Blue (Ben Blue Book 2) Read online

  BLUE

  A Ben Blue Western

  By Lou Bradshaw

  Copyright © 2013 L E Bradshaw

  Cover Art © 2013 L.E. Bradshaw

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means except for review purposes without written permission from the author or his designated agent.

  BLUE is a work of fiction and in no way intends to portray any person living or dead. The events in this story are products of the author’s imagination. Some creative license may have also been taken with terrain and geographic features.

  Other books by Lou Bradshaw on Kindle

  A Fine Kettle of Fish

  Hickory Jack

  This story is dedicated to my sister Jeanette, who had Ben Blue withdrawals when she finished reading “Hickory Jack”.

  Introduction

  As Ben settles into his new life as rancher and owner of the MB connected, he finds that his past will not lie down and rest. Whenever a crisis arises the first name called is Ben Blue. He is the one with the experience. He is also the one man in Taos County who cannot and will not turn his back on trouble, especially if there are innocents are in peril. His willingness to put his own life at risk for the sake of others could cost him the one thing he wants more than all else.

  Easy going and good humored, Ben is well liked and respected by his fellow ranchers and townspeople alike. His youth and boyish charm belie the bloody trail he’s traveled from Missouri through Arkansas, Texas, Kansas, and finally into New Mexico. Plans and dreams are put on hold, saddle bags are packed, and weapons are made ready because Ben Blue is a man.

  Chapter 1

  My cattle were all fat and slick, looking like cash on the hoof. I had a lot more than I did a year and a half earlier when I brought my brother down out of the mountains to his final resting place. My life had changed in many ways since then. It would never be the same again without Andy, but I had to carry on and make the most of it. That’s what he would have expected.

  When that murdering Clyde Gentry shot Andy in the back of the head. I put a full load of buckshot from my ten gauge into him at less than fifteen feet, and rolled his body off a two hundred foot cliff for the scavengers to dispose of. Then I watched as his partner, the equally vile “Judge” Amos Poke, gradually lost his hold on a cedar sapling and fell to the same fate.

  That part of my life was over, the mission was accomplished, and the story had ended. So I just squared up my shoulders, hitched up my belt, and forged ahead. The brand remained the MB connected for Moore and Blue, which stood for Andy Moore and Ben Blue. That’s me, Ben Blue, the younger adopted brother of Andrew Jackson Moore, also known as Hickory Jack.

  I don’t know what my middle name might be; I’m not even sure when my birthday is. I just accepted the first of October because it sounded good. And according to our best rememberings, Andy’s and mine, I’d be twenty two this fall, with eight dead men in my in my wake. I never wanted to kill anyone, but they brung it to me. All I ever wanted was to be a big good natured Irishman like they said my pa was and raise fat cows.

  There I was, banging away on a piece of white hot iron with a three pound hammer making a shoe for one of my horses, when my reveries were interrupted by, “Red! That you in there makin’ all that racket?”

  “In here, Sheriff.” I yelled back. “Come on in; just don’t sit on anything that glows.” As he poked his head around the big doorway of the smithy.

  ‘What brings you out this way, Sheriff? Did my past catch up with me, or did you find out that I really don’t have red hair, and you’re gonna arrest me for impersonatin’ a Mick?”

  “Now that you mention it I did get a batch of new flyers in this morning, and your face might just be on one… One of ‘em just describes the feller as big and homely… We figger to look into that one a little closer.”

  “Well, while you think about it, I got some stout black coffee in the house. Let’s go have some” I took off my homemade cowhide apron, and we headed for the house. Cletus, from back on the farm had taught me to work leather, a craft that had come in mighty handy. Growing as fast as I did and as much as I did, I didn’t have a pair of store bought boots through most of my long growin years. I wore moccasins till then.

  Seated at the table with mugs of steaming black coffee, his with about a week’s supply of sugar in it, Sheriff Nelson began to tell me what was on his mind.

