For the Brand

By Toby Benoit

Danny Fultz rode into the country of the Big Cypress looking for a meal and honest work on a ranch if there was any to be had. He found both with the Cracker cowboys of the Big Cypress Cattle Company at a time when it and two other of the large south Florida ranches were on the verge of war over missing stock and each accusing the other of rustling. Danny wasnt looking for trouble, but his unwanted reputation as a gunfighter and former lawman caught up to him and pinned a target on him for the real rustlers behind the ranchers problems.
After being shot out of the saddle hunting stray calves, Danny developed a personal interest in investigating the mystery of the disappearing cattle. Meanwhile he finds himself falling in love with the lovely Josephine, the adopted daughter of the aging owner of the B3C ranch all the while knowing that her heart is set on another. With help from an assortment of colorful characters found on the Florida frontier, Danny uncovers far more than he could ever have suspected and that information sets into motion a series of deadly events. Can he keep the range from erupting in gunfire and get the girl while being hunted and harassed by a stranger with killing on his mind?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503579170

Toby Benoit

Toby Benoit is a native Floridian, born and raised on a small ranch outside of Tampa, Florida and is the owner of Rebel Yell Livestock Associates; dealing with cattle and small animals for the local farm auctions. He is also a professional outdoorsman who receives regular invitations to speak at events all across Florida. Toby began writing in 2002 after moving to a small farm in Inverness, Florida. Currently, he is a weekly columnist for The Citrus County Chronicle. Since 2006, he has been a member of the editorial staff of and featured columnist for the popular Woods 'n Water Magazine. And since 2008, continues to serve as an “Expert Advice Panelist” for Woods 'n Water Magazine’s website. Toby is a lifelong avid reader, classically trained musician, poet, gold medalist in international archery competition, and history buff. He currently resides in Citrus County, Florida and is a member of Temple Terrace Masonic Lodge #330, Zendah Grotto, Florida Cattlemen's Association, The National Wild Turkey Federation, and The National Rifle Association.

Book preview

1

I caught the scent of wood smoke where the wind slipped through the palmettoes. I wasn’t sure if that was a welcome sign in such wild country, or if it should warn me of trouble. But I hadn’t a cup of coffee in two days and had run out of food in my saddle bags only the day before. Also, I was getting sort of lonesome. My horse was a fine companion, but it was becoming wearisome that the only response I ever got from him was an occasional snort and a twitch of his ears.

I rode through the field of palmetto on a pig trail, but that buckskin never shied from the fronds sweeping his face and chest, he was a Marshtackie I’d traded with an old Seminole man for and he was bred to the terrain. We left the palmetto field and came into a deep oak hammock rimmed with myrtle and elderberry thickets along its edges. When we came into the open, I stopped him for a bit as I figured to give the owner of that campfire the chance to give us a look. Nobody liked to be surprised out in that lonesome part of the country.

The smoke was there, some distance away beneath the canopy of them big oaks, swishing back and forth and mostly hugging the ground. I could see three men at a dying fire and rode towards them. The smell of coffee boiling and bacon frying was mighty pleasing to me. It was a two-bit camp in mighty wild country with a trio of round bellied ponies and a smallish pack mule tied to a rope string picketed beneath a lightening scarred cypress tree.

I’m riding friendly if you gentleman are receiving company, I called to them as I grew near.

They were all three looking me over, but only one of them spoke up, Yer already here, so you might as well step down from that saddle and sit a spell.

He was a long-faced gent with a high hairline and plenty gray in the short whiskers covering his cheeks and chin. There was a skinny youngster there as well, I judged him to be in his later teens, seated beside a stocky round faced man whose worn shirt did little to hide the bulging muscles beneath it.

Each of their horses appeared well fleshed and obviously well cared for and carried on their hip a B3C brand. A pair of leather chaps lay draped across a log by the fire and a rifle rested in easy reach of the man who’d invited me to sit.

Driftin’ through? the stocky fellow asked with a hint of the Irish in his voice.

Hunting a job mostly, I was figuring to make my way towards the holding grounds up by Paines Prairie. Been kinda hopin’ to latch onto a cow outfit needing an extra hand.

We work for the Big Cypress Cattle Company over along the Caloosahatchee River, the older one commented, you might hit up Mister Holder, since he ramrods this outfit. It’s almost time to start rounding up mavericks and he’s liable to hire on someone with a little back country experience.

I climbed down and stripped the saddle off of my mount. There was a bit of grass over near the edge of the oaks and he needed no invitation. He just walked over and began cropping it with delight.

Riding in from the south, did you notice any cattle? the older gent asked. He knew well that a cowboy riding through the countryside makes a keen observation of the brands he passes just on natural habit.

Here and there. A few B3C, cloverleaf, and few Spur. All of them scattered about the cypress heads and scrub.

I’m Lewis, The older gent told me, "Willie Lewis. The youngun’ there is Matt Wilson and the Irishman is Seamus Dugan.

