A Thousand Texas Longhorns

by Johnny D. Boggs

  The dead highwaymen had been laid out beside the horse. Just two men. Two men and a dead horse. He had seen bodies stacked like cordwood. Two men? That was nothing. There are injured men outside. Those need your help. He swallowed. The one with the shattered leg—that would require amputation. So would the mangled hand on the other brigand. But men went on without particular limbs. He felt like the fool, shivering but sweating.

  “You are a doctor, Seth Beckstead,” he whispered. “You are a doctor. Men need your help.”

  After wiping his brow, he made himself crawl back, grabbed the pot, called out as cheerily as he could fake, “Found it,” and emerged onto the frozen, wet Montana road.

  Boone brought the pot and coffee to the fire, and the man named Rees cheered Beckstead. “Never thought I’d be glad to see a Yankee sawbones,” he said.

  Wilkinson laughed heartily, pointing at Boone’s plunder. “Now, that’s medicine to my likin’.”

  Cold-eyed Nelson Story nodded at Boone. “Melt some snow in the pot for the coffee.” He turned to Beckstead, his eyes locking on the red box and the black valise. “What’s that?”

  “Medical instruments. Medicines. Bandages. We have a grim morning before us, I fear.”

  “They won’t need your attention, Doctor.”

  “My God, man. Both of these men require amputations.” He paused, aware of what he had just said, with urgency. He balled his fingers and spoke with resolve, hoping his voice would not quiver. “If I do not remove that lad’s leg, or that contrarian’s right hand, gangrene will spread and they will die. I must perform surgery immediately, and I shall require assistance from at least one of you.”

  Thanks to the busted bottle, he had no brandy. Nothing to help dull the pain of sawing through bones. With luck, the men might survive the shock, pass out quickly. With God’s mercy, they might survive to spend a few years in prison.

  “They won’t need your attention, Doctor,” Story repeated.

  “Did you not hear me, sir? These mean will die—”

  “They’re gonna die anyway, Doc.” Rees nodded toward Wilkinson, and Dr. Seth Reginald Beckstead saw the nooses the Texan was fashioning by the fire.

  Beckstead remembered carousing with Walter Stephan in Baltimore, quoting from Twelfth Night.

  “‘There lies your way, due west,’” Stephan said, laughing. Both Stephan and he were well in their cups that night before Beckstead boarded the train to begin his journey, his new adventure. And Beckstead had answered, trying to mimic the voice of the actress who had played Viola: “‘Then westward-ho!’”

  Now, shivering but no longer from the cold, he quoted another line from another of Shakespeare’s plays: “‘. . . when I was at home, I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.’”

  “As You Like It.”

  Surprised, Beckstead turned to Mason Boone, who stood over the coffeepot. The man apparently didn’t like the attention he suddenly received from his comrades. “Troupe came by while we were wintering in Tennessee,” he said. “Gave us a respite after Murfreesboro.”

  “You saw a performance once and remember that line?”

  The man bent to check the pot, or maybe to try to hide. “Well, I just thought I’d been in a better place when I was home.”

  The Texan chuckled. “Didn’t we all?”

  This moment of peace, of humanity, vanished like the snowflakes falling toward the fire. Rage boiling inside him, Beckstead limped toward Nelson Story, the leader of this mob. “Sir,” he said, “these men are entitled to a fair trial, judged by a jury of their peers, and sentenced by a duly appointed or elected judge.”

  “You study law, too?” Story said.

  Flummoxed, Beckstead shouted, “This is vigilantism, not justice.”

  “It’s both,” Story told him. “And this is Montana. Not Maryland.”

  “But they deserve a trial.”

  “They’ve had one.” Story pointed at Rees. “Did you see these men?”

  Rees nodded. He didn’t look uncomfortable in the least.

  “What were they trying to do?”

  “Murder us. Rob us.”

  Story’s eyes found Wilkinson.

  The Texan grinned. He held up one noose. “Doc, I wouldn’t be makin’ these if I thought these boys were innocent.”

  “You.” Story nodded at Boone. “Did you hear these men plan this crime?”

