Table Of ContentThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Under This Cowboy’s Hat
TOP SHELF
An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers
PO Box 2545
Round Rock, TX 78680
Hung Up by Cat Kane copyright !2006, Masked Rider by Parhelion copyright !2005, Ricochet by BA
Tortuga copyright !2006.
Edited by Rob Knight, first edition published November 2006
Cover illustration by SA Clements
Published with permission
ISBN: 1-934166-32-4, 978-1-934166-31-1
www.torquerepress.com
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form
whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press.
First Torquere Press Printing: November 2006
Printed in the USA
Under This Cowboy’s Hat -2
Table of Contents
Foreword -4
Masked Riders by Parhelion -5
Hung Up by Cat Kane -67
Ricochet by BA Tortuga -139
Contributors -196
Under This Cowboy’s Hat -3
Foreword
By Rob Knight
What's under a cowboy's hat? Whatever it is, we love it. We love the rugged image of the cowboy.
We love how he says, "Yes, ma'am," and "No, sir." There's not much we don't like about the
cowboy.
But there's a lot we don't know.
The three stories in Under This Cowboy's Hat are slice of life stories. Whether they're Old West
boys on the trail to unmask a ghost rider or rodeo cowboys on the road, or even simple ranch hands,
working and loving, these tales give us a peek under the hat.
Strong, emotion-filled, and fill of the romance of the West, Under This Cowboy's Hat will capture
your imagination just like it did mine.
Rob Knight, November, 2006
Under This Cowboy’s Hat -4
Masked Riders
By Parhelion
I — How a Helping Hand May Be Worse Than a Hindering One
Jesse thought of himself as a cautious man. Nonetheless, his current companion was
tugging away Jesse’s normal reserve. As the strong fingers stroked and squeezed his
cock with uncommon deftness, Jesse was possessed by a singular notion. He wanted to
cease working the fellow’s own cock in favor of embracing him and savoring their
mutual intercourse.
Such an indulgence would not only be rude, but fatal to the usual pretense in these
situations. Supposedly, they were trading sexual favors only to avoid the wretched
diseases plaguing the female habitués of San Francisco’s cribs and parlor houses in this
year of 1869. Even so, Jesse was sorely tempted. The intimate company of another
stock-tender was a rare delight. This rarity was why desire had overcome Jesse’s
aloofness when his gaze met his neighbor’s as they took adjacent seats at the Bella Union
Melodeon. Something about the way the fellow had smiled first made Jesse’s mouth go
dry and then fired him with impetuosity. The subsequent conversation had ended here,
with Jesse sitting on this cheap bed in a Barbary Coast boardinghouse while his cock was
worked with strength and warmth.
By God, Jesse already wanted to spend. He needed some distraction. Examining his
companion might help; the man was too tow-haired, his skin too pale beneath his cuffs
and collar to be one of the old rancho Mexicans, even if all else about him argued that he
must have worked as a hand for many years. As they had strolled toward this boarding
house, Jesse had savored the wide-legged walk and the weather-worn appearance of
someone who had spent decades herding stock from atop a saddle. The fellow also wore
the familiar high-heeled boots, if not the raking Mexican spurs, of the true vaquero. Even
his palm and fingers had a vaquero’s calluses as they moved fitfully now, likely
distracted by his own pleasure, up and down Jesse’s cock.
For his part, Jesse had roped back his urges. He was far enough below his peak to once
again concentrate on what he was doing. Stroking hard and fast, he felt the subtle
movements and the trace of moisture that told him his companion was about ready to
finish. As he looked into the pale blue eyes so close to his own, he saw them widen.
“This what you need?” Jesse asked.
Under This Cowboy’s Hat -5
“That’s right.”
The fellow’s voice had a low huskiness that made Jesse smile while measuring out the
desired rhythm of skin on skin. His companion returned the smile before losing any
pretense of civilized expression. Usually, in such bold company, Jesse would have
watched the cock in his hand, wanting to see it spend. This time Jesse studied his
companion’s face. The look on it turned Jesse’s mind back to his own pleasure, enough
so that the first bit of handiwork that the fellow did after his breathing eased pushed Jesse
off his own peak.
