He came walking out of the desert. Dirt was caked on him. He stumbled, barely living from the looks of him. There was a bullet hole in his side and another in his leg. He collapsed onto the ground in the ranch yard.
Mrs. Tucker ran out to him.
Little Joe came from the cook house with sweat running down his dark face. “What should we do with him, Miss Tucker?”
Mrs. Tucker, a white-haired, slightly built woman of fifty and tuff as nails, but with a generous heart, looked at Joe amazed at his question. “What we always do, take care of him.”
“But what about those tied-down gu-”
“Hush Little Joe, it will all work out.”
Two months passed. The “Stranger From the Desert” was up early, as was his custom. He walked into the ranch yard, near the well, still amazed that a little old lady was ramrodding this whole thing. Mrs. Tucker’s husband had been a great carpenter, as was evident by the well put-together house. It looked like it could withstand a hurricane, earthquake, and an Indian raid all at the same time. The white house had a huge wrap-around porch with an oak door as its centerpiece.
The Stranger’s eyes slowly took in the pole barn, coral, cook house, and the bunkhouse. All of these were perfectly placed so that there was only one way in and one way out of the ranch. This was true unless you came out of the dessert, which was not likely. He chuckled to himself. Mr. Tucker had definitely thought long and hard on the best place for this ranch-the Bar-T-Bar.
Strange, as they had come to call him, was content with this set up here. He worked as hard as two men, seeing it was only Mrs. Tucker and Little Joe, the old cook who had been working here nigh on ten years. There was also Winslow, a man who was kinda a mystery to Strange. Winslow seemed a might slow, but he was always in the right place and ready to assist in any work.
Strange walked up front to the pole barn. He wanted to get out the mean roan he had been breaking for the last couple of weeks. The horse had spirit, but today Strange was determined to ride him.
The thundering of hoofs stopped Strange, dead in his tracks. Six men came riding in fast and hard, right up to front porch of the ranch house.
“Mrs. Tucker!” the big man, in the middle of the riders belligerently yelled out.
“Good morning, Mr. Morine.” Mrs. Tucker replied as she stepped around the side of the house. She held a Sharps .50 nestled in her arms, like it was an extension of her body.
Thrown off balance by the Sharps, Morine turned his horse. “Mrs. Tucker, it is time for you to give me this place. I have given you a good offer for the place, and you can’t run this place with just one rider and Little Joe. I am not a patient man and can’t wait forever.”
“Samuel Morine,” Mrs. Tucker said, stoned-faced, “I ‘member when you came into this country and I will be glad when you leave...and I will still be here. You can take your low-down, cattle rustling friends and get off my spread or we can burry you, where the last ones who tried this are bur’d.”
Strange chuckled just loud enough for the men to hear. They turned their heads to see a man, six feet tall, two hundred fifty pounds, with big shoulders and long arms. His hands that had seen plenty of work held a Colt in each one. “Gentlmen they call me Strange around here, but that coyote on the end, Devin would tell you a different name-The San Antonio Kid. Devin’s two brothers on Boot Hill, could tell you not to mess with me.” Strange furrowed his rugged brow. “Mrs. Tucker has spoken her piece and now get out! If we see you again we will not ask questions, we will open fire. Good day gentlemen.”
The six men rode out almighty slow, careful where they had their hands. Morine turned his head back towards the house. “Mrs. Tucker, I will outlive you and get this property. I swear!“
Mrs. Tucker, looking weary, came down from the porch. Little Joe and Winslow joined her and they all met Strange near the well.
“Well Strange, now you know the trouble we’re in. I appreciate today, but you don’t have to get mixed up in this.” Mrs. Tucker shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked up at the tall, young man. “I am sure you got your own troubles to deal with.”
Strange laughed a little, but it was cold. “Mrs. Tucker, with all due respect, I do have troubles but I would stay in this fight even if you were not paying me. I do not know Morine, but those other hombres were all bad men. They all need to be taught a lesson.”
Winslow and Joe acknowled the same.
It was obvious Mrs. Tucker was a little relieved as she patted Strange on the arm. “What do we do now, Strange?”
“Keep working and get a head count on the cattle. Joe, you’d better start going around armed, because we don’t know when they will be back-and they will be back.
A week passed by with nothing out of the ordinary. Strange and Winslow were out with the herd getting them together to sell to the Army.
“Strange, something is wrong. Look.” Winslow motioned towards the ranch.
Strange looked up to see smoke billowing from the ranch. Without hesitation, both men sprang to their horses.
“Come on you mean roan, show us what you got!” Strange hollered.
As they drew closer to the house, they could hear gunshots. Then there was a big boom from that old Sharps. Strange reined in the roan. “Winslow, we go charging in there we’re just as likely to get that .50 as anyone else. Let’s go around the desert side and see if we can get in, without them noticing.”
As they “Indian-ed” up to the back door, two men came around the corner. They were trying to get around Mrs. Tucker. The men saw Strange and Winslow at the same time. With lightning speed, Strange shot one of them with each Colt, dead center. Winslow was just bringing his gun down on them, when the men hit the ground. Winslow turned astonished at the speed, but Strange was already making his way into the house.
“Mrs. Tucker don’t shoot! It’s me and Winslow. Figured you could use some help.” They moved to the front room. They saw the old lady slumped against the window, still firing the Sharps. She had a bullet crease on the side of her head. Blood was dripping down as she continued to fire, attempting to hide that she was hurt from them. Suddenly she fell backwards. Strange was there to keep her from hitting the floor.
“Strange,” she whispered, “it’s all yours now. My husband would have loved to have had a son like you. It looks like Morine was right, I won’t outlive him. Don’t ever sell, Strange.” Mrs. Tucker laughed lightly, “I guess I ought to at least know your real name.”
“Eugine Fiztgerald Tinker the third, ma’am.”
Mrs. Tucker smiled, “I like Strange better.” She took her last breath.
Strange gently laid her on the floor. He stood with a look that could kill. With his saw set in stone, he turned to Winslow. “Winslow, I am going out there to kill some rats!”
Strange threw open the front door, drew both guns and went to blasting away. Winslow was close behind him.
Years have passed and the Bar-T-Bar is still thriving under the leadership of Strange. Little Joe is still cooking and Winslow, still plodding. As you ride up to the front of the property, you will see six grave stones, in a neat line. They are all inscribed with, “They tried to take this place, please don’t join them”, except for the last one. This one has the name, Morine and underneath that, “Here lies the man who thought he would outlive Mrs. Tucker. You will find a Sharps .50 bullet inbetween his eyes-dead before Mrs. Tucker. The Sharps still works if you would like to try again.”
By Louis Penn IV