith County. The more he heard, the more Jim became concerned he had arrived home too late to save the family ranch.

  Bale Armstrong, Jr., might have died in Tombstone, but Quick Jim Butler was alive and well, and he intended to turn over every rock in the Two Bucks country until he found the right snake to stomp on.

  Chapter 3

  The sun was a glaring yellow orb staring out of a cloudless Texas sky when Jim Butler rode into Two Bucks City. Recent spring rains had turned the panhandle country green. Swathes of orange, red, blue, and yellow flowers shot up everywhere, gracing the land­scape with a rainbow of colors. In spite of the trepidation Jim was feeling about coming back after so many years away, he felt good.

  The first thing he did was look for the telegraph office. He was surprised to find it in the same old building. Dismounting, he tied the mare to a rail and stepped inside the office. The place reeked of rotting wood. Buckets had been placed at various spots on the floor to catch rain from a leaky roof. A teleg­rapher sat behind a scarred wooden desk in the far corner. He did not look up when Jim entered the building.

  “I need to send a telegram,” Jim said in a soft voice.

  “Paper and pen’s on the table. If you can’t write, it will cost you a nickel for me to scribble it out for you.” The young man never looked up.

  “I can write, amigo. Can you read?”

  “’Course, I can read,” the man said, looking up at Jim. A piercing black stare greeted him, and his lips froze in place.

  “Pardon me, sir.” The telegrapher’s voice squeaked like a trapped mouse. “I meant no disrespect.”

  Jim wrote out his telegram and handed it to the man. “How much?” He said, reaching into his pocket for change.

  The man read the telegram and looked up. “Do you work for Mr. Quarry, sir?”

  “What if I do?”

  “There would be no charge to send this telegram.”

  “In that case, I do work for the man. Where could I find him right now?”

  “Mr. Quarry could be anywhere, sir. He owns almost all of the town. Dude Miller is usually in the Golden Ace saloon this time of day.”

  “Who is Dude Miller?”

  “Why, he’s Mr. Quarry’s foreman. I thought you said you worked for them? If you don’t, you will have to pay for this telegram.”

  Jim stared at the telegrapher until the man lowered his eyes. “You calling me a liar?”

  “No, sir, I just thought—”

  Jim took a step closer to the man. “Send the telegram.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The man was pounding the telegraph key when Jim stepped back out on the sidewalk. As he walked up the street, Jim saw the Golden Ace two blocks down the way and across; he turned and headed in that direction. Before he reached the saloon, Jim noticed the bank half a block away and veered off toward the native stone building. He looked up at the sign above the entrance:

  Deaf Smith County Bank

  M. Quarry, Pres.

  Jim stepped inside and felt instant relief from the pound­ing Texas sun. A young woman behind the teller’s cage had her back to him. She seemed oblivious to his presence. Jim put his hand to his mouth and coughed twice. The young lady gave a start and whirled around.

  “Pardon me, sir,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in. May I help you?” Two shimmering emerald eyes, a petite upturned nose, and a perfect pair of cherry lips in a flawless oval face combined to strip Jim of his powers of communication.

  “Sir? Sir, are you okay?”

  “Uh, yes, ma’am. I think so.”

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “No, ma’am, just the prettiest girl I have ever seen in my life.” Jim Butler was never one to mince words.

  The young lady blushed, and Jim thought how she looked like a pink prairie rose, all fresh right after the dew had fallen.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I need to transfer some money to this bank from the Territorial Bank of New Mexico in Albuquerque.”

  “How much would you like to transfer, sir?”

  Jim told her, and after receiving the proper information, she wrote up the transfer document and handed it to Jim to sign.

  “May I help you with something else, Mr. Butler?”

  “No, ma’am, I believe that will do it.”

  “It’s not ma’am, Mr. Butler. It’s miss—Miss Melinda Quarry.”

  “Yes, miss. Must be my Texas upbringing that causes me to address all ladies as ma’am.”

