Hot Water
by Holly
Chapter One
Jess Harper cursed, and for the umpteenth time, dragged a hand across his eyes as salty drops of perspiration made them sting. His cotton shirt stuck to his back, and his hair hung in wet slicks.
He licked a droplet as it trickled down his upper lip.
‘Boy! It was sure hot today. Almost as bad as Texas at its worst’
He looked around for Slim, but there was no sign. He guessed his boss had gone off after that pesky little liver-colored calf who was as ornery as all get-out, with only one thing on its mind: to go exactly the opposite way he was driven.
Jess grinned, despite his discomfort, thinking of Slim struggling to get ‘Betsy’ back to the main herd. Jess had taken a shine to the little calf, and had even given him a name. Slim had questioned him about using a woman’s name. Jess had said it was simple.
“That calf just won't co-operate; just like a woman.”
“Only the women you know, Harper. I don’t have any problems with my gals,” Slim had bragged.
Jess brooded over that for a moment or two, before deciding it was too damn hot to bother thinking up a retort, and had let Slim win that one.
He slipped his foot out of the stirrup, and hooked his leg over the horn before reaching for his canteen. He must be crazy! On the drift, he would have moved on; out of this territory to somewhere cool, wet even, to escape the heat. Yet, here he was, getting up at the crack of dawn to work in this oven until dark, then be so tired he’d often fall asleep before he’d even take his clothes off; just collapsing onto the bunk until the sun rise saw him up and workin’ again.
He really couldn’t believe he’d committed so much time to working for Slim. He had always planned to move on after a few weeks, then that stretched into months. Now it was almost a full year since Slim had asked him to stay on.
The work was hard, and life with Slim wasn’t exactly a bed of roses. They had often rubbed each other the wrong way, a couple of times actually coming to blows. But in a strange way, after each bust, up their friendship seemed to grow stronger.
Jess admired Slim and the way he’d hung onto the family ranch despite everything being against him. Jess had been forced to fight to survive, just like Slim, ‘cept he used his fists and skill with a gun. But, Slim used the only thing he had, a strong sense of responsibility to keep the ranch his father had died to protect, from the land grabbers. At the same time, having to bring up his younger brother, Andy.
Jess had sat on the porch many a evening, and listened to Slim tell Andy stories about their family. Jess had lost his, so sometimes it was a painful thing to hear how many relatives were out there that Andy could call upon in times of trouble. He had no one. Now, he felt as if he knew more about the Sherman family, than he did his own.
Sometimes, Slim or Andy had tried to draw him into telling something of his background, but Jess had revealed very little until recently, and even now, he regretted telling Slim as much as he had. He had learned a long time ago never to give anyone any information they might one day use against him. Jess had been hurt too many times as a youngster, because he had trusted the wrong people. It was a lesson hard learned, but never forgotten. He unscrewed the canteen top and took a long swig of the lukewarm water. It tasted good.
To the world, Jess came across as a man not to be messed with, ’less you wanted a fist or bullet in reply. Yet, some of his past acquaintances would be amazed at the change in him over this last year. Maybe he was goin’ soft.
He wondered how many were still alive; especially since the drift wasn’t exactly conducive to old age. Only last week, Jess had heard Clint Frasier had been back shot in Dodge. That news had saddened him. Clint and he had shared some riotous times during a trail drive north, from his home state, Texas. But Clint had been slow. ‘Should have spent more time practicin’ his draw and less time drinkin’ and he might still be around....’
Jess took another swallow and, finding his canteen empty, decided to ride down to what remained of the stream and re-fill it before going to find out how Slim was fairing with ‘Betsy’.
Ten minutes later, he knelt by the muddy water replenishing his canteen, as his horse, Traveler, drank thirstily at his side.
Suddenly, a shot rang out and the canteen was ripped from Jess’ hand.
Almost instantaneously, Jess dove flat to the ground, desperate to find cover, but quickly discovering that there wasn’t any; just the dried mud of the bank.
He’d drawn his gun while still in motion, then hit the ground and rolled, trying to make a difficult target for whoever was attacking him. The water was so shallow as to offer no protection at all. He cursed his carelessness at leaving himself so exposed. That would never have happened a year ago.
From over the rise came several riders, and more appeared from behind trees, further down the stream. Jess counted eight in all. They quickly surrounded him. One hard faced rider reached to take Traveler’s reins.
“Touch him and I’ll blow your head off.” Jess hissed.
There was no doubt that he meant it, and the Colt never wavered as it lined up on his target. The man slowly backed off, not willing to test Jess’ resolve. Slowly, Jess rose, gun still aimed directly at a spot between the man’s eyes. He half expected to take a bullet as he stood, but the men remained still, rifles aimed, but making no move.
Jess didn’t recognize any of them, but he didn’t know all the ranch-hands in the area.
These men didn’t look like your average ranch hands. To his experienced eye, they looked more like hired guns...killers, if the money was right.
“Drop the gun.” The harsh order came from a short, stocky, sandy haired man who rode a big bay.
Jess looked from one to the other, knowing he could have little chance against eight. He could maybe get three or four before they downed him. They were spread, not bunched up. ‘Clever,’ he thought. Jess lowered his gun, but didn’t drop it.
A rider maneuvered his mount closer, then suddenly, a booted foot struck out, hitting Jess square in the chest and sending him sprawling onto the hard, sun baked mud.
“You heard! Drop the gun!”
Jess fought the burning pain in his chest, then dropped the gun and staggered to his feet.
He glared from one man to another, trying to memorize their faces. “This is Sherman land, Mister. You’re trespassin'!” He directed to the sandy haired one, who appeared to be the leader.
“Yeah, sure. You Harper?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I hear you’re fast”
Jess’ blue eyes narrowed. “You wanna find out?”
“That can wait. We got more important business first,” the man said.
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“You go tell Sherman that our boss is takin’ this here water. Iffen we see any Sherman stock drinkin’ here, we’ll shoot ‘em. Got it?”
“Like I already said, this is Sher-” He never got any further, as a lasso sneaked out and over his head; slack, but Jess knew it could tighten at any time. He’d had that experience before, and didn’t want to repeat it. There were better ways to die than a lynchin’.
“Now, boy, you’d better listen up; least ways if you want to deliver this message in person, rather than have it pinned to your body.”
“Who’s your boss?” Jess asked.
“Clay Richards,” was the reply.
“Clay Richards?” Jess couldn’t hide his surprise.
“That’s right, country boy. And he wants you to be sure to explain to Sherman in a real plain way, that this here stream is his from now!” The sandy haired man nodded to his companions. They began to move forward as the rope tightened around Jess’ throat.
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