by Bruce Graham
The man dropped the newspaper and studied me from under a green eyeshade. He studied my Union Army uniform. “Good morning, Yank. How may I be of service?”
“I’m wanting to go to the north.”
“All right. And where to?”
“I was thinking by way of Laredo.”
The man yawned. “Unfortunately, we have little call for travel there, and no crew to make the journey. What cargo do you have?”
“Only my personal gear. I was just mustered out. You have two coaches here.”
“Before the War one made the trip between here and Brownsville and the other between here and Laredo. When the War came, business slowed down a lot. But when Maximilian was in the saddle across the border and the Confederate authorities cooperated with him, we had a regular stream of cargo, less than before the War but enough to survive on. And the cargo went east and west, and in fact, even sometimes up toward Corpus Christi. You and your Union thugs have put the screws to that, and there’s not much trade in any direction.”
I decided not to dispute the insult for the blue uniform I still wore. “I understand your animosity. And what about your work crew?”
“They found other work and I can’t take them back when there’s no trade for them to conduct. I can’t afford to pay men to haul a couple of boxes and one or two people.”
“I suppose. And what do you do for horses?”
“We keep our mules at Pedro Morales’ ranch down by the river. It’s worth it to him to have livestock keeping his field in good condition, rather than having it grow up. The War and the Federals’ pressure on Maximilian cost him dearly. It costs us nothing to graze them there for the time being.”
I glanced around at the office and the store room, almost empty except for a couple of boxes. “You have some cargo.”
“I told the people it would have to wait until things pick up. There’s even are some crates in Laredo that we can pick up if we get busy.”
“All right, here’s the deal,” I said. “I won’t expect any pay for two weeks, only expenses. I’ll make the runs to and from Brownsville and Laredo. If you develop custom so that you want the runs made, after the two weeks my pay will be $20 a week, plus expenses, with Sunday off.”
The man dropped his feet off the desk, sprang up and reached out his hand. “And your name?”
“Nathan Gould, late of the Union 7th Vermont Volunteers.”
“My wife in Dallas is from Manchester, Connecticut. And Mr. Wells, of Wells-Fargo is from Vermont.”
“So you must be a Yankee yourself.”
The man scowled. “Illinois, I settled here seven years ago in the expectation that the line would grow and merge with Butterfield, but the War put an end to that. You have a deal. I’ll have some signs and bills made up and if they see you getting the coach out of and into town we should have more business by the end of next week.”
The man led me out of the shop to the coaches. He suddenly paused and frowned. “Have you driven one of these things?”
I was prepared to stretch the truth. “My father ran a freighting business and I did some driving before joining the Volunteers. I should be able to manage.”
The man climbed onto the seat of one coach and pulled me up after him. “You won’t have a guard, we won’t be hauling money or gold, for a while at least. You’ll be on your own, you don’t have to set speed records, the roads are okay. There’s a way station at Zepata up toward Laredo and San Juan to Brownsville. You leave at dawn and stay overnight at each place, get on to the objective, spend the night there, come back, and so forth. I’ll send a wire to each place to expect you. You’ll start tomorrow.”
“Good. The sooner I start, the sooner I’ll begin to earn my pay.”
“My name is Logan, Paul Logan. Let’s have a drink to toast success.” He climbed down and helped me down and we strode across the street and a block away to a Cantina.
A small Mexican band was playing an unfamiliar tune, but otherwise the saloon was the same as the dozen or so that I had wandered into and out of during our leaves from camp. The bar was a polished hardwood plank laid across barrels. Behind the bar was the usual array of liquor, with more Tequila and other Latin product than in further eastern establishments. A couple of Anglos were hunched over the bar and women of varying attractiveness and dress lounged at tables here and there. In the corner was a cluster of men around a man at a table flipping cards. Every few moments one of the men would curse or slam the table in frustration, or give a cry of joy and take a bill from the man flipping the cards.
Logan led the way to the bar and held up two fingers. “Tequila.”
The Mexican bartender with a huge mustache nodded and turned toward the back bar.
I looked around the room, avoiding eye contact with any of the people. When the two small glasses were set out, I delayed picking up mine until Logan raised his in the air.
Logan held his glass for a moment. Then: “Here’s to the rejuvenated South Texas Express Line.”
I touched my glass to his and put it to my lips, slowly inhaling the vapors.
He deftly and swiftly threw the amber liquid into his mouth and smacked his lips.
I sipped the liquor and then threw it onto my tongue and down my throat.
“That’s the first drink I’ve had in two months. Between the pay cut we’ve had to endure and the doctor telling me to hold off I’ve been away from the stuff. And I’ll limit myself as long as the Line is on short rations.” He slid the glass away from him and threw a coin onto the bar.
The bartender took the coin in silence.
I put down my glass and turned to look at the group at the corner table. “What’s that about?”
“That’s the faro game. I’ve tried it a few times. You don’t have it in the East I suppose. You play Euchre I hear.”