  Boone nodded.

  “And what else did they intend to do?”

  “Murder you.” Beckstead had to strain to hear Boone’s answer.

  “You turncoat son of a bitch,” the man with the mangled hand said. “I should have shot you dead the moment I saw you. Filthy, traitorous bastard. You just want to be pirooting hard-ass Story’s wife.” He laughed. “You—”

  Story kicked him in the jaw. Teeth and blood flew from the man’s mouth as he slammed into the ground. A revolver appeared in the cold man’s hand. “One more word about my wife . . .” He spun toward Boone. “Is that damned coffee boiling yet?”

  “It’s likely warm enough,” Boone said, not looking up.

  The Texan and the Tennessean rose and moved to the fire. Story followed.

  “Will not any of you show mercy?”

  No one answered, or even looked at Beckstead.

  “I’ll report this to the law. I’ll report it to the editor of the newspaper in Virginia City.”

  “Do that,” Story told him. “And while you’re in the office, ask Professor Dimsdale to read the book he printed in the Post. He calls it The Vigilantes of Montana.”

  “Like Story says, Doc,” Rees said as he held out a cup for Boone to fill. “This isn’t Maryland. These men are guilty. And most likely, they would have shot you dead while you lay on the ground unconscious had they gotten the chance.”

  “Which they would’ve,” Wilkinson said. “Had it not been for Story and Boone here.”

  * * *

  He felt as if he were somewhere else, reading about this in a newspaper or Harper’s, or watching it as some performance at an opera house. It seemed . . . just . . . surreal.

  Boone and Rees helped the man with the mangled leg stand, and Story handed him the tin cup he had just used for his own coffee. Beckstead looked down at his own hand, the cup that he gripped, still filled with lukewarm coffee that he had yet to taste. The first condemned man even thanked his executioners for the drink. The man with the ruined hand shook his head when offered coffee, so Story tossed the liquid into the snow and pitched the cup aside.

  During the morning, they had moved the stagecoach around, so that it faced the road toward Virginia City, though its back remained off the road, under the grove of trees. They had also, after drinking coffee, dragged the dead horse to the side of the road, next to the dead bandits, as well as the wreckage of Beckstead’s wagon.

  “Are not we to bury these men?” Beckstead had asked.

  “If the wolves haven’t gotten them by spring,” Story said, “maybe you can come up here and dig them a proper grave.”

  Beckstead’s mouth hung open till Rees came over and put his arm around the doctor’s shoulder. “Ground’s frozen solid this time of year, Doc, and it isn’t like they would’ve treated us no different.”

  This was a different world than Boise . . . or Salt Lake . . . or even bloody, war-torn Maryland and Virginia—the world from which Seth Reginald Beckstead had tried to escape.

  Story and Wilkinson jerked the leader, named Ambrose—he would not give another name—to his feet, spun him around against the Concord, and tied his arms behind him. The same was done, though with less aggression, to the other man, who bowed his head and began to pray.

  They led the men to the back of the stagecoach, hoisted them onto the edge of the rear boot. Rees had to climb up as well, to hold the other man, Robin Roy McGuinn, age twenty-four, from Iowa County, Iowa—and if someone would write his mother, Mary Burgess McGuinn, general delivery, and tell her that he died of pneumonia while mining for gold in Bannack City
, he would be indebted. By then, Story had climbed onto the top of the coach and slipped the ropes over both men’s necks. He dropped a placard of some kind, with a silk scarf used for a rope, over Ambrose’s neck. At length, Story climbed back to the driver’s box.

  Boone kicked out the fire, which hissed underneath the mounds of snow.

  “Any last words?” Wilkinson called out.

  The gimp shook his head and began sobbing.

  Ambrose used a vile profanity.

  Story released the brake, whipped the lines, and the coach moved forward about a rod.

  The two men kicked in the wind, and slowly strangled.

  “My God,” Beckstead whispered.

  “Fetch what you need to bring, Doc,” Story called to him. “You can send for the rest or come get it yourself when you get to Virginia City.”

