Creed of the Mountain Man

Book 23: Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Live By The West. . .Die By The West. . . Smoke Jensen has tried to make peace with the land-and the past. But trying to outrun a reputation as a fearless gunslinger in the wilds of Colorado can be life's toughest game. Especially when you're playing against fate. This time it's calling Smoke to the restless Wyoming range, to fight the bloodiest private war in American history. In Johnson County, vigilantes have become the law. Cattle rustlers have turned the great Powder River red with the blood of the innocent. And nothing's going to stop the renegades from going barrel to barrel to pilfer the best grazing land in the Territory. But they've finally met their match in the likes of the kill-or-be-killed legend Smoke Jensen. As the body count rises as high as the Rockies, the trail-hardened pioneer is set to strap on his brand of .44 caliber justice-and teach these outlaws the real meaning of the word hell.

Release date: July 25, 2017

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

Smoke and Pearlie were leaning on a corral fence, watching Cal try to break one of the horses Smoke had bought for the Sugarloaf remuda.

“Ride ’em, Cal boy,” Pearlie shouted, grinning from ear to ear. “Don’t let that cayuse show you who’s boss.”

The boy in his late teens was holding on to the hurricane deck for dear life, shouting and waving his hat in the air as if he were at a county fair competition. The bronc was crow-hopping, swallowing his head, and generally giving the young man fits.

Smoke Jensen smiled and tilted his hat back. “I know Cal is pretty good with most horses, but I think this one has his number.”

Just then, the horse bent almost double and gave a quick double jump and twisted sideways at the same time. Cal went flying head over heels to land in a pile of horse apples in the middle of the corral.

“He’s forked end up, Smoke,” Pearlie hollered as he quickly scaled the fence and shooed the still-bucking animal away until Cal could climb shakily to his feet and make his way over to the fence.

“Jimminy Christmas, Smoke, that there broomtail acts like he’s got a burr under his saddle,” Cal said.

He brushed the seat of his pants with both hands, grimacing as he touched areas bruised by the fall. After a moment, as if the idea had just occurred to him, he narrowed his eyes and glanced over his shoulder at Pearlie. “You didn’t do somethin’ nasty like that to me, did you, Pearlie?”

Pearlie sauntered over, holding his hands out in front of him. “No, Cal, I didn’t put no sticker under your saddle.” He gave a short laugh. “I didn’t figure I needed to since there weren’t no way you was gonna be able to stay in the saddle nohow.”

“Whatta you mean, Pearlie?” Cal said, sticking his jaw out. “You think I can’t break that hoss? Just gimme another try and we’ll see.”

Smoke said, “Hold on, Cal. We all know you’re a pretty good rider, but breaking horses takes some specialized knowledge. Pearlie, show him how it’s done.”

Pearlie pulled his hat down tight and walked to the snorting horse, ignoring the way it was pawing the ground and looking walleyed. He bent down and picked up the reins, bringing the horse’s head down toward his face. He grabbed its ear, bent it over, and swung into the saddle. As the mount kicked up its heels, Pearlie threw his weight forward, wrapped his arms around its neck, and squeezed and twisted the animal’s ear almost double. It immediately quieted down, rolling its eyes back and trying to see what was happening. Pearlie dug his spurs in and made the bronc trot around the corral a time or two.

After a few minutes, he let go of the horse’s ear and continued to ride in peace, the horse trotting as if wearing a saddle and rider was the most natural thing in the world.

Pearlie grinned, took his hat off, and swept it in front of him as he took a bow toward Cal while riding the now-docile animal.

“Well I’ll be gosh-darned,” Cal said, wonderment in his voice.

“That’s an old-timer’s trick, Cal,” Smoke said. “The old trail hands used to tell the tenderfeet they were whispering in the horse’s ear when they did that, but they were really just putting all their weight on the animal’s neck and using the ear to cause it enough pain to make it forget all about bucking.”

He shrugged, and inclined his head toward Pearlie. “It doesn’t always work that well, but you had already tired the animal out enough that he was about ready to quit bucking anyway. Course, Pearlie’s going to try and take all the credit for it—you just watch.”

Pearlie trotted his mount over to the two men and said, “See, Cal boy, it’s easy when you’re an old hand at breakin’ hosses like I am.”

“That’s bull an’ you know it, Pearlie. I already had that crazy animal plumb tuckered out so’s he couldn’t hardly walk, much less buck you off.”

“Okay, boys, that’s enough jawing,” Smoke said. “Let’s get the rest of this sorry bunch of animals broken so we can get some lunch.”