  “Please don’t apologize, Mr. Butler. Gentlemen are scarce out here on the prairie. I appreciate your manners. Are you going to be long in Two Bucks City?”

  “That depends on a lot of things, Miss Quarry. If there is enough to hold me here, I might just stay for awhile.”

  “Let’s hope you decide to stay. My father has big plans for our little town. Opportunities abound for the right men. We will someday be as big and beautiful as Fort Worth or even Dallas.”

  “I don’t know about the getting bigger part, Miss Quarry, but from where I stand, Two Bucks City has already got both those towns beat in the beauty department. Good afternoon.” He walked out into the sunshine, leaving Melinda Quarry again blushing like a rose.

  Jim ambled down to the Golden Ace saloon and stood at the swinging doors, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dim interior light. Satisfied with what he saw, he strode inside. The place looked like a thousand others Jim had seen. A hardwood bar stood out from one wall with a long, gilded mirror hanging behind the bar. A few tables were scattered about and a faro table stood idle in a far corner. Four cowboys sat at a corner table playing penny ante draw poker. One man stood drinking a beer at the far end of the bar. He wore a brace of pistols cinched up high around his waist. Instead of pointing down, as was common, the two holsters pointed inwards toward the man’s belt buckle. Jim pegged this one as a gunfighter: one who considered himself an important man in these parts.

  “Is your beer cold?” Jim said to the string bean bartender.

  “Coldest in town,” said the barkeep, who was almost seven feet tall and skinny as a green twig. The man had a perpetual smile on his homely features. He drew a tall mug of draft and handed it to Jim, who chugged every bit of the cool amber liquid and slammed the empty mug down with a loud thunk. The gunman at the end of the bar jerked his head in Jim’s direction.

  “’Scuse me there, fella,” said Jim. “It’s just that I haven’t had a cold beer in about a week and that one tasted mighty good. Can I buy you a mug, amigo?”

  The man stared at Jim for a moment, and then went back to his drinking. Jim took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. He glanced at the bartender, who motioned for Jim to lean over the bar. Jim turned an ear in the barkeep’s direction.

  “Mister, you’re new here, so maybe you don’t know,” said String Bean.

  “Don’t know what?”

  “That feller yonder is Dude Miller. He’s the ramrod for Mort Quarry, the most powerful man in these parts. Dude’s a curly wolf with his short guns on his fists. He’s best left alone. The man’s been drinkin’ in here all mornin’, and he’s festerin’ up for a fight. I was you, I’d leave him be.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Jim.

  “Most folks call me Stretch. That’ll do, I reckon.”

  “Stretch, I appreciate the warning. But with all due respect, you’re not me.” Hat in hand, Jim sidled up to the bad man. “Say, there, pardner,” he said. “I reckon you didn’t hear me offer you a beer.”

  Dude Miller spun toward Jim, his right hand streaking for his pistol. As the gun came up, Jim knocked
it away with his hat and smashed a straight right hand that splattered the man’s nose. Miller staggered back and Jim bore in on him, throwing left hooks and right crosses to the rib cage. Miller tried to fight back, but his feeble efforts were useless as Jim pounded him into unconsciousness.

  Jim Butler stepped back and let Miller slide to the floor. The card players had stood up at the beginning of the fight, and three of them were now muttering amongst themselves; the fourth one was nowhere to be seen. Jim picked up his hat and took a deep breath. He put the hat back on his head and was turning to leave when a human blur careened in through the swinging doors. The blur, Chris Armstrong, stopped long enough to get his bearings.

  Seeing Dude Miller lying crumpled on the floor, and a stranger standing close to him, Chris dropped his hand and let it hover over his six-gun. “You the one who shot Dude?” said Chris. He was trembling.

