Genre – Western Time Period – 1910’s Location – Texas, Pan Handle, XIT Description – Camping overnight in a draw on the newly released lands of the old XIT Ranch. Will Gantry suddenly feels an odd and welcome sense of belonging
Will Gantry walked his horse down the middle of the broad dirt street. On his left he saw a hardware store, a lumberyard, and a livery stable. All three seemed to be doing a thriving business. Across the way, a two-story, barracks-like hotel appeared a beehive of activity. The building sat halfway up the hill from the railroad, its two-story bulk towering over the rest of the town.
Below the hotel and only a few hundred feet from the railroad, a new bungalow sat in the midst of a well-tended plot. Fruit trees, a kitchen garden and bright green sprigs of Rose of Sharon, newly planted but thriving nicely, surrounded the attractive place.
A semicircle of large touring cars, tops folded rakishly back, sat close to the brand-new railroad station gleaming in fresh yellow paint. Bold, black letters across the gable end announced the travelers’ arrival in Friona, Texas.
Three passenger cars, a baggage car, and a dozen freight cars shunted onto the siding next to the new station. A crowd of people stood in the bright sunshine, silent, listening to the words of a nattily dressed man. Will edged his horse closer so he could hear the speaker’s words.
The salesman delivered a spiel polished by repetition.
“Land is available in any direction, folks. You’ll find that prices are ridiculously low, the terms are within reach of anyone. All the area is virgin prairie, deep in top soil without the hazards of rocks, gullies, swamps, tree stumps or noxious weeds.”
The speaker, for all his eloquence, failed to mention the land also lacked sufficient rainfall to sustain farm crops. Finally, the man waved toward the line of waiting horseless carriages.
A wild rush for the automobiles followed his last remarks. Men clambered for seats as drivers bent to crank the motors to start the cars. Amid the roar of exhausts and swirls of dust, the loaded cars left the station yard. The majority turned either northwest or southeast, traveling over barely discernable paths.
Those men who didn’t take part in the general exodus from the Friona station gathered in small groups around the fast-talking land agents. As the sounds of the loaded cars died away, the knots of men separated to drift toward the hotel, the hardware store, and the lumber yard.
With a gentle pull on the reins, Will turned his horse to face the east. He watched with avid interest the activity around the box cars, as the big doors slid back to reveal farm machinery, household goods, and livestock.
Men and boys labored to roll farm wagons down plank ramps and guide them to the edge of the hard-packed dirt beside the tracks. Horses and mules, ears pointed forward, their legs still shaky from the jolting of the long train ride, picked their way down the rough board ramp.
The cold, clear water in the long wooden trough refreshed them. Familiar hands led them to be hitched to their own wagons. It took a lot of time to fit all the tools and implements into the wagons.
When it was time to load a wagon designated to haul household furniture, the ladies in the crowd came alive. Suggestions, demands, cries, even screams of caution rang out.
“That barrel has all my good dishes in it.”
“Don’t drop that box. It’s full of canned goods.”
“Careful. You scratched Great-Grandma’s bed.”
Despite all the hard work and anxiety of the unloading and reloading, Will sensed a holiday attitude among the settlers and a pioneer spirit. Each family seemed to know that somewhere out on the broad prairie, a tiny speck of land—a place to build a home—waited for them.
“Poor dreamin’ fools.”
There’s no question about it. Few of these families will stay and really prosper. Many will put forth a half-hearted effort, then quickly give in to the ravages of drought, loneliness, and the oppression of poverty. A small percentage are no more than opportunists looking for a gold-brick type of living that could never exist on the high plains of Texas.
The more serious-minded settlers among the group foresaw the hazards of climate and the difficulties of wresting a living, much less a fortune, from the unbroken sod. These families probably spent days discussing the possibilities of bettering their lot in the newly-opened lands. They expected what they already knew, nothing but hard work and privation.
Many risks were considered. Heads of families came ahead on excursion trains, their fares paid by a land company from Chicago or other cities, to inspect the plains country. For the most part, they liked what they saw. Upon their return home, they extolled the virtues of Texas.
Friends, family and neighbors met their glowing reports with true and imagined arguments against taking the risks. Did not wild Indians roam all of Texas, they asked? Would they find churches, schools, and hospitals?
Some believed repossession of Texas by Mexico was still a possibility. Others asked, ‘what kind of state is it that has to trade barren, God-forsaken land in order to build a capitol building? If Texas is so great, why isn’t it organized as New York City or even Milledgeville, Georgia are?’
Horny-handed farmers listened patiently. Wives, in-laws and neighbors argued and influenced many ambitious men to stay in the supposedly secure environment of the well-settled eastern or mid-western states. Others, the more determined ones, sold their farms to anxious neighbors and chartered box cars for the move to Texas.
The black horse stamped an impatient hoof.
“Be still.” Will spoke, as if to a person. He continued to watch the heavily-laden wagons leave the depot yard, their human cargoes chattering and bright-eyed with excitement.
The sun moved almost straight overhead before he turned to ride back up the main street. A large new building, also painted yellow, a block to the west, caught his eye. Tall black letters painted on the bright wall announced “Boarding House.”
Tying Apache at the hitch rack, Will entered the crowded dining room. The meal was being served “family style.” In boarding houses, that’s another way of saying, “We put the food on the table – you catch as catch can.”
Large china bowls of vegetables and platters of fried meat ranged down the middle of the table. Plates of hot biscuits passed from hand to hand and seldom completed even one round of the hungry diners.
Will found an empty chair and heaped his plate with the steaming vegetables. Meat was no problem on the trail, but fresh garden truck took too long to cook at a campfire. A huge platter stacked high with squares of golden cornbread was another welcome sight. He settled down to business and did full justice to his first home-cooked meal in months.
He didn’t join in the bits of conversation he heard between the clatter of dishes and the slurping of coffee. “This-here stranger, he walks up to me and he says, ‘Friend, what is your main money crop around here?'”
The speaker looked and sounded an old timer. “Suckers, I told him.” The old man’s story got a few chuckles and few hard looks from younger men dressed as land agents.
“For heaven’s sake no, absolutely not. Don’t go to Findley, there ain’t no water out there,” someone said. The remark proved to contain more truth than poetry. “I’d go south or southeast. There’s water, grass, and the best land thataway.”
Another speaker leaned toward his prospective customer. “Don’t go too far south. There’s a big ravine down there where a wild Indian couldn’t raise a ruckus with a full pint of whiskey.”
As a newcomer to the table, Will just listened. He noticed a group of big, broad-shouldered men with blond hair at the end of the table. They also remained quiet. When either of the men spoke, he spoke to a member of his own crowd. Their voices and arrangement of English words carried a distinct Germanic flavor.
Almost finished, Will looked around the table–how plainly these men wore their labels. The serious minded farmers, the flashily dressed salesmen, and the cold-eyed businessmen, most of them speculators, buying large tracts of land for profitable resale. These were men who never intended to spend even one night on the prairie.
Placing a coin on the table, Will got up and left. A quick glance around the town’s empty streets proved the inner man wants satisfaction three times a day. The crowds were inside, eating. He smiled sardonically as he untied his horses’ reins and climbed into the saddle. He remembered weeks without three square meals.
“Let’s go, Apache.” He turned the horse south toward the railroad.
Where the main street met the east-west road, an eager-voiced young salesman stepped out in front of his horse and looked up at Will. “Are you a landseeker?” he asked.
“Sure am. I’m A. Plowman, at your service, and what’s your name?” Will leaned toward the man with out-stretched hand.
