Vigilante Law Read online

  Vigilante Law

  Having escaped from a firing squad at the hands of the Mexican federales, Blue Creek Ben Chisum flees across the border into Texas. He is soon cast afoot when his horse breaks a leg. After wandering alone for a week he stumbles across a hanging and rescues a homesteader from ruthless vigilantes. The grateful man then offers him a half share in his prosperous farming business.

  But Ben is loath to become involved in a range war. He only accepts the offer after learning that his old partner, Squint Rizzo, has been hired by Web Steiger, the leader of the vigilantes. It was Rizzo who betrayed him to the Mexican authorities. But how can one man defeat a ruthless gang of land grabbers? With the help of an old pal and a ham-fisted brawler, Blue Creek sets out to prove that his reputation for fighting on the side of justice has been well earned.

  By the same author

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  Gambler’s Dawn

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  Justice for Crockett

  Bluecoat Renegade

  Gunsmoke over New Mexico

  Montaine’s Revenge

  Black Gold

  Backshooter!

  Bitter Trail

  The Reckless Gun

  Snake Eyes

  Sundown over the Sierras

  Wyoming Blood Feud

  Hangman’s Reach

  Lonely is the Hunter

  Wichita Town Tamer

  Reluctant Tin Star

  Hellbound for Spindriff

  Writing as Ethan Flagg

  Dead Man Walking

  Two for Texas

  Divided Loyalties

  Return of the Gunfighter

  Dynamite Daze

  Apache Rifles

  Duel at Del Norte

  Outlaw Queen

  When Lightning Strikes

  Praise be to Silver

  A Necktie for Gifford

  Navajo Sunrise

  Shotgun Charade

  Blackjacks of Nevada

  Derby John’s Alibi

  Long Ride to Purgatory

  No Way Back

  Revenge Burns Deep

  Bad Deal in Buckskin

  Send for the BAD Guy!

  Cross of Iron

  Day of the Hired Gun

  Bad Blood

  Vigilante Law

  Dale Graham

  ROBERT HALE

  © Dale Graham 2018

  First published in Great Britain 2018

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2747-1

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Dale Graham to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Author’s Note

  Throughout the territories west of the Mississippi, few areas managed to escape the blight of vigilante law. This violent affliction held the land in its grip for too long before official justice swept it away. Over two hundred such movements, stretching from Montana in the north to Texas in the south, pitted entrenched and powerful land-owning interests against incoming settlers. The latter had been granted open land under the Homestead Act of 1862 that they were eager to acquire, much to the anger of the existing cattle-owning inhabitants.

  The conflict became known as the Western Civil War of Incorporation. Barbed wire and the use of hired gunslingers were paramount in the cattle barons’ quest to maintain a firm hold on land viewed as theirs by right of occupancy.

  The worst affected state was Montana, where ruthless cattleman Granville Stuart established the violent ethos of vigilantism to rid the state of insurgents viewed as bandits and rustlers. Adopting the grizzly title of Stuart’s Stranglers, the gang ranged far and wide in a brutal campaign. Their burning and killing devastated the land with no hindrance from distant authorities. Indeed, the so-called ‘incorporation’ was regarded as a legitimate means of establishing law and order.

  Further south, in New Mexico, the Lincoln County War of 1878 was made famous by the involvement of Billy the Kid, who took the side of the underdogs. Beef contracts with the army at Fort Stanton, together with the monopoly on local supplies at the general store in Lincoln lay at the heart of the troubles.

  When Billy’s boss, English rancher John Tunstall, was callously ambushed and shot dead by hired killers brought in by a powerful group of businessmen (known as the House) the Kid, along with fellow Regulators, took their revenge. The Lincoln conflict only lasted five months but it saw the House emerge victorious. This war was fundamental in pitching the Kid into a life of crime that was to end in his suspicious death at the hands of Pat Garrett three years later.

  Perhaps the most well known of these range wars was that in Wyoming. Here, a band of Texas gunmen was hired by martinet Major John Walcott to combat the steady influx of squatters and sodbusters occupying the open range. The Johnson County War of 1892 was a classic conflict between a self-seeking powerful faction and the small settler who only wanted to work land legitimately granted by government decree.

  When the settlers innocently appropriated unbranded calves found wandering the range, a maverick law was passed by the Cattlemen’s Association, which made the practice illegal. Every so-called rustler caught netted the hired gunman $250. Frank Canton, the leader of these so-called ‘range detectives’, made a good living from this dubious law. Communications with the outside world had been cut off. Wyoming was now isolated and alone. The stage was all set for a clearance, cattle baron style.

  Small settlers were threatened with summary removal if they did not surrender and leave the territory. Lynchings and shootings of those who resisted the takeovers became commonplace. Most famous was that of Nate Champion, who left a written account of his resistance. But it was to no avail. Following a lone and spirited defence, he was shot down while trying to flee a burning cabin. This heinous misdeed caused uproar among the local citizenry, who formed a resistance movement of their own.