Pearlie, an acknowledged chowhound, grinned and said, “Yes, sir!” at the mention of food. He walked his bronc over to the gate and put it in with the ones already broken. He and Cal managed to saddle another of the wild horses, and he walked back over to stand next to Smoke as Cal once again tried his hand.

As the young man leaned forward on the horse’s neck and twisted its ear, Pearlie said, “Smoke, I can’t hardly believe the changes in Cal since Miss Sally brought him back to the ranch a few years ago.”

Smoke’s eyes crinkled as he smiled at the recollection. “Neither can I, Pearlie. . . .”

Calvin Woods, going on eighteen years old now, was just fourteen when Smoke and Sally took him in as a hired hand. It was during the spring branding, and Sally was on her way back from Big Rock to the Sugarloaf. The buckboard was piled high with supplies; branding hundreds of calves made for hungry punchers.

As Sally slowed the team to make a bend in the trail, a rail-thin young man stepped from the bushes at the side of the road with a pistol in his hand.

“Hold it right there, miss.”

Applying the brake with her right foot, Sally slipped her hand under a pile of gingham cloth on the seat. She grasped the handle of her short-barreled Colt .44 and eared back the hammer, letting the sound of the horses’ hooves and the squealing of the brake pad on the wheel mask the sound. “What can I do for you, young man?” she asked, her voice firm and without fear. She knew she could draw and drill the young highwayman before he could raise his pistol to fire.

“Well, uh, you can throw some of those beans and a cut of that fatback over here, and maybe a portion of that Arbuckle’s coffee too.”

Sally’s eyebrows raised. “Don’t you want my money?”

The boy frowned and shook his head. “Why, no, ma’am. I ain’t no thief. I’m just hungry.”

“And if I don’t give you my food, are you going to shoot me with that big Navy Colt?”

He hesitated a moment, then grinned ruefully. “No, ma’am, I guess not.” He twirled the pistol around his finger and slipped it into his belt, turned, and began to walk down the road toward Big Rock.

Sally watched the youngster amble off, noting his tattered shirt, dirty pants with holes in the knees and torn pockets, and boots that looked as if they had been salvaged from a garbage dump. “Young man,” she called, “come back here, please.”

He turned, a smirk on his face, spreading his hands. “Look, lady, you don’t have to worry. I don’t even have any bullets.” With a lightning-fast move, he drew the gun from his pants, aimed away from Sally, and pulled the trigger. There was a click but no explosion as the hammer fell on an empty cylinder.

Sally smiled. “Oh, I’m not worried.” In a movement every bit as fast as his, she whipped her .44 out and fired, clipping a pine cone from a branch, causing it to fall and bounce off his head.

The boy’s knees buckled and he ducked, saying, “Jimminy Christmas!”

Mimicking him, Sally twirled her Colt and stuck it in the waistband of her britches. “What’s your name, boy?”

The boy blushed and looked down at his feet. “Calvin, ma’am, Calvin Woods.”

She leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared into the boy’s eyes. “Calvin, no one has to go hungry in this country, not if they’re willing to work.”

He looked up at her through narrowed eyes, as if he found life a little different than she’d described it.

“If you’re willing to put in an honest day’s work, I’ll see that you get an honest day’s pay, and all the food you can eat.”

Calvin stood a little straighter, shoulders back and head held high. “Ma’am, I’ve got to be straight with you. I ain’t no experienced cowhand. I come from a hardscrabble farm and we only had us one milk cow and a couple of goats and chickens, and lots of dirt that weren’t worth nothing for growin’ things. My ma and pa and me never had nothin’, but we never begged and we never stooped to takin’ handouts.”

Sally thought, I like this boy. Proud, and not willing to take charity if he can help it. “Calvin, if you’re willing to work, and don’t mind getting your hands dirty and your muscles sore, I’ve got some hands that’ll have you punching beeves like you were born to it in no time at all.”

A smile lit up his face, making him seem even younger than his years. “Even if I don’t have no saddle, nor a horse to put it on?”

She laughed out loud. “Yes. We’ve got plenty of ponies and saddles.” She glanced down at his raggedy boots. “We can probably even round up some boots and spurs that’ll fit you.”

He walked over and jumped in the back of the buckboard. “Ma’am, I don’t know who you are, but you just hired you the hardest-workin’ hand you’ve ever seen.”

