Part 1 (1/2)
TROUBLESOME.
RANGE.
A Western Story.
by PETER DAWSON.
Peace Terms.
We'll give you a week. If you aren't out by that time, we'll run you out. We'll fire the building and dynamite your safe. And that's a promise!”
”There'll be a federal marshal in.”
”Let him come. We've taken care of marshals before.”
”You'll lose men.”
”So will you.”
The two men stared at each other over the length of the table, ma.s.sive old Yace Bonnyman, belligerent as always and as always convinced he was right, and Fred Vanover, manager for the Middle Arizona Cattle Company, quiet under the strain and hostility of these past twenty minutes. It was to Vanover's credit that he hadn't lost his temper for he was alone here in this smoke-fogged room against Bonnyman and these other four Mesa Grande ranchers. Alone except for his outnumbered crew somewhere below on the street, and John Thornd.y.k.e, Middle Arizona's counselor, who had arrived late that afternoon by train from Phoenix.
Vanover now let his glance stray from Bonnyman's rugged face to that of the lawyer. Thornd.y.k.e wasn't enjoying this. His eyes were squinted against the lamp glare and smoke, and his face was paler than usual. He was scared, badly, not having liked Vanover's insistence that the two of them should meet the ranchers alone, without enough of their own men present to balance the odds. Vanover could see that Thornd.y.k.e wasn't going to be much help.
”We're willing to make certain concessions,” he now said quietly.
”Concessions be hanged!” rumbled Bonnyman's uncompromising voice. ”You close up shop or we run you out.”
”Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Thornd.y.k.e straightened in his chair, a.s.suming what dignity was left him after hearing Middle Arizona so mercilessly raked over the coals these last few minutes. He gave Vanover a quick yet avoiding look, and went on: ”I'm prepared to make you an offer, one I trust will meet with your approval.”
”We're through with lawyers' tricks!”
Clark Dunne, in the chair alongside Bonnyman, reached out and put a hand on the older man's arm. ”Let's hear what they have to say, Yace.” He nodded to Thornd.y.k.e. ”Go ahead.”
The lawyer cleared his throat, and seemed to put starch in his voice, for when he spoke again his tones were firmer. ”As I understand it, your objections concern the land company.”
”Cattle company, land company, it's one and the same.” Clark Dunne antic.i.p.ated a new outburst from Bonnyman. ”That's our prime worry. Another's the sticky loop your crew's been swingin'. Still another's your hirin' gun hands. Two can play that game, and, if you keep it up, we . . .”
”Stick to the point, Dunne,” Vanover cut in, and now his look was angry. ”I admit letting Harper hire a few men who know how to shoot. You've forced me into it. No use arguin' this rustling business because we think it's you, not us, that's doing it.”
”How about Middle Arizona trying to grab the basin lease, trying to crowd us off our best summer range?”
”That was a tactical error,” Vanover admitted, smiling thinly. ”I had my orders from the main office, which were to bid on the lease when it was posted. So far as we could discover, no offer was ever made to lease it. It looked like a good proposition, so we made our offer and it was accepted.”
”And we ran you out,” stated Bonnyman.
”You had good grounds. I was never under the impression that we could make it stick. Others were. I was instructed to try, and failed. But to get back to the land company.”
Dunne nodded. ”I was going to say that you'd never have had even a toehold here if . . .”
”If it hadn't been for that worthless whelp of mine,” Bonnyman put in bitterly.
Clark lifted a hand for silence. ”Joe didn't know what he was doing, Yace,” he said calmly. ”We'll skip that. Thornd.y.k.e, your outfit got its start here through a piece of luck, through buying Joe Bonnyman's brand, in case you hadn't heard of it. There's no tellin' why Joe sold. But he did and Middle Arizona got its start. They couldn't get any more range by straight buyin', so they set up this land company that we all know is really a loan bank. They cut interest rates and loaned most of us money before we were wise to 'em. Well, they don't get to make their killin'. No court in this county is ever goin' to issue your outfit foreclosure papers. As Yace says, you're through. Close down the Land Office peaceful, or we run you out!”