When they were done, the customs of such encounters again governed their behavior.
Since Jesse had paid for the room, he would be the last to leave. The danger was small
that someone would notice that two men had shared the space meant to be used by a
patron and a saloon girl, but that small danger still belonged to the host. Jesse reclined on
the straw-stuffed mattress and watched his companion clean up at the chipped basin on
the washstand.
Muscular and rangy, almost as tall as Jesse, he was altogether to Jesse’s taste even if he
did look to be nearing his fortieth year. Such an estimate made him about a decade older
than Jesse, but Jesse didn’t mind. He’d never been one for youngsters even after covertly
perusing the arguments for boys in pagan literature while his professors thought they
were tasking him with Cicero and Aristotle. As well, Jesse like the honed look that years
of exertion earned a man, especially when that toughness combined with conversation
that hinted at a lively intelligence.
He wished that he could ask this fellow for his name, or invite him out for a drink at
someplace passable like the Cobweb Palace, but these sorts of meetings did not yield
acquaintances. Instead Jesse’s recent accomplice in gross illegality picked up his broad-
brimmed hat and turned toward the bed where Jesse still lounged. Maybe Jesse only
imagined the slight pause before the fellow said, “Thank you, sir. Good afternoon,” and
let himself out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.
Jesse hoped that he had not invented the hesitation. He preferred to believe that he had
made a favorable impression, perhaps one strong enough that he would be remembered.
Without such forced optimism, these brief encounters would be unbearable even if Jesse
had been long enough without virile intimacy to urgently need such easing.
Getting up, he went over to the washstand. He was sure that he was frowning as he
poured what was left of the water from the white-painted tin pitcher into the basin. Need
or no, even if business kept him in San Francisco after tomorrow, he would not be doing
this again. Little about being a man for men was the way that he wanted it to be.
The corridor was empty when Jesse eased the door open, and he departed the premises
with some briskness. Once outside, he worked through crowds thickening as night fell
and San Francisco’s laborers joined the usual miners and sailors in their wanderings from
dives to dancehalls and back again. As far as Jesse could tell, no one was following him,
Under This Cowboy’s Hat -6
good reason for his having worn his working clothes on this trip. When he dressed as a
ranch-hand even pick-pockets ignored him; only the doormen at the cheapest melodeons
and the crib girls leaning out from upper-floor windows greeted him with raucous
propositions. They were no hindrance to his strolling toward the respectability of
Montgomery Street, where he turned south.
Neither the doorman nor the desk clerk at the Lick House Hotel evinced any surprise at
Jesse’s workaday garb. He was far from their first patron to visit the Barbary Coast in
search of distraction, and it was the duty of a fine establishment’s employees to
remember a resident’s face when they saw it. At least, it was their task to remember him
until the police or the press came calling. Money, no matter its source, could protect a
man from a thousand perversities. Jesse snorted at his own cynicism as he unlocked the
door to his room.
Doffing his riding hat, Jesse tossed it in the general direction of the hat rack and then took
himself from the rented parlor into the bedroom. He had time to change into evening
dress before supper was announced in the enormous Corinthian-columned restaurant
downstairs, and he had better do so. Laborers were not welcomed in the Lick House
restaurant. Instead, it was the haunt of so-called gentlemen.
To Jesse’s way of thinking, choosing between the dives of the Barbary Coast and the fine
establishments of Montgomery Street was like choosing between rotgut and rye whiskey.
Given how much he loathed both tipples, he would be glad when he could return to the
ranch.
Ah, well. Perhaps the famous antelope steak would be on the menu this evening.