Back at the Sugarloaf, she sent him in to Cookie and told him to eat his fill. When Smoke and the other punchers rode into the cabin yard at the end of the day, she introduced Calvin around. As Cal was shaking hands with the men, Smoke looked over at her and winked. He knew she could never resist a stray dog or cat, and her heart was as large as the Big Lonesome itself.

Smoke walked up to Cal and cleared his throat. “Son, I hear you drew down on my wife.”

Cal gulped, “Yessir, Mr. Jensen. I did.” He squared his shoulders and looked Smoke in the eye, not flinching though he was obviously frightened of the tall man with the incredibly wide shoulders standing before him.

Smoke smiled and clapped the boy on the back. “Just wanted you to know you stared death in the eye, boy. Not many galoots are still walking upright who ever pulled a gun on Sally. She’s a better shot than any man I’ve ever seen except me, and sometimes I wonder about me.”

The boy laughed with relief as Smoke turned and called out, “Pearlie, get your lazy butt over here.”

A tall, lanky cowboy ambled over to Smoke and Cal, munching on a biscuit stuffed with roast beef. His face was lined with wrinkles and tanned a dark brown from hours under the sun, but his eyes were sky-blue and twinkled with good-natured humor.

“Yessir, boss,” he mumbled around a mouthful of food.

Smoke put his hand on Pearlie’s shoulder. “Cal, this here chowhound is Pearlie. He eats more’n any two hands, and he’s never been known to do a lick of work he could get out of, but he knows beeves and horses as well as any puncher I have. I want you to follow him around and let him teach you what you need to know.”

Cal nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. Smoke.”

“Now let me see that iron you have in your pants.”

Cal pulled the ancient Navy Colt and handed it to Smoke. When Smoke opened the loading gate, the rusted cylinder fell to the ground, causing Pearlie and Smoke to laugh and Cal’s face to flame red. “This is the piece you pulled on Sally?”

The boy nodded, looking at the ground.

Pearlie shook his head. “Cal, you’re one lucky pup. Hell, if’n you’d tried to fire that thing it’d of blown your hand clean off.”

Smoke inclined his head toward the bunkhouse. “Pearlie, take Cal over to the tack house and get him fixed up with what he needs, including a gun belt and a Colt that won’t fall apart the first time he pulls it. You might also help pick him out a shavetail to ride. I’ll expect him to start earning his keep tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir, Smoke.” Pearlie put his arm around Cal’s shoulders and led him off toward the bunkhouse. “Now the first thing you gotta learn, Cal, is how to get on Cookie’s good side. A puncher rides on his belly, and it ’pears to me that you need some fattenin’ up ’fore you can begin to punch cows.”1

As Smoke grinned at his memory of the day Cal arrived, his thoughts turned to his foreman, Pearlie, standing next to him.

Pearlie had come to work for Smoke in as roundabout a way as Cal had. He was hiring his gun out to Tilden Franklin in Fontana when Franklin went crazy and tried to take over Sugarloaf, Smoke and Sally’s spread. After Franklin’s men raped and killed a young girl in the fracas, Pearlie sided with Smoke and the aging gunfighters he had called in to help put an end to Franklin’s reign of terror.2

Pearlie was now honorary foreman of Smoke’s ranch, though he was only a shade over twenty-four years old himself—boys grew to be men early in the mountains of Colorado.

Sally, Smoke’s pretty, brown-haired wife, appeared next to him, breaking his reverie. “Howdy, boys. I thought you might like to take a little break and have a snack before lunch.”

She was carrying a platter of still-steaming bear sign, the sweet doughnuts that cowboys had been known to ride ten miles for.

Pearlie’s eyes widened and he let out a whoop. “Hey, Cal, Miss Sally’s got some bear sign for us!”

As Cal looked over, he let his concentration slip and released the horse’s ear. It immediately began to crow-hop and jigger around the corral, finally throwing Cal in a heap in a far corner.

The boy sprang to his feet, slapped the bucking horse out of his way with his hat, and ran to jump over the fence. “Boy howdy, I could sure use some nourishment, Miss Sally.”

Sally laughed and handed the platter of doughnuts to Pearlie and a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses to Smoke. She shook her head and started back toward the cabin. “You boys don’t work Smoke too hard breaking those broomtails. He’s getting on up in years and may not be able to take it.”

Smoke called out to her retreating back, “Dear, you notice I’m not the one sweating here. It’s these two young bucks who’re doing all the work. I’m busy supervising.”

She called back, “Good, then that means they can have all the bear sign.”

