Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
“You dirty, low-down piece of horse shit.” Henry shook his head in disbelief, looking down at the men panning for gold in the icy water of the pool. “Some mangy curs never learn.”
He sat astride his bay gelding on the snowy ridge overlooking the same creek where he and Caleb found Mad Dog McCord and his gang. But it wasn’t those outlaws this time.
Frank Stubbs stood near the edge of the creek, jawing away with another man standing by him.
Two more men were working with pans in the shallows.
They’d cleared snow off a stretch of shoreline, and their shovels lay on the glistening gravel.
From the raggedy looks of the fellas doing the panning, they were hired laborers.
And every other breath or so, Frank clearly felt the need to holler at the workers.
“You knew Caleb was off hunting for our cattle,” Henry muttered. “So you thought you’d just slip right in here.”
The sonovabitch figured he’d see if Mad Dog was on to something in this creek.
The man standing with Stubbs took a bottle from his pocket and had a good solid pull from it before passing it on to Frank.
Wiping his black whiskers on his gray wool coat, he turned slightly and looked at the fire that they’d lit in the center of the clearing.
He gestured with his head toward it, and Stubbs grudgingly followed him over.
Henry had been down checking on the cattle in the lower end of the valley when he saw the smoke from the fire.
“With all the brandy you drink, Frank,” Henry murmured, “I wouldn’t get too close to them flames.”
Their neighbor took another drink and shouted a few more curses at the workers.
“On the other hand, go ahead and get real close.”
Having seen the face of Stubbs’s companion, Henry knew exactly who he was.
“You too, you mouthy sonovabitch.”
Henry had seen the man in Elkhorn yesterday. He’d been standing on the back of a wagon on Main Street in front of the Belle, shouting at the top of his lungs and calling out the men going in and out of the saloon as “godless sinners” and “drunken reprobates” and other such nonsense.
The fellas on the street were entertained, and Miss Belle didn’t seem to care much one way or another. But Zeke had taken exception to it when he showed up ready to do his own drinking.
That was when Henry found out the man’s name was Amos Stubbs. Frank’s brother. New in town, he was passing himself off as a parson.
Watching the preacher take another swig from that bottle, Henry shook his head.
“You are one self-righteous hypocrite, parson,” Henry muttered with a frown. “And I ain’t no expert. But the Good Book has something pretty clear to say about not stealing from your neighbor, I believe.”
Henry drew his rifle from its scabbard and nudged his mount down the steep, snowy slope.
Frank spun around at the sound of the approaching horse and started to go for his pistol.
“Go ahead, you stupid sonovabitch,” Henry called down, leveling his rifle at Stubbs’s chest. “Give me one more reason to fill your gizzard with lead.”
Frank stopped and moved his hand out away from his body, clear of the Colt Peacemaker at his hip.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Amos Stubbs snapped before turning to his brother. “Frank, what’s going on?”
Neither man answered him, and Henry spoke instead to the two workers standing ankle deep in water that had formed a lacework of ice on their boots. “Come out of there, boys. I hope Stubbs paid you in advance, cuz your workday is over. Go and warm your bones by that fire.”
Henry considered telling Frank to unbuckle his gun belt but didn’t bother.
Truth be told, he was tired of fighting with Stubbs. A few months ago, he might have welcomed the excuse. These days, he mostly wanted the fool off the ranch and out of his sight.
“How many times Marlowe and me got to tell you stay off our property?”
“Your property?” Amos Stubbs said. “You’re mistaken. This land belongs to—”
“This ain’t your property,” Frank barked, interrupting his brother. “The ridge is mine right down the valley. I don’t care how many damn times you say so.”
He spat a stream of tobacco juice into the fire, raising a crackling hiss.
“We been through this, you no-account, stinking, dog-faced meathead. We own this land from that ridge down.”
Frank’s face looked like he had a lit charge of explosives about to go off in his ass.
Henry watched the two workers edge wide-eyed away from the Stubbs brothers. They surely never heard anyone talk to their boss like that before. And when the shooting started, they didn’t want to be anywhere near it.
If there was shooting.
Henry was doing his best to avoid that outcome. Marlowe would be unbearable if he got back and found a fresh body cooling in the snow.
“Last time we did this, Stubbs—if you recall through your usual drunken stupor—even the sheriff told you to git.”
Stubbs stuttered, tried to get some word out, but he couldn’t quite manage it.
“Pack your gear, boys,” Henry ordered.
The workers hurriedly picked up their equipment and were standing by their horses quicker than a prairie dog hits his hole at the smell of coyote.
“This is it, Stubbs. No more chances. I ain’t going through it again,” Henry said with a coolness that surprised even him. “You will get on your horse, ride up over that hill there, and keep going.”
He raised the muzzle of his rifle until it was pointed right between Frank’s hate-filled eyes.
“And hear this good,” Henry said. “The next time I even see your shadow peeking over at our land, I’m gonna kill you. Understand?”
“We’ll just see, Jordan,” Frank finally spat out. “I know the damn law. We’ll just see.”
As the four men spurred their horses up the hill toward the Stubbs property, Henry thought about how well that went.
“Damn me,” he murmured as he slid his rifle back into the scabbard. Marlowe would be pretty dang proud of how he handled that. “And not a drop of blood nowhere.”