Ballard and McCall 5

  On their way home from the funeral of a friend, Ballard and McCall unwittingly cross Circle-B range and find themselves mistaken for rustlers. Tensions are high and McCall is forced to defend himself when a pair of zealous cowhands bring their guns into play. One man ends up dead and another is wounded. McCall takes a bullet in the side.

  The Texans ride in to the local town, Jericho, to report the incident to the law. Before they know it, however, Ballard and McCall are caught up in the local problems led by Celestine Blanchard, owner of the Circle-B, her treacherous, wayward son Orrin and the underhand trickery that results in more gunplay and violence.

  The Texans take more than their share of hard treatment before a bullet ridden showdown brings peace to Circle-B and the streets of Jericho – with its own personal tragedy.

  BALLARD and McCALL 5: RETRIBUTION RANGE

  By Neil Hunter

  Copyright © 2019 by Neil Hunter

  First Digital Edition: January 2019

  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

  Cover painting © outdoorsman

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  In territory that appeared to stretch to infinity the great prairies beckoned those with vision. People who saw what could be. Pioneers, adventurers, they came to the empty lands and filled them with their dreams, establishing communities and laying down roots. In an emerging nation they were the hardy ones who helped to establish the backbone of the country. Life abounded across the land and there seemed no limit to what could be achieved through hard work and dedication.

  Farmers who grew wheat in great fields of swaying, golden harvest. Who planted and reaped every vegetable imagined. And the cattlemen who expanded their herds until they covered the land, establishing the ranches both large and small as the demand for beef from the eastern markets grew.

  And as the expanding ranches were established, so were the communities around them. The towns that grew on the backs of the cattle businesses. The stores that supplied the needs of the ranches that grew into towns that offered everything the spreads needed. From everyday requirements to the lesser demands. Restaurants and boarding houses for those who warranted places to stay. Gambling halls where a visiting ranch crew could break the monotony of their working lives. Establishments where a man might get his pleasure in the arms of working girls. Saloons that supplied liquor and company to those who wanted it.

  Here in this vast spread of land isolation meant each community looked to itself for existence. Many miles from any other they depended on themselves. In many instances there was little or no sound communication, save the telegraph. That single strand of wire where brief messages could be sent and received. Often there were breaks in the wire and a town might find itself cut off, not for the first time, and until the breakage could be repaired.

  So each town, alone in the territory, recognized and dealt with its own problems. There was little choice but to take each day as it came. Hoping that the new day might pass without incident and life would allow them to make it peacefully...

  Around the town of Jericho, in a wide, shallow valley, the predominant source of business was cattle. There were a number of thriving spreads, mid-sized for the most part though not exclusive.

  The largest outfit was the Circle-B, a great ranch that spread far and wide. Its headquarters was an impressive outfit. Corrals and outbuildings. Stables and corrals. Overlooking all that was the big house itself. A large affair that had been built by the man who had established Circle-B before his death, leaving the entire business to his then young wife.

  Celestine Blanchard had taken over and through the intervening years had made Circle-B the most powerful cattle venture in the area. She had dedicated herself to that goal and the success she achieved brought financial rewards both to Circle-B and the town of Jericho, where she established commercial ties in the form of building the Blanchard House Hotel, an upmarket establishment that attracted business clientele who visited the town. The hotel, with its own restaurant was host to many deals with agents from Chicago meat companies. It hosted regular commercial meetings with the town business people. Celestine Blanchard had a natural business sense and never missed the opportunity to utilize it.

  On the surface the local community had the appearance of being a successful one. In truth there was a problem that affected every cattle spread in the valley. A spate of rustling that touched every outfit. Cattle were being stolen, spirited away and lost. Disquiet had spread among the ranches. Although there was no evidence of who might be involved suspicion grew. It had not yet reached the pointing of fingers but the cloud was gathering.

  Celestine Blanchard had spoken to local ranchers. There was talk of forming some kind of unofficial group charging them with investigating but nothing had come of it yet. The ranchers round Jericho were simply that – cattle ranchers. Their crews were cowhands not gunmen. None were much in favor of possibly going up against seasoned rustlers who were more than likely skilled at using their guns.

  There was no strong law force in Jericho. None close either. The town did have a marshal, Jared Mitchell. He was only the town marshal. His responsibility ended at the edge of Jericho. Investigating cattle rustling did not come under Mitchell’s purview. He would have not known where to start looking. He could handle local problems such as the occasional drunk. Break up a rowdy argument. His duties were light and beyond town limits he was a novice.

  The tense situation around Jericho led to unexpected incidents, with strangers being challenged without provocation and spiraling to sudden violence and lighting an already smoking fuse...and it was into this smoldering situation a pair of strangers rode...

  ‘Pretty nice piece of country, son’ Jess McCall said.

  ‘You got that right,’ Ballard said.