“Like hell,” Smoke muttered, as he hurried to grab a handful before they were all gone.

The day was finally over, and Smoke and Sally were sitting at the kitchen table, having a cup of after-dinner coffee. “Sweetheart,” Smoke said, “I’m going to make a trip to Wyoming.”

Sally put her mug down and stared at Smoke for a moment before asking, “Why?”

“Seven, the Palouse stud Preacher gave me, is getting old, and even though he’s bred us some good crosses for our remuda, they aren’t Palouses. I want to find some pure Palouse stock mares and maybe another stud or two and carry on Seven’s line.”

Smoke didn’t have to say any more, for Sally to understand this was his way of keeping alive the memory of the man who meant as much to him as his father. Back when Smoke’s name was Kirby Jensen, just after the end of the Civil War, he and his father came west from their crabapple farm in Missouri with all they had strapped to one mule. Soon, they met Preacher, an old mountain man, who saved their lives from a band of marauding Indians. During the fighting, young Kirby killed his share of the attackers, and was given the name Smoke by Preacher, both for the thin trail of smoke from his Colt Navy .36 and for the color of his ash-blond hair.

After traveling with the mountain man for a spell, Smoke’s father was killed by three men who had stolen some gold from the Confederate Army. Preacher took Smoke in and raised him for the next several years, teaching him all the lore of the strange breed known as mountain men.3

Sally asked, “What about Horse?” referring to the Palouse Smoke had been riding since putting Seven in his own pasture on the Sugarloaf to run free and enjoy his old age.

“I’d like to carry on his line, too. I ran across a trapper coming down from the mountains for supplies last week. He said the Nez Percé tribe that used to live there was gone. He didn’t know where, but he’d heard there was still a small band of them camped up near Buffalo in northern Wyoming.”

Smoke drained the last of his coffee and reached across the table to take Sally’s hand.

“The Nez Percé are the ones who developed the Palouse breed, Sally, and they always keep a good supply of breeding mares and studs on hand. I plan to go to Wyoming before the tribe gets killed off, or mixes with another and loses their identity. I’m going to carry on the Palouse line here on the Sugarloaf, starting with Seven and Horse.”

“But Smoke, it’s the middle of winter. Don’t you think this will wait until spring, at least?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t want to be gone during the spring calving and branding. That’s too heavy a load to leave on Pearlie and Cal. I’m going to get on the Union Pacific Line train and take it all the way to Casper, a little range town at the foot of the Big Horn Mountains. From there I’ll pack by horse up into the mountains north of Buffalo and see if I can find out where the Nez Percé are now.”

He sat back and shrugged. “Then it’s just a matter of doing some good old-fashioned horse trading.”

Sally got the pot off the stove and poured him another cup of coffee. “I don’t like the idea of you traveling halfway across the country in the dead of winter by yourself. Why don’t you take Cal or Pearlie with you?”

“There’s too much work here they need to be doing.”

He glanced out the cabin window at their ranch. “Fences need mending, corrals have to be built, and the cattle have got to be taken care of.” He hesitated, a slow grin crossing his lips. “Besides, do you think this old beaver is getting too old to make a trip by himself? You think I need taking care of?”

She stared at him for a moment without speaking, as if she was considering that possibility. Finally, she got up from the table and took the coffeepot off the stove, putting it on a counter to cool. She stoked the fire in the stove, sending waves of warmth through the chilly room. When she was finished, she took her apron off and began to walk toward their bedroom.

After a few steps, she glanced back over her shoulder and smiled. “Oh, I don’t think you’re getting old at all, but why don’t you come to bed and show me how young you’re feeling?”

And he did just that.

Cheyenne, Wyoming

Hubert Teschemacher and Frederic O. deBillier swung their identical gold-headed walking sticks to and fro as they approached the Cheyenne Club through a light snowfall.

They swaggered as they walked, tipping their top hats at other prominent citizens as they passed. Having come to Wyoming from Boston a few years back with five hundred thousand dollars to invest, they were well aware of their place in Cheyenne society as two of the wealthiest men in the state capital.

“Freddy,” Hubert said, “we’ve come a long way since we roomed together at Harvard.”

DeBillier glanced at his friend, a sardonic smile on his face. “Yes, Hubie, this western country is certainly different from Boston, wouldn’t you say?”

Teschemacher shrugged. “Yes, of course. There is no culture at all out here, and the food is generally atrocious.”

