Talman's War (A Piccadilly Publishing Western #9)

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  Jim Talman figured he had trouble enough with drought drying up his water source and threatening his herds. That was until Philip Olsen, a man greedy for land to bolster his expansions plans, decided he wanted Talman’s range.

  Jim soon found that talk wasn’t about to solve the problem, and when the violence and killing started, he found himself backed into a corner. Being who he was, Jim refused to back down and saw that the only way to hang on to his land was to fight back.

  It became a struggle for survival and Olsen found he was up against a man who had no intention of quitting. No matter what was thrown in Jim’s path he worked around it, took his licks, and despite being bruised and battered, he stood firm, willing to go all the way in order to survive Talman’s War!

  TALMAN’S WAR

  By Neil Hunter

  A Piccadilly Publishing Western No 9

  First published by Herbert Jenkins Ltd in 1976

  Copyright © 1976, 2016 by Neil Hunter

  First Smashwords Edition: October 2016

  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.

  Our cover features Top Hand, painted by Don Stivers.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

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

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Especially for my wife — Marlene — who makes it all worthwhile.

  Chapter One

  Jim Talman glanced up from his breakfast as he heard his wife calling him. Pushing himself away from the table he went outside. Though it was early the sun was high, the heat already close to uncomfortable. It caught Jim as he stepped through the kitchen door and crossed the dusty yard.

  ‘Trouble?’ he asked. His wife was standing beside the low stone wall that rimmed their deep well.

  Ruth Talman brushed a few stray damp hairs away from her face then pointed down the dark shaft. ‘It’s nearly dry, Jim.’

  As he stared down the well Jim felt a rise of bitterness. As if they hadn’t already had enough bad luck for one year. A drought was the last thing anyone in the basin had expected. This was the middle of the third dry month, and the weather showed no sign of change. Day after day was the same; the sky hard and blue, cloudless, with the air heavy from the constant, pressing heat. Water was becoming more than scarce; the land lay dry, its surface split and cracked. The lack of moisture had turned the grass brown and lifeless. For any community a drought was serious. In cattle country it was liable to become disastrous.

  Jim Talman was still among the lucky ones up to now. The western borderline of his range took in a line of high-rising hills. There was still grass up there, though even that was threatening to become scarce. High up in the hills a stream broke out of some underground source, tumbling down the wooded slopes to form a wide creek by the time it reached the flatlands. Jim Talman had counted on this to keep him out of trouble, to keep his herd supplied with the water they needed. He hadn’t reckoned with the duration of the drought, and now he was beginning to realize that his own share of worry was about to come due.

  He took in the fact now and shouldered it easily. He had been born in this country, born into the cattleman’s world, and he bore the ever-present problems with the casual deliberateness that was tradition with his kind. It didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of the trouble he was in — just the opposite: he knew but he didn’t let it grind him down.

  ‘If this does dry up we’ll have to start hauling our water up from the creek,’ he said to Ruth.

  ‘And when the creek dries up?’ she asked.

  Jim gave a quick grin. ‘Don’t let’s jump until the whip cracks,’ he told her. ‘Now you go back inside and don’t worry. You’ll have your water.’

  Ruth kissed him on the cheek and made her way back to the house.

  In the time it took his wife to reach the house Jim had decided what he wanted to do. Crossing the yard he opened the door of the cook-shack, the mingled odors of fried bacon and strong coffee reaching him as he stepped inside.

  ‘Mornin’, boss,’ called Dicken Hodges, the cook, from his kitchen. ‘You want some coffee?’

  ‘Why not.’ Jim paused in the kitchen doorway as Hodges filled a tin cup. ‘How you doing for water?’

  Hodges peered at him through a haze of steam. ‘Was going to see you about that, Jim. Well’s gettin’ low.’

  ‘I know,’ Jim told him. ‘Missus just had me out to have a look.’

  ‘Well, I reckon I’ve got enough on hand to see me through today.’ A hard-done-to tone crept into the old man’s voice. ‘I do my best but I can’t promise what can’t be done.’

