It's Your Misfortune and None of My Own (Code of the West) by Stephen Bly Page B

bankers.”
    “What?”
    “We don’t have a longhorn on this whole ranch anymore. Those aren’t our cattle.”
    “But the Rafter R on the bull?”
    “About five years ago this ranch was owned by an old Scotsman by the name of McGregor. He refused to sell out to the Boston bank folks, who wanted to search for copper over in those low mountains. But rather than make him a good o ffer, they had a Denver man sucker him into buyin’ two hundred choice longhorns.
    "To make it short, those bovines was infected with Texas fever, and the bank folks knowed it. Within two years the old man lost all his stock except for them longhorns. The ranch went up for sale on the auction block. The bank figured no cattl eman would want to take it over, so they made a low offer figurin’ to get it fer nothin’. But they got outbid by Fightin’ Ed.
    "Fightin' Ed comes in, sold off all the longhorns, and lets it stand empty through a hard winter. After that he restocked with polled Herefords. Now he gets plumb ag itated if he finds any strangers on the ranch ’cause he figures it’s that Boston bank group tryin’ to clean him out like they did McGregor.”
    “So these must be old stock from years ago,” Tap offered.
    “I reckon so. Must be others up in the Medicine Bows too, but no one wants to mix them in with their own. ’Course, if a man didn’t have any cattle at all, he could take ’em and raise ’em. They taste just fine, you know.”
    “Go explain my situation to Fightin’ Ed there, and I’ll push them right back into my place. I can always eat ’em for di nner. I never thought bein’ a good neighbor would get a man in such trouble.”
    Wiley glanced back at Ed Casey. “Tap, I would never quit a brand before fall roundup, but come next spring if you’re lookin’ for a hand, let me know. I like workin’ cattle, but firin’ shots at every stranger who rides on the ranch jist ain’t my style.”
    “I can’t promise that I can afford any hands. But your name’s on the top of my list.”
    The Rafter R cowboy rode back to Casey, and they had a long talk. All of a sudden, Tap saw the ranch owner pull out his rifle and point the barrel in his direction. He ducked b ehind the pine just as a shot rang out and splinters flew from the dead pine.
    “Hatcher, that Triple Creek Ranch ought to be mine, and you know it.”
    Tap stooped behind the buckskin pine and leveled his rifle at Casey. “Wiley, get him out of here, or he’s dead. Believe me now, he’s a dead man. I’ll have these cows off the ranch in thirty minutes, but not with you standin’ around takin’ pot shots. Get him home. I don’t plan on waitin’ much longer.”
    “Hatcher, you cross that state line again, for any re ason, I’ll shoot you on sight. You hear me?”
    Tap never took the sight off Casey until he and the others retreated past the clump of trees on down the slope. Wor king quickly, he caught up to Brownie, rounded up the cattle, and drove them back to the Colorado state line.
    Other cattle down in those hills? Maybe I’ll just go to rai sing longhorns. But what in the world did Zachariah Hatcher do to make Casey so mad? Obviously they never met. No matter how big the outfit, a guy always wants more land.
    He had just crossed over into Triple Creek country when the sun sank and a cold wind blew down from the northwest. He wanted to make it to the ranch by dark, but it was now obvious that would be impossible. He reached a big bend in a stream about dark and abandoned the cattle to the grass next to the water.
    “Brownie, I can’t believe I came out here without my bedroll. It’ll be a slim camp tonight.”
    He pulled the saddle and tack off the horse, stacking each item back in the cottonwoods. Then he led Brownie out near the stream, watered and hobbled him. After scratching the tall horse’s cheek and rubbing his neck, he turned and hiked back to the trees.
    A cold drop or two of rain stung his face as he gathered up dead wood for a