“A few of the troopers played poker, but I’ve never gambled.”
Logan stepped away from the bar and touched my arm lightly. “I’ll show it to you.” He led the way to a spot a few feet from the corner table. “You see the table top? It has the ranking of the cards, deuce to ace. The people put their bets on whichever one they want. The dealer turns cards from the stack in front of him, one at a time. Each turn, the dealer puts the first card to his right, that’s the losing card. The second card the dealer puts to the left, and that is the winning card. A player whose bet on that rank of card wins or loses accordingly.”
We studied the play while a disheveled man in a floppy Confederate hat was paid by the dealer.
“But that’s an even situation,” I said. “How does the dealer make any money? And he might lose a lot at any one time. Over the long haul the dealer and the players will even out, win or lose.”
“You’re astute. That’s right, but there is a house advantage. Every certain number of turns of the cards, and it’s not a lot but enough, the same rank of card is turned over both as a winner and a loser. Then, the dealer takes half the bet and the player keeps the rest. That’s the house’s take on the play.”
“You say the house?”
“The dealer owns the game, but to provide a place for the game to be paid the house gets a cut of the proceeds, usually a third to a half.”
“What’s the man standing next to the dealer with the tablet?”
“He keeps track of the plays to show that the dealer isn’t cheating. He notes the cards that are played. He’s paid half each from the earnings of the house and the dealer and also keeps track of the earnings of the dealer. That keeps the game honest.”
A howl went up from one of the players. “Five times I lost. Jerry, you’re not right.”
“He’s right,” said the man next to the dealer. “I got it down here.”
Logan nudged me away from the table. “We better get out of here, there might be a fight, I see the Mex at the bar with his bung starter ready.” He edged me toward the doorway and out into the street.
Muffled sounds from inside the bar told me that the disagree
ment over the dealer’s honesty was becoming agitated.
We strolled further up the street, past stores that were shut up for the night. After a few hundred feet, we came face to face with a stucco façade. “The parish church,” said Logan. “I go here myself. The priest is a Franciscan, fluent in Spanish and not very much English. I sometimes wonder if he really hears what I’m saying in confession, but the absolution’s right, it’s in Latin. You Catholic?”
“Congregational, but not much lately. Our church in Vermont was about the same as this one, but stone, chilly in winter, hot in summer.”
“Right. Stone down here makes for not much change in heat and cold. Almost everybody here is Catholic. I was a good Catholic when I was little, but drifted when I first left home, but came back when I was here, the community influence, and the priest is such a holy guy. It’s also good for business. The Mex’s might not trust a man in business who doesn’t go to mass. Even the bartenders and floozies in the joints mostly go to mass. The bars close at midnight Saturday night so everybody can make it to communion on Sunday morning.”
Logan was losing me, but I didn’t ask for details on what he was talking about. “I’m heading for bed, I was up with the bugler before dawn and can use a civilian’s sleep.”
“All right, former trooper. And tomorrow you’ll want to trade in your blues for civilian clothes. You never can tell which people out here still don’t like Union suits. If I were you I’d be careful about trusting many folks here, you might be a convenient target for a tinhorn John Wilkes Booths.”
Back at the hotel I found my room and took out the Navy revolver that John had given me. I spun the cylinder and learned how the mechanism worked. I used my leftover cleaning gear to work to clean the gun thoroughly. I put the weapon aside and counted my money: 70 dollars. I’d be free of living expenses while I was driving for the Express Company and so might be able to live indefinitely. In my haversack I found the pants that I had brought from home and had secretly kept in case I was caught short with my regular uniform pants damaged. I slid out of my uniform pants and into my old britches. To my chagrin, the pants that comfortably fit the little exercised barely eighteen year old, were more than snug at the waist and a couple of inches above my boot insteps of the twenty-two year old fresh from four years of almost continual physical exertion. I resolved to endure the pants until I could line up better; I could open them up at the waist while on the trail. I put aside the pants belt for the time being.
My boots would do, not many citizens would scrutinize them.
In my haversack I found black boot polish, little used. I took off my shirt and ripped off the military patches. I turned the shirt inside out and went to work covering the inside of the shirt with the polish until little trace of blue could be seen.
Next was the blue slouch hat, and not much could be done with that, except to remove the emblem from the front and the hat band.
I modeled my new outfit before the dresser mirror and pronounced it good enough. I practiced sliding the pistol, in the canvas wrap from Bob, into my belt, but decided that I’d take Logan at his word that there would be no road agents for a while and put it away in my pack.
CHAPTER NINE
I was awakened by the sound of bells. The dull light outside told me that it was time to get to work. I climbed into my newly changed clothes and took my baggage downstairs. I checked out with the comment that the Express Company would be putting me on the road and I wouldn’t need the room except once in a while. I took a couple of odd looks on the way to the Express office but generally was ignored.