“Aw, forget it.” Scowling at Will’s humor, the young man retreated, waving Will away.
Come on, Apache.” Will galloped west out of Friona along the dirt road beside the railroad tracks to check out the town of Bovina.
Genre – Western Time Period – 1860’s Location – Texas Description – King Sutherland is dead—at least that’s what both friend and foe assume. The war ended almost a year ago, yet King was seriously wounded after the surrender, delaying his return home.
Hashtags #Horses #Cowboy #Betrayal #Revenge #Western #Novel #Ranch #Texas #Horsethief #Story #Deception #Escape #Action #Adventure #Romance #Civil War #Soldier #Union #Confederate #Immigrants #Galvaston Island #New Orleans #Spanish Land Grants #Gun fight #Corruption #Cattle Drive #Indians #Flood #Railroad #Red River #Brazos River #Aberdeen #Cattle Thieves
King bypassed a little town and worked his way southwest toward New Orleans. He made less than twenty miles most days and literally fell out of the saddle when he found a campsite. He managed to pull his saddle from Ranger’s back, hobble him in the lush grass, and crawl into his blankets too tired to think about fixing a meal. He waited until breakfast to make coffee most days.
This morning, dawn woke him. At first King couldn’t remember where he was. He saw Ranger standing by the creek. Looking up at the thick branches of the live oaks, he rubbed his head several times and finally remembered. I’m on my way home. It’s still almost a thousand miles to Texas. I’ll be there in a few weeks. Maybe I’ll be well again by the time I get to New Orleans. Once I get well I’ll make better time.
Suddenly ravenous, he untied the cloth bag of food from behind his saddle. He had saved some bread and fried ham from his midday meal the day before. He finished the ham and one piece of the bread, saving enough to eat at noon so he wouldn’t have to stop. When he finished eating he knelt awkwardly at the edge of the creek and drank from his cupped hands.
Ranger seemed glad to see him. “Come on, boy. We’ve got a lot of travel ahead of us. You won’t be so fat and sassy when we get home. Those months you spent in the stable in Washington City almost ruined you”
King rode as though he belonged on horseback. He kept Ranger headed southwest and held him to a fast walk or a trot. The horse’s long stride ate up the miles. Day after day he seemed to grow stronger. Unlike his rider, he showed no signs of weariness when they stopped at night.
Several days later, King rode into a little town where a shabby storefront announced: “TOWN OF BILDAD, LOUISIANA. Food, Drink, and Supplies.” The three other buildings that made up the town seemed to be deserted. He couldn’t see any people, but the door of the store stood wide open.
Tying Ranger to the hitch rack in front of the store, King limped across the porch and went inside. There were stacks of goods everywhere; mountains of bagged flour, beans, brown sugar, and salt. Guns, harness, and wagon parts decorated the walls. Anything you could think to ask for was there in abundance.
He approached the counter and asked the storekeeper, “How far is New Orleans from here?” The man was a thin, pasty-looking fellow with tobacco stains on his wispy beard.
“I’d say the city is about three days’ travel, Mister, if you move right along. That is, if you’re traveling horseback.”
“I am, and I’m obliged to you. I need some decent clothes and a few supplies.”
“Headed to Texas, I reckon”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Do the packet boats still make a regular run to Galveston?”
“They run twice a week now. Lots of folks going west. Ain’t much to hold them around here no more. Them free blacks, backed by the army, is about taking over this far south. Most folks around these parts don’t hold with that at all. Everybody that can scrape up travel money is going down this road headed for Texas.”
“You don’t say. Well, I’ll just collect up the things I need and get a move on”
King chose coffee, flour, salt, and bacon. He bought some heavy cord pants and riding gloves. A light carbine and sheath for his saddle and several boxes of shells completed his purchases.
The storekeeper eyed King’s choices as he piled them on the counter. “You’ve been west before ain’t you, friend? Most folks ask me what they need. Then they buy all they can of what I say.”
Watching the man’s shifty eyes, King thought, I’d bet they buy a lot of junk they’ll never need. Ignoring the storekeeper’s comments, he added a wide-brimmed hat and a heavy wool blanket to his pile of goods and asked for his bill. He almost yelled out loud when he saw the total.
Ranger snorted and shied at the huge pack King tied to the back of his saddle. “Behave, you wild cayuse. I’ll get us a packhorse in Galveston. You’ll be about enough trouble on a packet boat all by yourself. A little extra work won’t hurt you one bit. Maybe it’ll make you behave some better on the boat ride.”
New Orleans seemed to be full of soldiers in Union blue. The sidewalks teemed with people, and the streets were crowded with every kind of cart and wagon and carriage that could be imagined. It seemed the whole town was trying to get somewhere in a hurry. King took Ranger to the first livery stable he found.
Shouldering his pack, he asked the old man who had taken his horse, “Can you direct me to a clean hotel, Uncle?”
Removing his pipe, the man asked, “You wanting to sleep or is you looking for some devilment?”
King laughed aloud and answered, “I want to wash off this trail dust and sleep until the next packet leaves for Galveston.”
“Well, you better not be going to no hotel then. They’s so much trash in this here town you got to sleep six to a room. Shore as shooting some sorry son will steal your gear while you’s sleeping. You go ‘round to number 8 Rue Saint Mary. Missus Glade takes roomers. She feeds good too. You’ll be better off there, mister.”
“I’m much obliged to you,” King said, handing the man a coin. He left the stable and slipped into the stream of people moving along the sidewalk. He soon found the house and dropped his heavy pack on the porch to lift the big brass doorknocker.
This sure doesn’t look like a rooming house, he thought. It looked more like some planter’s townhouse. King examined the imposing doorway with its frame of colored glass as he waited for someone to answer his knock.
The walls of the house were brick and stood three stories high. Wide windows reached from ceiling to floor on the porch level and were covered with fancy wrought iron. The little front yard had been clipped smooth and the flowers looked well-tended.
Beginning to feel nervous, King thought, I wonder what that fella meant by sending me to this house?
The door suddenly opened inward to reveal a handsome woman in the opening. She looked to be about thirty and wore a severe but attractive black dress. “Yes?” she asked in an icy voice. King noted that she obviously disapproved of rough-looking men with clumsy packs showing up at her fine door.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” King removed his hat and bowed. “I’m Kingsley Sutherland from over in South Texas. An old black fella that works at Higgins’ livery stable directed me to your house. I do apologize for bothering you. I see there must be some mistake. I was looking for a place to stay until the packet boat to Galveston leaves.”
To King’s astonishment, the woman smiled and opened the door a little wider. “Oh, Melton sent you to me. Do come in, Mr. Sutherland.”
She turned to walk back into the hallway. King picked up his pack and followed as she led the way into a large room that was beautifully furnished as a parlor. King felt strange standing on the carpet. The room looked a lot like the ones he remembered seeing in houses in Charleston when he was a boy.
The woman crossed to seat herself behind a desk and said, “Please be seated, Mr. Sutherland. I’m Victoria Glade.” She smiled invitingly and patted her glossy black hair into place. “I keep records here exactly like a hotel would. The town authorities require it. I must have your full name and your home address”
“You already have my name and I guess the nearest place I can call an address is San Antonio, Texas”
“You’re actually from Texas. Well, my land, that’s the first time I ever heard anyone say they were from Texas. Most people are on their way there.”
“I really am from Texas, Mrs. Glade. I’ve, uh, I’ve been back east on business.”
That’ll just have to do. I’ll never explain what really took me east to this fine southern lady.
“How long do you plan to stay with us, Mr. Sutherland?”
