The Rustlers
by James P. Hanley

Alex Colter was awakened by banging, uncertain if it was in his head or coming from the door in his apartment room. Groggily, he got out of bed and heard a voice calling his name and saw the wooden entrance vibrate from heavy pounding. "Open up, Alex, the Captain wants to see you right away and he's furious."

Stumbling across the carpeted floor, he opened the door to be met by the scowling face of a broad-shouldered man in a New York City Police uniform. The cop pushed past Colter and headed toward the small kitchen, rummaging through cupboards until he found coffee grounds and a small pot. "You need to sober up before you report to work. Do you remember the ruckus you caused at the bar last night? That man you hit needed eight stitches and if there weren't witnesses that said he threw the first punch, you'd soon be wearin' a different kind of uniform."

As he drank the strong, black coffee, Alex remembered what had happened, but with chunks of the evening missing in his memory. He recalled the brief fight prompted by a large man who recognized him as a police officer limited by the bottle. At first the man shoved him and then swung a wild fist, but Alex sobered enough to catch him with an uppercut. Everything past that was a blur.

As forewarned, the Captain of the Manhattan Mounted Police was furious. This was not the first time Colter had been reprimanded, and the Captain had covered for the prior indiscretions. After a long tirade, he ended with, "You're one of the best cops in the city, when you're sober. You beat up the son-in-law of a City Councilman, and this can't be made to go away. There won't be any charges, but your career here is over."

Alex went to his apartment, and stopping to buy a quart of bourbon, was unconscious before nightfall. Waking the next morning, he looked in the mirror and was shocked by the unshaven, glassy-eyed image looking back, as unkempt as the vagrants that populated the parks. Gathering any bottles of booze, he tossed them into the refuse container on the side of the building. Sitting on the worn couch, he retrieved a letter from his sister in Kansas and read the correspondence, which like all others, ended with an encouragement to visit there. He smiled as he thought, won't she be surprised when I take her up on her offer.

After telegramming his sister, Alex made arrangements to catch the train from Jersey City, and through connecting lines, to eventually reach City of Kansas. From there, he took a stagecoach to Titus the town nearest to his sister's ranch. When Anne, his sister, met him at the stagecoach depot with a buckboard, she hugged him tightly, and his instincts led him to believe the prolonged embrace was more than affection: there was something troubling her. His sibling and her husband lived on a cattle ranch with a modest herd, a section of field for planting crops, largely for their own use, and some farm animals, also for the same purpose.

"I'm glad you finally came," she said with a forced smile. On the long trip to the ranch, Alex explained his dismissal from the force, and she told him of her husband and child.

"There's something troubling you, isn't there?" Alex asked.

When her eyes filled, she stopped the horse and looked at him. "We've losing cattle to thieves and this year's crop wasn't good."

Alex asked, "Who's doing the stealing? Have you talked to the law?"

"We're not the only ones losing steers, and all the ranchers think it's Arnie Walters who has a spread down the road. He's hired a mean bunch. The Sheriff is too busy to be worried about us folks far from town. He sends out a deputy once in a while, but nothing happens. If we lose more cattle, we won't be able to keep the land. Walters will likely buy up these ranches after we're gone; he's bought some abandoned property already."

Alex assured her that he would do what he could to stop the thefts. Within a few weeks, he settled into a routine with his sister's family and was a favorite of their six year old boy. The physical work added bulk to Alex's frame. As an errand one day, Alex drove the buckboard into town to purchase supplies. Titus consisted largely of a row of stores, a saloon, an apothecary, a boardinghouse and the jail. Just before the main street, a church and a school stood apart as if banished.

After securing the supplies, Alex walked into the saloon. Standing at the bar and putting money on the table, he said to the bartender, "I'd like a bottle of whiskey; pour me one glass then take the bottle away. Give me another shot only if I ask for it, today or any day I return to town."

When the drink was put in front of him by the puzzled barkeep, Alex quickly downed the shot and slammed the thick glass on the counter.

A man standing nearby laughed and said loudly enough to be heard throughout the saloon, "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard. Why buy a whole bottle and have one glass?"

Alex turned to the man and said sharply, "None of your business."

The cowboy, coated in dust and with a week-old growth of whiskers, said, "If you don't want to finish the bottle, I will."

