Ballard and McCall 2 Read online

  Ballard and McCall were in Texas, working for Henry Conway, an old friend of Ballard’s, on Conway’s Lazy-C. But trouble was brewing as Yancey Merrick, owner of the big Diamond-M, kept pushing to expand his empire. Then Harry Conway, Henry’s son, was run through the brasada thicket before being shot in the back and killed.

  Determined to find the guilty party, Ballard and McCall suddenly found themselves deep in a developing range war.

  Yancey Merrick might have had the advantage of superior numbers, but he couldn’t reckon on the fighting fury of Ballard and McCall as they cut down the odds, exposed the scheme behind Merrick’s long term plans, and caused it to literally blow up in his face.

  BALLARD AND McCALL 2: GUNS OF THE BRASADA

  By Neil Hunter

  Copyright © 2015 by Neil Hunter

  First Smashwords Edition: October 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges ~*~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  Chet Ballard found Harry Conway deep in the brasada. He lay in a forlorn bundle, his unprotected body carrying two 44-40 rifle slugs in his back. He was also badly cut and slashed from being chased through the unforgiving brush country, his flesh torn and scarred and his clothing blood soaked. The wild thicket was home to numerous and varied species of plant life, each equipped with its own armament of thorns and barbs. Prickly-pear, cats-claw, Spanish dagger, black chaparral, twisted acacia and mesquite. The tracks Ballard had been following for the past couple of miles testified what had happened.

  Dismounting, Ballard crouched over the body and knew straight off that this had been murder plain and simple, but with an added twist that made it downright cruel. Conway was only clad in his range clothes. Thick shirt and Levis. When Ballard had seen the younger man the previous day he had been wearing the added gear any man working the brasada would protect himself with. Thick leather leggins and long leather gloves. A sturdy coat as well. All necessary additions there for protection from the vicious barbs that grew in abundance. As young as he had been Conway was a native born Texan, familiar with the brasada. He had been working the country for years and knew the dangers. There was no way he would have ventured into the thicket without protection.

  Ballard saw the protective clothing scattered across the ground where Conroy had been forced to abandon it.

  Examining the blood-stained body Ballard understood what had happened. Conway had been compelled to run for his life. Set afoot and pursued by a man who knew exactly what they were doing. A deadly chase that had ended when someone had put two slugs in Conway’s back and left him to be found. There had been a sadistic pleasure taken by the killer. A need to make Harry Conway suffer before his life had been ended by the bullets in his back. That took a particularly twisted mind.

  Sitting on his heels Ballard pushed his hat back, eyes scanning the immediate area, looking for something. Anything that might give him a clue as to who had done this. There were no close hoof prints. No surprise there. The killer would have been able to shoot from a distance. Ballard rose and began to pace back the way Conway had come. His boot prints were still visible and there were spots of dried blood from the cuts inflicted by the sharp thorns of the undergrowth. Pushing upright Ballard followed the ragged line of boot prints. Conway had been moving from side to side, trying to avoid the thickets. After a few hundred yards Ballard saw the churned up patch of earth where a horse had stood, hoofs restless as its riders hauled up on the reins. Most likely where the man had halted to dismount and track Conway before making his his killing shots.

  Sunlight glinted to one side. Ballard bent and picked up two shiny brass shell casings. Still dry and unmarked. They couldn’t have been there more than a few hours. He examined them. They were 44-40 caliber, most likely from a rifle.

  And it had taken two of them to end Conway’s life.

  Ballard looked around, knowing as he did that whoever had fired those shots would be long gone. No back shooter would stay around once the deed had been done.

  He found boot prints where the shooter had stood. Something about them made Ballard crouch to examine them closer. They were small and narrow, the toes coming almost to a point. Ballard held the image in his mind as he stood and went to where Harry Conroy lay.

  He bent over Conway and took hold, lifting the younger man in his arms as if he had been a child. Conway had been full grown, but the six-foot-six Texan held him easily as he turned around and carried him back to where his horse stood. It was no effort for Ballard to lay the limp body across his saddle. It was as he settled the dead man Ballard noticed that Conway’s sixgun was not in its holster.

  Disarmed and forced to run for his life.

  As Ballard gently tied Conway down and laid his blanket over him, he felt his slow-burning anger starting to show itself. He had to take a step back and let the feeling subside.

  Ballard took the reins and led his horse and its burden back out of the thicket. Back a ways his partner Jess McCall was carrying out a search of his own. They had both been looking for Conway since his loose horse had wandered back into the line camp. It took Ballard a half hour before he picked up the sound of a rider. He saw the man and waved his hat.

  Jess McCall reined in, his expression changing when he saw the blanketed body.

  ‘Not Harry,’ he said.

  Ballard nodded. ‘Somebody set him afoot. Made him shuck his protective outfit and forced him to run for his life through the thicket…before they put a pair of slugs in his back.’

  The big Texan let go a sigh as he studied the covered form. The expression mirrored his thoughts. Out and out murder, which was how this shaped up, would take the current situation over the line from simple harassment to nothing less than a range war. As disappointed as he was McCall realized he wasn’t all that surprised. It was the way things had been shaping up over the last couple of months.