“Only till the next packet boat leaves for Galveston please, ma’am.”
“That will be Friday. You’ll owe me fifteen dollars for room and board for three days”
Wincing at the staggering sum, King paid the amount she asked. “Money sure don’t go very far these days, does it?”
“Shouldn’t be any surprise to you” Victoria Glade stood up. “It’s been like this since the war ended. I’ll get you some supper. Your room is the first one to the left at the head of the stairs. The door is open. There will be hot water in the wash-house out back, so you can bathe after you eat”
King watched as she swung her skirts around and walked through the door. She was a good-looking woman and she knew it. It must be hard for someone like her to run a boarding house. No wonder she only took people sent to her by someone like Melton, he thought.
A tiny black woman dressed in a white Mother Hubbard apron appeared in the door. “If you’ll come to the kitchen, sir, Miz Glade says I’m to feed you” Her lined face was full of disapproval and her voice was as stiff as her starched apron.
Entering the kitchen, King seated himself at the long table. It was set with real china and silver as fine as the kind his mother owned. The woman served him a plate piled high with fried potatoes and ham. There was a plate of cornbread cut in huge squares on the table. A new mold of butter and a jar of pickles were within reach. The woman slammed a pitcher full of cold sweet milk down in front of his plate. By the time he’d eaten his fill the black woman had stopped working and was standing in front of the stove staring at him.
“I sure do thank you, ma’am. That was good. I’ve been eating rough and I was some kind of hungry. You’re a great cook”
She seemed to lose some of her hostility at his smile. “You can eat, I’ll say that for you. I guess it takes a lot to fill up a big man like you”
“Not usually as much as that. It really tasted good.”
“I’m Ida. I’m Melton’s wife. Miz Glade said he sent you over here”
“Yes, ma’am, he did. I left my horse at the livery stable and he said it would be better for me to come here than take my chances in a hotel.”
King pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’ll go up to my room now, Ida. Will you yell when my water is hot?”
“I’ll knock on your door. It’s bad enough Miz Glade done turned her home into a hotel. I don’t have to go ‘round yelling at people.” She sniffed and tossed her head.
King chuckled as he left the kitchen.
His room held furnishings similar to the precious family pieces his mother had hauled across Texas. The huge bed was covered in hand-worked quilts. When Ida knocked on his door, King followed her downstairs and through the kitchen to a cabin in the yard. He soaked off the trail dust in a huge tin tub full of steaming water. He found a razor and strop hanging beside the mirror and shaved.
Staring in the mirror, he saw that his face had filled out again, but he looked older. Time had faded the livid scar and the sun had fired his skin until he looked almost as dark as an Indian. He thought he resembled his father. The scar didn’t look too bad.
Dressed in his new tight-fitting trousers, King looked at his shapeless and broken boots and almost laughed out loud. I look like a spavined mule. I’d get laughed out of Texas in these boots. I’ll have to get me a decent pair right away. There might be some smart-mouthed drover or two hanging around the docks in Galveston and I’d have to throw my gun.
Leaving the house, he walked slowly downhill, sometimes moving out into the street to get past groups of people crowding the sidewalks. After a few blocks he could see the empty masts of ships ahead. The wharf teemed with people, just like the streets.
King pushed his way past men in overalls standing beside women dressed in poke bonnets and calico. He also noticed flashily dressed men with smooth white hands and careful eyes. Cajun fish hawkers yelled from their boats. Children screamed and ran and climbed over the piles of boxes and baggage waiting to be loaded on the packet. He stepped over the barrier at the end of the gangplank and placed one tight new boot on the deck.
“Hold on there, dude,” a voice yelled from the nearest door. “You can’t just come on this boat without a by-your-leave.”
A man rushed out onto the deck. He was dressed in tattered and filthy riding clothes, his face as red as fire from the heat of the cabin. His shaggy black hair made him look wild. He stopped in his tracks when he got close enough to see King’s face.
“King Sutherland!” he whooped. “My God, man, you’re supposed to be dead.”
“Luke, I’m as alive as you are” King yelled with delight and held out his right hand.
Luke clasped King’s hand in his and almost danced with excitement.
“Boy, it almost broke my heart when I talked to y’all’s Mexican drover Eduardo in Santone. He told me your family had given you up for dead. Does your family know you’re all right? Have you written to them?”
“Hey, hold on now, Luke-one question at a time. Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”
“Aw, King. I can’t leave this dang boat. I’m working my passage back to Galveston. I come over on the cattle boat. Me and some old boys threw a little party last night and the blasted army threw me in jail. I ain’t got enough money left to get home unless I work my way.”
Luke hung his head and looked down at his scuffed and torn boots.
Slapping his friend’s shoulder, King said, “I’ve got enough to see us home, Luke. I just paid for a cabin and space for my horse on this boat. We’ll go see the captain and make arrangements for you.”
“I reckon he’ll jump at the chance to make a passenger out of me. I’ve lived on a horse so long I can’t hardly walk on this boat with its everlasting rocking.”
King told the captain that Luke wasn’t going to work for him, bought passage for Luke, and led his friend to Rue Saint Mary. “I’ll lend you some clothes so you can clean up decent. You can turn the legs of the pants up some. I’ve got enough to lend you some money for some new boots, too. Yours look like they might have been your granddaddy’s.”
“I been riding the grub line lately, old son. There ain’t no money left in Texas to pay drovers. The cattle market went bust as soon as the war started and I’ve just been drifting lately. You know work is scarce for yore old pard Luke Wilson to sign on to wrangle cattle on a stinking boat”
“You can ride along home with me if you want,” King offered. “Blanco Sol always needs riders.”
“I’ll shore trail along with you,” Luke answered slowly. “Pards are as scarce as jobs these days.”
King led Luke around the house to the wash-house and the bathtub. “You better clean up some before anybody sees or smells you, Luke. I shocked them bad enough when I showed up. You look like a wild Indian wrapped in rags. There’s a cook here by the name of Ida that can make cornbread so good you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven. We don’t want her upset none”
“Cornbread. That sounds good to me. I ain’t been good and full since I can’t remember when” Luke moaned in anticipation of the delights to come.
“You go ahead and get cleaned up and shaved. I’ll go get you some clothes,” King said.
He ran through the kitchen and up the stairs. As he came back down with his arms full of clothes he met Victoria Glade.
“Oh, ma’am, I ran into an old friend from my home. He’s going to travel back to Texas with me. He hadn’t found him a place to stay yet so I brought him back here with me. Can he share my room?”
“Of course, he can, Mr. Sutherland. We’re delighted to have your friend stay with us. There’ll be a small extra charge, of course, for his meals.” She was still dressed in black but had changed to a dress that bared her pale neck and shoulders. King tore his eyes away from the deep neckline.
She moved closer to him. “I’ll be joining you for dinner this evening. Perhaps you’ll have a glass of Madeira with me after we eat?”
“Why, sure thing, Miz Glade, I’d enjoy that” He wondered if the dress was for his benefit. She sure is something, he thought. Supper might get to be real interesting.
Luke was transformed when he strapped his old gun belt over the new clothes.
“Come on, man” King said. “If you’ll try to hurry a little bit we can get you some respectable boots before dark”
The two Texans left the tanner’s shop and sauntered along shoulder to shoulder. They were both lithe and handsome, and their skin had taken on a rich reddish-tan color from their days in the sun. Their clothes and new boots marked them as cattlemen; aliens in the hustle-bustle of the city.
“I’d shore hate to be stuck in this burg for long,” Luke said as he looked at each passing face. “You can’t hardly tell what kind of varmints you might meet.”
