A Thousand Texas Longhorns

by Johnny D. Boggs

  PART II

  Spring

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

  John Catlin did not even shoot Steve Grover a glance. He stared at the sprawling, bustling, busiest little piece of nowhere that he had ever seen. They had crossed the Missouri River in Iowa by ferry and found themselves in . . .

  “Indianapolis hasn’t got a thing like this,” Grover said.

  Wagons larger than anything Catlin had even seen in the Union army lined street after street. People ran as though fleeing a twister. Frame buildings with false fronts ran up and down the main street, an oasis on a wavy sea of grass. The first freight wagon he passed had five yoke of oxen. A voice barked at them to get out of the street, and Catlin turned to see a mule-drawn wagon digging up mud, four mules to one line. He grabbed Grover’s shoulder and they moved to the boardwalk in front of a long, rectangular business named, according to the red-painted letters on the false top floor:

  Men’s Furnishing House.

  A man exited through the door, almost barreling over Catlin and Grover, did not apologize, just kept on walking. Catlin looked at Grover, who set his valise at his feet and wiped his brow. “I’d keep a hand on that,” Catlin told him, nodding at the grip. He kept both hands on his. Silently, Grover picked up the bag, and both men stepped aside as a burly man in buckskins charged past, patting his fringed britches with a shiny-knobbed whip.

  Another man turned the corner and made a beeline toward . . . whatever. Catlin got out an “Excuse me, mister, but . . .” before the crowd swallowed the fellow.

  “Over there.” Grover pointed across the muddy street.

  Catlin saw the man in the tan suit, sitting on a bench in front of Markley’s Fitting Out House, and they slogged through six-inch-deep mud, let six or seven people pass, and stepped onto that boardwalk. Grover took a step closer to the man, who turned the page of his newspaper, and stopped, glanced at Catlin, and let his sheepish grin remind Catlin that he was the captain and Grover a mere private. After a menacing scowl, Catlin stepped closer to the bench, cleared his throat, and said, “Excuse me, mister, but could you direct us to . . . the American House?” The man finished reading a sentence, looked up at the two, and adjusted his bifocals. “We just got into town, you see,” Catlin explained.

  The gentleman pushed back his silk hat, smiled pleasantly, and said, “Do I look like a damned city directory?”—and returned to his newspaper.

  “Boardwalk is for walkin’, not standin’.” Now Catlin turned to find another bearded man in buckskins, a brace of pistols in a wide belt. Catlin backpedaled toward the street and let the big man pass. He and Grover followed.

  “Friendly town,” Grover said.

  “Shut up.”

  The sky remained black from the smoke of the steamboats along the bank of the Missouri River. The sky matched the mood of Nebraska City.

  Men barked, cursed, fought. Oxen bellowed. Mules brayed. Whips and lariats popped. When one wagon moved out, another came into its place. The streets stank of dung.

  “Must be more folks here than there were at the Grand Review,” Grover said as they waited for a giant wagon to turn left and head west.

  “I doubt that.”

  “Folks at the Grand Review sure were a whole lot friendlier.”

  Nodding, Catlin spit into the mud. He saw all the fresh excrement he would have to cross to get to the next block and, from the sign on the side:

  MCCORD’S OUTFITTING

  If You Don’t Like Our Prices,

  Lump It.

  “Reminds me of Camp Rose in South Bend,” Grover said.

  Catlin sighed. “But our sergeants weren’t as rude or profane.”

  “Difference between a Hoosier and a westerner, I guess. We gotta walk across that?” He nodded at the dung. “Seems like folks would put a board or something across the street. I bet McCord won’t like folks tracking any of that filth into his store.”

  “Lump it,” Catlin said before stepping into the quagmire.

  * * *

  A man crashed through the doors of a saloon, slammed into the wooden column, spit out teeth and blood, drew a knife sheathed in his boot, and staggered back inside. Glass shattered. Someone groaned, and the man flew through the doors again, this time missing the column and landing in the muck between two horses at the hitching rail. The knife flew out next, swallowed by the mud. The man tried to rise, but his face planted again in the filth, and another man came through the door, sucking on his skinned knuckles.

  Slowly, he turned and sized up Grover and Catlin, lowered his hand, wiped his lips with his left hand, and tilted his head at the man in the street.

  “Friend of yours?”

  Grover’s head was already shaking as Catlin said, “Didn’t get a good enough look at him either time, but I doubt it. We just got to town.”