  ‘Don’t fret on it,’ Jim said. ‘We’ll keep you happy.’

  Hodges bobbed his head. ‘Well I hope so.’

  Jim took his coffee over to the long table where his ten-man crew sat eating breakfast. Helping himself to sugar he spent a few minutes swapping words with his hands.

  ‘Andy,’ he said to his foreman, ‘I want a couple of the boys to stay behind this morning.’

  Andy Jacobs, a medium-height, stocky-built, forty-year-old nodded. ‘You want anyone in particular?’

  ‘No. I just want two men to root out some big barrels, scald them out, and then take them down to the creek.’

  ‘We needing water, Jim?’

  ‘Yes. The well’s starting to dry up.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Could be.’ Jim drained his cup. ‘So we’d better be prepared.’

  The men were finishing breakfast now, moving away from the table. Jim went outside with Jacobs. As they walked across the yard Jim said, ‘I think it’s time to start moving the herd up into the hill pasture, Andy.’

  ‘I figured that was coming,’ Jacobs said. He was lighting his first thin, black cigar of the day. ‘I’ll get the boys on it right away.’

  ‘A couple of days see it done?’

  Jacobs nodded. ‘Herd’s pretty well bunched. This kind of weather they stick close together, as close to the water as they can. We should be able to have them moving into the hills by tonight.’

  They were beside the big corral now, with the crew busy roping and saddling their horses for the work ahead. Dust was boiling up in misty clouds, partly obscuring men and animals.

  ‘I’m riding into town this morning,’ Jim told his foreman.

  ‘Looking for hired help?’

  Jim nodded. ‘We need a couple of good hands.’

  ‘I’ll agree on that,’ Jacobs said. He ground out his cigar beneath the heel of his boot. ‘We need some rain a damn sight more though.’

  Jim raised his eyes to the sky. He saw exactly what he’d been seeing for weeks. It seemed an eternity since there had been a cloud to break the sweeping expanse of hard blue. No cloud. No dark banks bringing the hope of rain. Not even a breath of wind.

  ‘This is a godawful country at times, Jim.’ Jacobs spoke almost bitterly. ‘Times are when a man can knock his head against a wall trying to figure it out.’

  ‘Dad used to say the only way is to ride with it,’ Jim said.

  ‘Your pa generally knew what he was talking about.’ Jacobs spoke now with the respect of a man who had been more than just an employee. He had worked for Ji
m’s father, John Talman, for nearly twenty years, hiring on when the Rocking-T brand was laid on the first small herd. He had worked and sweated through those early, lean years, and the bad times had been hard until Rocking-T became stable, able to pay its way. Jacobs had gone without wages many times during the early days, and there had been times when even food had almost ceased to exist for the people of Rocking-T. Somehow, though, they lived through it all, and Andy Jacobs had been part of Rocking-T all the way — helping to build, becoming inseparable from it in the process. He was one of the old breed; loyal to the brand he had worked for to a nearly fanatical degree; when Rocking-T was hurt he felt it; when the brand bled he bled with it.

  ‘This time it’s my turn to make the right moves,’ Jim said.

  Jacobs glanced at him. ‘You’re John Talman’s son,’ he said. ‘That’s all I need to know.’ He settled his stained hat square, then turned to where the crew were leading their saddled horses out of the corral.

  Back in the house Jim found Ruth clearing away the breakfast things. She gave him a warm smile as he came in.

  ‘I’ve set a couple of the boys to hauling water up from the creek,’ he told her.

  Ruth didn’t speak for a minute. When she did her face was serious. ‘Jim, how long can we last without rain?’

  He crossed over to her, taking her in his arms. Ruth pressed herself close, suddenly glad of his nearness.