  Walcott and his Regulators were trapped in a barn on the TA ranch south of the town of Buffalo. Total annihilation was threatened. Bloodshed was only averted by the timely arrival of the cavalry from Fort McKinney. It is perhaps inevitable under the political system of the time that conviction of Walcott, Canton and the other invaders failed. But Nate Champion, a simple cowboy caught up in the brutal conflict, lived up to his name by becoming a revered folk hero.

  Granville Stuart, Frank Canton and Billy the Kid have passed down into Western history as the most notable participants in the cattle versus nester range wars. But there were other gunslingers that made their mark in the menacing upsurge of vigilante law.

  Although Ben Chisum never featured in the annals of Texas history, his contribution to the establishment of law and order in the border territories will long be remembered. Folk still talk of the vital role the man they called Blue Creek played in defusing the havoc caused by land-hungry desperadoes.

  This
is his story.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dancing with the Devil

  For upwards of a week, Ben Chisum had been trekking on foot across the desolate wasteland of southwest Texas. Disaster struck when his horse stepped in a gopher hole and broke its leg soon after crossing the deep ravine cut by the mighty Rio Grande at Eagle Pass. Elation at crossing the border between Mexico and the United States was suddenly stymied. Having to put a bullet through the poor critter’s brain was the only answer. The animal’s demise hit the man hard. They had been together four years.

  He carried the saddle on his back for the next three days, hoping to come across some place where he could obtain a fresh mount. Not a single soul was encountered. Tired and footsore, Ben was forced to abandon it, covering the highly prized Mexican saddle with brushwood until such time as it could be recovered.

  Stops for rest were becoming ever more frequent. On the eighth day he lay down in the shade of a clump of cottonwoods. The sleep of exhaustion claimed his body. It was some time later that an alien sound dragged him out of the clammy hands of Morpheus. He raised a weary frame up onto one elbow and shook the mush from his head. Something had awakened him. Ears pricked up to the prattle of human voices! And they were coming from the far side of the copse.

  At long last he had come across people. Surely he would now be able to hire, buy or borrow a horse to continue his journey. On listening some more, Ben realized that this was no light-hearted banter between friends. Anger was clearly at the heart of the verbal exchange. A slow crawl across open ground found the covert traveller secreted behind a pile of fallen tree trunks. He peeked around the edge, anxious not to reveal his presence until the source of the flinty altercation had been determined.

  Bulging peepers were now witness to an ugly sight. Some poor jasper with hands tied behind his back and straddling a mustang was being berated by a burly critter. Noticeable was the livid scar warping the assailant’s leathery features from mouth to ear.

  The disfigurement had resulted from a knife slash delivered by a Comanche brave. The irate Indian had objected to his sister being molested by a hated white eye. Web Steiger had discovered the squaw alone, washing her hair in a creek during a cattle drive on the Western Trail heading for Dodge City. Escape was only achieved when his partner gunned the skunk down. Unfortunately, the gunfire had attracted the rest of the raiding party, forcing the duo to flee for their lives.

  Following that unsavoury incident, they had been forced to abandon the drive and go on the prod. The clash had left Steiger with an abiding hatred of all things Indian. In his eyes, an inherited blend of Mex and white was little better. Accordingly, the target of the gang leader’s abhorrence could expect no quarter.

  The watcher couldn’t help noting the bruised and bloody face of the tethered half-breed. The poor sap had clearly been roughed up severely prior to his current predicament. Upwards of a dozen onlookers surrounded the object of their sickening aggression. None of the pitiless faces bore any hint of sympathy for their victim.

  The boss man slipped a noosed rope over the guy’s head and then tossed the slack end over a sturdy branch. ‘This is what happens to rustlers in the Nueces Valley.’ The snarled words of the gang leader were distinct and unambiguous. ‘Branding calves by sodbusters on open range has been made illegal. And you’re gonna pay the full price.’ Murmurs of agreement rippled through the ugly gathering. ‘You’re a trespasser with no right to that land.’

  ‘I’ve as much right to occupy it as anybody else. More than a skunk like you, that’s for darned sure,’ the captive, whose name was Chico Lafferty, spat out. If’n these varmints figured he was gonna beg for mercy, they could go piss into the wind. ‘I’ve worked it for danged near five years under the government’s Homestead Act. One hundred and sixty acres of open land. That’s what it says and you ain’t got no right to muscle in.’

  Although Ben was unable to assist the man, he couldn’t help but respect his gutsy resolve. Ben’s fists bunched in anger. Yet much as he yearned to jump out and challenge these bushwhackers, he knew it would be a sure-fire suicidal decision. All he could do was bide his time and hope for a slice of luck to come his way.

  The leader of the hunting pack responded with a growled stream of profane curses, lashing out with a vicious backhander. Only the tautness of the rope saved the nester from tumbling out of the saddle. ‘This rope says I got every right. There ain’t no official law down here in south Texas except what we make ourselves.’