  McCall and his partner, Ballard, had been taking pay from Henry Conway for the last six months. The spread’s owner had known Ballard for years, and Ballard had seen Harry Conway grow from a young boy into a hard-working man and they had been friends. Now Ballard was going to see Harry buried.

  Since sighing on with the brand, Ballard and McCall had been working the Lazy-C range alongside the rest of the crew in and around the brasada country. It was tough country, the work hard, but Conway’s crew was experienced and they were fiercely loyal to their employer. As Texicans themselves, Ballard and McCall had fitted in well. Since joining forces following their first meeting they had partnered up permanently, riding together and getting into and out of scrapes, taking jobs when they became necessary, and now they were drawing pay and working cattle and that had been something they took to easily.

  Things had started to change once Yancey Merrick and his Diamond-M outfit moved into the area. It had been obvious from the start that Merrick had his eyes set on dominating the area. He had a big crew on his payroll. To a man they were hard, swaggering individuals, prone to pushing their way around and from the day Merrick brought his own herd in and established his spread trouble reared its head. Merrick made it known he intended to become the biggest outfit in the area. He had the influence and the backing of money to do
it. It soon became obvious he intended to dominate the local range.

  The town of Beecher’s Crossing, established for years, provided all the services the surrounding spreads needed. It was a typical cattle country town. Nothing grand. Everything the spreads needed and some. Like any town built on the cattle business Beecher’s Crossing had its share of trouble. Mainly from the ranch crews letting off steam when they had free time. There was nothing too serious for the town marshal, Ray Bellingham, to handle. Rowdy drunks. The occasional gunplay. Sometimes things got a little out of hand but the flare-ups fizzled out as quickly as they blew up.

  Until Merrick’s crew started to throw their weight around. Things got ugly a time or two. Diamond-M began to push their way in with a way the town wasn’t used to. If anything became too serious Merrick himself would come to town and smooth things over with his persuasive tongue and his ready cash. He was not slow in reminding the town merchants that since Diamond-M had shown up there was a great deal more money being spent in Beecher’s Crossing. Merrick had a sly way and he hit the town businessmen where they appreciated it – in their wallets. If any damage was done Merrick paid for it without a fuss. The man was no fool. He knew profit covered many sins and he used that to smooth over ruffled feathers.

  Away from town there were signs Diamond-M had eyes on other things. Like prime grazing land. Water. At first they incidents were small and isolated, but the signs were there. Cattle pushed off their usual ranges. Chased into the thickets. The odd fence cut and trampled down. And then a series of late night disturbances. Stored feed contaminated. A barn burned down. Stable doors opened and horses set free. The incidents created a climate of unease in the community. No one had solid proof Diamond-M was behind the problems.

  No one had proof – but folk just knew.

  The atmosphere grew and flared into open hostility in town. The weekend fun started to turn ugly. And Diamond-M men always seemed to be involved. Bar fights became a regular occurrence. In most instances it was a single cowhand picked on and goaded into a fight that quickly turned brutal with two or three Diamond-M hands dishing out beatings. Broken bones and bloody faces became the staple for the town doctor. Cracked ribs and the odd broken arm. It was getting out of hand.

  For Henry Conway, owner of the Lazy-C, the increasing disturbances became personal. His spread had the best stretch of rangeland in the area. Good grazing and a natural water supply. The Lazy-C covered a big section of land, lying in a vast natural bowl that was bounded by gentle hills. On the southern curve of his range a natural barrier was created by the brasada itself. The sprawling thicket offered a protective stretch of terrain that separated Lazy-C from its immediate neighbors.

  Henry Conway ran an honest outfit and there was no man in the area who could say different. Conway was always on the front line when help was needed. His standing in Beecher’s Crossing was as high as any man and he treated everyone as a friend. There were a number of people in town who owed Henry Conway for his help when they were down on their luck. That wasn’t to say Conway was less a businessman. He had a solid head on his broad shoulders. He knew cattle and he knew how to operate his outfit.

  He had come to the brasada country as a younger man with a dream of building his cattle empire, a few dollars in his pockets, and a burning ambition to became the best he could. Over fifteen years he had done that. Taking up his piece of range and staking it out. From nothing Conway had forged Lazy-C out of the empty land. He had built his sprawling house, extending it as time went by. Building his stables and outhouses. The bunkhouse for his growing crew. He brought in his first small herds and bred good, sound Texas beef. Made drives and sold to the eager cattle companies. He took up contracts to supply the Chicago stockyards.

  When Conway came to the area he had a young wife a son and daughter. The business he created and fought Indians and outlaws to keep was for them. As the boy, Harry, grew into adulthood he became part of the Lazy-C crew. He worked alongside the rest of the cowhands, learning the business and becoming as proficient as any of the experienced riders. He was offered no favors and never asked for them. He was one of the Lazy-C crew.

  Now he was being carried home over the back of his horse. Led by the silent Ballard and McCall who were secretly dreading the moment they had to tell Henry Conway his son was dead.