  Stretch, the bartender, flipped a sawed-off Greener shotgun out and laid it on the bar. “There ain’t gonna be no shootin’ in this saloon, boys. That’s the rule and, by heaven, I intend to enforce it.” He turned his attention to Chris Armstrong. “Chris, you ain’t under your daddy’s protection anymore, now that you’re ridin’ for the Quarry brand. You take Dude out of here and go get him fixed up at Doc Whithers. He ain’t been shot, just beat up. He started it, and if Mort Quarry asks me, I’ll tell him the truth. You know he likes his boys to behave proper here in town. Now, a couple of you hands help Chris get Dude out of here.”

  All three of the card players rushed over, picked up the battered man, and hauled him outside. The fourth man, who had run for Chris, was Charlie Pratt. He followed along after the other three, muttering to himself.

  Chris Armstrong still had his eyes set on Jim Butler.

  “Chris,” said Stretch, “I said get out. Besides, son, on your best day, you couldn’t beat this man. He’s Jim Butler. I was tendin’ bar in Nogales when this feller and Jesus Campo Santos shot it out with the four Carlyle brothers. Now there’s just one of them Carlyles left—and he ain’t got but one good arm. Butler’s way too salty for the likes of you, kid. Beat it.”

  Chris looked at Jim Butler and spat on the floor at Jim’s feet. “Another day, Butler,” he said. Chris backed out the saloon doors and took off at a trot toward the doctor’s house.

  Stretch watched Chris leave and then he put away his shotgun. He stuck another beer in front of Jim. When Jim started to protest, Stretch raised both hands in front of his face and shook his head. “You were right, friend,” he said, wiping his brow. “I ain’t you. And I durn sure don’t want to be.”

  Chapter 4

  Charlie Pratt ran over to a red brick building with a sign that read, “Quarry Land and Cattle Company.” He burst in the front entrance and beelined it to a large, ornate oak door in the back. He knocked and went in without waiting for an answer. “Lordy, Mr. Quarry, we got us a big problem,” he said, yanking his hat off.

  The huge square man sitting behind an oak desk that matched the door in opulence looked up at this intruder and frowned. The oversized leather chair moaned as the man lifted his enormous body out of it. Moving with remarkable grace for a man of his size, Mort Quarry paced over to the cowboy. His right hand streaked out and grasped the man by the throat, lifting him up on his tiptoes. Charlie Pratt’s eyes bulged out and his face turned blue.

  Mort Quarry stuck his face up next to Pratt’s. “Pratt, if you barge into my office again without being invited, I will choke you to death. If you understand me, nod your head.”

  Pratt complied.

  Quarry dropped him, strode back behind his desk, and sat down. “Now, Mr. Pratt, what is all the ruckus about?”

  Charlie Pratt gripped his throat and gagged. Tears rolled down his face as he struggled to breathe. When he gained enough control to speak, his voice screeched like a dying bullfrog. “Mr. Quarry, we have a big problem.”

  “You said that already, Charlie. Only problem you have right now is that there had better be a real good reason for you disturbing me today. Now, spit it out.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Quarry. There was a fight over at the Golden Ace. Some drifter beat the daylights out of Dude Miller. Three of the boys done toted him to the doc’s to get fixed up. But that ain’t all, sir. That Armstrong kid tried to call the stranger out, but the feller wouldn’t have none of it.”

  “What did the new man look like?”

  “He was a big one—big as Dude, and quick. I ain’t never seen a man throw punches like that. Two minutes, tops, and he had Dude out on the floor.”

  “Anybody get his name?”

  “Yes, sir. The barkeep seemed to know him. Called him Jim Butler.”

  Mort Quarry’s change of attitude was imperceptible to the human eye. “Where is this Butler now?”

  “I reckon he’s still in the saloon, leastways, he was when we left.”

  Searching through his breast pocket, Quarry came up with a Silver Eagle and pitched it to Charlie. “You have been very helpful, Charlie. I appreciate your coming straight to me. I want you to keep this just between us. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the lackey, backing out the door and shuffling to the street.

  Quarry leaned back in his desk chair, and pondered this new state of affairs.