  This was an afterthought, coming on from the previous landscape they had traversed on their ride down from New Mexico, skirting the lower reaches of the Guadalupe’s, the rocky slopes taking them more or less south, with the waters of the Pecos River to the east. Now they were into Texas it felt like home, even though they had a nigh on a week’s travel ahead. Not that it bothered the Texans. They had ridden to New Mexico by train to attend the funeral of an old acquaintance, stayed around for a couple of days before making the long ride back to home. In no particular hurry.

  Ballard and McCall possessed the need to sometimes drift. Neither of them were what could be called shiftless but there were times a more leisurely approach to life overtook them, and in the wake of their friend’s funeral they felt a slow ride back to Texas was called for, if only to reflect on the way life could change quickly.

  Their friend, Bob Fuller, had been of their age and his sudden death, from a heart problem, had hit them hard. Taken so suddenly despite being in his early thirties his death had been too sudden and unexpected. Taking a steady ride to home was their way of handling the death, making them aware of what they had.

  Like his partner Ballard was making the most of their surroundings. They had ridden into the spread of a great valley that marked a big change in the surrounding landscape. A number of creeks dotted the land. Swathes of grass. A scattering of trees and greenery. Low hills in the distance with a sprawling cluster of hig
h rock formations. Closer a number of healthy, bunched cattle grazing contentedly.

  Chet Ballard eased in his saddle, hands resting on the pommel.

  ‘Yeah, you sure got that right,’ he said again.

  Beside him McCall stiffened, looking out over Ballard’s shoulder. The good-natured smile faded, replaced by an expression of wariness.

  ‘Jess?’

  Ballard eased round in his saddle, picking up on the bunch of riders coming their way. He might have been less concerned if the newcomers had not all been showing rifles that were, to a man, pointing at the Texans.

  ‘Ain’t one for makin’ snap decisions,’ McCall said, ‘but unless this is a local way of saying howdy, I’d say we got trouble.’

  Ballard had to agree. There was something in the way the approaching horsemen were riding abreast, forming a formidable armed line covering himself and McCall. He saw the presence of the men as a threat.

  ‘Set easy, Jess’ Ballard said. ‘Let’s find out what they want.’

  ‘You thinking I might do something rash?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘Damn, that’s the problem with you knowin’ me so well.’

  The line of riders hauled rein some ten feet from the Texans. They stared each other out for a short time until one of the riders edged his horse slightly forward. He had his rifle raised skywards, stock resting on his hip.

  ‘I’m Jace Killian. I ramrod Circle-B. This is Circle-B land you’re on.’

  Ballard nodded in response. Said, ‘Chet Ballard. My partner is Jess McCall. Headed back to home. Just passin’ through. We saw no sign about trespassin’.’

  ‘Ever’body knows this is Circle-B,’ one of the riders said.

  ‘Seein’ as we never set eyes here before we don’t,’ Ballard said.

  The speaker was a lean, hard-faced individual sitting on Killian’s left. His right hand hung close to the heavy Colt holstered against his right thigh, tied down tightly. The look in his dark eyes spoke volumes.

  ‘Like Ballard told you we don’t know the country. On our way through is all,’ McCall said.

  ‘Easy to say. How do we know that’s the truth.’

  ‘Ain’t no need to make more of it, son.’

  ‘Mebbe I want to make more. And maybe you’re a damn liar.’

  Ballard heard McCall’s soft intake of breath and knew they might have a problem raising its head.

  ‘Look...,’ the man said.

  Killian raised his hand. ‘No need of that here. Kell, let it go...’

  The man named Kell, his rifle in his left hand, made his move even as Killian spoke.

  McCall saw his hand drop, fingers curling around the handle of the Colt, starting to lift it, already dogging back the hammer. The big Texan reached for his own pistol, his move so smooth that not a man watching even registered his draw.

  The .45 was up and level while Kell was still at his draw. The muzzle showed flame and smoke as it fired, Kell jerking back in his saddle as the slug slammed into his left shoulder and almost unseated him.

  A second man made his own move, swinging his rifle at McCall and triggering a shot that sliced across McCall’s right side.

  ‘Sonofabitch,’ McCall said and moved his pistol easily, settling on his target and laid his second shot directly over the man’s left eye. The man’s head snapped back and the back of his skull burst open as the slug emerged. The man slipped sideways and dropped to the ground.

  In the silence that followed Ballard chanced to ease his Winchester from its sheath and laid the muzzle on Jace Killian.

  ‘First man makes a move I put a slug in Killian.’

  Killian saw the look in the Texan’s eyes and it was enough to make him raise his hands and warn his crew.

  ‘Put those damn guns down. Next man who even thinks about shooting I’ll put down myself.’ His raised voice was enough to put an end to any further violence. ‘Just put those damned guns away. Look to Kell and lay Brody over his saddle.’

  The man called Kell had his shoulder bound with a wadded shirt. He was hoisted back on his horse.

  ‘You lettin’ this go?’ someone said.

  ‘You want a massacre here, Hal? That’s all you’ll get.’

  ‘What about them?’ one of the riders said. ‘Ain’t we had enough of these sons stealing our cows...and some of every outfit around.’