At the office Logan pointed to the store room. “You’ll need to load a few boxes, word got around last night and we picked up some business. Pedro is bringing the mules up and he’ll teach you how to hitch up the team. In the meantime, get a good breakfast and some hardtack and be ready to go.” He held out a couple of strange looking pieces of paper. “These are Texas chits for your expenses. The state’s been issuing them since the Confederacy collapsed and the banks will redeem them when they have the money. They’re accepted by any place along the routes.”
I stowed my gear in the store room, except for my wallet of money and military identification. The office clock read a little after eight when I pulled out of town, headed west toward Laredo, four mules jogging along. It wasn’t long before I realized that horses would have had a rough time on the washboard road and that the mules, slower though they were, were managing the journey best. The flatlands were spotted with wiry looking little bushes, not pretty, but were peaceful and gave the livestock no trouble. The boot held only five boxes and was only a third full and a much heavier load would probably tax the mules. Working from a map provided by Logan I figured that when my stomach told me that it was dinner time we were about half way to Zapata. I paused at a spot that was a bit wider than the road. I brought the mules their feed bag of grain and the water pail, from both of which they drew with vigor.
While each of the animals fed and refreshed themselves I contemplated a story that I had heard several times in school, about early Vermont’s settlement, where hardy men and women drove or led teams of oxen hauling their goods by sledge scores of miles through forest and over mountain to where they would build their homes. When these mules demanded food and drink so strongly after the seeming easy task of drawing a wheeled carriage with a light cargo through level land, I began to doubt the yarns about the early settlers and their oxen. The oxen would have required many bales of hay and a lot of grain to haul household goods many miles over hills and through forests.
I mounted the box and resumed the journey. Approaching Zapata I passed men and women and occasional families along the road and in the fields. I was taken by their good cheer, smiling, waving and occasionally calling out greetings. I suspected that the Yankee help in throwing the foreign government of Mexico was a source of goodwill toward the Express Company. The road went through bottom land and faced the challenge of crossing a waterway that meandered its way through the flatlands to the Rio Grande. The road almost vanished in the apparent mud in the approaching dusk. After a few moments, a Mexican family reached the opposite side of the stream and waded into the water. They were up to the adults’ knees and the childrens’ hips in a few moments but were moving along. When they reached the nearer side, I decided to test it. I waded into the water and found that the ground was firm all the way to the opposite side. I returned to the rig and whipped the mules into a trot and, sure enough, went through the watercourse simply and without any more than splashing and swaying.
Beyond the stream the road moved back south toward the Rio Grande. A mile or so beyond the crossing I pulled into the yard of a low wooden building bearing the sign “Express Office” and sat for a moment, relieved to have reached my first day’s goal.
Two Mexicans and one Anglo ambled up to the coach and helped me down.
“You’ll look after the rig I suppose.”
They muttered their assent and led the coach and animals away.
I went into the building, my muscles aching from being on the box for over nine hours.
A chubby Mexican woman was busy at a stove. “Bueno, Senor.”
“Buenos noches, Senora.” I didn’t know the word for food or drink, so I simply made my hand to and from my mouth as if using a fork and my hand as if a glass to my mouth.
She smiled broadly and nodded and said something.
I shuffled to a large table and sank into a chair. “Bueno, Bueno.” Within a few minutes a supper of beans and bacon was before me for which I thanked the woman. I ate well and went outside in the developing dark to check on the coach. The vehicle was next to the building, the mules were in the corral, being fed by the two Mexicans while the Anglo brought water in two buckets. I returned to the house and sank into a couch facing a glowing fire.
Within a few minutes the Anglo was at my side. “Your room is down the hallway, the second door. It’s ready. You’ll be leaving in the morning for Laredo, yes?”
“I sure will. How’s the road?”
“The road is good. We have two packages that we’ve put in the coach, and the fresh mules will be hitched up at dawn. You have no guard?”
I smiled. “No, Logan said it should be okay.”
The man sank into the couch next to me. “Yes and no. There are some bandits from the other side, but they’re after guns and ammunition and gold and silver. If they hold you up and you have none of that they’ll let you go by. But they may stop you. You’d better not resist, simply let them check the coach.”
“You’re sure?”
“We’ve had people passing through, that’s how they’re treated. It’s like the pirates. The stupid historians told stories of pirates massacring prisoners on ships that they captured, torturing and killing civilians, raping and murdering women, making people walk the plank. How did people hear about it if the pirates did those things? No, they would be kind to prisoners, if the sailors and officers surrendered, they would be treated well, fed, allowed to keep their private possessions, and their ships released. And the people from the captured ships would tell everybody how nice the pirates were if only they gave them what they wanted which was the cargo, the treasure carried on the ship. Word would get around and the officers and sailors and even the owners let it be known that surrendering to the pirates would be best. It was good for the pirates and they all got along fine. The insurance companies liked it because they didn’t have to pay for sunken ships. These bandits probably have a smart boss, he says be kind to the people, they won’t fight back and we can still get what we want.”