He reached over the bar to the shelf below where the bartender had placed the purchased whiskey. Alex pushed the man until he was spun around, his back to the mahogany top. The cowboy responded with a fist, but Alex was quick, and stepping back to avoid the blow, threw a right that snapped the man's head backwards. Alex's next punch struck the cowboy's jaw and sent him sprawling.

Alex turned to the bartender and said, "I'm done drinking for today. Don't forget to keep that bottle for me."

Just then the Sheriff entered, and looking at the man flat on the floor, he laughed. "Was wonderin' when he'd get what's due." Looking at Alex, he continued, "You the man who did this?"

"I did. Had no mind to fight." When he finished explaining, the barkeep confirmed what had happened.

"He works at the Walters' ranch and there are others nastier than him. They mostly stay out of trouble in town. I don't know what goes on outside the town limits but got my suspicions. You took a big chance and you don't wear a gun," the Sheriff said.

"Didn't think I needed it," Alex answered.

"I advise you to be wearing one next time you come to town."

When Alex returned to the ranch and explained to his sister what had happened, she was frightened.

"I never told anyone I was your brother."

"People know."

"If they're going to steal more cattle to get back at us, I'll be there to stop them. Tonight, I'll camp out and keep watch," Alex said.

Nothing happened that night. The next day at dusk, Alex armed with a Colt and a Winchester waited again. The ground was lit dimly by the half-moon sky and a few clouds had strayed in front of the brighter stars. Alex stretched his bedroll. After midnight, he was awakened from his dozing by the restlessness of the cattle and the sound of horses near the herd. Hiding behind a small mound, he lifted the rifle and watched three men cutting out four steers and moving them away from the others. Alex fired a warning shot over the head of the rustlers but instead of retreating, the men returned fire, only suspecting the direction of the first shot with little chance of hitting their target. Alex knew his next muzzle flash would give away his position so he aimed carefully. The bullet struck one of the men. The other two fired furiously but Alex slid away from the mound and fired again. The remaining thieves took off, leaving the third on the ground.

The next morning, Alex drove into town, the body of the rustler in back of the wagon. Tying up in front of the doctor's office, which also served as a mortuary, he explained to the physician what had happened.

"You'd better talk to the Sheriff." A boy walked by and the Doc Newman called to him. "Go get the Sheriff," he said, handing the boy a coin.

Within a few minutes, Sheriff Bingham arrived, peered into the wagon and said, "Guess he was trying to steal cattle at your sister's ranch. I remembered how Anne talked about her policeman brother back East. Gossip's all over town; everybody knows who you are. I have a wanted poster for the man you shot; he killed someone in Texas and there's a reward. I'll make sure you get it."

"I don't want money for killing, but my sister's family could use it."

"This won't end. They'll come after you, hard. Bad enough you beat up one of their men, but now you shot another."

"Thanks for the warning, Sheriff."

Afterwards, Alex went into the saloon. The bartender recognized him and took out the bottle Alex had purchased. After pouring a drink, the barkeep started to pour another when Alex stopped him, "No more. And I won't be coming in here anymore so you can dump the rest."

Żou trying to prove something?" the bartender asked.

As soon as Alex arrived back at the ranch, Anne came running out and asked about his trip into town. When Alex repeated the Sheriff's remarks, she began to shake. Alex put his arms around her and said, "I'm sorry I brought this on you."

"Wasn't your doing. Old man Nash from a nearby ranch stopped by when you were gone and said he heard what you did in the saloon to Walters' man and folks were glad."

The wait for retaliation wasn't long. Twelve men rode toward Anne's ranch. All were armed with handguns holstered at their side, and many had rifles in their saddle scabbard. As they neared the house, the horsemen split up and scattered to set a distance apart.

Inside the house, Alex said he would go out to confront them, but Warren, his brother-in-law, stopped him. "I'll go out there and see if I can discourage them from doing harm. You go out they'll start shooting."

"I ain't having you get killed because of what I did," Alex answered.

"Won't do them no good to shoot an unarmed man."

Alex reluctantly agreed but stood near a window with a rifle at the ready.

"What do you want?" Warren asked the cowboy in the lead.

"Our fight ain't with you. We want your wife's brother. He can leave with us and no one else gets hurt."