  ‘To be honest, Ruth, and that means I don’t surely know. We’re moving the herd up into the hills today. That’ll give us some leeway. After that — well, I guess it’s going to be a case of hanging on. If the creek holds out I think we’ll survive.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  Jim had no answer to that and Ruth didn’t press it. She knew her man, knew the responsibilities he carried. He was a big man, young and strong, but too much at one time could break even the strongest. And Ruth Talman was too much of a woman to be the cause of it to her own husband.

  ‘Are you still going into town?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes. Why? You want something?’

  Ruth smiled. ‘I have a small order you can pick up for me from the store.’

  ‘That means I’d better hitch up the wagon,’ Jim said, his face dead-pan.

  He could still hear Ruth’s laughter in his ears when he turned his horse away from the corral an hour later and put it on the trail that led across Rocking-T range to the small town that served the outlying cattle community.

  Away from the buildings the sun was stronger; it cut through his shirt and a patch of sweat formed down his back in minutes, soaking through the faded denim. Jim rode slowly, letting his horse set its own pace. He had an hour of riding ahead and there was no use in pushing his horse without need. He rolled a smoke, hoping to blot out the taste of dust that tainted his every breath.

  Rocking-T range spread out around him in every direction. It was good land, Jim thought. He stared at the hostile sky for a time. If only they could get some rain. What should have been lush graze land was now shriveled and dried-out, the grass brown, the earth hard and dusty. Trees and brush stood motionless in the hot air. There wasn’t even a breeze to stir the leaves.

  He spotted a couple of his hands hazing a big bunch of steers up out of a brush-filled hollow and rode over to talk to them. He ran a knowing eye over the beeves as they jostled slowly by. The drought was beginning to leave its mark on them. The steers were looking thin, and Jim was able to count a rib or two. The hill pasture was his last hope. His herd needed fattening up before too long passed. The cattle markets wanted prime beef, not skin and bone on the hoof.

  Riding on for a way Jim dismounted when he reached the creek. The level of the water was down some he noticed. He looked upstream, following the meandering path the creek had cut. Some way up he saw the ranch wagon pulled in under some trees while two of the hands manhandled buckets of water into the big barrels tied down on the wagon bed. Jim took a quick drink then mounted up after his horse had taken its fill. He let the animal ease through the water and up the sloping bank on the other side.

  On this stretch of Rocking-T there was a lot of timber. Jim rode through deep growths of tall trees and tangled brush. It was a shade cooler in amongst the high trunks and interwoven branches which formed a green canopy to hold back a lot of the heat. Here it was dim and shadow-dappled, with pale beams of sunlight lancing down through the leaves. It gave an atmosphere of misty coolness to the place, and Jim was grateful for the temporary relief from the open heat. His horse made no sound on the carpet of thick, fallen leaves as it passed, and from high over his head a bird broke into song. The sound reached down to Jim and he raised his eyes towards the source. It was a pleasant sound coming down from the high emptiness.

  He was still listening when a louder, more urgent sound broke through to him. Jim reined in hard, his head coming round in the direction of this new distraction. Reining his horse around, Jim rode into the tall thicket that lay between him and the sound.

  As he finally broke out of the trees, coming into the open, a fresh outburst of sound shattered the silence, and Jim brought his sweating horse to a halt, snatching his rifle from the leather sheath on his saddle.

  Rage boiled up in him at what he saw before him. A rage so strong he almost lost control. He had his rifle out, cocked and leveled before he realized it. Only then did he clamp down on the flaming anger that was threatening to burst free.

  Chapter Two

  Here in this slope-banked, rock-strewn hollow stood a battered canvas-topped wagon, its team motionless in the heat. A small way off two saddle-horses were tethered. In the middle of the hollow a campfire burned, complete with a blackened coffee pot and frying pan. Close by a butchered young steer, wearing the Rocking-T brand, hung suspended from an improvised pole tripod.

  Jim saw all these things in a swift, blurred glance as he swung his rifle round onto the tight group of people before him. There were four of them; three men and a woman, more a girl, he realized in the same instant. Two of the men he recognized. Dunc Howser and Cal Jarrett were a couple of lazy and indifferent men who called themselves cowhands. Jim knew to his cost that they were nothing of the kind.