“Don’t you go getting touchy with anybody now, Luke. That boat leaves early Friday morning and we’re going to be on her. There’s too much law here for a drover to act natural.”
“You can say that again. That doggone lieutenant that throwed me in jail would be dead if he’d been in Santone.”
King laughed. “Still the same old fire-eater. You always stayed in trouble. I don’t know how you managed to keep yourself alive this long without me to look after you”
“Aw, you laugh. Most of my gunplay started with you or Clint sparking some gal some other fella thought he owned.”
“Look, Luke,” King said, ignoring the jibe. “Here’s a barbershop. It’s still open. We could both do with a haircut.”
They emerged from the shop some time later with their sideburns trimmed and their hair smooth. Except for the identical Navy Colts hanging low on their sides, they looked almost civilized.
“Let’s get on back to that boarding house,” King said. “I don’t want to run into anybody else that knows me today.”
“What in the world have you done to be on the dodge?”
“I’m not on the dodge. I’m a little bit afraid some Army man might recognize me. I should report to the garrison, it’s kind of expected-but I don’t want to be stranded here for weeks tied up in Army red tape”
“Why would the army care where you are?”
“They don’t really. I’ve got papers showing my separation due to my injury, but I don’t want to be bothered explaining myself.”
“Well, come on then, we can hole up at your rooming house tonight and all day tomorrow. I don’t want nothing more to do with them sorry blue boys myself.”
Ida was almost finished putting supper on the table when the two men entered the dining room. “Sit down, y’all. Miz Glade will be down directly.”
Luke moaned at the sight of plates piled high with fried chicken and delicately browned biscuits. The long table was almost covered with dishes: several bowls of vegetables, a gravy boat, a mold of butter in the middle of the table, a crystal dish of pickles, and another of applesauce.
“I can’t believe what I see. Is it real?”
“It sure is, Luke. And I can swear that it tastes as good as it looks. Ida is the best cook in New Orleans, so her husband tells me”
“That fool. How would he know that?” Ida smiled her pleasure at King’s compliments.
At that moment Victoria Glade walked in the door. Luke’s eyes popped at the sight of her pearly white shoulders showing above the low neckline of her black dress.
“That’s your landlady?” he sputtered. “I can’t believe the luck some fellas have”
King pushed his chair back and he stood up, grabbing Luke and pulling him to his feet as well. “This is my friend I told you about, Miz Glade: Luke Wilson, from San Antonio. He’s the best gun-toting cattleman in south Texas and he’s saved my life more than once.”
Luke turned red and mumbled, “How do, ma’am”
“I’m honored to meet you, Mr. Wilson. What an introduction! You must be pleased that you found Mr. Sutherland. Please take your seats, gentlemen.”
Luke fell back into his chair and fastened his eyes on his plate. He didn’t look up again until the meal was over.
As soon as everyone was served, Victoria asked, “Does your business take you east often, Mr. Sutherland?”
“Oh no,” King answered, hoping Luke would maintain his silence. “I’m usually much too busy at home to travel. This was sort of an emergency trip.”
“I want you to tell me all about Texas after dinner. People tell such outlandish tales. I’m sure I can trust you to tell me the real truth. Will you excuse Mr. Sutherland and me, Mr. Wilson?”
“Shore I will, ma’am,” Luke replied, turning an accusing look on King. “I need my rest anyway.”
Pushing his chair back, Luke stood up and bowed, his face serious and his cheeks still red. “I can’t begin to say how great that meal was, ma’am. I’ll be looking forward to breakfast”
“My room is the first on the left at the top of the stairs,” King called as Luke hurried out of the room.
Victoria led King through a door off the central hall. “The other salon is only for entertaining my nosy neighbors and my husband’s family,” she explained. King wondered where this husband of hers was.
The room held French furniture upholstered in pale blue silk. The patterned carpet was so thick that King’s boots sank in with every step. Victoria lit a lamp beside the sofa. “Come sit here beside me, Mr. Sutherland. We can enjoy the fire as we talk.”
The room seemed almost too comfortable. King sat down and stretched his legs out toward the small fire in the marble fireplace. Victoria sat on the sofa near him. She turned his way, looking directly into his face and smiling as she listened to his tales of Blanco Sol Ranch and the part of Texas he’d grown up in.
King realized that her eyes were sad and hungry-looking. Tiny lines marred the beauty of her full mouth. Discontent and bitterness were written on her face. She dropped her hand to the seat of the sofa, her fingers almost touching King’s knee.
“Won’t you call me Victoria, Mr. Sutherland? I’ve been dying to call you King. It sounds so grand.”
“That’s real kind of you, Miz Glade, but I wouldn’t feel exactly right acting so familiar all of a sudden. It surely ain’t polite.”
King stood up and held out his hand. “I reckon I’ll just get on upstairs. I’ll have to get up early to tend to some business and I’m downright tired from traveling. I’ve been looking forward to sleeping in that big bed, so I’ll say goodnight.”
Victoria Glade’s eyes turned dark with anger, but she smiled and wished him a pleasant night.
King entered his room on tiptoe. Luke was already snoring. King slipped off his clothes as quietly as possible and slid under the quilts. He gently pushed Luke’s inert body over to make room. He knew it wouldn’t do to wake him, he’d surely raise a fuss.
King had no more than straightened out on the bed when sleep claimed him. He woke to rude shaking. Luke was already dressed. “Get up out of there you lazy hog. Breakfast is long over. Are you going to sleep forever?”
“Get the heck out of here, you sorry no-good talking machine. Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?” King turned his face to the wall and pulled the cover over his head.
“Ain’t no need for you to cuss your friends just because you’ve been out tom-catting around all night,” Luke taunted him.
“Oh, shut up. I have not been out tom-catting around and I ain’t no kid for you to be trying to mind.”
“Well, you shore act like one. Get dressed, will you? Let’s get on that boat and stay there until it leaves. That high-stepping widow downstairs was making sheep’s eyes at me at the breakfast table. Almost put me off my feed. I can smell trouble if we stay here a minute longer than it takes to get ourselves together and run.”
“Aw, come on, Luke. You’re lying. She wasn’t flirting with you too?” King sat up in bed and looked into his friend’s grim face. “No, I guess you’re not lying at that. All right, get my pack while I dress. We’ll put my horse on board and spend tonight on the packet”
The two men made short work of packing and slipped quietly down the stairs and out into the street. “Whew,” said Luke. “Life is something, ain’t it? A fella never can be shore what will happen when a good-looking woman’s around”
King and Luke found a restaurant with an empty table and ate a huge meal. “Let’s rustle on down to the docks,” Luke said as he washed down his last bite of leathery steak with his second beer.
“We’ll need some daylight to get your horse aboard the packet. If he’s any good at all, he ain’t going to want to take no boat ride.”
“He might raise a fuss at that. He’s a great horse. I wouldn’t want him to hurt himself. I might have to bed down in the hold with him to keep him quiet.”
“Don’t you worry none about that. We’ll hobble him and tie his head to the stall. He’ll stand. Most horses are smart enough to not get hurt if they see they can’t get loose.”
The two men had to detour twice around groups of soldiers on the way to the livery stable. Luke’s expression told King he might say something insulting to the men and get them in trouble. It didn’t feel right to King for him to talk to Luke about his service in the Union army, but he would be forced to talk about it if the soldiers asked for their papers.
Melton wasn’t at the livery stable, to King’s great relief. He didn’t want to have to explain to him why he was leaving early. A young boy led Ranger out into the yard for King to saddle him and tie his pack on.