  ‘Kell pushed it too far,’ Killian said. ‘So did Brody. I don’t like it but that’s the way I see it.’

  ‘You fellers better listen to him,’ McCall said. ‘You made the wrong choice when you come at us. Now I’m peaceable left alone, but I don’t cotton to the way you behaved.’

  ‘We saw the sign back a way said there’s a town close by,’ Ballard said.

  ‘Jericho,’ Killian said. ‘About an hour’s ride from here.’

  ‘That’s where we’ll be going. We need to speak to the law. Get this straightened out,’ Ballard said. He looked directly at Killian. ‘You got any objections to that?’

  Killian sank back in his leather, shaking his head. He turned to his people.

  ‘You boys ride back to home. Tell what happened here. Gentry, you come to town with me. Bring Brody along. Kell, you able to ride?’

  Kell, slumped in his saddle, nodded.

  ‘We’ll get you to Doc Hardesty,’ Killian said.

  There was still a noticeable amount of grumbling from the Circle-B crew. Killian reined his horse round to face them.

  ‘As long as I ramrod this outfit,’ he said, ‘there’ll be no more. Ride back to the ranch. Go talk to the boss and tell it true or you’ll answer to me.’

  The hardness in his tone warned the crew there would be no more argument. They pulled their horses around and rode off without a word.’

  Let’s go,’ Killian said, leading off.

  ‘And there I was telling what a nice piece of country this is,’ McCall said as he rode alongside his partner. ‘Me and my big mouth.’

  ‘Can’t argue with that,’ Ballard said.

  ‘I’d be hurt if I thought you meant it.’

  ‘What are friends for.’

  There was urgency in the way the five riders rode into the Circle-B yard, hauling their horses to a stop in a cloud of dust.

  Everything was on a large scale. The barns and stable. The big corral to one side. Open-fronted wagon shed and the scattering of smaller buildings, yet they were all dwarfed by the ranch house itself.

  It sprawled across the yard, two stories high, a timber building built to last generations. Every one of the numerous windows held real glass, shutters attached on the interior. The wide front door was solid oak that would take any amount of battering.

  Before the dust had settled the door was pulled open and Circle-B’s owner stepped out to confront the riders.

  A striking, auburn-haired woman in her early forties. Good cheekbones and a strong mouth. Her hazel, green-flecked eyes took in the waiting crew.

  Her crew.

  The men who worked for Circle-B

  For Celestine Blanchard.

  Beside her stood Orrin Blanchard, her son. Six foot tall, his shoulders wide under the expensive shirt. Orrin had the looks of his late father, though his expression was one of surliness. He was not favored by the crew. They found him a touch arrogant. The younger man trying to be everything his dead father had been, but failing. Orrin enjoyed his status, playing the part of the successor to the Circle-B throne. There were few who believed he would ever achieve that position.

  Though Lawrence Blanchard had built Circle-B by the sweat of his brow until it dominated the area, dwarfing all the other outfits in the area. He made Circle-B all-powerful and grew rich in the process. He met Celestine two days after her twenty-first birthday and fell for her instantly. She, young and without experience, was dazzled by his good looks and dominating presence. Within a month they were married, Lawrence setting up his bride in the big house as the mistress of Circle-Band. Celestine was a fast learner, young
as she was, and she quickly established herself as the head of the growing spread. When she gave birth to her son, two years after marrying Lawrence, she had become a changed woman.

  That change was self-evident when her husband suffered from a massive heart attack that struck him down three years later and killed him, leaving Celestine a widow and new owner of Circle-B.

  Gone was the naïve young bride. In her place was Celestine Blanchard, the power behind the throne of Circle-B. Still in her twenties she took the reins and proceeded to drive Circle-B with a relentless energy that defied her critics and ran rings around her competitors. Her business acumen saw her override competition, expanding Circle-B’s power and influence. There was a driving force within the young woman that pushed her forward and left competitors behind.

  She might have been widowed at a young age, with the ranch and a young son to deal with. None of it held her back. Losing Lawrence so soon left her bitter. Feeling life had dealt her a losing hand and she needed to justify herself in the eyes of the world. She did it by developing a ruthless streak that forced her to become a success in everything she did. Circle-B and her son, Orrin, had become the focus of everything she did. Nothing else mattered.

  Circle-B was large in every aspect. Its influence reaching wide. The ranch employed a large workforce comprising many cowhands and a permanent ranch crew who operated and maintained the home base. That required serving by the local town of Jericho. Circle-B needed a constant supply base to keep itself running. Food supplies, hardware, equipment. There were few businesses in town that didn’t deal with Circle-B in some capacity. No one complained. Circle-B’s trade was essential and there was a constant competition between the local businesses to offer the best rates when it came to dealing with the operation.

  Some of the smaller ranches felt Circle-B had grown too big over the years. A number had gone under, unable to stand the competition and Circle-B had bought out some of the failed businesses, putting in its own people to run them.