  ‘This ain’t proper law. You scum are nought but a bunch of stinking vigilantes out for your own ends.’ Lafferty was scared for his well-being, but a lifetime of struggling against the taint of being mixed-race, not to mention the harsh landscape, bolstered his courage. A globule of sputum splattered across the braggart’s face. ‘Do your worst, Steiger. Justice and fair play will out in the end, and then it’ll be you and your kind dancing with the Devil.’

  A mirthless grin of accord cracked the watcher’s weathered face. You show these yellow skunks they can’t grind you down, old-timer. Yet he knew it was an impotent avowal of support. The end was only moments away as the incensed leader scraped the goo from his face angrily.

  The insulting denigration by the tethered ’breed was the last straw for the enraged vigilante. ‘We were gonna make it quick, jerking you to Jesus. No chance of that now. It’s gonna be a slow one for you, ’breed. And while you’re a-choking on the end of that rope, think well on what a stubborn unwillingness to accept progress has brought down on your miserable head. You should have left while you had the chance. Too late now.’

  Like a white worm, the knife scar appeared to writhe on the killer’s face. ‘OK, Buckshot, pull that cayuse from under the critter,’ he ordered a subordinate. ‘And make it nice and slow; I want to see this dung beetle performing for Old Nick.’

  Hollers of delight followed as the victim was launched into space. A brief moment of cold-hearted pleasure was all Web Steiger could afford to admire his handiwork. Too much time had been spent already exchanging insults with this critter. There were other fish to fry. If things went to plan, another few weeks would see the whole of the Nueces Valley in his hands.

  ‘OK boys, let’s go,’ he ordered his men. ‘We got us a meet with another turnip down yonder who needs our expert assistance.’ Ugly guffaws all round greeted this piece of grizzly wit as the gang spurred off, leaving their victim desperately kicking his life out.

  Before the riders were even out of sight, the witness to this heinous crime emerged from cover and dashed across the open ground. Already, the feeble struggle for life was fast disappearing. Would he be in time to save the guy? Extracting a knife from a belt sheath, he slashed at the thick hemp. The victim hit the ground like a sack of corncobs and lay still.

  A quick check registered a thin pulse in the man’s lacerated neck. At least he was still in the land of the living. But for how long? Water from a canteen was dribbled between purple lips, eliciting a bout of coughing as the man slowly opened his eyes. ‘Take it easy, mister,’ his saviour advised, wiping the blooded face with a bandanna before carefully removing the stiff necktie. ‘Another minute and you’d have been strumming with the angels.’

  The man winced as a searching finger traced a path across the rough laceration encircling his neck. A watery eye lifted to his redeemer. ‘Wh-who do I have to th-thank for saving me?’ he croaked out.

  ‘The name is Ben Chisum,’ was the quiet response as he eased the man into a sitting position. ‘Some folks call me Blue Creek.’

  The name certainly struck home, stirring some life into the flickering regard. Lafferty nodded. ‘Guess I should have recognized you from those rattler tailbones in your hatband. I heard tell you were over the border in Zaragoza helping the revolutionaries. What in thunder you doing up here in the Nueces?’

  ‘I had me some trouble,’ was the studied reply. No elaboration was forthcoming. ‘Needed to shift my ass in a hurry when things got a tad hairy.’

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p; Lafferty did not delve any further. A man’s business was his own affair. ‘Well, it’s my good fortune you happened along.’ But he did have one query. ‘This ain’t the best country to be cast afoot, though.’

  ‘My horse broke a leg. I had to shoot the poor critter.’ He helped the badly shaken homesteader into a more comfortable position. ‘That was a week back. I been on the hoof ever since. Ain’t met a soul until now. Hearing those voices was music to my ears until I realized what they were doing.’

  The man held out a weathered hand, which Ben accepted. ‘The name is Chico Lafferty. I run a spread at the bottom end of the valley called the Jaybird. It’s on good land with a regular water supply for the crops. I run a few cattle for milk but the grass is too sparse. It certainly ain’t ranching country. They accused me of rustling, which is a danged lie. I bought those steers fair and square.’

  ‘So why is the guy so keen to grab your land?’

  ‘Can’t figure it out. He’s a cattleman through and through. Farming sure ain’t his game.’ Angry resentment at the brutal treatment meted out by the gang creased him up. His throat felt like it was on fire. Ben dribbled more water down the parched gullet and waited until the guy was ready to continue.

  ‘My figuring is he hates nesters coming in and farming the land and just wants the whole valley for himself. He’s been putting the squeeze on others to leave. Anybody refuses and this is what happens to them.’ Again, he gingerly felt the sore abrasion around his neck. ‘I’d have gone the same way if’n you hadn’t moseyed by.’

  ‘Who’s running this murdering crew?’ Ben asked.

  ‘The leader is Web Steiger. He’s the jasper sporting that ugly snake on his kisser. A real mean cuss if ever there was one.’ Lafferty’s eyes glittered with heated malice. ‘He won’t accept the government ruling that this is open land for anyone to farm. There’s enough room here for everyone. But as you’ve seen, he’ll go to any lengths to force us all out. Calls himself a vigilante chief, claiming we’re rustlers and horse thieves and that he’s only trying to establish law and order.’