Luke stood back and admired the horse. “That’s a grand trail horse, King. He looks like he’s strong and fast”
Luke was known as a good judge of horses. King had never known him to be wrong in his choice of a mount. He could pick out the finest horses in a remuda at a glance. Then he could get all the work a horse was capable of with his superb riding.
“Thanks, old man. That’s fine praise coming from you. Ranger likes to show off, but he’s strong and he’s got a smooth gait.”
The horse acted as though he was glad to see King and stood quietly for him to strap on his saddle and pack. “I’m going to buy a pack horse in Galveston, Luke. Say, where’s your big red colt?”
“He’s in Jake Benton’s corral in Galveston. He’s eating his head off, I reckon. He’ll be too fat to run by the time I get back there”
“He’ll lose the fat fast enough. I’m in a hurry to get back home”
King jumped into the saddle. “Here, Luke, climb up behind me. He can carry both of us easily.”
King had to hold Ranger tight even with such a load on his back; he was skittish in the crowds of people. The loaded wagons and crowds of people seemed as numerous as they had been the first day he arrived in town.
When they finally reached the boat, Luke and King dismounted. Holding tight to Ranger’s head, they led him onto the deck of the boat. A boatman rushed over to hand King two heavy pieces of canvas attached to a cable and quickly moved back several steps. “Lead him up beside that hole and get the straps under his belly,” he shouted.
Luke looked at the man disdainfully. “Are you afraid of horses, fella?”
“You bet your boots I am, fella. I ain’t fool enough to let one of them crazy nags kick my brains out”
Luke slipped Ranger’s saddle from his back, placing it and his pack well out of the way of the horse’s hooves.
“You hold his head, King. Look how he’s rolling his eyes”
King held Ranger by his bridle and rubbed his quivering nose. He began to talk to him softly. “Take it easy, boy. We’re not going to hurt you.”
Luke slipped the canvas strips under the horse and attached them to the cable.
“Get out of the way,” yelled the boatman. Two black men turned the pulley wheel, lifting Ranger clear of the deck. The great horse screamed in rage and fear. He kicked out with both hind feet, making the sling sway from side to side.
“Hold him still,” Luke said quietly. “He’ll calm down soon as he sees he caught”
King watched with his heart in his throat. One lunge at the wrong moment and he could lose Ranger.
Luke got the horse quiet finally by just talking to him. “Let him down easy now,” he cautioned the men on the pulley. He slipped into the hold beside the horse as they slowly let him down. “Come on now, boy. I’ll put you in the best stall these folks have got since we’re here first and then I’ll give you a bait of grain.”
Ranger stood stock still on the bottom of the boat with his head up, trembling all over. Luke’s voice and hands soon calmed him and the danger was over. King felt as though he could hardly breathe until Luke climbed back up on deck.
“Stop your worrying, pard. Your precious horse is tied up like a baby. He’ll be fine if this tub don’t sink.”
Genre – Western Time Period – 1870’s Location – Rio Grande Description – Smart, loyal, and tough, John captures your heart, and the heart of “Andy” Blaine the heroine. Andrea is a bit of a tom-boy, but a beautiful, strong, and true western woman. John gets involved in the war for water rights on Silver Creek and neighboring ranches because his father seems to be involved on the wrong side of the law.
John Garrett tied his gear behind his saddle and left the Wilson ranch just before daybreak. He followed the old Butterfield stage road north for about thirty miles to the Rio Grande crossing just south of Mesilla. The first night on the trail he camped at Cooke’s Spring.
His goal that morning was to reach the hills before the sun was high. He said his farewells to the ranch owner and the other cowboys the night before he left. Buck Wilson had wished him luck, and John had assured him that if he ever rode for another ranch, he would come back and ride for him.
He didn’t explain why he was leaving, he simply said he had business that needed tending and a long ride to get to where that business was. Wilson knew enough not to ask questions.
John Garrett rode a long, rangy sorrel horse with the unlikely name of Prince. Sometimes he thought the name was kind of silly, but he named the horse when he was a colt because he was almost too showy to be a working horse. He was still showy, as well as big and powerful, and he was the best trail horse John ever owned. He lifted the reins and urged Prince to a mile-eating trot.
The second morning John broke camp early and rode two miles into Mesilla to stock up on supplies. There would be nights he would have to camp on the trail. Later in the day, working his way northwest from Mesilla, he made good time. He was determined to save his horses’ strength, so he stopped and made camp the second day after riding only twenty miles. He unsaddled Prince and rubbed him down thoroughly with his saddle blanket, then turned him loose to forage. There was little grass for him to find on the lower slopes of the Las Cruces Mountains.
“I have to take it easy and be patient,” John said to himself.
He desperately wanted to hurry, but he knew that pushing his horse too fast would be a foolhardy way to begin a journey of more than four hundred miles. A journey that would take him back to another life. A life he had sworn to forget.
Alec Gunnison’s visit brought it all sweeping back. The anger, and the sickness he felt every time he thought of that last day. The day he left the ranch he loved and expected to live on for the rest of his life.
He could still see Mason Garrett’s angry face, and the whip. Alec told John he had a duty to go home and help his father in his trouble.
“Well,” John thought, “I’m going home, but only because it’s my duty. When this is settled, I’ll never stay.”
It was the best time of the year to travel. Most late afternoons John found water and a good place to camp. Whenever possible he stopped at a large ranch. The owner or foreman was sure to offer a meal and a bed in the bunkhouse for him and feed for his horse. Occasionally he spent the evening and night at a mining camp or a small town where he could get a hot meal.
When he passed the night in a town or at a ranch John always took time to groom Prince well and feed him grain at night. He repeated the process before they started out the next day. The big horse had great stamina, but he was used to being fed grain regularly and it would preserve his strength.
John followed the route he had taken when he left his home six years before. Remembering how he burned with anger and bitterness as he rode away from all he loved was still painful. The anger had softened, but he was still bitter.
There was little in the way of a direct trail to follow in the direction he was traveling, but here and there a rough track was marked by wagon wheels. Those trails provided easy travel for a few miles until they turned in a different direction.
It was late August and rains came almost every afternoon. The slopes of the White Mountains were covered in patches of green. This was the only time of year when there was color on the mountains southeast of Silver City.
John turned north at a town called Deming that was once a stop for the Butterfield Stage, then his route turned northwest, keeping the Mimbres River on his left. The going was easy near the river and he made the hundred miles to Silver City in only four days.
This trail was once a favorite route of the Apache. The whole area was Apache territory. Ten years earlier no one would have been foolish enough to ride from Deming to Silver City alone. Only large well-armed groups were safe. But the Apache were gone. They had all been killed or tamed.
Leaving Silver City on a trail leading northwest to Buckhorn, John crossed a small river. He thought it probably was a branch of the Gila. After that crossing his route turned more to the north and passed a short distance east of Mule Creek on an old trail into the Mogollons.
It took several days for him to ride through the mountains. The valleys were covered in a thick growth of Grama grass providing plentiful welcome food for Prince.
As the trail led upward, he passed through areas covered in scrub oak, and then reached forests of the tall, graceful ponderosa pine. Up higher, he could see aspens growing on nearby slopes.
Most nights he camped near a creek or spring that lay under large cottonwoods or the tangled branches of willows. Game was plentiful. He often shot a rabbit from his horses’ back and ended the day by enjoying it for his supper, roasted over his campfire.
When he finally crossed the San Francisco River and turned west toward Clay Springs, John felt as though he had been on the trail a month, although he left the lake country and reached Clay Springs on his fourteenth day of travel.
