Free Vengeance Trail by Bill Brooks

Mobeetie
     on some business when I was told about a rustling problem. Decided to have a look into it.”
    The rotund lawman placed both hands on the edge of his desk and pushed himself back in his chair. His mouth gnarled up into
     a stupid grin.
    “Well hell, that must have been some story to get ’em to send a ranger over here.” The man’s grin turned sour.
    “Where the hell are you rangers when I got drunks to corral at night, or wild cowboys who like to shoot their pistols off
     at anything that moves?”
    “I rode over here to help put an end to your situation, mister,” warned Henry, “not to be abused by you.”
    “Wal, maybe you ought to just get back on your horse and ride out again—we don’t need no strangers coming in and dictating
     how things is going to be.”
    Henry stepped close to the man’s desk, and bent slightly at the waist before speaking.
    “You’re walking awful close to a line you don’t want to cross with me, marshal. I didn’t ride here for nothing, and I’m not
     riding out for nothing. I came here to do a job, and I plan to see it through. You don’twant to cooperate, you stay the hell clear. You get in my way, try to interfere, you’ll pay a hard price.”
    City Marshal Royal Curtiss stared into the eyes of the big man, saw no promise of anything good, saw no cause to challenge
     this man.
    The color drained from the chicken-eater’s face.
    “Okay…go ahead and do your investigatin’…nose around…who cares.”
    “Fine. Now take a pencil and write down the names of the nearest ranchers around here and directions on how to reach their
     spreads.”
    Henry waited until the city marshal had completed the list and then took his leave of the squat useless man.
    The first name on the list was a man named Clave Miller. His was the nearest place on the list as well: three miles west of
     town, first road to the left.
    Out upon the open grassy plain, he saw a herd of cattle grazing, their white faces and reddish brown hides moving slowly.
     Their long horns rose and dipped as they lifted their heads to watch the rider pass by and then resumed their graze.
    A mile or so down the wagon trace he had taken off the main road, he saw in the distance a windmill, its blades spinning in
     the wind, saw too the metal roofs of several small buildings.
    He spurred the buckskin to a dog trot until he came within shouting distance of the main house, a house that needed a painting.
    “Hallo inside,” he called out. It didn’t pay to just walk up to a man’s door and knock, not in this country it didn’t.
    There was a long slow moment of silence before thedoor opened and a woman stepped into its framework. The wind billowed the bottom of her dress. She put one hand to her brow
     to shade her eyes.
    “What do you want here, mister?” The question rang strong and clear.
    “My name’s Dollar. I’m with the Texas Rangers. Came to see your man, Clave Miller, if he
is
your man?”
    “What’d he do?”
    “Nothing I know about.”
    “Then why you here to see him?”
    “Looking into cattle rustling hereabouts. Wanted to see if he had been a victim of said crimes.”
    “Rustling ain’t nothing new in these parts, mister. Rustling’s been going on for years. How come you to just now be showing
     up?”
    “Just now heard, sister.”
    She dropped the hand down away from her face. She had a stark face, hair pulled back tight, plain and unattractive—much like
     the land itself.
    “Might as well step down, Mr. Dollar. Come on up to the house. Water your horse over there at the tank if you want. It’s a
     hot day all around.”
    He loosened the cinch on Ike’s saddle and lifted it up from his back for a few seconds allowing air to pass between horse
     and blanket, after which he led him to the water tank and let him drink. He scouted the layout of the place as he did so.
     A few buildings, a couple of corrals with good-looking horses in them, a chicken coop. Not a bad spread.
    He removed