He paused, before grinning and smoothing his handlebar moustache with the flick of a forefinger. “But then, there is always the Cheyenne Club to relieve our boredom,” he said with a wink at his friend.

DeBillier smiled back, adjusting his silk cravat as the two men entered the three-story Cheyenne Club, described in its charter as “a pleasure resort and place of amusement.”

A doorman in formal attire took their overcoats and hats and walking sticks, saying, “Good evening, sirs. The others in your party are awaiting you on the third floor.”

The first floor of the Cheyenne Club was the kitchen and storage area for the vast supplies of liquor and wine and other culinary delicacies the members maintained.

The second floor was the “communal” room, where the prettiest whores in the state would arrange themselves in various small cubicles and rooms, to play pianos or other musical instruments, sing, and otherwise amuse their wealthy clients. All of the girls were handpicked by Teschemacher and deBillier, who as co-founders of the Cheyenne Club, retained certain perks for themselves.

The third floor was the dining and meeting hall. Dozens of overstuffed leather chairs and tables were arranged around the room in the manner of the English men’s clubs that Teschemacher and deBillier had seen on their travels abroad. In a separate room was a dining table made of carved oak, over twenty feet long, with chairs to seat forty diners.

Butlers and maids were everywhere, and the floors were connected to the kitchen by a series of dumbwaiters, so the members were never without food or drink for very long.

As Hubert and Frederic climbed the stairs, Hubert said, “Now remember, Freddy, we must handle Hesse with extreme care in our discussion tonight.”

“I know, Hubie. That damned pompous limey bastard won’t agree to anything unless he’s made to feel it’s his idea.”

Hubert nodded. “Exactly. So the trick is simply to lead him in the right direction, so that he’ll decide things our way.”

“What about Bill Irving?” Frederic asked.

Hubert snorted, “Oh, William is just a midlevel manager for his investors back in Omaha. He’ll do whatever we tell him to do, since it’s his butt on the line if his ranch doesn’t make a profit every year.”

Slightly out of breath from their climb, they finally reached the third floor and walked into the anteroom, where they saw their friends standing in small groups, with Cuban cigars in their hands and holding crystal goblets filled with brandy and Kentucky bourbon.

Teschemacher and deBillier had spared no expense in decorating the room, making use of a French decorator brought over for just that reason. There were paintings on every wall, and a twenty-five-foot gilded mirror behind a massive, ornately carved mahogany bar that ran the length of the room, stocked with thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive whiskeys and wines and brandies. A billiard table was in a corner, underneath a fancy French chandelier with hundreds of small candles arrayed around the crystal glass it was made of. The polished wooden floors were covered with hand-woven rugs of the finest wool.

Hubert and Frederic had invited a group of the richest and most influential men in the county to attend the meeting, all owners or managers of the largest cattle ranches in the area.

William Irving managed a large ranch owned by millionaire backers from Omaha, and served as a director of the Cheyenne and Northern Railroad and other corporations. Fred Hesse, an Englishman, had worked (swindled, Hubert often said) his way up from foreman to manager of a ranching system that grazed tens of thousands of cattle on far-flung Wyoming ranges. Major Frank Wolcott was a former Army officer from Kentucky who still wore puttees and maintained his military bearing despite a twisted neck—acquired in a tussle with a Laramie cowboy—that left his head permanently cocked to one side. Wolcott’s jaw, Frederic had observed, “closes with a snap after every sentence he utters.”

Most of the plutocrats in the group had spent less time in the saddle than in the state capital, spending most of their nights in the plush and exclusive surroundings of the Cheyenne Club.

Tonight, there were forty-one members attending the club banquet arranged by Hubert and Frederic. Some were playing billiards, while others nibbled at pickled eels and French hors d’oeuvres while waiting for the dinner to be sent up. Hubert had ordered twenty bottles of wine and over sixty bottles of champagne for his guests tonight. There would be none left by night’s end.

After greeting each of the cattle barons, Hubert signaled the head butler that dinner was to be served.

Later, as the men sat around with more brandy and cigars, he addressed them from his station at the head of the table.

“Gentlemen, we are at a crossroads here in Wyoming. As you know, the smaller ranchers in the area are getting more and more brazen about stealing and rustling our cattle.”

Several of the men nodded in agreement, while others scowled and sniffed their disapproval of the subject.

Hubert continued. “We are suffering unacceptable losses to our herds from the depredations of these thieves, and some drastic measures may have to be undertaken.”