Clay Springs was a beautiful place to camp. After removing his gear and unsaddling the horse, he led Prince to a grassy area about a hundred yards from the spring. He decided to stay at the spring for two full days to give the horse a rest. He saw a small herd of deer less than a mile before he reached the spring, and wanted to try to get a shot at one.
At daybreak three days later John broke camp and set off to the northwest. His route would turn sharply back to the east before he reached the Tonto and then it would join a trail running northeast into the mountains.
Deep in the mountains, he decided to make a last stop at a little town sitting across the trail that led to an unnamed river crossing. As he remembered, Ellison Grove wasn’t much of a town, but it would surely have a mercantile with the supplies he needed.
He looked forward to getting a meal someone else cooked and a good night’s rest in a bed for himself and a stable with a large bait of oats for Prince. He would be able to replenish his food supply and buy more ammunition.
He felt sure he could reach the cabin in no more than two day’s ride from Ellison Grove. He wanted to arrive alert and well rested and hoped the cabin would be empty, but he knew there was no telling what he would find.
Genre – Western Time Period – 1880’s Location – Arizona Description – Cousins Red and Wes are bitter rivals–Wes the spoiled heir of the White Willow Ranch and Red the son of a humble rancher. In the heat of an argument, Wes is poised to murder an unconscious Red, but, in a panic, kills the barkeep instead. Red awakens to find himself framed for Wes’s crime and sent off to Yuma.
Milt Anders jumped the four steps and hit the porch at a dead run. His boots heels rattled the oak boards. Grabbing the top of the swinging doors with both hands, he stuck his flushed face into the cool darkness of the Red Wheel Saloon and shouted, “Git out here, you sons! Red Thornton and Wes Lane are at it again. Hurry it up if you want to see anything. They’re just past Pecan Hill and running flat out.”
Boots pounded on the wooden floor of the saloon as five men jumped to their feet. The tall one knocked his chair over backward and spilled his beer as he joined the group running for the door. Pushing against one another to get through the swinging doors, they hurried out onto the porch to cluster around the still yelling Anders. Holding their hands flat over their eyebrows to shade their eyes, every man squinted into the late afternoon sun.
Wes Lane’s big palomino led Thornton’s horse by at least a length. Long-legged and powerful, the horse stretched out, running his hardest. Anders laughed aloud and held his right arm out to point at the riders.
“Look at Wes Lane-slapping his horse’s rump with that little whip he always carries”
Red Thornton’s black appeared a lot smaller than the yellow horse. The sleek mustang stallion ran with his legs bunched close against his belly and his body low to the ground. A cloud of dust thrown up by the horse’s hooves followed the racers.
As the riders approached the wooden bridge across Acorn Creek, the men could see Wes Lane’s right arm swing high and slam down hard again and again. Every time the quirt struck the palomino’s side, the horse flinched a little, almost breaking stride. Foam flecked the animal’s pale nose and flew back against its shoulders.
The black ran steadily. His head was lower, but he gradually advanced until his nose looked almost even with the palomino’s. The straining horses hit the bridge side by side. Their hooves slammed the thick oak planks, sounding like thunder. Red rode hunched forward, low over the black horse’s withers, shouting encouragement and patting the animal’s neck with his left hand.
When they hit the dusty street, the black ran nose to nose with the larger horse. Still flailing wildly with his whip, Wes raked the straining palomino’s sides with his big California spurs. Blood flew in a spattered arc across the horse’s hindquarters.
The black lunged at least a full head out in front of the larger horse as they passed the group of men clustered on the saloon porch. After another hundred yards the racers passed the town well, and the smaller horse showed the palomino his rump.
Wes sawed on the reins and pulled his heaving horse to a stop. His face like a thundercloud ready to pour rain, he dismounted to stand stiffly in the middle of the street. He stared with angry eyes and his fists propped on his hips as Red slowed his black to a walk and turned to ride him back to the well, moving at an easy trot.
Stepping down from the saddle, Red led the black to the water trough, patting the animal’s neck and shoulder and murmuring praises with every step. Trying to hide a grin, he kept his face turned away from Wes’ angry stare.
“You cheated me again, blast your eyes, Red Thornton. That ugly piece of crow bait could never beat my palomino if you knew how to ride a fair race. You crowded me on the turn.”
Red turned, lifting his head to look straight into the eyes of the tall, blond rider. “Face it, Wes, I didn’t crowd you anywhere at all, and you know it. That oversized pony of yours is all show and no bottom. He starts off with a bang, but he’s used up in half a mile.”
“You just hold on ’til Coronado gets a blow, and I’ll beat you on the way back-if that crow bait of yours don’t crowd me”
Red laughed and shook his head as he said, “If you don’t walk that horse some to cool him off, he’ll not be fit to race again anytime soon”
Yanking the palomino’s head up, Wes led the horse by the bridle reins as he walked toward the group of men still crowded around the saloon porch, discussing the merits of the race. He waved to a ragged boy hanging over the hitch rail.
“Here’s two bits, boy. Walk my horse for me. Take him down to the bridge and back a couple of times. After he’s cooled off good, give him about half a bucket of fresh water and tie him right here in front of the saloon”
Tossing his mount’s reins to the boy, Wes stepped up onto the porch and stomped his feet as he swaggered through the crowd of men and pushed open the Red Wheel’s swinging doors. Shaking his head and looking serious, he announced to anyone who would listen, “If Red Thornton ever ran a man a fair race, that black devil of a pony he rides wouldn’t show a chance against my Coronado. You fellas shoulda seen how slick that boy did it. He guided his black close to Coronado so he could crowd me on that sharp turn down there by Lewis Gillium’s place. I had to hold on as hard as I could to stay in the saddle. He almost put me and my horse both right over into the ditch.”
Striding across the room to an empty table, Wes took a seat facing the door and called to the bartender, “Give me two beers over here, Johnny. Red’ll be in here in a minute-soon’s he gets through babying that scrawny mustang of his.”
Outside, Red let his horse drink a few mouthfuls of water, then pulled him away from the trough. “Take it easy, Pitch. You’ll get plenty more water in a few minutes. You know better than to try to founder yourselfdrinking too much when you’re all hot from running. Come on now, you need to walk some more”
Leading the horse by a rein, Red walked up the street away from the Red Wheel. He turned left a few steps past the courthouse and headed toward the livery stable. Burt Glassner, the liveryman, came running from the direction of the saloon to catch up just as Red reached the open stable door.
Burt’s face was red from exertion and he was chuckling as he said, “I saw the race, Red. I was in the Red Wheel getting me a cold drink with some of the fellas when old Milt Anders came running to the door. He yelled out that you and Wes was racing again, and everybody in the place got up and made tracks out to the porch so they could see the finish. This here black horse of yours sure can run.”
“You’re right there, Burt. This horse purely loves to run. Give him a bait of grain and a little more water, will you? Don’t give him too much, now. He’s just like any other fool of a horse and would drink too much if he could.”
“I’ll get old Nate to take good care of him for you, Red. Don’t you worry about him none. I can’t hardly get my hands on that horse without he gets all riled up, but he took to Nate the first time you ever left him here. He’s as gentle as a lamb with him. You going over to the saloon now?”
“You bet I am-Wes owes me a beer, and I mean to collect”
Burt laughed and pushed his hat to the back of his bald head. “Wes Lane won’t be none too happy that your horse beat his out. You can bet on that. He holds a lot of store by that big yellow horse of his’n. You’re bound to the hurt his pride some beatin’ him that wayright out in public like that. It’s the second time you’ve done it too, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s the second time I’ve done it. I know it hurts his pride to lose a race, Burt, but he asks for it. Heck, Wes plain out begs for it.”