***
That next morning Jesse straightened the pointed loops of his bow tie as he examined his
reflection in the mirror. Then he frowned. He slipped his hands back into the straps of
his sterling hairbrushes for another pass of the boar’s bristles through his dark, pomaded
hair. A last glance assured him that his cowlick was now firmly subdued, so he picked
up his top hat, gloves, and walking stick. When Jesse left Lick House five minutes later,
he was wearing a passably tailored frock coat, suitable garb for Colonel Godfrey Jesse
Putnam when calling upon the Giffords of Rincon Hill.
His formal dress felt odd these days. He was glad that it was not also uncomfortable:
although rarely worn, his old morning suit fit well and was close to this year’s fashion.
Only his shoes were annoying. Four years of riding in the Union Cavalry followed by
another three years of riding on California ranches had given boots a comfort no longer
offered by the fine shoes he had worn as a youth in Boston.
After nodding to the doorman, Jesse turned his face upward. Outside the Lick’s doors,
the sun shone with pleasant warmth from a clear blue sky, and the breeze was off San
Francisco Bay. Shoes or no shoes, he abjured the horsecar lines and risked sore feet by
Under This Cowboy’s Hat -7
walking up Rincon Hill. His small gamble was rewarded: the day continued clement for
March and the breeze fended off any fog. Jesse was still in good state when he rapped
the knocker at the Gifford’s residence.
The parlormaid smiled as she took his hat and gloves, and no frown marred his aunt’s
countenance as she rose from her settee to receive his kiss upon her cheek. Jesse had to
bend low: he was tall and Aunt Ada was quite short. She was clad in a yellow silk
morning dress that Jesse would wager was only a year or so off the latest Parisian
fashions. She smelled faintly of lavender, and her wrinkles were rearranged by a soft
smile as she acknowledged his greetings. The gaze of her china-blue eyes was sharp
enough to cut glass.
After she settled the folds of her skirts around her, Ada said, “How kind of you to
respond so promptly to my telegraph.”
“It was my pleasure.” That was a taradiddle. It was his duty. This last year, after a siege
of three year’s duration, he had finally yielded to the alternating pleas and commands of
his parents and agreed to manage one of Uncle Hiram’s ranches. And Jesse was no fool:
Hiram may have doubled his fortune by selling supplies to miners on the Mother Lode,
and was now redoubling it by allying with the builders of the Central Pacific railroad, but
Ada was the one who had always done Hiram’s arithmetic for him. If she asked for
anything, Jesse hastened to obey. “Since you did not specify why I was being
summoned, I failed to bring along the ranch’s books. I hope that will not create any
difficulties.”
Ada fluttered her fingertips at him. “No, no. Not only does our business lie elsewhere,
but Hiram’s auditors are already occupied. We will review your annual accounts in
November along with those of our other managers.”
He bowed his head. “How, then, may I be of assistance?”
“We need you to look into an unfortunate matter for us.”
Unfortunate? In his aunt’s vocabulary, such a word could cover anything from a clerk
embezzling a single ounce of silver bullion to several districts of San Francisco burning
down again. The former was more likely, though; Jesse’s mercantile relatives would
spend a hundred gold dollars to stave off a single greenback’s being stolen. Such illogic
was bred into their bones.
“Hiram and I are worried about one of the managers, a Mr. Thomas Lane of the Los
Robles Ranch, our property south-east of Los Angeles.”
Hearing her tone, Jesse allowed his eyebrows to rise. “Has he been stealing from you?
Surely that would be a matter for the local sheriff. Or possibly the Pinkertons?”
Under This Cowboy’s Hat -8
“Tsk. It would be if our concerns were about anything as definite as embezzlement. Our
auditors have reviewed his books, and Mr. Lane’s seem to be as clean as Tuesday
morning linens. This is of a piece with the probity that all accounts ascribe to him. No,
rather than blatant fraud, there have been problems at the Los Robles that we cannot quite
identify. Certainly we’ve grown concerned since reading reports about the ghost rider
haunting the ranch.”
“The ghost rider.” Jesse blinked. “By Jove, that is unusual.”