The boy, he added, ain’t to saavy on bustin cattle out of the brush as he ain’t too dry behind the ears. But he’s got more energy than any three men I know.

Don’t pay him no mind, Mister, Matt spoke up, Old Willie’s always pickin’ at me. He’s one of them patriarchs like right out of the Bible, figures it’s his duty to see I learn my trade.

I looked over to my horse who wasn’t going anywhere as I’d drop-reined him and my belly growled when I looked back towards the fire. These men were cowhands who looked and dressed the part and I knew that they must be doing some wondering about me. I had a good rope tied to my saddle and my boots were run mighty low in the heel, so much so that the rowels of them big Spanish style spurs I had on ’em drug the leaves when I was out of the saddle.

I had on regular faded jean style pants and an old shirt I’d worn during my service to the Southern states while atop my head rested a flat-brimmed hat like the Cuban’s were so fond of and it was nearly brand new but for the bullet hole that shown in the crown. Also, like these men, I wore a gun’ except I kept mine low on the hip and tied down for fast use if needs be.

Names Danny Fultz, I said, but they didn’t so much as blink.

Grab a plate, Willie told me, we’re mostly through eating, but there’s some biscuits here and bacon in the skillet.

Eat well, Seamus spoke up. We’d see no man ride away hungry.

Obliged, I said between stuffing a biscuit in my mouth and reaching for the bacon then looking beyond the big fellow I asked, You got friends coming in?

Seamus spun around suddenly and it seemed to me he grew tense. He clenched up his jaws and the muscles flexed as he dropped his hands to his sides and let them hang. The kid got up and moved off to one side and Willie, he just sat there filling a cup of coffee and let the new arrivals ride on in.

Carlton’s boys Willie said quietly, you might want to step out of the way, Fultz.

I’m eating at your fire, I replied, I guess I’ll stay put.

They rode up, four of them and well-armed.

Light and sit a spell, Mister Carlton, Willie greeted the big man in front.

And he was a big man, square jawed and muscled and he did seem to have his dander up. He ignored Willie and his eyes cut to me.

I don’t know you.

Funny ol’ world, isn’t it? I asked with a hint of humor and chewed slowly on the biscuit in my mouth.

He quickly bristled and shown he was a man of little patience. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

Just that I don’t know you either, but it’s no matter. I’m easy to get along with. I swallowed then and smiled wide.

Not sure I like seeing strangers showing up around here, he stated flatly.

The men he had with him were of similar build and looking none to friendly. One of them did look a bit familiar to me, he was sort of narrow between the eyes, but I gave him only a quick glance as I kept my attention on the bull in the saddle before me.

I figure to rustle me a job with the B3C, I told him.

That’d be a fool thing to do, he said to me as his eyes dropped to the gun I was wearing.

I’ve done a lot of foolish things in my time, I told him with mocking humor, but I don’t appear to have the corner on it.

And what’s that supposed to mean?

Take it any way you like it friend.

He didn’t like that one bit and it was easy to see he didn’t like me very much either. But he turned away from me with a snarl, Lewis, you’re too damn far south of your range and you know it.

There’s B3C cattle here Mister Carlton. We’re going to get them started back home is all.

Like hell you are, there aren’t any of your stock within miles of here.

I saw some just this afternoon a bit further south along a big cypress swamp, I spoke up and the big man’s face flushed.

He saw some cloverleaf too, Seamus stepped in, I reckon the Colonel is going to want to know about them. All of them.

Carlton wheeled his horse about and called over his shoulder, I lease this range, Willie, come morning, you get your boys out of here. I’ll have no Big Cypress riders stinkin’ up my range.

That go for the Colonel, too? Seamus called. I could see Carlton’s back stiffen and thought he was going to turn around, but instead he rode out and his riders took off after him.

You got a habit of making enemies where you go, Danny? Willie asked.

I’m in good company, I answered him, Seamus wasn’t doing too badly either.

Willie chuckled, Seamus, when you mentioned the Colonel, I thought he was going to come unglued.

Who, I asked, Is the Colonel?

Colonel, Alton Flint, Willie answered, He runs a few head of scrub east of here near the Big Lake. Although, he being a cavalry officer with the Confederacy, his true love is horses and he’s got some of the best stock anywhere.

He’s a good man, Seamus cut in, a fair man if you’re to deal with him.

And Carlton? I asked.

Fair in a deal, but pushy, Willie told me. "Tab Carlton’s a big man and is used to getting his way by intimidating folks. He showed up about six years ago and bought himself a small homestead outside of Labelle and brought in a few head of mangy scrubs to run down here in the Seminole nation. He’s got a helluva lot of land sewed up by lease with the tribe.

That spur brand you saw, that’s his. He crowded the range with them scrubs and started pushing hard against any of the smaller outfits that use the range as well. He does plenty pushing against us as well.

And the Colonel? I asked around another mouthful of bacon and biscuit, does he push him too?