Warren shook his head, "He's kin and —"

Before Warren could finish the sentence the cowboy had drawn his revolver and was moving the barrel toward Warren when a shot came from the window and blew a hole the man's shirtfront. Anne screamed and her husband jumped back inside the house. The bullets began in a fury, cutting holes in the wood and breaking windows. Alex stayed to the side of a broken pane and fired at any movement he could see, moving back quickly inside to avoid the inevitable return fire. Warren had retrieved a rifle and was shooting from the other side of the house. After the initial flurry, the return fire slowed. The occupants of the house were unharmed. Anne had a pistol and watched at the back of the building for anyone who might sneak around to attack from the rear. Firing occasionally, she held off any effort for a rear assault.

In the brief lull, Alex called out to Warren, "They're not gonna stop and those shots are damaging the house. I'll make a run for the barn to draw their fire away."

"That's crazy; you'll get killed."

Ignoring the comment, Alex crawled toward the door and opened it slowly. Peering out, he couldn't see anyone and slipped out. As he stood in the doorway, the pistol in his hand, he came face-to-face with a man carrying a lit torch about to throw the flame toward the house. Shooting quickly, he struck the man and dove toward the ground just ahead of the shots that followed. Rolling for a few yards, bullets kicking up the dirt all around him, he fired at another man who was moving closer to the house, hitting the cowboy in the stomach. Looking at the distance to the barn, Alex realized he'd made a mistake; he had too far to go without standing to run, offering a big target. Bullets were getting closer, one cutting into the ground just above his head. Looking in the direction of the shooting, Alex could see men standing to improve their aim. He knew that very soon the shots would find him.

The first indication of a change was a loud groan coming from the direction of the cowboys. A shot came from nearby and he saw a man go down. Then a round came from the barrel of a Winchester protruding from a broken window in the house. The next series of shots seemed to come from a third direction, off to the side. Noticing that the bullets hitting near him had stopped, Alex looked around. Near the corral, Sheriff Bingham was extending his rifle; to the other side, two men — one older, one young — were positioned behind a stack of wood drying for winter use. The crossfire kept the revenge-seeking cowboys pinned down. Each time one those men stood to shoot back, he was cut down by bullets coming from three directions: the Sheriff's location, the woodpile and the house. Alex ran toward the barn and once behind cover, added to the shooting. Another man went down until finally the other shooters stood with their hands extended; a few men who were further away from the exchange mounted and took off. Slowly, Alex, the Sheriff and the men behind the woodpile came out, their weapons still pointed until it was clear that the gun battle was over. In a few minutes, Anne and Warren came out of the house. She was the first to speak after seeing the men who'd come to help.

"That's Jeff Scott and his son Luke. They've been having trouble with losing cattle, too."

The elder Scott, a tall, lanky man with a full beard speckled with gray hairs said, "We heard the shooting, so we came. Looked like you needed help."

Just then, the Sheriff approached and explained that he knew there would be trouble. One of the men in the saloon had gathered two other men to leave and the bartender overheard one say that they were headed out to take care of the Easterner. "The barkeep is a reasonable man who doesn't want to see good folks hurt, so he came to my office as soon as they left. No doubt where they were going."

"Thank you all," Warren said, "if you hadn't come, we'd all likely be dead."

Luke Scott said, "You'd have done the same for us."

"I'm heading to the Walters' place and have him come here to collect the bodies. He doesn't have enough men left to be a threat and after people hear what happened, won't be many signing up to work for him." the Sheriff said.

As it neared dark, two wagons kicked up the dirt on the road to the ranch. The first buckboard was steered by a dark-clothed man, who from a distance gave the appearance of a preacher, but close up, the expression of malice in his countenance conveyed otherwise. Alex suspected the driver was Walters. When the wagons pulled up, four men jumped out and in two's, gathered the bodies and dumped them in the back. Warren, Anne and Alex stood on the porch while the men loaded the grisly cargo. As if in a procession, the wagons circled and headed out. Sheriff Bingham, who'd followed the wagons from the Walters' place, stayed behind.

Walking to Alex, the Sheriff said, "You handle yourself well. I could use a deputy and you'd make a good one."

Alex looked at him, surprised at the offer. "You know I didn't leave the police job by choice."

"I know what happened and it doesn't matter to me. I told you the bartender is a good man; he also likes to gossip a bit. He told me about the bottle you bought. I hope you consider my offer."

Anne stepped forward, "You need to take it, Alex. We'll do fine on our own."

In a few days, Alex rode into town and put on the badge.

The End

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