“Yes, dear. However, I am afraid that matters at the Los Robles have been unusual for
quite some time now.” Ada permitted the smallest of frowns to mar the serenity of her
countenance. “Given the shrinking market for beef cattle, we have been shifting those
lands over to sheep grazing and dry farming. Although we are now making a tiny profit,
it is still not what it should be. The Los Robles’s operations seem to be plagued by
persistent poor luck.”
“Any sort of ranching is chancy, but you realize that.” Jesse knew that his Aunt and
Uncle viewed ranching merely as a way to bank land until it could be more profitably
disposed of elsewhere; such views made them patient about the vagaries of running stock
and growing crops. “I assume that this poor luck is also peculiar.”
“Peculiar. What a neat choice of a word.” Ada smiled approval. “After the auditors
were done, Hiram and I both reviewed the books that we were shipped. We have read the
reports, and we have dispatched visitors. All our efforts have been fruitless. Everything
seems unremarkable. Nonetheless, neither of us liked the feel of the situation even before
these ghostly visitations.” She pursed her lips. “I am disturbed.”
Jesse would rather argue with a rattlesnake than with Ada’s intuition. “You want me to
visit Los Robles, then?”
“Yes, dear. Not as our manager, but as a ranch-hand.”
“Ah.” Jesse considered. “So that is why you telegraphed for me to bring along working
clothes and my old saddle.”
“As you say. Hiram believes, and I concur, that our previous mistake was in sending
men who were either conspicuous or lacked authority when distinction was, at last,
needed. You are capable of passing among the local hands unremarked upon, you are our
nephew, you have a good memory, and you pay attention.”
When he had first come west, half-maddened by memories of the war and mourning the
death of his wife, Jesse had worked as a stock-tender both to learn his new trade and to
restore his shattered nerves. He still rode out much more than was expected of a
manager. As a result, he was as good a ranch-hand as most of the eastern laborers who
had joined the old vaqueros at herding cattle in California.
Under This Cowboy’s Hat -9
“A herd of beef cattle has recently arrived at the Los Robles by way of the Old Spanish
Trail. They are supposedly being isolated to be sure they don’t carry disease before we
move them north to the Lone Tree Ranch, where they will be cross-bred with our local
herd for the Comstock Lode market. Since these cows are of an eastern strain unfamiliar
enough to justify an outsider’s looking them over before they are moved on, they provide
us with an opportunity.”
With raised brows, Ada added, “However, I refuse to ship my nephew off to face this so-
called phantom alone. Along with assembling the information you will need, I have
found a companion for you.” His aunt picked up the silver bell on the table by her elbow
and shook it. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Wardley Bridger?”
“We have corresponded, yes, but we have not met.” Bridger was yet another of his uncle
and aunt’s employees. He was the foreman whose ranch-hands trained the horses that the
Giffords bred down by Santa Barbara on the twelve thousand or so acres of the Playa
Negra. Jesse had purchased two excellent studs from him.
“Kathleen,” Ada said to the parlormaid who was bobbing a curtsey, “Would you please
fetch Mr. Bridger from Mr. Gifford’s office? Ask him to bring along the ledger that he is
studying as well.” When the maid retreated, Ada said, “Mr. Bridger is a very competent
man and quite capable of assuming the guise of a wandering laborer. More important for
your task, he has been in this state since ’forty-seven and so is familiar with the local
customs and superstitions.”
Jesse wondered how much an acquaintance with Mexican and Indian tall tales would help
in uncovering fraud. However, it would be wise to have company, and Bridger was a
canny fellow if his letters truly evinced his personality. At least the man would be able to
convincingly portray a traveling vaquero; Ada would have written him, too, about
bringing along both kit and saddle on the coastal steamer to San Francisco—
“Mr. Bridger, mum.”
The dreadful possibility seemed to gallop into Jesse’s brain right along with the
parlormaid’s words. It was with no real surprise that he looked up to see his carnal
companion of the previous night standing in the morning room doorway with a thick,
leather ledger tucked under his arm and a bemused expression upon his weathered
features. Only the harsh training of bloody years kept Jesse’s dismay off of his own face.
Under This Cowboy’s Hat -10