  “Ben.” he said, “As you know, the plateau has been gettin chewed on by some rustlers. They don’t seem to be hittin anyone real hard, but just nibblin away at the edges. That is until three nights ago, when they hit the J over Bar for about a thousand head.”

  “Ouch!” I said. “That’s quite a bite! Got any ideas?”

  “We don’t even have a trail. It seems that the tracks get all muddled up with a lot of other cattle traffic. It looks like they’re moving them across the river, but we can’t be sure. You think that ole Injun, Rubio, might be able to go up and see if he can make heads or tails of it?”

  “And would you mind goin up with him to see if you can get a feel for what’s goin on? You’re about the most experienced man hunter we got in the area.”

  “Well, I work cheap,” I told him, “but old Rubio’ll probably cost the county a dollar a day plus grub… I’ll see if he’s up to a ride tomorrow, and if not, I’ll go up there anyway and look around.”

  “The county can pay for it, I recon.” He grumbled

  “And,” I went on, “if he has to shoot anybody, he’ll expect you to pay for his ammunition. That old Navajo has learned a thing or two from white folks.”

  “Sure, sure, whatever that old blood sucker needs… You might run into Duncan, my deputy, up there. He’s somewhere up there nosing around. He should have been back last evening, but he may have got onto something. So keep an eye out for him, if you will.”

  The following morning Rubio and I were on our way to the J over Bar ( J ), Dave Johnston’s spread. Dave had himself a nice cattle operation along the river in the northwest corner of the county. He had plenty of water, range, and grass.

  If he lacked anything, it would be men. Dave wasn’t always the easiest person to work with or for. Actually, Dave wasn’t such a bad boss, but he was too good a husband. His wife was the problem: she was a better businesswoman than she was a rancher’s wife. She interfered and pushed the men too hard from time to time. So, it was getting harder and harder to keep a full bunkhouse, which resulted in hands spread too thin. Or so the range gossip went.

  It was early afternoon when we rode into the ranch yard at the J. Dave came out and I told him how Sheriff Nelson wanted Rubio to take a look at the trail left by the rustlers and see if he could unscramble it somewhat. And I came along to protect any rustlers who might be around from Rubio and his scalping knife. I didn’t feel comfortable telling him that Nelson wanted my expertise as well as Rubio’s. So I kinda made a joke out of it.

  I asked if he’d seen Deputy Duncan in the last day or so and he said, “I spoke to him two days ago, and showed him where the herd had been gathered and moved, but with so many cattle coming to the river for their water everything gets all muddled up down there.” He gave us directions and we moved out.

  We found the gathering point and followed the herd toward the river. It wasn’t really a river; it was more of a seasonal stream. At this point it was wide and deep. By August it would be no more that a mud choked waterhole. I was pretty sure that even Rubio wouldn’t be able to track a herd of cattle through an area where thousands of beeves crossed in any given week. Once again, I learned my education was lacking. The old Navajo scalper dismounted and walked around the area twice. The first circle followed the outer edge of the herd, and the second circle went ou
t about a hundred yards.

  After he came back to where I was waiting, he didn’t say anything until I offered him a cup of coffee, which I had just made and a packet of sugar which he used generously. It seems I know how to deal with at least one Navajo. He drank the coffee and licked the rim of the cup. Only then did he say, “Six riders.” Tapping his temple, he went on. “I show you, Benblue.”

  He walked me around the perimeter of the herd and pointed to six distinctly different sets of shod horse tracks. “Okay, master tracker, what do we do now?”

  “Drink more coffee and then follow.” That old chiseler knew how to work me to his best advantage.

  With Rubio on the right flank and me on the left, we tracked the horses to the river’s edge. We would have never been able to follow any particular cows in that mish mash of tracks, but with a little effort we followed at least three horses to the water. To our disappointment, there was no sign of them coming out on the other side, so we split up with him going north and me going south agreeing to meet back there in about two hours. Rubio didn’t have a watch, but like most westerners, he knew the time of day by the sun.