”That suits us precisely, gentlemen,” the lawyer agreed. ”I'm authorized to do exactly that. But . . .”
”No buts,” growled Bonnyman. ”You cut it off clean.”
”Let me tell 'em,” Vanover said. He caught Thornd.y.k.e's relieved nod and went on: ”This land company's been making money. It's no secret. And it's no secret why it was set up originally. We hoped to foreclose on several outfits and throw them in with the spread we bought from young Bonnyman and start a big operation here. But that's done with. We don't aim to increase the death rate for a few dollars' profit. On the other hand, the town needs another bank besides that branch of the Tucson National. Why not keep the Acme office open?”
Ed Merrill, across the table from Thornd.y.k.e, said explosively: ”Why in thunder do we sit here lettin' ourselves be tied in knots by a bunch of fancy words?”
”Then here are some plain ones,” Vanover drawled, feeling the intense hostility of them all. ”We keep the Land Office open, and Middle Arizona will turn over its operation to any man you name.”
He settled back in his chair, leisurely concentrating on his cigar, enjoying the awed silence that held even Yace Bonnyman speechless. His last few words had contained as much surprise as though he had brought out a sleeve gun after promising, as the rest had, not to come into this room armed. For the first time in nearly two years, Fred Vanover was feeling a let-down, with the weight of trouble he'd never wanted being lifted from his shoulders. Here, finally, was what looked like the end to the threat of a range war.
Clark Dunne was the first of the opposition to find words. ”What's the catch?” he asked tonelessly.
”There is none. We're willing to do exactly as I said. It's no go on our opening up a big outfit in this country, so we take what we can get. Name the man you want to put in as head of Acme . . . to draw salary as president and to manage policy . . . and he can begin work tomorrow. Correct, Thornd.y.k.e?”
”Precisely.”
”What about Harper?” Merrill asked, and the name of Vanover's immediate subordinate, now acting as foreman of Middle Arizona's ranch, brought set frowns to the faces of the others. ”Does he stay on?”
Vanover shrugged. ”I take orders from above. They may think he's still needed here. We'll have to prove to them he isn't before they order me to send him out.”
”You'd better get that proof mighty quick,” Merrill stated. ”Otherwise, he's liable to meet with an accident.”
”I'll keep Harper in hand,” said Vanover.
Yace Bonnyman lifted a clenched fist, started to hit the table with it, didn't, and laid it out flat before him. It was obvious he'd been about to counter Vanover's decision, then thought better of it. His voice, when he spoke, was like a file being slowly run over a spool of barbed wire.
”Vanover, you work for a pack o' wolves, but I have no reason to doubt your personal word. Do I have it that this is straight, that you won't double-cross us?”
”I swear it, Bonnyman.”
The old rancher got up out of his chair. He looked at his friends and neighbors, the men who had come here to make his fight with him, Ed Merrill of Brush, Charley Staples of the Singletree, Slim Workman of the Yoke, and finally Clark Dunne. ”If there's no objection,” he said, ”Clark gets the job.”
The others nodded instant agreement, knowing what Yace was thinking. Clark was deeply involved with Acme by a loan. His outfit, built on a shoestring in the beginning, and only lately counted as one of the bigger brands, could stand a little financial bolstering. It was a tribute to Dunne himself, rather than to any facility at handling money matters, that these men chose him to represent them now. They liked him and wanted to see him get ahead. It was as simple as that.
Clark was flattered but uneasy under this suggested responsibility. ”What do I know about finances?” he protested. ”About . . . ?” ”You can learn,” Bonnyman put in curtly. ”Besides, all we want is someone to play watchdog.”
”I'm supposed to be s.h.i.+ppin' next week.” Clark thought of another excuse. ”What with pullin' the boys off the job to come in here tonight, I'm set back at least three days.”