LITMIR.BIZ

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the road. “Mr. Foster! Hey, Mr. Foster!”

      The man with the rifle gave Danny a scowl. “You know this fella, Danny?”

      “He’s Mr. Foster, my teacher.”

      The man lowered his rifle. A look of distant respect crept into his face. “Oh, sorry Teacher. I didn’t recognize you without your chalkboard.” He guffawed at his own witticism and I smiled, lowering my hands.

      Danny gestured to the man. “This is my brother, Alfie. He’s watching out for Spurlocks or their agents.”

      “Glad to know you Alfie.”

      Danny grabbed the reins of my horse. “Come on Mr. Foster. I’ll take you to see Pa.”

      The McMahon farm was a quarter mile down the road. As we turned a bend, I caught sight of a stable with a charred wall. Four redheaded men were replacing it. All four stopped their hammering and stared at me. When Danny waved them off, they went back to their work.

      Angus McMahon was about as receptive to my invitation to help as was Spurlock. He tapped his corncob pipe impatiently without offering me a seat.

      “There’s nothing you can do young Foster. This feud has been building for years. It’s about time we took those sons of bitches to task!”

      To McMahon, they weren’t Spurlocks. They were sons of bitches and Jed was the head son of a bitch.

      I continued gamely on. “But Mr. McMahon, think of Danny here.”

      After introducing us, Danny had sat respectfully silent in the corner.

      “Wouldn’t you like peace with the Spur…uh, sons of bitches?”

      Angus shook his head.

      I pressed on. “Wouldn’t it be much better if Danny or Alfie or any of your sons could go to town without worrying about getting into a fight, maybe killed?”

      Angus puffed furiously on his pipe, muttering “sons of bitches.”

      I pled my case. “Mr. McMahon. What would you think if that son of a bitch sent his sons over here to repair your stable and henhouse?”

      McMahon froze. Smoke floated over his head. Then, he burst out laughing. “You’re plain loco!” He looked over at Danny as he pointed his pipe at me. “He’s plain loco!”

      “Mr. McMahon, I know you didn’t steal any cattle.”

      He stopped laughing. “How would you know that Teacher?”

      “Coming up the trail, I saw no tracks…unless your sons herded cows through the woods and mountains. That’s highly unlikely. You have no meat storage. I see no hides being tanned.”

      Angus McMahon stared holes in me. “Who says we didn’t steal ’em, then sell ’em?”

      I shrugged. “From what Treva told me, we’re talking about a hundred head of cattle. You could have taken them straight to a buyer somewhere, but you’re too smart for that.”

      McMahon sat a little straighter in his chair.

      I continued. “You know that someone would have seen you herding them down the road…or heard something. Cows moo all the time, and forty or fifty cows can make quite a racket.”

      He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “What do you propose, Teacher?”

      A few nights later, I got some volunteers to watch over Spurlock’s livestock. It was quiet that evening. It was quiet the next night. On the third night, one of my volunteers saw shadows—about ten of them—on a ridge near the main herd. He alerted me and the other volunteers.

      We congregated under some trees and watched the outlaw cowpokes cut about fifty cattle from the herd. These men were good. They were professional rustlers, working quietly and efficiently.

      They headed north and we followed, as they took the cattle through the shallow shoals of Chigger Creek. They traveled by water for about a mile, then took their ill-gotten gains up through a mountain pass that lead to Denson County.

      “Come on men. We’ll take a short cut through those hills.” I pointed. “We’ll go past the Denson County line to Briar Forrest and meet them there.”

      My twenty, well-armed volunteers followed me.

      To make a long story short, we caught the rustlers as they came out of the mountains. I let the volunteers beat on them a little and then we got their story. The leader, who received a broken nose and shattered clavicle was eager to tell me what they’d been up to.

      “We take a little from each herd,” he said, gasping in pain. “We never take any from the same county in the same week. We go where sheriffs are scarce and feuds keep people divided.”

      The man stopped talking and wiped his bleeding nose.

      “We work ten counties. Word was that half the ranchers were shorthanded because of the silver strike. We’d go in, take the cattle, and drive them into Kansas.”

      “You sell them there?”

      He nodded. “We’ve got a buyer, not partial to the mixed brands. He sends them on to a confederate in Chicago who operates a slaughter house.”

      As the rooster crowed the next morning, I was at Spurlock’s door. He answered, tucking his shirt in. “Did you get ’em? Did you get those dirty McMahons?”

      “Good morning Mr. Spurlock. Yes sir, we got ’em. They’re out in back of the barn with my volunteers.”

      Spurlock called back into the house. “Boys? Come on out here!”

      Four Spurlocks came down the stairs and one came from the kitchen, wiping egg off his face.

      Spurlock smiled. “Looks like we’ve got some McMahons to deal with. Let’s go.”

      As he headed out, I followed. “Mr. Spurlock, it isn’t the McMahons. These rustlers are from Kansas.”

      Spurlock turned around, stunned.

      “Kansas? If they’re from Kansas, I’ll bet a bee’s ransom in honey that Angus McMahon hired ’em.”

      “I don’t think so sir. We questioned them thoroughly.”

      Spurlock hurried around to the back. There he found the rustlers beaten and tied up. My volunteers sat proudly on their horses, grinning. Spurlock looked up to thank them and was shocked to find that most of the volunteers had red hair. The others were blond as McMahon cousins were prone to be. I walked around the corner of the barn and beamed.

      “I asked the McMahons and their cousins from Denson County to help me capture the real rustlers. And they recovered your cattle.”

      Jed shook his head and slowly smiled. “Well I’ll be.”

      That very day, new lumber arrived at the McMahon farm. Along with it were four Spurlocks to help rebuild. From what I heard, Treva and Danny married two years later. When their baby girl was born, she was celebrated by both the Spurlocks and the McMahons. They named her Foster.

      Chapter Two

      It was settling the Spurlock-McMahon feud that brought me to the attention of The Service. That summer, I received a letter requesting my presence in St. Louis. The invitation was on government stationary and it said that I was a prime candidate for The Service. Included was a train ticket and twenty-five dollars spending money.

      I’d heard of The Service, but was unclear as to the duties involved. At any rate, I looked at it as a free trip to St. Louis.

      The city known as the Gateway to the West was a bustling, exciting place. It was huge. Dance halls, saloons, and theatres spread out for blocks. They were lit up so brightly, it was hard to tell whether it was day or night.

      When I got off the train, I went to the Hotel D’Arms on Olive Street, as instructed.

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