  Jim Butler was a gunman, as dangerous as they come. It was apparent Dude Miller was no match for the man. He had to find out fast if Butler had been hired by Bale Armstrong, or, if by some coincidence, was just passing through. Mort Quarry didn’t believe in coinci­dences. He had a hunch something was up. He had to get a note to his man on the inside of Armstrong’s camp, and he had to do it pronto.

  Jim Butler rode out of Two Bucks City heading for his father’s ranch. He had poked the hornet’s nest today and started the nasty little boogers to buzz around a bit. The first step in his plan to stop Mort Quarry from stealing the Double-A-Slash had been put into action.

  Jim intended to keep his identity a secret for the time being. Shank knew, but he wouldn’t tell anyone. Jim rode onto the ranch and angled his horse toward the eastern part where Panther Creek cut across it. Shank had told him that was where the Mexican farmers were settled in. He had said Bale Armstrong gave the farmers permission to live and raise crops on part of the Double-A-Slash. In return, the Mexi­cans were to clean out the brush and diseased trees on the northeastern part of the ranch.

  Jim knew why Mort Quarry wanted his family’s ranch. The person who ran the Double-A-Slash controlled the best water in four counties. Water was like gold in the dry Texas panhandle country. He also knew Bale Armstrong would fight with all he had, but his father was seventy years old, maybe older. Shank had told Jim the ranch crew would stand with Bale, but, outside of Shank and Rusty, none of them were gun handy.

  The thing that worried Jim the most was his brother. Chris had always been Bale’s favorite, and as far as Jim knew, Chris worshipped the old man. He had seen Chris shoot a man in cold blood, and, in the saloon, Chris had been ready to draw on him for no good reason. Something was wrong with his little brother, and he had to find out what before Chris crossed over the line for good.

  There’s no doubt Mort Quarry is a greedy man, Jim thought as he rode. How far he will go to get what he wants is still a mystery. And what about Melinda? Where does she fit into this?

  Jim reined up his horse under a large, leafy cottonwood tree. He propped his right leg up on the pommel of his saddle and took off his hat. Running a hand through his hair, he thought about Melinda Quarry. He tried to keep his mind on the problems at hand, but the young lady’s face kept popping up in his head. She was beautiful. No, more than that; his encounter with her at the bank convinced him that she was gorgeous, intelligent, and educated. He fought to get her out of his mind, but nothing seemed to work.

  Jim had never been in love before and he wondered about how it felt. All he knew was when he thought about Melissa Quarry,
he experienced a feeling that was new to him. He pulled his leg back down and took off at a trot for Panther Creek. His mind was rolling around like the cue ball on a pool table, and he felt like someone was about to strike that ball hard.

  He counted ten adobe huts, all linked together by a wide pathway. The place looked more like a small village in Mexico than an unorganized farming community. He reckoned six of the buildings served as housing while the rest were for storage and animal shel­ters. He was at the edge of the village when a woman called out to him.

  “Señor, señor, buenos tardes.” It was the woman who’d hauled the wounded man’s body away. She was waving at Jim to ride to a hut she stood before. “Hello, señor, come over here, please, please.”

  Jim walked his horse over to the hut. “Yes, ma’am. How is the man who was shot?”

  “Come inside, señor, and see for yourself.”

  Jim stepped out of the saddle and followed the woman into the adobe shelter. The wounded man lay on a bed in the back. He was covered from the waist down with a gray woolen blanket. A wide strip of white cloth covered his wound. Jim saw no sign of blood.

  “I see the bleeding has stopped,” he said.

  The woman smiled up at him, took him by the arm, and led him to the man’s bedside. The farmer opened his eyes as they approached.

  “Señor, this is Manuel Cardoza,” said the lady. “Manuel, this is the man who saved your life.”

  Manuel reached up; calloused fingers took hold of Jim’s hand and squeezed. His grip was weak but steady.

  “My name is Jim Butler. How are you doin’, amigo?”

  “Buen, Señor Butler, gracias. I wish to thank you so much. You have saved my life. I am your servant.”

  Jim grimaced. “I’m glad you made it okay, amigo, but I don’t know about this servant business. I travel alone.”