Even as he spoke, Hubert knew that most of the losses of the big ranchers were due to poor management practices such as overstocking the range, unpredictable whims of nature in the form of prairie fires and plagues of feed-destroying grasshoppers, and sieges of bad weather. But he also knew that whenever lean dividends had to be explained to far-off investors, rustlers provided the best excuse.

William Irving spoke up. “But Hubert, what about our cowboy blacklist, where we agreed not to hire cowboys who owned their own spreads and cattle. Isn’t that working?”

Hubert shook his head. “No, in fact our scheme has actually backfired on us, and has driven many of these cowboys who can’t find work with us to strike out on their own with small ranches that further eat into our profits.”

Fred Hesse stood and adjusted his vest before speaking. “How about the law we arranged to be passed by the legislature, the ‘maverick’ law, making every unbranded stray calf on the range the property of the Wyoming Stock Growers Association, which we control? In my annual report, I see that we are making huge profits on the cattle that we auction off under the law.”

Hubert nodded. “Yes, we’re making a profit, but most of that is being spent to hire stock detectives and pay them two hundred and fifty dollars for every rustler convicted or killed.” He paused to relight his cigar, then continued. “Furthermore, the small ranchers are calling these detectives bounty hunters and assassins and are making a lot of noise in the legislature to get the maverick law repealed.”

He pointed down the table at Albert Bothwell, one of the wealthiest and most arrogant of the cattle barons present. “And it didn’t help matters any when Al lynched those two homesteaders on the Sweetwater range last summer.”

Bothwell stood up, his face red and flushed from several bottles of wine. “Dammit, Hubie, you know Jim Averell and Ella Watson were squatting on my land illegally, and that whore Watson was known to take her pay in cattle rustled off my range.”

Hubert nodded and held up his hand. “I know, Al. That’s why we spread the rumor in the newspapers that her name was Cattle Kate and that she was a gun-toting rustler queen. But it’s harder to explain to people how Jim Averell, who owned not a single cow, was a rustler.”

Bothwell waved his hand. “Doesn’t matter,” he slurred. “He deserved to die for tryin’ to settle on my land.”

Hubert shook his head, trying hard not to laugh. He knew the land Bothwell claimed as his own was actually free range, owned by the state of Wyoming, and was open to anyone who chose to settle on it. Of course, since all of the men present did much the same thing, he wasn’t about to quibble over small details.

“All right, Al,” Hubert said, holding his hands up to soothe the big man’s temper, “but what I’m trying to say is all of these things have not served to stop the rustling. I want to propose something a bit more . . . severe.”

Fred Hesse called out, “I’m sure for anything that’ll stop those damn rustlers from stealing me out of house and home!”

He looked around at the others, waving his cigar in the air. “And now they’ve had the effrontery to form their own association, calling it the Northern Wyoming Farmers and Stock Growers Association,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Hell, I think it’s just a fancy name for a den of thieves and footpads and rustlers to hide behind.”

Hubert’s lips curled in a small smile. The group was right where he wanted them, ready to do anything to make more money. He glanced at Frederic and gave a small wink before he continued with his talk.

“Gentlemen, what I propose is to completely wipe out that organization and exterminate the rustlers once and for all.”

William Irving, who wasn’t as drunk as the others, arched an eyebrow and stared at Hubert thoughtfully. “Just how do you plan to go about that, Hubie? Especially since Sheriff Red Angus in Buffalo, up where most of the rustlers operate, is openly sympathetic to the small ranchers.”

Hubert took a sip of his hundred-year-old brandy and puffed deeply on his Cuban cigar, letting the smoke trail from his nostrils. This was going to be the hardest part of his scheme to get the men to accept.

He leaned forward, his knuckles on the table. “First, we must recruit a force of gunfighters from outside the state, and send them in force against Johnson County, which is the headquarters of the rustlers . . . home to men like Nate Champion, who is the head of the Northern Wyoming Farmers and Stock Growers Association.”

He paused for a moment, letting the idea sink in, then continued. “Then we cut all telegraph wires that link the county to the rest of the state, thus isolating the citizens while our attack gets under way. Next, we take over the town of Buffalo, which is the county seat, and assassinate the sheriff, his deputies, and the three county commissioners, thereby stripping the county of its leadership.”

He had their full attention now, as talk of a full-scale range war usually did. “And finally, we dispose of all the men on this ‘death list’ I’ve got here that our WSGA detectives have put together.” He held up a fistful of papers with over seventy names printed on it.

At first, as the idea sank in, there was stunned silence from the men sitting before Hubert. It wasn’t the fact that th