The Rancher's Dilemma - Peter Rogers
October 2010
As I gazed out at the high buttes and the lush grass that surrounded my property, along with the crystal clear stream that flowed through my land, beautiful though it was, I couldn’t figure out what a big time operator like Seth Trasker could possibly want with my little spread.
The Civil War had been over about a year now, I guess, and I’d had my fill of killing my fellow Americans, so that’s why I used my little inheritance when pa died to buy a ranch out west and maybe raise some cattle. It was a very small outfit compared to Trasker’s, but somehow the guy just wouldn’t take no for an answer. He just kept raising his offer. When he finally got to realise I wouldn’t sell, I knew that his methods then wouldn’t be quite so law-abiding. Out here in Kansas, folks didn’t have much call for the law – the only law they knew was the gun.
As my eyes surveyed the peaceful scene in front of me, it hit me what it was that my powerful neighbour was after. If he bought my ranch, he would effectively control the water rights for the whole area, as the Jackson River flowed through my land and Trasker could refuse the McCalls, who owned the adjoining spread, the right to water their herd in the river.
Maybe I’d exaggerated when I said there was no law. My friend Al Jones had put up his shingle as lawyer in our little town of Copper Springs and I reckoned he could suggest a legal way out of this fix.
That’s why, after an hour’s riding, I found myself in his tiny office, next to the local saloon.
‘Well, Matt.’ he drawled as I sat opposite him, having explained my dilemma, 'Seems to me the best thing we can do is draft a legally binding contract granting equal water rights to all parties, and then someone – probably you – should hightail it to the County seat at Wichita and register it before Trasker brings in any reinforcements, if you get my meaning.’
‘Sure, I get your meaning. How long will it take to draft this here legal document?’
‘About half an hour.’
‘Ok, it’s been a hard, dusty ride. Reckon I’ll wet my whistle in the ‘Golden Saddle’ and be back with a fresh horse in half an hour for the ride to Wichita.’
‘Ok, friend, but take care. Pete Sloane, Trasker’s top hand is in town and he’s sure to cotton on your comin’ to my office isn’t just to talk over old times.’
I knew Al was right and that I’d have to keep a low profile, but who should I bump into in the ‘Golden Saddle’ but Pete Sloane.
‘Well now, look who we have here.’ said Sloane, a kind of imposing sort of figure, dressed from head to foot in black, aside from a red bandana round his throat, that is.
‘Say, what business would you have with that lawyer feller, Jones?’
‘Reckon that’s my business, Sloane.’ I retorted firmly enough, though my heart was thumping in my chest; Sloane had a reputation as a deadly gun and the notches on it to back it up.
‘Anything that affects my boss is my business, Tracy.’ He sneered, ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t do anything hasty. We don’t believe in fancy lawyers in these parts. We settle things differently in the west. Why don’t you just accept Mr Trasker’s more than generous offer and marry some nice respectable little lady and move somewhere east?’
This was quite a speech from the normally taciturn Sloane and I reckoned I’d need to keep a very wary eye over my shoulder on the long, dusty ride to Abilene.
Thus it was that a couple of hours later, with Al Jones’ binding contract in my saddlebag, as I rode beneath the merciless Kansas sun, I caught the unmistakeable glint of sun on the metal of a rifle butt. I knew I had barely seconds till I ended up as buzzard’s bait, so without giving it any more thought, I dived from my horse, drew my .45 and fanned the hammer back, blasting in the direction of the flash of the rifle.
My prompt action was rewarded almost instantly as the body of Trasker’s top hand toppled from the rocks above onto the dusty trail a few yards from where I lay, still clutching my smoking six-gun.
I walked over to his totally inert body and lightly kicked it, not out of malice, but to make sure he was in fact dead. Suddenly, without warning, Pete Sloane rolled over and a tiny derringer appeared in his hand.
‘I warned you visiting that shyster lawyer weren’t no good for your health, but you wouldn’t listen. Prepare to meet your maker, Tracy.’
Quickly I fired my own revolver, but it just clicked; I was out of bullets. I looked down the twin barrels of his miniature, but no less deadly gun and I knew my hour had come.
There was a deafening blast and to my astonishment I was still standing . . . but Sloane’s body jerked upwards and then fell back – dead. How come?
I swiftly glanced over my shoulder and saw the figure of Al Jones, a rifle in his hand.
‘I calculated that Sloane knew you’d been to see me and worked out the reason; he’d trail you and try to ambush you, so I guessed I’d better trail him.’
‘Lucky for me you did, buddy.’ I responded, ‘Guess I owe you my life.’
That was six months ago and now the Jackson River water is shared between me, the McCalls and our new neighbour, Abe Lewis. Seems like things got a bit too hot for Seth Trasker, with his hired guns and other activities outside the law, as you might say. Yes, we live by the law of the gun, but slowly a new kind of law is moving west.
And what happened to me? Oh, I took Sloane’s advice and married a nice respectable little lady, but I stayed out west.