stringy and tough; people want better beef
, he’d insisted. At first, other ranchers had scoffed at him, but he’d slowly won them over, and now the Wagner ranch could be counted on to supply restaurants and hotels throughout the region with juicy, tender cuts. His Herefords and Angus were growing in popularity, too, as breeding stock, and other ranchers were mixing their herds with diversity.
As Cotton rode through the gate, he saw several of the wranglers rounding up a handful of new calves, readying them for branding with the Wagner brand, a “W” sitting atop a wavy line. He saw Emily step out through the front door to watch. He urged his horse to the porch. He gotdown, tied the reins to a rail, and stepped up on the porch beside her.
“So, stranger, you lookin’ to buy some cattle?” she said with a wink and a subtle grin. Her eyes flashed in the sunlight as she moved closer. He leaned down and kissed her.
“’Fraid the only thing I see when I look at one of those four-footed beasts is a thick, juicy steak sizzlin’ in the pan.”
“Hmm. Does that mean you would turn down an opportunity to become the head honcho on the Wagner ranch?”
“I figure the head honcho the ranch has right now is doin’ a wonderful job. Wouldn’t want to start a landslide by makin’ unnecessary changes.”
“I see. Well, I reckon I’ll just have to reward you for that nice compliment by fryin’ up one of those steaks you seem so bent on consuming.” She smiled, took him by the arm, and drew him inside.
“I can’t think of a better arrangement. You raise ’em, I’ll eat ’em.”
They both laughed.
When Sleeve Jackson rode into El Paso, he was struck by the activity on the streets. The town was bursting with horses and riders, wagons, buggies, and buckboards. Noise seemed to come from every corner, along with the occasional discharge of a weapon. Sleeve mumbled to himself that he’d better not find one of the men he was looking for lying facedown in the dusty street. If he didn’t get back to Las Vegas with four of the best shooters in Texas, he’d have to face a very unhappy Bart Havens, and that didn’t bode well.
Even though everyone knew Havens never carried a weapon, had never drawn on anyone, never killed anyone with a gun, knife, poison, or an axe, the man struck fear in the hearts of men who didn’t normally back down from anyone or anything. Sleeve was at a loss to explain howthat could be, but the facts seemed to speak for themselves. And who was he to argue with fact.
He reined in front of the first saloon he came to, the first of a dozen or more. He wasn’t certain how many there were, just that he would have to start at one end of town and hit every saloon, gambling hall, and whorehouse in search of the four men he had in mind.
“Howdy, what can I get you?” the bartender asked as Sleeve walked up to the bar in the saloon called the Original El Paso Watering Hole, probably because it was, indeed, the most aged, run-down establishment a person happened on when entering town, at least from the west.
“A beer and some answers,” Sleeve said.
“Beer’s a dime, answers might come higher. You can ask, though,” retorted the bartender.
“We’ll start with the beer.”
The bartender slipped down to the other end of the long, polished bar and held a glass under the spigot of a barrel. He returned a minute later to place the foamy-headed glass in front of the shootist. Sleeve flipped him ten cents.
“Now, about that information,” Sleeve said.
“Yeah?”
“I’m lookin’ for some fellas.”
“You some sort of badge-toter?”
“Hell, no. Just lookin’ up old pals, that’s all.”
“Gimme their names. I’ll spread the word there’s some fella in town wantin’ to palaver. ’Bout the best I can do. This ain’t a town where folks put a man on another’s trail till he gets to know who the hell’s askin’.”
Sleeve was seething inside. He didn’t like it one bit
, he’d insisted. At first, other ranchers had scoffed at him, but he’d slowly won them over, and now the Wagner ranch could be counted on to supply restaurants and hotels throughout the region with juicy, tender cuts. His Herefords and Angus were growing in popularity, too, as breeding stock, and other ranchers were mixing their herds with diversity.
As Cotton rode through the gate, he saw several of the wranglers rounding up a handful of new calves, readying them for branding with the Wagner brand, a “W” sitting atop a wavy line. He saw Emily step out through the front door to watch. He urged his horse to the porch. He gotdown, tied the reins to a rail, and stepped up on the porch beside her.
“So, stranger, you lookin’ to buy some cattle?” she said with a wink and a subtle grin. Her eyes flashed in the sunlight as she moved closer. He leaned down and kissed her.
“’Fraid the only thing I see when I look at one of those four-footed beasts is a thick, juicy steak sizzlin’ in the pan.”
“Hmm. Does that mean you would turn down an opportunity to become the head honcho on the Wagner ranch?”
“I figure the head honcho the ranch has right now is doin’ a wonderful job. Wouldn’t want to start a landslide by makin’ unnecessary changes.”
“I see. Well, I reckon I’ll just have to reward you for that nice compliment by fryin’ up one of those steaks you seem so bent on consuming.” She smiled, took him by the arm, and drew him inside.
“I can’t think of a better arrangement. You raise ’em, I’ll eat ’em.”
They both laughed.
When Sleeve Jackson rode into El Paso, he was struck by the activity on the streets. The town was bursting with horses and riders, wagons, buggies, and buckboards. Noise seemed to come from every corner, along with the occasional discharge of a weapon. Sleeve mumbled to himself that he’d better not find one of the men he was looking for lying facedown in the dusty street. If he didn’t get back to Las Vegas with four of the best shooters in Texas, he’d have to face a very unhappy Bart Havens, and that didn’t bode well.
Even though everyone knew Havens never carried a weapon, had never drawn on anyone, never killed anyone with a gun, knife, poison, or an axe, the man struck fear in the hearts of men who didn’t normally back down from anyone or anything. Sleeve was at a loss to explain howthat could be, but the facts seemed to speak for themselves. And who was he to argue with fact.
He reined in front of the first saloon he came to, the first of a dozen or more. He wasn’t certain how many there were, just that he would have to start at one end of town and hit every saloon, gambling hall, and whorehouse in search of the four men he had in mind.
“Howdy, what can I get you?” the bartender asked as Sleeve walked up to the bar in the saloon called the Original El Paso Watering Hole, probably because it was, indeed, the most aged, run-down establishment a person happened on when entering town, at least from the west.
“A beer and some answers,” Sleeve said.
“Beer’s a dime, answers might come higher. You can ask, though,” retorted the bartender.
“We’ll start with the beer.”
The bartender slipped down to the other end of the long, polished bar and held a glass under the spigot of a barrel. He returned a minute later to place the foamy-headed glass in front of the shootist. Sleeve flipped him ten cents.
“Now, about that information,” Sleeve said.
“Yeah?”
“I’m lookin’ for some fellas.”
“You some sort of badge-toter?”
“Hell, no. Just lookin’ up old pals, that’s all.”
“Gimme their names. I’ll spread the word there’s some fella in town wantin’ to palaver. ’Bout the best I can do. This ain’t a town where folks put a man on another’s trail till he gets to know who the hell’s askin’.”
Sleeve was seething inside. He didn’t like it one bit
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