Range War

Howdy, stranger.

Yep, I can tell you’re not from around these parts. You don’t even have to say a word, though I bet your accent would be a dead giveaway.

Nope, we don’t see many of you eastern city slickers out this way. We get the odd tourist now and again. Half the time they’re lost, and I hafta point 'em back to the train depot. But you got that look, stranger. I know why you’re here.

Pull up a stool, stranger, and I’ll tell you the story you’ve come to hear.

You want to hear the story of the Range War.

Y’see, this town’s always been a quiet place. Not much happens around here. Oh, sure, we get the occasional rowdy drunk, and I’ll have to throw him in the tank overnight. Hardly ever any more trouble than that.

It’s my job to keep it that way. I’ve been the sheriff now for ‘bout long as anyone can remember. I’m Sheriff Mann.

But around these parts, they call me Big Daddy.

As I said, this here’s a quiet town. We got this here restaurant and bar, a bank, a stable, general store, and some rooms for rent. There’s a mine just outside a town, but it’s pretty much played out. Most of the business in these parts is done by the two big ranch operations here in the valley.

The C Bar M range sits out on the Berber flats. It’s a gorgeous spread, ‘bout the biggest in the whole county. My, that’s pretty country. Fields so flat and lush, why it looks just like that fancy carpet you got in your high-falutin’ hotels back where you come from. The hay that comes outta C Bar M is ‘bout the best hay ever. Likewise C Bar M cattle fetch the highest prices in these parts. It’s a first class operation, run by a first class rancher. They call him Gentleman Chris.

Gentleman Chris is about the nicest, straightest cowhand you’d ever hope to meet. Tall, fair and handsome, ol’ Gentleman’s a real ladies man. Smart as a whip, a real sharp businessman. He’ll treat you fair, though, and if you needed it, he’d give you the shirt off his back.

The thing is, you don’t want to cross him, ‘cause he don’t forget. Oh, he’ll smile and laugh, slap you on the back, treat you like a good ol’ boy. But once you let your guard down, he’ll snap you in two like a brittle twig.

On the other end of the valley, you got the TG spread. It backs right up to Fireplace Butte. They call it that ‘cause, well, that butte, it just looks like a fireplace.

Butte, not butt.

Dang, you city folks are dumber than mules!

The TG’s a smaller, scrappier outfit. The land ain’t quite so good, the hay not quite so sweet. The cattle are just a bit scrawnier, the cowhands a little bit rougher. And the TG spread’s run by the toughest cowhand in these parts. His name is Tommy.

But most folks call him Tommy Two-Gun.

Ol’ Two-Gun’s about the quickest draw in these parts, and he’s got the quick temper to match. He’s a little guy, but you sure don’t want to say that to his face. He’s cat quick, and he don’t take kindly to insults. They still tell the tale of the new cowhand who made some crack about "that little cowboy, don’t he ride a pony?”

Well, Two-Gun overheard that remark.

Next morning,’ here comes that poor cowboy into town…trussed up like a heifer, dragged behind a pony.

Nope, you don’t want to mess with Two-Gun.

Now we got a couple of smaller ranches in these parts, but they don’t amount to much. It’s really just Gentleman and Two-Gun that run things around here. It’s a big county, and between the two of ‘em, they pretty much own all of it.

Of course, they don’t get along. Not one dang bit.

The craziest part? They’re brothers.

Now there was always a sort of an uneasy truce between the two of them. Oh, they’d have a feud now and then, but nothin’ major. Every once in a while a couple of Gentleman’s cows would go missin’ and they’d turn up on Two-Gun’s spread. Next week or so, one of Two-Gun’s horses would be found with Gentleman’s herd. A couple cowhands from each spread would meet out in the valley and swap ‘em back. Hardly ever had to resort to gunplay.

But at the last county fair, when everyone comes into town, the two of them happen to bump into each other, and the next thing you know, the fists are flyin'. The cowhands from both sides got into it and we had a major brawl goin.’ I had to step in and set things right, and I gave each of those boys a warnin’ not to be brawlin’ in my town. Well, they stared at me, they stared at each other, and finally they pulled their boys’ together and headed back out of town.

I thought that’d be the end of things.

I was wrong.

Next thing I know, ol Gentleman comes into my office to file a complaint. Seems a whole bunch of his cows went missin.’ But that weren’t the worst of it. Ol’ Gentleman had himself a prize horse – a big, brown, barrel-chested stallion. That was one beautiful horse. Went by the name of Chocolate. Well, Chocolate was missin’ along with them cows, and he was sure that Two-Gun was behind it.

Well, I told him I’d head out to Two-Gun’s place and have a chat with the boy, and that was good enough for Gentleman. He thanked me politely and headed back to his spread.

Not 15 minutes later Two-Gun shows up. He’s got a different story to tell. According to him, most of his cows are gone, along with his best cowhand, an orange-haired lad, went by the name of Elmo.

Well, I asked Two-Gun if he thought Elmo might’a run off with those cows. A dark shadow crossed his face and he reared up with a cocked fist, and I thought he was gonna swing on me…but he caught himself. Glowering at me, he said, “Elmo doesn’t steal Tommy’s cows.”

Well, so much for that.

Then he said, “Big Daddy, I’m goin’ to get Elmo back, and my cows too. If you don’t do something about this, I will.”

That’s vintage Two-Gun. Bold, defiant, takin’ matters into his own hands.

And he left.

The next few days were eerily quiet in town. It was almost like folks were bracin’ for a storm. I come to hear from folks that both Gentleman’s and Two-Gun’s cowhands were stockin’ up on guns an’ ammunition. The shelves at the general store were gettin’ bare. Even the stagecoach drivers were nervous comin’ in to town.

Folks started whispering about a Range War.

Now I really couldn’t believe that these two brothers’ would actually draw down on each other, but it was starting to look like that’s what was gonna happen.

Unless I did something about it.

Well, I wasn’t gonna let this escalate into an all-out range war. Folks in these parts, particularly the womenfolk, count on me to keep the peace. And when I heard from a preacher passin’ thru town that it looked like the two brothers were putting their cowhands up toward the fence dividin’ their spreads, I knew it was time to take charge of this situation.

So I saddled up my big stallion, a large, white beast I call Suburban. ‘Bout the biggest, strongest ride in town. Better’n nearly 250 regular horsepower, by my reckoning.’ Pulls my big trailer with no trouble. I strapped on my gunbelt, stowed the Winchester in the saddle holster, and headed out to the Berber flats.

Well, stranger, if you want to hear the rest of the story, you’re gonna have to come back another night. I’ve got my rounds to make tonight before I turn off the lights in this town. But if you come back in a couple days or so, I’ll tell ya the rest of the story.

Out here in the west, there’s only one way to head off a full-on Range War.

And that’s what we call Frontier Justice.

So come back, stranger.

Yep, it’s great to be Sheriff Mann.