Chapter 21

Back home, the grueling pace of work didn't let up. The horses were much easier to work with, in terms of the plow. They were used to the work, and would stop immediately if given the command to do so. They were also a favorite with Becky, who named them and spent hours currying their coats and talking to them. The corn and wheat that Bella had given up trying to mill into flour went to good use, though the team seemed perfectly content with the vast quantities of grass available to them.

Julian and Frank, who begged to be taught to plow, and then two days later cursed himself for insisting on it, got the whole two acres plowed, and expanded it a good distance further, leaving the huge chunks of sod to deal with in the spring.

Having restocked on staples, Bella made bread every three days. Julian carefully selected flat rocks and built her a small oven on one side of the fireplace. The smoke still got through the cracks, but the bread didn't burn as easily.

With so much work to be done Frank and Becky didn't have as many opportunities to slip away and deal with the urges their raging hormones created. Becky became an expert at masturbating her brother. She had never had any problem reaching the pinnacle when Frank licked and sucked her pussy, so they often ended up in a quick sixty nine to take the edge off their passions. She grew to love the taste of his spunk as it spurted warmly into her mouth.

It was only slightly different at night, as Bella and Julian made those noises on the other side of the oil cloth wall. Becky usually slid her hand up and down Frank's rigid prick while they kissed. When he was ready to spurt, she scooted down to take him in her mouth and finish him off. It was much less messy that way. Then he repaid her efforts by sucking her nipples to get her inflamed, before moving his mouth to her pussy. He had to be careful, because she got so soggy that he made wet slurping noises if he didn't pay attention.

Things might have stayed that way through the remainder of the fall and all winter, but for the fact that fate was about to play, yet again, a role in their lives.

U.S. Marshal William Bennet, up from his normal post in the Oklahoma Territory, stopped at the edge of town and dismounted to get out his coat and vest. He dusted off his pants and took a rag from his saddle bags to wipe down his boots. Once fully dressed, he put his badge securely in the watch pocket of his vest, wiped his brow with the rag, and then settled his hat back on his head. He took his spectacles off and peered through them. He was able to blow the dust off of them, and replaced them. Remounting, he rode into Wichita, Kansas, where he hoped to find a lead on herds of cows with mixed brands.

Wichita wasn't much to look at, but at least they had a hotel. He'd be able to get a decent meal and something to drink that he didn't have to share with his horse.

He rode straight past the jail, ignoring it. He'd learned the hard way that if the kind of information he was looking for existed at all, the local lawman wouldn't give it to him. That's because if it existed, the local lawman should have dealt with it already. And if he hadn't ... then he was likely involved, or being paid off. In his experience, if a Marshal showed up suddenly and asked the right questions of the right people, their behavior would answer his questions, even if their mouths did not. Once he got the lay of the land, he might have a talk with the sheriff, at which time the badge would be pinned to his vest, instead of hidden inside it. He was now dressed like just about any prosperous ranch owner west of Kansas City.

It was for that reason that he went to the saloon first, where business was routinely conducted, and news was available.

Bennet was employing a technique he had perfected. He was impersonating a cowman. Everybody knew that the railroad was coming to Wichita, and that once that happened, the herds would be driven there, instead of farther north. Any cowman worth his salt would be making the same kinds of inquiries Bennet was going to make.

When he ordered his first glass of beer, he got his first contact from the bartender. He was referred to a man named Davidson, who was in the business of buying and selling cattle on the east side of town.

He then took his beer and joined two men who were sitting at a table, also drinking beer. He sat down without an invite and, having correctly assumed they were ranchers, began playing the game he loved to play.

Two rounds later, one of which he had bought, Bennet tipped his hat to the owners of the Crushed O and Bar-B ranches, and left with the information that the only trouble those ranches had experienced were with men who, for some insane reason, thought that there should be fences on the prairie. He also learned that the only rustling complaints they were aware of were some ninety miles to the west, where Oscar Stapleton ran the Lazy E operation.

He went to see Davidson anyway, but that was just because he always mined all potential sources of information, just in case. The question that went unasked couldn't give you the lead that might break the case.