  I hadn’t been traveling downstream for more than a half hour when I found where a large bunch of cattle had come out of the river and went up a wash to level ground about fifteen feet above the water. The area on this side of the river was broken and higher than the plateau on the other side. The first thing I did once out of the mud was start looking for horse tracks. It didn’t take more than a few minutes to find some of the same ones I’d followed to the river. The trail led through what appeared at first to be a canyon, but turned out to be a boulder strewn break between two ridges. At one time it was probably one unbroken ridge or mountain, but quakes, slides, wind, or water had created a fool’s canyon.

  Riding on for about another quarter mile I caught a glimpse of a desert like valley where the break ended. The canyon was changing from rock and parched ground to sand. I was losing the trail. Making the decision to go back to get Rubio’s help, I turned Dusty on the spot, and a ricocheting rifle bullet altered my plan.

  Chapter 2

  Coming out of that saddle and hitting the ground rolling, I got behind some boulders. I’d been riding with my Winchester across my legs and my hand on the action, so when I took to the rocks, it came with me. Dusty ran off a short way back down that fool’s canyon and then he stopped and waited. I waited also. Waiting for some fool bushwhacker to lose his patients, and come to admire his work, was something I was getting to be pretty good at. I learned a long time ago that moving meant dying, and I didn’t have any place special to go anyway.

  I pulled out my watch and put it where I could see it. I figured fifteen minutes would seem like an hour to that sniper up ahead. I couldn’t get up to see if he was coming without giving myself away. I may have to change my thinking to ten or even five minutes because within two minutes he fired two searching shots. One shot hit the rocks above me, and the other shot dug up dirt and sand a few feet to my left. Yeah… he was fidgety.

  Twelve and a half minutes later, I saw Dusty’s head come up and look up canyon. He was coming. I slowed my breathing down and listened. Relying only on my sense of sound, my life depended on what I could hear. A barely hearable crunch of gravel, a scuff of sand, and a scrape of denim against brush told me exactly where he was or almost exactly. When I saw the muzzle of his Winchester peek past the boulder I was hiding behind I just reached out and plucked it from his hand. Coming up quick, I could see him going for his belt gun, so I pulled the trigger on my rifle. It took him in the breast bone right where I was looking. He fell straight back and lay spread eagle in the sand.

  I wasn’t worried too much about him giving me trouble, but I didn’t know if he was alone or not, so I crouched and waited and watched. Yep, it was like a crazy old mountain man turned poet hermit once told me, “The first fool that moves is the fool that dies.”

  Checking my watch, I waited for half an hour before moving from cover. When I did, I crouched and ran across the canyon to the other wall, and then I started working my way to where I figured this fella had been hiding. When I found his nest, I also found his horse and gear. He had been there for several days, or so it appeared. He’d had at least one fire and cooked a few meals, his blankets were there and so were the odds and ends that a man drags along with him.

  I threw the saddle on his horse, but I didn’t bother with a bridle, I just got a rope over his head and he came along nicely. Going through that fellas pockets, and saddle bags I came up with a name of John Kelley. Well, here’s one Mick who didn’t find any pot of gold at the end of his rainbow… just an ounce of lead.

  As I was tying John Kelley across his saddle, I heard, “Aye Benblue, you gone take that scalp?”

  I told him he could have the next one, but I had plans for this gent. Taking off the lead rope I gave that bronc a whack across the rear, and he was headed out of that break and into the desert like a jackrabbit.

  I was swinging into the saddle and saying to Rubio, “Let’s see where that hombre called home.” And we took off in warm but not hot pursuit of the stung critter.

  We trailed it across that stretch of sand and rock for about seven or eight miles. As we went through that valley I could see any number of canyons and gaps where a good size herd of cattle might be kept. That jackrabbit horse was staying to southern edge of the valley, and he was making a bee line for someplace. We hadn’t seen a single sign of cattle since we started following that critter, not even droppings. Wind can quickly smooth over tracks in soft sand but a couple hundred cow pies are hard to disguise.