  “Years back, this was a peaceful town,” the man said. “When we got Russell, Majors and Waddell’s freighting company to move here, Majors insisted on a few changes. Including the suppression of dram shops and dens of iniquity. As you can see, the suppression did not last.” He turned back toward the saloon, lifted his right hand, snapped his fingers.

  He wore plaid woolen britches, a gray hat with the left brim pinned up, high brown boots, a long scarf, and a billowy cotton shirt of red with white polka dots, and a big revolver holstered high on his right hip.

  One of the doors creaked open, and a hand stretched out with a pewter stein. The man took the stein and sipped. The hand making the delivery disappeared.

  Catlin took a chance. “We were wondering, sir, if you might be able to direct us to the American House.”

  The man smacked his lips, shook his head, and grimaced. “This is the worst whiskey in the territories.” He ran his tongue over his lips. “What business do you have at the American House?”

  Well, Catlin figured, it was at least a conversation.

  “We’re looking for a Major Coushatta John Noah.”

  The man took another drink, spat it out, and then took another drink, this time swallowing. “Válgame Dios, what business would you have with that nefarious scoundrel?”

  “We were hoping to hire on as bullwhackers.”

  The man laughed. “Good luck with that, gentlemen.”

  Catlin and Grover waited and the man took another drink, swallowed, shook his head, and pointed the stein toward the north. “You boys must have come undone to want to join up with that scalawag, but . . . if you’re game enough, cross the street, two blocks up, another block west. Be gone, lads. But don’t say you have not been warned.”

  * * *

  “I don’t see anything that says American House.” Grover stopped, and tried prying off mud with a busted wagon spoke.

  “I don’t see anything that looks like a hotel,” Catlin said.

  The street ended after some privies and cribs, one dilapidated sod hut with the roof caved in, and a wagon yard filled with mangy mules and donkeys with their ribs showing. There were about a dozen freight wagons, empty, rotting, falling apart. Wheels were missing from two, and the axles busted on at least two more. The place reeked of trash, because this had to be the garbage pile of Nebraska City. Beyond that, rolling plains stretched for eternity.

  “Maybe we ought to go back to La Porte,” Grover said.

  “Maybe. After I teach some rude folks in this town manners.”

  “Oh, shit,” Grover said, and tried to catch up with Catlin before he turned the corner.

  * * *

  The man in the mud was gone, perhaps sucked down into the bowels, and the fellow who had directed them to the trash heap was gone. Catlin barged into the saloon and found the man sitting at a table in the center, smiling.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said with a smile, “that you did not find Major Noah.”

  Laughter filled the saloon as Grover pushed through the batwing doors, trying to catch his breath.

  “But I’ve found you, mist
er.”

  “Major,” the man corrected. “You should address me as Major.” He removed his hat—the top of his head was bald. “Major Coushatta John Noah, at your service.” He rose, left the stein on the table, and approached the two stunned Hoosiers.

  “A test, gentlemen. First, you followed orders. Second, annoyed, you came back to settle a score. You showed loyalty and grit. Ask any man in Nebraska City and they will tell you that Coushatta John Noah hires only men with loyalty and grit. Do you have horses?”

  Both men shook their heads.

  “Well, you have a long walk ahead of you. You’re hired. If you can make it to my camp by first thing tomorrow morning.” He pointed. “Seven miles due west, on the trail, an ash hollow. You’ll smell my cook’s sourdough biscuits.” He held out his hand. “I’m glad to have you with me.”

  Catlin stared at the hand, then slammed a right fist into the man’s jaw, sending him sailing toward Grover, who stepped onto the boardwalk and held the door open to allow the man to pass, slam into the hitching rail, startling the horses, and land on his knees.

  “You must take me for a fool,” Catlin said as he stepped out.

  The man spit out blood and rose unsteadily. “I am Major Coushatta John Noah.” He wiped his lip. “Now, I will pardon you once, but lay a hand on me again, boys, and I will answer with lead.” His right hand brushed against the butt of the revolver. “My name is Coushatta John Noah. My train is seven miles due west on the main trail.” He pointed. “You follow that road. I will meet you there at first light. We will talk over breakfast. How foolish is it for me, a wagon master, to hire two men who haven’t even convinced me that they know an ox from an ant?” The hand extended again.

  Catlin looked at Grover, then slowly, shook the hand, tensed and ready if the man reached for that revolver while shaking. He didn’t. Instead, his hand slipped into his vest pocket and pulled out a coin. “Go. Have a drink on Major Coushatta John Noah. I’ll see you in the morn.”

