“My argument was that I had a greater right to inherit the land than did a widow of but a year.”
“No, that won’t do. What other legal basis do you have for using the court of last resort?”
“I don’t know,” Kincaid admitted. “I mean, I am willing to pay you, whatever you ask. But I don’t know any legal basis for using you.”
“You do know, don’t you, that I don’t do anything unless I have some legal coverage?”
“Uh, no, I didn’t know that. Poke was working for me, I didn’t think it mattered whether it was legal or not.”
Sherman chuckled. “You are right. You didn’t think,” he said. “But it did matter for Poke, and it matters for me. I don’t commit the posse to anything, unless there is a legal basis for the commitment.”
“I see,” Kincaid said, crestfallen. “I thought maybe if I paid enough that maybe—”
Inexplicably, Sherman laughed. “Don’t worry about it, Kincaid,” he said. “Fortunately for you, I have found what we need. I have found a law that will cover any participation by the Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse.”
“What? Do you mean to say there is a law that will help me get control of Coventry?”
“Well, the law is not specifically drawn to give you control of Conventry,” Sherman said. “But it is drawn in such a way as to prevent Mrs. Wellington from selling her horses to the army, or to anyone else. And that would accomplish the same thing, would it not?”
“Yes, of course it would,” Kincaid said excitedly. “But I must confess that I am curious. What law would that be?”
“Have you ever heard of herd management law?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Let me read this to you,” Sherman said, pulling a book down from a shelf behind him and opening it. It was obvious that he had given this particular law a lot of thought, because he was able to open it to a pre-marked page.
“This is from the Idaho Territorial Livestock Law, paragraph twenty-five, subparagraph three, stroke two. It is called the Herd Management Law.”
Sherman cleared his throat, then began to read.
“The Livestock Commission of the territory of Idaho shall have power to create, modify, or eliminate herd management districts within such counties as hereinafter provided; and when such district is so created, modified, or eliminated, the provisions of this chapter shall apply and be enforceable therein. In a district that is set aside for cattle, no one shall run horses, mules, asses, sheep, or goats in excess of what is needed for the immediate operation of the ranch without specific authorization from the Livestock Commission. Such regulation or control is provided by the creation of a herd management district pursuant to the provisions of this chapter. The provisions of this chapter shall apply with immediate effect, subject to any modification as may hereinafter be enacted.”
Sherman closed the book and smiled at Kincaid. “There is your legal basis,” he said.
Kincaid shook his head in confusion. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you just said to me.”
“Is Kitty Wellington raising horses?” Sherman asked.
“Yes.”
“Would you say she is raising more horses than are required to run her ranch?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“I have checked all the filings in the herd district that apply to Coventry on the Snake, and there has been no authorization specifically granted for her to run horses.” Sherman thumped on the book he had just read. “Therefore, according to this, she is in violation of the law.”
“She is? Then I don’t know why the territorial government hasn’t stopped her. Everyone knows she is raising horses, there was even an article about it in The Boise Statesman.”
“The territorial government hasn’t done anything about it, because they probably don’t even realize she is in violation. This law was written primarily to prevent trouble by keeping the sheep herders and cattle ranchers separated.”
“Then we should tell the government about her,” Kincaid suggested.
Sherman shook his head. “No, that is the last thing you want to do,” he said.
“No?”
“Not if you really want to stop her,” Sherman explained.
“I don’t understand.”
“Look. If the agriculture commission realized that this law, which as I said was primarily designed to keep cattle and sheep apart, was stopping a productive horse ranching operation, they would simply grant her an exception to the law, and the posse would have no legal basis for involvement. But”—he said, holding up his finger to emphasize a point—“as it stands now, minus that exception, she is in violation of the law, and that is all the cover we need.”
With that explanation, Kincaid understood, and he nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
“Now, Mr. Kincaid,” Sherman said. “As a cattle rancher, if you wish to file a complaint because someone in your country is violating the herd management law, that will give the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse a legal basis for getting involved. Do you wish to hire the posse to enforce that law?”
“Yes, I do,” Kincaid said.
“Good, good,” Sherman said. “May I suggest that we go next door to the Palace Café and have our lunch? Afterward, we will come back to my office, reach some agreeable settlement as to terms, then sign a contract that authorizes us to come to your aid in seeking a just prosecution of the law.”
Chapter Twenty
For the ranchers and farmers who lived within a ten-mile radius of Medbury, Saturday was a big day. It was the day they came into town to get their business and shopping done, and just to visit with friends and neighbors. By mid-morning the town was crowded with people, horses, and conveyances. There was a parking yard near the livery, and it was filled with buckboards and wagons of all sizes and descriptions. The men tended to congregate in the feed and seed store or the leather goods store, while the women did their shopping at the mercantile and general stores. Children, excited over the prospect of getting their weekly prize of a piece of stick candy, ran up and down the boardwalks, laughing and playing.
It was into this atmosphere of happy commerce that Colonel Clay Sherman led his posse of Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers. They rode in, in military precision, a column of twos, eight rows deep, with Clay Sherman in the lead.
Their arrival captured the attention of nearly everyone, and people interrupted their weekly commerce in order to wonder at this strange parade through the center of their town.
“That’s Clay Sherman,” someone said, speaking quietly lest Sherman actually hear him.
“I know who it is,” another answered. “The question I got is, what in Sam Hill is he doin’ here?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. From all I’ve heard of him and his men, it means trouble of some sort.”
It was a magnificent looking body of men. All were wearing dark blue denim trousers and light gray shirts. All had shining brass stars pinned to their shirts. Sherman was dressed exactly as the other men, except that, on his collar, in metallic thread, was embroidered an eagle, the symbol of his rank as colonel.
One young boy was so excited by the sight that he dashed out into the street and ran alongside, shouting “Bang, bang, bang!” So disciplined were the riders that not one of the men looked at the boy, nor did they glance around when his mother ran out into the street after him.
“Joey! Joey! Come back here!”
Several of the men of the town, who standing alongside watching, laughed when the mother caught up with the boy and, grabbing him by the ear, pulled him back out of the street.
“That’ll teach you, Joey!” one man yelled.
“You better listen to your mama, boy!” another added.
When Clay Sherman and his riders reached the sheriff’s office, Sherman held up his hand and the men stopped.