  Just before sundown, we saw where that horse had taken its inglorious cargo. There was a small rundown outfit at the base of a mesa several miles out of the desert valley. There didn’t seem to be too much going on. Several horses were in the corral, but no lights were on in the shack and no smoke coming from the chimney. From where we were watching, I could see that jackrabbit horse in the corral with the other two, but someone had taken his load off, and he was unsaddled.

  We waited till well after dark, but no lights ever came on in the shack. My guess was that whoever had unsaddled that horse was being mighty careful… if they were even still there. We pulled back into the valley and found a campsite.

  The next morning found us following the northern edge of the desert valley. About three miles from the river crossing we came upon cattle sign. It didn’t take long for Rubio to work out the canyon they had been stashed in. By noon we were pushing about fifteen hundred cows across the river, and onto plateau graze. About a thousand of those critters wore the J brand, and the rest were from other ranches but in much smaller numbers. There was about thirty that belonged to Sam and wearing S-S and at least fifty carried D – of Juan Domingo. We pushed them back far enough from the river, so Rubio could keep an eye on them, while I went to get some of Johnston’s men to take charge.

  Not more than halfway to the ranch headquarters, I met a group of riders coming my way. It turned out to be Johnston and two of his punchers plus Nelson and two deputies. As they pulled up I told them, that we’d brought back about fifteen hundred mixed brands and tracked the guard’s horse to a ranch about twelve miles out.

  “Ben,” Nelson said, “Duncan’s horse came in last night with a lot of blood on the saddle.”

  “Damn!” was my only reply. I had always liked Dunk. And until we find out otherwise I was going to assume that he was still alive.

  “There’s a good chance that he was shot at the same place that bushwhacker tried to shoot me. That’s the place to start our search.” I pulled the papers I’d taken from John Kelley’s body from my pocket and gave them to Nelson. “He ain’t dead till we see his body, Sheriff.”

  Johnston and his riders took charge of the recovered herd and the five of us rode downstream to where the cattle came out of the water. While on our way I briefed Nelson on how I’d been shot at and what the outcome had been. I told of trailing the horse carry
ing the dead guard to a ranch on the other side of the desert valley. Finally I told him how we found the herd stashed in a well watered grassy canyon along the north wall of the valley. Chances were that the rustlers were waiting until they were comfortable that there was no pursuit before they moved the herd.

  Cautioning the deputies to be alert and have their rifles ready, we moved into the gap with Rubio in the lead. He was criss-crossing the gap, going from one side to another on foot looking for any kind of sign. When we came to the area where I had been shot at, I quit watching him and started paying a lot of attention to the area where the bushwhacker had made his nest. About twenty or so feet beyond, he held up and said, “Benblue…it was here.” I told one of the deputies to keep an eye on that bunch of boulders, and Nelson and I went forward and dismounted.

  What we saw was a large brown spot in the sand. A half hearted effort had been made to kick sand over it. In a week or two it would have been covered by blowing sand, but as of then it was still visible and it was a blood stain. He also showed us blood on nearby rocks. It looked as though someone had been hit, and braced himself against the rocks and then fallen. Rubio followed a poorly covered trail where the body had been dragged for a dozen or so yards.

  When we saw the heap of rocks, we knew what to expect beneath them. Duncan’s body had been shoved into a crack in the wall of that gap, and then a bunch of pumpkin sized rocks had been piled around and over the opening. A rider going through the gap might never see it, but once you looked at it you could tell that it wasn’t right.

  While the two deputies got Duncan’s body out of that crack and wrapped in a blanket, Nelson, Rubio, and I went to where the sniper had built his little nest. I had only taken time to survey what was there in my brief earlier visit, but now we took a much closer look. Rolled up in his bed roll we found Dunk’s personal effects, including his gun and gun belt. The killer probably wasn’t able to catch up his horse, so his rifle and saddle bags weren’t taken. There was about twelve dollars in cash and some letters, along with his clasp knife and his badge. That guy was a real scavenger.