He found the man sitting on the porch of the "Wichita Cattle Company," which was a one room shack surrounded by mostly empty stock pens. Davidson was a beanpole of a man with barely a strand of hair on his head who had to be at least sixty. With the exception of his shiny pale pate, his skin had the color and texture of well tanned leather. He was smoking a roll-your-own cigarette, leaning back in one chair, with his feet propped up on another. When he saw Bennet coming he reached for his hat and put it on, but didn't stand.

"Howdy," he drawled. That one word communicated much more than a greeting. It marked Bennet as a stranger, for one thing. It said that Davidson was open for business, and that he was already willing to do that business with this newcomer. Bennet understood that and responded in kind, still sitting on his horse.

"I own the Circle Z, in Denton County, down Texas way," he drawled. "Been driving my herds to Abilene. Lookin' to find out when I can cut some of the trail off and deliver here."

Davidson examined the cut of the man's clothing, and then looked at his boots, which were well oiled. The heels of the boots were crisp, instead of rounded off. He'd get a look at his hands soon enough, but his initial impression was that this was a man who paid others to do the heavy work, instead of doing it himself. That meant he had money to spend. He stood up.

"Take a light," he said, offering the chair his feet had been on. He bent over to swipe his hand ineffectually across the seat. It was the action that was important, not the efficacy of it.

For the next half hour the two men talked cattle. Bennet knew cattle, because it was his job to know cattle. Davidson said that, at present, he bought smaller herds from local ranchers, consolidating them until he had enough to hire men to make a drive further north. He held out hope that the railroad might reach Wichita by the next season, but made sure he didn't promise such. He had sources of sale standing in the wings, eager to buy at what they were sure would be a lower price, since there would be less expense for the owners in transportation costs. He did everything he could to entice this man to deliver a herd to Wichita the next year.

Bennet wasn't actually wasting the man's time. He would take the information gained back south with him, eventually, and the news would be disseminated to those who might profit from it. That was just part of the way news got around on the frontier.

But, in the process of getting this information Bennet got the conversation to where his real interest was.

"What ratio of mixed brands will you accept?" he asked casually. "In the past my men have picked up strays along the way."

"Happens," agreed Davidson. "The locals find 'em too, strayed from the herds on the Chisholm. I don't start asking hard questions unless it's over three percent."

"Three percent!" said Bennet, sounding shocked. "Surely you don't see herds with three percent of an off brand in them!"

"Occasionally," he said Davidson carelessly. "When that happens, though, I dig a little deeper, unless it's somebody I know, of course. Take the Little P, for instance. That's a feller named Harry Hanson, and he runs a spread West of here, off the Chisholm about ten or fifteen miles. Half his herd is strays. When he comes in he might deliver two dozen brands. He sort of specializes in cleaning up the trail, so to speak."

"Ever see this brand," asked Bennet, leaning over to draw a circle in the dust on the porch. He put a Z inside with the four points touching the circle.

"Don't look familiar," said Davidson, who barely looked at it. Bennet knew that no matter what brand he'd drawn he'd have gotten the same response.

"Three percent," sighed Bennet. "For me that would be two hundred head! I can't see a man coming up with that many strange cattle on the up and up."

"It's rare," said Davidson. "The Little P is the only outfit that does that regularly. There's going to be another one, maybe, but they're just starting out. Don't even have their own brand yet."

"Really?" Bennet tried to control the interest in his voice. "I didn't think there was that kind of land available up here."

"Oh, he's a squatter," said Davidson. "Just met the man a week or so ago. He's gathering strays too, working farther north, from what I gathered. Says he might have a few hundred head for me if he's lucky."

"Squatters!" Bennett's tone made it clear it was a curse word to him.

"Ain't nobody to complain." Davidson shrugged. "Nobody's using the land. Don't even know who it belongs to, really."

"Where is this man?" asked Bennet.

Davidson's eyes narrowed, and Bennet realized he'd pushed too far. He'd expressed too much interest in a man who shouldn't matter to a big cattleman from Texas.

"I'm likely to make one more late drive this year," said Bennet hastily. "It would be helpful to know where along the trail a little extra vigilance might be needed."

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The Bad Bet

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