When Burt led Pitch through the wide end door of the livery stable, he held only the tips of the reins to stay as far from the horse as possible.
Nate hobbled over to grab the horse’s bridle. “I seen the race too. This here cayuse can some kinda run”
“You got that right.”
“Say, hold on there a minute, Red. I got a question for you.”
“Sure thing, Nate. What is it?”
“I figure Burt’s been living hereabouts more years than God, so he could probably tell me, but I’d rather hear it from you. Why in the heck do folks call you Red? You ain’t got red hair. Your hair’s as black as that Indian’s what runs around with your old man-that Chief Billy something.”
“It’s no big mystery, Nate. I was named after both of my granddads. One of them was William Lane, and the other was Rufus Thornton, so I’m really William Rufus Thornton,” Red began.
“You coulda asked me that,” Burt said. “I sure knew it. Both them names is downright famous around here. Them two fellas come in here together way back. They were tough old birds too. They cleaned out a nest of thieves and scoundrels that was using the valley for a hideout followed them over the mountains on the old outlaw trail. After the crooks was gone, they took up land here, side by side.
“Red’s granddad went by Bill, and his dad goes by Will, so they set out to call the boy Rufus-figured that would keep down the confusion. I guess the name didn’t exactly fit, because it got turned into Red some kinda way, and it stuck.”
“Well, I’ll be swiggered,” Nate said, a slight smile showing under his white mustache. “I figured you’d know, Burt. You know just about everything else.”
Laughing softly, Red waved to the two men as he turned away to walk toward the saloon.
When he reached the porch, he placed one hand on top of each of the swinging doors and pushed them open, stepping inside. The light in the room was poor, but the air felt several degrees cooler than outside.
As soon as he spotted Red standing at the door, Wes called out, “Come on over and sit down, partner. Here’s the beer I owe you. I was beginning to think you were somewhere hiding your head in shame for winning a horse race the underhanded way you won it.”
Winding his way through the tables, Red ignored the way the other patrons looked at him. Removing his hat, he dropped it onto a nearby table and settled in the chair directly across from Wes.
Careful to speak loudly enough for everyone to hear, Red said, “You keep on telling that tale over and over, Wes Lane, and you’re gonna start to believe it your own self. I don’t need to cheat none to beat you on a horse, and every man in Acorn Creek knows it-except you.”
Wes raised both hands, palms out. “I know, I know, you’re the best rider with the best horses in this part of Arizona Territory. I’ve heard it said more than enough times. I just don’t believe it, that’s all.”
“Believe what you like. I know what I can do, and I know my stock. That saying you’re quoting ain’t so very wrong, either.”
“Drink your beer, old son. I need to talk to you about those cattle you’re moving for my old man.”
Red lowered his voice. “Wes, Major Lane gave me my orders about what to do with those cattle. He even backed them up in writing. I’ve got his note right here in my pocket. I’m not thinking about doing a doggone thing with those cattle but exactly what your father wrote down here for me to do”
“You don’t even know the deal yet, Red. You don’t know anything about what I have in mind. You could at least listen to what I’ve got to say”
“That’s true, Wes. I don’t know the deal, and that’s a fact. But you need to understand this before you start talking. I don’t give a rat’s hind end what you have in mind. I’m doing exactly what I agreed to do and not a thing besides.
“My orders are to roust a hundred steers out of that patch of woods near the creek bed behind your house, drive them to the railroad, and turn them over to Major Lane’s factor, who’ll be waiting down there to meet me. That’s what your father said for me to do, and that’s the end of it as far as I’m concerned”
“Come on, Red. Don’t be like that. I need twenty of those cows just twenty head. You can tell the major you tried but couldn’t find the full hundred. He’ll never know the difference.”
“I’m not going to do that, Wes-you can just forget it. Stop talking about it. You’re wasting your breath. I already told you this before we even left the ranch”
Wes leaned across the table and reached out to grab Red’s right wrist in one long, slim hand. His face flushed with anger, and his voice grew louder. “You’ve got to help me, Red. You’ve just got to help me. Listen to me, man just listen. Gil Patten will send some of those bully boys of his to hurt me. They’ll do it too. Patten swore if I didn’t place the money I owe him in his hands by noon this Sunday, he’d see I got two broken legs.”
“Look, Wes, just stop it-stop talking about it. I can’t do it. I just can’t. Back off, for heaven’s sake. I know I helped you the last time you got into trouble, but I can’t do this. I won’t do it. I don’t have the money to lend you this time, and I won’t do your father dirt. And that’s the end of it.”
Wes leaned forward to plead, “All you have to do is look the other way for a few minutes, Red-Bob Jenkins and me’ll meet you down by the river crossing and cut twenty cows out of your herd. We’ll drive them over to Cutter. I can sell them to that Mason Jones fella-the new man who’s running the mine. Those miners are always needing beef.”
Red shook his head and remained silent.
“Stop shaking your head at me, Red-please stop. You’ve got to listen this time. This is important. It may be life or death for me. You can’t refuse me-you can’t. You’ve got to help me”
Wes’ face was covered in sweat, and his fingers tightened on Red’s wrist. “Patten’s men probably won’t stop with breaking my legs. They’ll likely try to kill me this time. You know they will.”
Red yanked his wrist out of Wes’ grip, pushed his chair back, and stood up, reaching for his hat. “I have to get home, Wes. You need to let this gojust forget it. I’m not going to help you take twenty of Major Lane’s cows. I don’t care how much you talk or how sad your story gets”
Wes pushed his chair back and stood also. He rushed around the table to stand close to Red. His expression was grim. “Come on out back and talk to me about this, Red. There’s another reason you’ve got to help me this time.” Lowering his voice, he leaned closer to Red to whisper in his ear, “Becky’s involved this time.”
Red’s face flushed, and his dark eyes seemed to flash with light when he heard Wes whisper Becky’s name. He slammed his hat down onto his head with a jerky movement. His whisper sounded almost like a snarl. “Get out back right now, you everlasting weasel, and don’t you say another word in here.”
Red turned to stride through the back room of the saloon, out the door and down two stone steps to the gravelly dirt of the alley. Wes was right on his heels. Taking a few long steps away from the door so that no one inside the saloon could hear his voice, Red turned to face Wes, his hands on his hips.
“What the Sam Hill is the matter with you, Wes? You know better than that, for heaven’s sake. How could you bring Becky’s name up in there? Have you lost all your sense, all your decency?”
“Oh, calm yourself down, Red. Nobody but you heard what I said in there. The rest of those lazy bums weren’t paying any attention to us”
“Like heck they weren’t paying attention to us. Those two Dolman brothers sat right there at the next table, pop-eyed the whole time we were talking. They heard every blasted thing we said. They both plain jumped in their chairs when they heard you say Becky’s name. I saw them do it.”
“Well, I don’t give a rip what those two clowns think about me or Becky McClain, either. So there.”
“You’d better start caring, Wes, and start it fast. By golly, if you try that again, I’ll teach you to care.”
“Just shut up about it, Red. Talk to me about those cows. I’ve got to have the money to pay Patten, and you’ve got to help me”
“You might as well shut up about it yourself, Wes. I’m sorry, but it’s like I’ve said over and over. I’m doing what I’m supposed to do and not one thing more”
Wes stepped closer to Red. His face gleamed white in the weak light, and his voice grew louder. “You’d let Patten’s men work me over when all you have to do is look the other way long enough for me to drive a little jag of cows out of there? You know those cows partly belong to me”
“That’s almost the same thing you told me back in June when you were so desperate for money, Wes. Remember? When you took most of my savings to get you out of the same sort of jam. Remember how you swore to me that if I would only help you, you’d never gamble again, and you’d return my money the next month? Well, I still don’t have any money, and here you are in trouble for more gambling. I’m not falling for it again, Wes. You can just forget it.”