  Nearly a year ago he had signed them on at Rocking-T, and he had regretted it ever since, right up to the day when he fired them two months back. Howser and Jarrett had been a thorn in his side from the day they’d come to work for him. Work-shy and slovenly, they had wasted time and money for Jim Talman, and it had dragged on until Jim had had enough. His crew had been fed up with the way the pair carried on, and Jim knew it wasn’t fair to expect his regular, hard-working crew to tolerate it. Besides that it was getting to be a day-long chore, keeping track of them. When Howser and Jarrett weren’t slacking on the job they were in town drinking and getting into fights. Rocking-T began to get a bad name, and that was when Andy Jacobs had come to Jim about the pair. It hadn’t taken long to reach a decision. Jim had made up what wages were due and had gone over to the bunkhouse. There had been a lot of swearing and threats from the two, but there was nothing they could do with the entire Rocking-T crew looking on. Gathering up their gear Howser and Jarrett had ridden out. Jim had seen them in town from time to time. Once or twice trouble had almost reared its head, but up until now nothing had come of it.

  Now Howser and Jarrett were back on Rocking-T range. Why they were here was self-evident; the camp, the tethered horses, the slaughtered steer. It was an obvious strike back at Rocking-T.

  Who the others were was a mystery to Jim Talman at the moment. But it was clear that they were not friends of Howser and Jarrett.

  The third man, in his early fifties, judging by his looks, was on his knees, pinned there, helpless in the grip of the powerfully bulky Cal Jarrett who had a thick arm around the man’s throat. Blood was dribbling freely down the man’s face from a gash on his left cheek. Yet despite his obvious helplessness the man was struggling against Jarrett’s hold on him, and shifting his gaze Jim could see why
.

  Dunc Howser was a heavy slab of a man, and he was as powerful as he looked. The strength he carried made him more than a match for the slim, dark-haired girl he had spread-eagled on the ground. It was more than clear what his intentions were as he reached out a huge hand for the front of the gray dress the girl was wearing. She, to her credit, made no sound now, but put everything she had into fighting against Howser’s brutal attack.

  It only took Jim a few seconds to see and realize the situation, and as yet he hadn’t been spotted. Knowing this Jim kicked his horse into movement towards the four. He had no precise plan of action. It was just a case of pitching in and figuring it out later.

  As the bulk of Jim’s horse loomed close by, Cal Jarrett became aware of its presence. His head snapped round, eyes wide as he saw the shape of man and horse lunging towards him. He tried to yell a warning, letting go of his captive and grabbing for his handgun. He was too slow. Jim Talman’s heavy boot, free of the stirrup, drove at him. It caught him in the chest. Jarrett’s cry was cut off in his throat as he went over onto his back, the breath smashed from his body.

  Jim saw Jarrett fall away as his horse carried him on. He felt no emotion but anger, no thought of what he might do, or what the outcome might be, as he used his rifle like a club on Dunc Howser. If anything he felt a rush of satisfaction as the sun-glinting barrel chopped down across Howser’s hatless skull. A howl of pain burst from Howser’s lips and he forgot all about the girl as he raised his head to search out his attacker. When he saw who it was he shoved to his feet, his lips peeling back from his teeth in a snarl of pure hate for Jim Talman.

  Jim hadn’t expected any resistance from Howser; he realized that he hadn’t allowed for Howser’s enormous reserves of strength. Reining his horse about Jim knew he had to finish this now. Howser wouldn’t let it go. Jim threw a quick glance towards Cal Jarrett; Howser’s partner was still where he had fallen, obviously out of the game for the time being. Bringing his attention back to Howser, he found the man already on his feet. No more than a couple of yards separated the two, and though he still held his rifle, Jim knew he couldn’t use it. He knew also, that Howser would not think the same way. And Dunc Howser confirmed this the next instant as he reached for his handgun.