Lord no! Seamus laughed, He leaves him alone, or has so far. If he starts pushing the Colonel, the Colonel will push back. And hard!

The men he has working for him don’t scare easily, Willie explained. They’re all veterans of his cavalry troop from the war and most of them saw action up at Yulee Mill and Palatka Landing.

And what about Big Cypress? I asked further, reaching for a cup of coffee the youngster, Matt, was pouring for me.

We don’t give him too much concern, but we do try to avoid trouble. However, if there’s B3C cows in this range, we’re obliged to ride in and drive them back home to be counted with the rest of the herd once we make our gather.

I ate up. The bacon was mighty good, but the coffee even better. I ate the last four biscuits dipped in the bacon grease and felt pretty good after washing it down with my third cup of coffee. I kept thinking about that narrow between the eyes fellow riding with Carlton. Something about him kept trying to stir up a memory, but darned if I could place him.

I had done a lot of travelling through the territory after leaving the Army. I’d been discharged outside of Atlanta and made my way south instead of west like so many others of my old company had planned to do. Home wasn’t a place to try to go back to after the war and I drifted mostly.

I worked odd jobs with a few of the ranches up in the northern part of the state and one day on a whim, I decided I’d head further south to see what there was to Florida. I’d crossed paths more than once with men riding the night trails and had even taken a temporary job as a deputy marshal to help clean a bunch of that manner out of the town of Loxahatchee south of the big lake, Okeechobee.

Lately I was riding up from Miami towards Fort Meyers with no real destination in mind. There was a shooting behind me in Miami, but I wasn’t being sought for it. The other fellow lived, although he’d not had a chance to clear leather on his holster and was carried away pretty well ballasted with lead. Even after that job on Loxahatchee, I never considered myself as a gunman. But, I had learned to respect and use them efficiently from a young age. I had taken to them as natural as a bird to the air; I think Ma had noticed that about me from the start, a wild instinct about me when I used one, even way back before I signed on with the Army of the Confederacy.

Pa had been gone from us many years by that time and she held on to me as long as she could, but when I enlisted, she took down Pa’s old squirrel rifle from over the doorway, handed it to me and then she taken down his old handgun in the belt he’d carried it in.

Go on, Son, she told me, I know it’s in you to seek adventure and court trouble in your own way. Ride hard, shoot straight, and never tell a lie. It’s a poor man who can give folks reason to doubt his word.

A tear escaped down her cheek as she walked me to the door and onto our old front porch, You come back if ever you’ve a notion to, but while you’re off to the war and whatever lies beyond, ride with a mind towards making me proud of you.

I remembered those words all through the war and my travels so far. They had kept me from crossing the line into becoming an outlaw many times.

We’ll head back toward the ranch in the morning, Willie said. It’s enough we know there’s stock this far south. When we make the gather, we’ll just have to come back.

Let’s send word to the Colonel as well, Seamus spoke up.

No doubt, Mister Holder will send him a wire, Willie answered.

Who’s your boss? Who owns the Big Cypress? I asked.

An old man, JD Davis and a kid girl. But our boss is Carter Holder; he’s in charge of all operations on the ranch.

She ain’t no kid, Matt spoke up. She’s older than me.

And still a kid, Willie tossed a stick towards the youngster and smiled.

Lots of tension in this part of the country, Danny, Seamus spoke straight with me. With Carlton bullying and us short-handed, nobody’d fault you if you just rode on. Word is, some of those men he’s surrounding himself with are gunman. I think he’s figuring on running the old man and that girl off and taking over the whole shebang.

Like I said, I assured him, I’m looking for a job and if this Mister Holder is hiring, I’ll ride for the brand.

Willie, the big Irishman smiled, You know that Carter’s off the ranch right now. Why don’t you just go ahead and hire the man here and now.

"Reckon I am next in charge, the old fellow rubbed the bristles along his jaw line and then looked me square in the eyes.

You meant that about riding for the brand, didn’t you?

I did, Willie, I answered firmly while returning his gaze.

Welcome aboard, he smiled and he Matt and Seamus each took my hand and shook it in turn. I was hired.

2

T he ranch house of the Big Cypress Cattle Company lay amidst a wide open oak hammock on a slight rise of ground with open pastures beyond it. It was situated along the banks of the Caloosahatchee River and the wind carried a sweet smell of salt water not too far distant. It was a low ceilinged building of hewn cypress planks and a wide wrap around porch that led to a covered dog-trot leading to a separate, similarly built kitchen building.

Nearby were three corrals of peeled poles and a lean-to shed with a split shingled roof covering blacksmith’s anvil and forge. It seemed to me a common enough affair such as was found in many parts of Florida at the time.

As we rode down the riverside trail taking us into the ranch yard I spotted a dark fellow with a Henry rifle cradled loosely in his arms. He must have been agreeable with what he saw, for he turned on his heel, spoke a few quick words towards the house then walked over to the bunkhouse which lay across the hard packed yard, facing the shed.

A thin,