Wes’s face went from white to almost purple with anger. He suddenly lunged forward with his arms straight out and slammed both open hands against Red’s chest, knocking him back against the building.
Caught completely unaware, Red lost his balance and fell sideways, sliding down the back wall of the saloon to strike his head on the sharp edge of the stone step. He rolled off the end of the steps and lay still, his body limp.
“Red?” Wes knelt beside the steps to stare into Red’s still face, muttering to himself. “He’s out like a light. Oh, but he’s all right-he’s still breathing.”
Red groaned, his eyelashes fluttered, and he slowly moved one hand to the back of his head.
Wes rubbed his face with both hands, a desperate look in his eyes. “I thought sure he was dead,” he whispered to himself.
Then he thought about that. “If Red was dead-if he got killed by some freak accident like this one, like falling down and hitting his head on that step-he couldn’t stop me from getting some of those cows of Dad’s and selling them to get the money I need to pay Patten”
Reaching past Red to feel around in the rubble beside the foundation of the building, Wes’s fingers found a piece of granite almost as big as a water bucket. Using both hands, he raised the rock high over Red’s face.
As his back and arms stiffened to smash the rock straight down with all his strength, the back door of the saloon opened.
“What in the dickens are you fixing to do, Wes?” Johnny Yates yelled as the door slammed shut behind him. Yates started running down the steps. “What are you doing out here, you fool? Have you murdered that boy?”
Frightened and overcome by panic, Wes looked down. Red’s pistol lay within an inch of his right hand. He yanked the gun out of Red’s holster and turned to fire at the bartender.
The .44 bullet entered between Johnny Yates’ eyes and took off most of the back of his head. He fell back against the saloon door and rolled off the far side of the steps.
Wes dropped the gun beside Red and ran for the saloon steps. He could hear the sound of boots striking the wooden floor as men rushed toward the door.
He yanked the back door of the saloon open with one hand and yelled at the top of his voice, “Somebody get Sheriff Logan and Doc Bailey over here fast! Red just killed Johnny!”
Red groaned again and put both hands on the ground to push himself to a sitting position. His head pounded. He forced his eyes open to see a crowd of men gathered around him. The alley suddenly seemed to be full of men. He could see Doc Bailey and Wes kneeling beside someone lying on the ground beyond the back steps of the saloon.
“What’s happening?” Red muttered.
Sheriff Logan moved closer and squatted down in front of Red. “So you finally came to, huh? I thought you would-sooner or later. How many drinks did you have tonight, Thornton?”
Puzzled, Red lifted both hands to hold his aching head and whispered his answer, closing his eyes against the pain. “I had one beer-the same as usual, Sheriff. Why?”
“Ha. One beer. That’s what they all say. You won’t get away with this, though, doggone your sorry hide. Not a bit of it. You ain’t gonna get crazy-mad drunk and shoot innocent people down like dogs in my town and get away with pretending you don’t even know what you did.”
“What in blazes are you talking about, Sheriff? You’re the one who sounds drunk right now.”
“Don’t go getting yourself excited, Thornton. I’ve got your gun right here in my hand, and it’s been fired. I can smell the burned powder plain as day. And Wes Lane stood within a few feet of you and watched you kill the man. You and him were the only ones out here, and he ain’t even armed.”
“Sheriff, this is crazy.” Red struggled to get to his feet. “Anybody in town can tell you I never drink but one beer. Ask Johnny Yates-he’ll tell you”
“It’s poor old Johnny Yates you shot down, you miserable drunk. Straighten yourself up. I need to get you locked up for your own protection. People around here were fond of Johnny.”
Motioning to Jack Dorman to move forward and take Red’s left arm, Sheriff Logan pulled him forward.
Red lurched against the two men, still dizzy from his head’s hitting the stone step. “Sheriff, wait. Listen to me. Please. I was knocked out. Wes and I were arguing, and he got excited and pushed me down. I didn’t shoot anybody. I swear I didn’t. I never even touched my gun. Get Doc Bailey to look at the back of my head-I’m still bleeding from where I hit my head.”
“I see you’ve got some blood running down the back of your neck. You musta been so drunk, you fell over after you murdered poor old Johnny.”
“You’re not listening to me, Logan. I didn’t shoot anybody. I haven’t even touched my gun. Wes pushed me, and I fell and hit my head against those stone steps over there. The fall knocked me out for a few minutes.”
“Stop your yammering, and move along, Thornton. You’re still so drunk, you can’t hardly stand up straight, much less talk sense.” Giving a hard yank on Red’s right arm, the sheriff dragged him through the crowd of men filling the alley.
Red’s head cleared enough that he could see men he had always counted as friends and neighbors staring at him with hostile eyes. Still unsteady and confused, he held his head as high as he could and stared back.
As Jack Dorman and the sheriff pulled on his arms to lead him around the corner to Main Street, Red came face-to-face with Wes.
Wes stood in the middle of the street, surrounded by a group of cowboys from White Willow Ranch, waving his arms and talking.
Red called out to him, “Wes, come over to the sheriff’s office and tell him how you pushed me and I hit my head on the step back there in the alley. He thinks I shot Johnny Yates”
Wes didn’t answer. He stared at Red, his eyes as hostile as those of the other townsmen in the crowd. Still without answering, he watched as Jack Dorman and Sheriff Logan dragged Red away.
By the time they passed through the sheriff’s office and reached the door with the iron-barred window to the jail’s one cell, Red was feeling a bit steadier on his feet.
“Get in there,” Dorman said, pushing Red toward the open door.
Catching himself against the low cot as he stumbled across the cell, Red turned to look at Dorman and said, “Jack, you know I wasn’t drunk. You and your brother sat right there in the saloon no more than an arm’s length from my table and listened to everything me and Wes said. You know as well as I do that I hadn’t even finished drinking all of one beer when Wes and I went out back”
Without speaking, Dorman backed away from the cell door with his head down and refused to look at Red.
Sheriff Logan slammed the door so it latched and turned to grab Dorman’s arm. “Hold it there a minute, Dorman. Is Thornton telling the truth about that beer? Were you sitting next to him and Wes the whole time? Is it true what he says? Did he only drink one beer?”
“I don’t know, Sheriff Logan.” Dorman pulled his arm out of the sheriff’s grasp and raised his voice, a stubborn expression on his face. “I don’t know nothing for sure. I didn’t paid no never-mind to what Thornton did in there. All I could say for certain-sure is, he wasn’t hardly in the Red Wheel long enough to get drunk, and I sure don’t reckon he coulda been drunk while he raced that horse”
Shaking his head, Sheriff Logan turned away from Dorman to turn the key to lock the cell door. Raising his head, he peered through its barred window at Red. His voice sounded a little kinder.
“I’ll ask questions, Thornton. Wes Lane’s telling everybody you were so blind drunk, you pulled your gun and shot Johnny for no reason at all. He says he’s the only witness to the shooting, and now you claim you were knocked out. Can you tell me any reason for Wes to shoot Johnny down like that and then turn around and blame it on you?”
Red sat down on the cot and held his throbbing head in his hands as he tried to think.
He finally lifted his head to look up at Logan and mutter, “I don’t know, Sheriff. I just don’t know.”