Range War (9781101559215) Read Online Free

of the rest. High on his right hip was a Remington. “Howdy, mister. We took you for a sheepherder and almost shot you.”
    Fargo drew rein and leaned on the saddle horn. “Nursemaiding a bunch of woollies isn’t for me.” He didn’t add that neither was nursemaiding cows. Not that he had anything against either profession. He liked to wander too much—to always see what was over the horizon—to ever settle into a steady job.
    â€œWhat do you do?”
    â€œScout, mostly,” Fargo said, and gave his name.
    â€œGriff Wexler,” the tall cowboy said in his pronounced Texas drawl. “I’m ramrod for the Bar T. Ever hear of it?”
    Fargo vaguely recollected that it was one of the biggest outfits in west Texas. “You gents are a bit off your range,” he remarked.
    â€œLast fall a couple of the boys came up into the Guadalupes to hunt elk and stumbled on this here valley,” Griff said. “When they got back they told Mr. Trask. He’s always on the lookout for new graze.”
    â€œI saw a few cows,” Fargo said.
    â€œBefore long there’ll be thousands.” Griff motioned at the fire. “Light and set a spell. We have coffee if you’re of a mind.”
    â€œI’ll take you up on that.” Fargo dismounted. A couple of the cowboys nodded at him by way of greeting. A short puncher with a lot of muscle handed him a tin cup.
    â€œHere you go, mister. Shorty is my handle.”
    Fargo hunkered and held the cup in both hands and sipped. “One thing about cowhands,” he said by way of praise, “your coffee could float a horseshoe.”
    The youngest cowboy chuckled. “We use it to remove paint, too.”
    Griff Wexler had his thumbs hooked in his belt and was tapping the buckle. “So you saw the mangy sheep,” he said.
    â€œAnd the sheepherders.”
    A cowboy swore and spat and another patted his six-gun and said, “I’d like to put windows in their noggins.”
    â€œDid you talk to them?” Griff asked.
    â€œThey didn’t give me much choice,” Fargo said. “They thought I was one of you and hankered to slit my throat.”
    Griff looked at the others. “See? That proves what those mutton eaters think of us.”
    â€œSeems they blame you for killing three of their own,” Fargo mentioned, and gazed about the camp. “But I don’t see a dog anywhere.”
    At his comment all the cowboys stiffened and Griff Wexler said, “What’s that about a dog?”
    â€œThey claim you set one loose on them.”
    â€œThat’s a damned lie,” Griff declared. “They said that to make us look bad.”
    â€œI saw one of the herders with my own eyes,” Fargo said. “His throat was torn out.” He swallowed more coffee. “I saw the dog, too.”
    Griff took a step toward him. “You sure enough did?”
    â€œI saw . . . something,” Fargo said. “Its eyes, anyway. It came close to my fire last night.”
    â€œAnd it’s killed three of those sheep lovers, you say?” another cowboy asked.
    â€œSo they told me.”
    â€œIt don’t make sense,” Shorty said.
    â€œNo, it doesn’t,” Griff said. “Killin’ them and our cows? What the hell is goin’ on?”
    â€œWhat was that about your cows?” Fargo said.
    â€œSomethin’ has been at them,” Griff answered. “We found six so far clawed and bit to ribbons.”
    â€œBut whatever killed them didn’t eat any of the meat,” another puncher remarked.
    Fargo was as puzzled as they were. “It hasn’t gone after any of you?”
    Griff Wexler scowled. “Our third night here, we heard it howlin’ off in the trees. Two nights later Shorty, there, was ridin’ herd and . . .” He stopped. “Why don’t you tell it, Shorty?”
    â€œNot much to tell,” Shorty said. “I