  “Come on, Doc.” Boone was at his side. “It’s over. We got to pick up some folks we left behind before they freeze to death.”

  “And Halloran’s got a schedule he thinks he can keep.” Wilkinson laughed as he opened the door and climbed inside.

  “Let’s go.” Beckstead felt himself being guided to the stagecoach. He had enough sense to stop and pick up his grip, his surgical kit. He did not look back at the dead men swinging from the tree limb. But he would never forget the sign hung around Ambrose’s neck.

  LET

  THIS BE

  A LESSON

  TO ALL

  ROAD AGENTS

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  John Catlin never understood how winter wheat got its name. It grew, once you planted the seeds in the fall, a few inches, just before the first freeze, after which it would just sit there, dead like the rest of the county, till spring came along. Only then would it green up.

  Some of his neighbors planted red winter, but never expected anything from it. They told Catlin it helped the soil, kept the winter winds and snow from blowing all that good dirt to some damned Confederate state. Corn was the cash crop. Good old corn. Corn grew. So they’d plow up the red winter, plant corn, make a little money come harvest time. Providing no hail beat the hell out of the acres and acres they had planted. Or a tornado blew everything—sometimes even their homes—to Illinois. But, by thunder, if John Catlin planted wheat, he expected to grow wheat, and not just to mix in with cow dung and fertilize cornfields.

  So he grew red winter in the winter, same as Steve Grover, and if—sometimes one enormous if—he had a crop by midsummer, he’d reap not only the grain, but also take the straw and bale it. Funny how much an Indiana farmer could make baling dry wheat stalks to sell for bedding for cows, pigs, things like that. Then he could plant seed corn, hope it made, before planting the red winter in September.

  And here he sat, with his four walls and one door, and a fireplace that gave him enough light to read Dickens, listening to the wolves screaming as the wind moaned. He had a heck of a home, one that befitted a captain in a volunteer Union regiment. Why, before he had enlisted, the only door he had was his grandma’s blanket. Now he had a bona fide door of pine. Living like a king. The other day, Catlin had decided to make pounded cheese. He had carved about a pound of goat’s milk cheese with his knife, spooned in enough butter with some black pepper and cayenne. His ma always liked to spice hers with sherry, but Catlin figured the beer he had bought in town would be all right. So after he had tilled it smooth as a baby’s bottom in a mortar, he pressed it into a jar, covered the top with the rest of his butter, and now he had a snack. But, damn, he sure wished he had that beer now to drink.

  Still, he looked across the room, spotted the jar of pounded butter, but to fetch that would mean he’d have to get up from his spot here, move away from the fireplace. Of course, he would have to do that anyway pretty soon, because he needed to add fuel to the fire.

  Of course, Catlin did not have to farm. Man like him could go to work for the Haskell-Barker Car Company, help build railroads all across the country. Or go over to Michigan City and work at the Northern Indiana State Prison. Count prisoners. Walk around and make sure convicts didn’t get out of hand. Lots of things a former officer in the Union army could do. Well, maybe not. Some of the factories had started leasing inmates from the prison to do a lot of the work there. Pretty cheap labor, too. Not that farming was much better. The war, Catlin kept being told, was over. The U.S. Army kept getting rid of soldiers every day. No need for them, except out west to fight the savage redskins.

  “I wonder what Steve’s doing right now?” Catlin folded the newspaper on his lap, looked at the fire, shook his head. “You’re getting senile, Captain. Talking to yourself.” He chuckled. “Which is probably what Steve Grover’s doing, too.”

  Camp Rose, Catlin figures, must have sounded better than the St. Joseph County Fairgrounds, which is where he has arrived with other new volunteers of the 87th Indiana. He asks a man wearing a fancy uniform where he might take his supper, and the man gives Catlin the worst tongue-lashing he has ever heard from a sober man. Tells him to forage for food. Uses salty language, too.

  Maybe Mr. Lincoln’s army hasn’t figured out that soldiers figure on being fed. Eventually, Catlin finds his camp, with other boys in Company I.

