William W. Johnstone - Mankiller, Colorado (Sidewinders, No. 4)

Give them great meals of beef
and iron and steel,
they will eat like wolves
and fight like devils.

William Shakespeare, King Henry V

I reckon weve always liked a ruckus
just a mite too much.

Scratch Morton

Were gettin too old for this, Scratch Morton said.

Amen, Bo Creel agreed. But we signed on to do it. We dont have any choice but to get it done.

He lifted the posthole digger and brought it down hard against the rocky ground. The blades didnt penetrate very far into the stubborn dirt. With a sigh, Bo lifted the digger and then slammed it down again. He pulled the handles apart, lifted them, turned to empty a pathetic amount of dirt onto a pile that seemed to be growing with infinite slowness.

Then he threw the digger and said with uncharacteristic anger, Damn it, I hate digging postholes!

Scratch stepped forward. Lemme work on it for a while. You can unload the next roll of wire from the wagon.

The New Mexico sun beat down mercilessly on the two old friends. They were stripped to the waist, revealing fish-belly-white torsos that had started to thicken with age but were still muscular and powerful.

Despite not having any shirts on, both men still wore their hats. Scratchs headgear, in keeping with his personality as something of a dandy, was a big, cream-colored Stetson that was beginning to show some wear but retained vestiges of its fancinessmuch like the man who wore it.

Bos hat was plain, flat-crowned, black. He didnt put on any airs. He just wanted something to keep the sun off his head.

They were working in a semi-arid valley bordered by low hills on the south and a string of rugged mesas on the north. The range on which they had parked the ranch wagon was part of Big John Peelers Circle JP ranch, but the cattlemans land ended here and Bo and Scratch had been given the job of stringing barbed wire from the hills to the mesas to mark that boundary.

Bo sat down for a second on the wagons lowered tailgate and pulled off his work gloves so he could wipe sweat off his face, which was tanned to a permanent shade matching that of saddle leather. I dont see why somebody had to go and invent that blasted devil wire in the first place, he complained bitterly.

Scratch dug the posthole digger into the ground. The blades grated in the gravelly soil. He grinned over at Bo.

Youre the one who always talks about what a good thing progress is. I thought you liked civilization.

Not when I have to dig holes for posts to string it on.

I know what you mean. Scratch drove the digger into the ground again. I sort of miss the open range days, too. But once everybody gets wire strung up, I reckon there wont be near as many range wars.

Bo shook his head. Folksll just find something else to fight over.

Well, aint you a gloomy cuss today. Look at it this wayYoure out in the fresh air, aint you? You aint wearin an apron, stuck behind some store counter somewhere, clerkin or sweepin up in a saloon. Thats all most folks think fellas our age are good for anymore.

Bo took off his hat and scrubbed a hand over his face. Yeah, I guess youve got a point.

The diggers blades chunked into the ground again. Sure I do. Nobodys shootin at us, either, and thats a welcome change, aint it?

Bo gazed off into the distance and said quietly, Im not so sure.

He wasnt seeing the sweeping vistas of the landscape outside of Socorro, New Mexico Territory. Instead, in his minds eye he saw the decades that had rolled by since he and Scratch had left Texas.

It had been an adventurous life. Bo had needed plenty of adventure to help him forget the pain of losing his wife and children to sickness, and his old friend Scratch had been more than willing to help provide it. As boys, they had fought side by side against Santa Annas thousands at the Battle of San Jacinto where Texas had won its independence. That had given Scratch an appetite for excitement he had never gotten over.

As grown men they had drifted, from south of the Rio Grande to north of the Canadian border. They had seen the stately flow of the Mississippi past grand homes in Memphis and Vicksburg, and they had stood on cliffs and looked out over the vast Pacific Ocean as its waves crashed powerfully on the rocks below them. They had ridden through deserts, climbed high mountain passes, seen giant redwoods reaching for the heavens. They had known the solitude of far, lonely places, as well as the smoky camaraderie of saloons and gambling dens and bunkhouses.

There had been some trouble along the way, of course, because Bo and Scratch, being Texans born-bred-and-forever, naturally couldnt stand aside and do nothing when they saw someone being threatened or taken advantage of. They had a deep and abiding dislike of outlaws, bullies, cheap gunmen, tinhorn gamblers, whoremongers, horse thieves, con artists, and all other sorts of miscreants. Scratch liked to say that they were peaceable men who never went looking for a ruckus to get into. The truth of that statement was debatable.

But by and large, it had been a good life, and Bo was damned if he understood how he and Scratch had wound up here in this hellhole, doing the most menial labor available to cowpunchers, for a jackass like Big John Peeler. Theyd had quite a bit of money in their poke when they came up out of Mexico, following a little dustup down there.

Red Cloud, Bo said softly.

Scratch paused in his digging. The old Indian chief?

Bo frowned at him. You know good and well what Im talking about.

Scratch leaned on the posthole digger and shook his head. I told you, Bo, that was a good tip. That fella in Las Cruces swore the horse hadnt lost a race yet.

If that was true, you wouldnt have been able to get such good odds, now would you?

Scratch grimaced. Well, yeah, I reckon youre right about that. I guess I wasnt thinkin too straight

Because youd had nearly a whole jug of hooch in that parlor house.

Scratch shook his head stubbornly. You know whiskey dont muddle me none, and neither do the seoritas. Sometimes my ambition gets a mite ahead of my thinkin, though.

Bo had to laugh. Well, if I didnt know that after all these years, I dont reckon Id have been paying much attention, now would I? Anyway, its like a tumbleweed. Its blown away, and theres no point in worrying about it anymore.

Now thats a right smart way to look at it. Scratch resumed digging, adding over his shoulder, Anyway, this aint so bad. Well work for Big John for a while until our pokes fattened up again, and then we can light a shuck outta here.

Sounds good to me. Bo pulled his gloves on again and slid off the tailgate. He went along the side of the wagon until he could reach over and grab hold of one of the rolls of barbed wire he and Scratch had loaded into the vehicle before leaving Circle JP headquarters that morning.

Scratch was right. Jobs werent easy to come by at this time of year. All the roundups were already over. A fella with empty pockets had to take what he could get, and by the time he and Scratch had reached Socorro, about halfway between Las Cruces and Albuquerque, they had barely had two coins to clink together. Usually when their funds ran low, Bo could find a poker game in some saloon and replenish them, but this time they didnt even have the wherewithal to buy into a game. It was ranch work or nothing, and Peeler was the only cattleman hiring.

Bo glanced off to the west as he dropped the roll of wire on the ground next to the line of posts. His eyes narrowed as he straightened.

Somebody coming, he told Scratch.

Scratch paused in his digging and looked in the same direction Bo was looking. A plume of dust curled upward in the distance.

Three or four riders, Id say.