  They had only just cleared the thicket when Henry Conway and a number of Lazy-C hands appeared, riding in their direction.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ McCall said quietly.

  He glanced across at his partner and saw Ballard had taken off his hat, holding it across his lap. Right at that moment McCall wished he was anywhere but here. He watched the bunch of riders moving in close. Took of his own weather-beaten Stetson.

  Henry Conway must have immediately recognized his son’s favorite paint pony. He sat upright and spurred his own mount forward, bringing it to a tight-reined halt in front of Ballard. Conway leaned forward in his saddle, clutching the horn with his big, gloved hands, and he knew without a spoken word who lay under the blanket. The big shoulders stiffened and when Conway raised his head to look directly at Ballard the grief was there in his eyes, tears already welling up. He took a shuddering breath, struggling to contain himself as he relived in a fleeting moment all the years that had just been wiped away.

  ‘What happened, Chet?’

  ‘No way to say it easy, Henry.’

  ‘Then don’t, son, just give me the words.’

  ‘Somebody caught him by the thicket. Made him take off his leathers and ran him through the brasada before they backshot him.’

  Someone behind Conway muttered in anger. A second voice followed suit.

  ‘Easy, boys,’ Conway said. He dismounted and crossed to the blanket covered form. ‘I need to see.’

  Conway loosened the tie rope and drew the blanket free, exposing the body. He stared at the bloody corpse, then drew in a ragged breath, leaning against the horse for support.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he said in a voice so low only Ballard and McCall heard. ‘Look what they did to my boy.’

  Jess McCall stepped from his saddle, his tall figure moving to stand behind Conway. He placed his big, work scarred hands on his employer’s shoulders.

  ‘Let us bring him home, Henry. You’ll want to go on ahead and speak to the missus.’

  At the mention of his wife Conway let go a soft moan.

  ‘God, how do I tell her? This will destroy her.’

  ‘Henry, you’ll be there for her. Helen is strong,’ McCall said. ‘Leave us to bring your boy home while you tell her what happened.’

  One of the Lazy-C hands edged his horse forward. His name was Laney Chancery. A tall and spare man in his mid-forties. Chancery had been with Conway for many years. He was the ranch foreman. His narrow face, with its dark and soulful eyes, showed the hard life he had endured as a working hand. He had a pale, puckered scar running across his left cheek, the reward for a lax moment when dealing with a recalcitrant steer many years back. He wore a thick, drooping mustache that was his pride and joy.

  ‘We’ll ride to the house, Henry,’ he said gently. He normally had a hushed voice and at that moment it was exactly the right tone needed. ‘Boys’ll bring Harry to home. You come on now. Let’s get her done.’

  He led Conway to his horse. Got him back in the saddle and led out with a nod in Ballard and McCall’s direction.

  Chapter Two

  They buried Harry Conway two days later, near the stand of cottonwoods east of the big house where the shade lay a gentle hand across the ground. Neighbors from outlying ranches came to join with the entire Lazy-C crew and the Rev Behan came from Beecher’s Crossing along with a number of the town dignitaries. The town’s lawman, Ray Bellingham, came. It was a well attended funeral and Rev Behan spoke words over the grave.

  After the service there was a gathering around the long trestle tables that had been set up and covered with Helen Conway’s best linen cloths. With help from her daughter, Christine, and neighbor women
she provided a good spread and there was no shortage of food and drink.

  Helen Conway was a beautiful woman in her early forties. The long years working beside her husband and building Lazy-Lazy-C and bringing up her two children had been hard. Despite this she had kept her looks. Today she held her own but there was no hiding the fact she was grieving for the son just lost. As she moved around the tables, speaking to neighbors, McCall didn’t fail to notice the lost look in her eyes.

  Like all the other men McCall wore a dark suit and white shirt, a thin string tie and his boots polished to a high sheen. He eased through the crowd until he was able to stand beside Helen, his tall figure dwarfing her.

  ‘I get you anything, ma’am?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s kind of you, Jess, but I believe I’m fine at the moment.’

  Christine Conway joined them. In her early twenties, Chris, as she was always know, had her mother’s looks combined with a strong personality and a brain to match. Close to her brother she had handled his death well, and even now she managed to stay in control of her emotions. Yet McCall knew she was hurting inside.

  ‘Mom, why don’t you take a minute. Everyone can help themselves now.’ She smiled at McCall. ‘Thanks for all your help, Jess.’

  ‘No trouble.’

  A subdued murmur came from the guests. McCall glanced over Helen’s shoulder and saw three riders drawing rein on the approach to the house. He didn’t need a second look to identify them.

  ‘Damn,’ McCall muttered

  In the lead, astride the big black stallion he always rode was Yancey Merrick, owner of the Diamond-H. Even at a distance he cut an impressive figure. Dressed as always he wore a black suit obviously tailored to fit. His wide-brimmed Stetson, now laid across his lap, was also black, and the hand-tooled boots showing beneath the cuffs of his pants were custom made. In his forties Merrick was a handsome man who carried himself well.