Blazing Trails and Western Tales by Boeckman Charles

Author:Boeckman, Charles [Boeckman, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rough Edges Press
Published: 2014-02-13T00:00:00+00:00

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Zepeda, owner of the Boxed X had been fighting Thirty-thirty Perrigue for more than twenty years. In spite of their threats, each to run the other into the Rio Grande, they had both prospered. Zepeda had opened a bank in Cherokee Flats, in addition to his ranching, and he spent most of his time in town now. When Red Perrigue sat down beside his desk that morning and told him what he planned to do, Zepeda slowly took his cigar out of his mouth and stared at the younger Perrigue with growing incredulity.

Zepeda was a bald headed man with a paunch and mild blue eyes. His eyes were larger than their normal size now. "Are you sober, son ?" he gasped. When he satisfied himself to that, he sat back and his eyes narrowed. Having overcome his initial shock, he was turning back into his accustomed role of shrewd trader.

"Thirty-thirty know you're sellin' out your half of the Lazy R?"

"I'm of legal age. Half the ranch is mine. I don't have to ask his permission to sell what's mine."

"Um-humph." Zepeda puffed at the cigar. "You know what this will do to the old man, son?"

"Since when," Red asked, "have you started worryin' about Thirty-thirty's health?' I'm givin' you first crack at this because I know you'd rather own half the Lazy R than yore right arm, and I figger you'll give me a good price for it. But if you don't want it—" he started to rise.

"No, no—" Zepeda sailed out of his chair and pressed Red back down in his. He fumbled out legal papers and a pen from the cubbyholes in his rolltop desk. "I'm pretty sure we can make a deal, son," Josiah Zepeda assured him.

It was the next morning. The town of Cherokee Flats was roused by the enraged bellowing of what might have been a wounded bull. It was Thirty-thirty Perrigue, red-eyed with Joe Gideon whiskey and snorting mad, reeling down the board sidewalks with a smoking six-gun in each hand. Every few feet he would pause, reel, blast at a sign or watering trough and roar with pent-up rage.

"Sold the land," he swore. "Raised 'im from a pup. Worked myself to th' grave for him. And he sold the land—" He started crying, screwing up his seamed, weather-beaten face. He wiped a forearm across his eyes. Then the focal point of his rage would return to him, and he'd let out another howl of fury. "Sold it to that no-good sonuvagun sheep herder Zepeda!" He blasted at a hitching rail.

In the Crescent Hotel, Red Perrigue awoke to the ruckus down in the street. He looked at the pillow beside him, at the touseled head of his wife, Celeste, whom he had married last night. He stretched languorously, with delicious contentment. Then another pistol shot and bellow underneath his window brought him bolt upright. He threw the covers back and went over to the window. He looked down at the reeling, cussing man in the street, swore softly, and got into his clothes.

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