  “Where do we eat?” Catlin asks a lean soldier studying the brogans on his feet.

  “Not sure we do,” the man says. He holds his kersey blue trousers in his left hand, a navy blouse in the other, and just stands there in his undergarments, looking at his shoes.

  “What you think of these shoes?” the man asks.

  Catlin looks down. “You got mighty big feet. No offense.”

  The man’s head shakes. “No, I pride myself on my small feet,” and he draws his right foot out. Catlin nods.

  “I told the man giving out these duds that my feet aren’t big. I think he found these just to spite me.”

  “Did you ask to get something more suitable?”

  “Yeah. And you wouldn’t believe the words he used.”

  “Oh, I might. I asked a fellow with a lot of color on his blue coat about chuck. He might have said the same words. Could’ve been the same man.”

  “Nah. Man who gave me these didn’t have much color on his uniform. Except some stripes on his sleeves.” He shows Catlin the shape of the stripes and where they fit on the man’s upper arms.

  “What did he say about chuck?” the man asks.

  “Said go draft it myself. With some peculiar adjectives before and after, describing food and me.”

  The man smiles brightly. “So you’re telling me he isn’t the chaplain.”

  Catlin laughs. “Well, I don’t know. I haven’t figured out this man’s army yet.”

  “He said draft?”

  “Indeed. Draft. ‘Go draft your foul-word supper your own foul-word self, you foulest word, Private. Do I foul-word look like a foul-word chef, you insolent, insubordinate foul-word, fouler word.’”

  “Foul. Interesting choice of words. But draft, I’m just not sure.”

  “I’ve never heard it used that way.”

  “I’d use . . . forage. Unless he meant draft in the monetary form.”

  “Or prepare. Did they give you any cookware when they gave you the uniform?”

  “No. Didn’t even give me a blessed musket. Said we’d get those issued later.” His head shook. “But as we have yet to be paid, I think forage is what he meant. Though I thought about rummage.”

  “I like that word. Reminds me of Grandma back in Cleveland. You’re in Company I?”

  “Yes. Bought a farm in the county.”

  “I’ve been farming there for three years now.”

  “I guess that makes us neighbors.”

  “And here we are in the same regiment. You know.” He points to the new recruit’s brogans. “You soak those in water, the leather will shrink. Not that they’ll shrink that much, but with two pairs of socks, maybe three, they might not fly off when they start marching us all day.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

 
; “Perhaps we should go draft our supper?”

  “That is one foul-word idea. If you’ll let me put on the boots I walked here in, I might foul-word rummage around South Bend with you.” He turns toward a white tent. “There’s room here, if you have yet to take an apartment.”

  “I would be foul-word honored.” They move to their temporary home of white canvas. “I saw some geese about a quarter mile east of here.” He holds out his right hand. “My name is John Catlin.”

  “Delighted.” They shake. “You may call me Steve foul-word Grover.”

  Well, that memory had killed about fifteen minutes for Catlin, who reached down to stoke the fire. He made himself yawn, stared at the jar of pounded cheese, and wondered what Steve Grover was doing right about now. Then he settled back into the chair, picked up the paper, and read without really registering any article, any sentence, any word. Until he saw something, a tiny notice in regular type and font, buried between a sentence about something that had happened in Natchitoches, Louisiana, and a larger advertisement about “Vegetable Ambrosia.”

  WESTWARD TO RICHES

  I am organizing an expedition that will depart

  NEBRASKA CITY

  in the spring for the goldfields in the

  Northern Rockies.

  Following Bozeman’s trail.

  Experienced Bullwhackers needed.

  Apply to: MAJ. COUSHATTA JOHN NOAH,

  The American House, Nebraska City,

  Nebraska Territory.

  Liberty and Union Men Preferred.

  He read the advertisement again. Bullwhacker. Well, his father had been a blacksmith before trying his hand at farming. Catlin had never soldiered until he enlisted, certainly had never been an officer until he got promoted. How hard could bullwhacking be? Besides, he had all winter to figure out what exactly a bullwhacker had to do.