  He spun, and took off hurriedly down the boardwalk. Scratching his head, Grover looked at Catlin, and then both men heard footsteps. A tall, thin man stepped past them, unleashed a long whip, and let it fly. The blacksnake caught the running man at the ankles. The only thing John Catlin knew about bullwhackers was what he had tried to teach himself in his farmhouse over the winter, but he learned that to make a long whip fly in close confines took more skill than he had.

  Next the man started reeling in the leather like a man working a fishing line, approaching the screaming man who, by now, Catlin was convinced was not Coushatta John Noah. Slowly, Catlin walked behind the man, and Grover followed Catlin.

  Just as the thin man with the whip reached the dubious Noah, the slickster reached for his gun. The crunching of bones under the thin man’s boots caused Catlin to grimace, then smile. The thin man reached down, jerked the bellowing man to his feet—the .44 remained on the mud-slicked planking. He slammed the man’s face against the whitewashed wall, leaving a stain of blood, hair, and snot. He brought his knee into the man’s groin, buried his left fist into the man’s gut, and as the man started to vomit, threw him into the street.

  “Buster, you use my name in one of your pranks again, and your hide and hair will be drying with your bones from here to the Big Blue.” He picked up the revolver, started to throw it into the mud, then examined it, pulled back the hammer, listening to the action, lowered the hammer, felt the gun’s balance, nodded with approval, and slipped the Colt into his waistband.

  Turning, he looked at Catlin and Grover.

  “You two got business with me?”

  “Are you Major Coushatta John Noah?” Grover asked.

  “More than that pissant.” He gestured to the man still lying in the sludge.

  “Well . . .” Grover turned toward Catlin.

  “We’re answering your advertisement,” Catlin told him.

  The man gathered up the long whip. “Freighting men?”

  They glanced at each other. “We’re willing to learn,” Catlin said.

  The man laughed. “I don’t teach school, boys. I drive trains.”

  “Yes, sir,” both men spoke.

  “If you read that advertisement carefully, you might recall the phrase, ‘Experienced Bullwhackers needed.’ Remember?”

  The saloon door opened, and a man called out, “The big one put Slick Pete on his arse. I thought he busted the crook’s jaw.”

  The coiled whip slid upon the real Coushatta John Noah’s left shoulder. The left hand began massaging the right hand’s knuckles. “Is that true?”

  “If I wanted to bust the grafter’s jaw,” Catlin said, “you wouldn’t have been conversing with him.”

  “Well, all right. But again, I need experienced men. This trip will likely get some of us killed.”

  He started to turn, but stopped when Catlin said, “That advertisement also said ‘Liberty and Union Men Preferred.’”

  Coushatta John Noah stopped, turned, and stared.

  “We weren’t teamsters during the war,” Catlin said. “Weren’t mule skinners or bullwhackers. If you’re heading to Montana Territory’s goldfields, you might have need of us, too.”

  “What outfit?”

  “Eighty-seventh Indiana.”

  “Never heard of it. Where’d you see the elephant?”

  “From Perryville to the Carolinas,” Catlin answered.

  The eyes fell on Grover. “Chickamauga. Missionary Ridge. Kennesaw Mountain. Atlanta. More than I’d care to remember.”

  “Who’d you follow?”

  “Colonel . . .” Catlin started.

  “I mean generals. If I never heard of your regiment, I likely don’t recollect no petty-ass colonel.”

  “Grant. Sherman.”

  “Grim warriors.” Coushatta John Noah nodded.

  “It was a grim war,” Catlin said.

  “Meet me for breakfast at the American House,” the tall man said. “We’ll talk then. If I can’t hire you, I’ll at least feed you some chuck. That sound right by you?”

  “Yes, sir,” both men said, and watched Major Coushatta John Noah enter the bucket of blood.

  His voice bellowed, “So how many of you pissants thought Slick Pete’s joke was funny?” A few men quickly exited through the batwing doors.

  Grover turned toward Catlin. “We still don’t know where that hotel is. Why didn’t you ask the major?”

  “We got till breakfast to find it,” Catlin said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  They camped on a hill just outside of Fort Worth, Texas—Story, Boone, and two friends that Story had hired in Leavenworth, Kansas—Bill Petty and Tom Allen. Well, maybe friends was a bit of a stretch. Nelson Story couldn’t rightly say he had ever had a friend, but he had met Petty and Allen back during his Kansas days. Good men. Loyal men. Knew how to shoot and drive wagons, and Story had made a lot of purchases in Kansas, telling the merchants that he would be back in a few months. Five weeks later, they had arrived in Fort Worth.

  It wasn’t exactly what Story had expected.

  “I don’t see one damned cow,” he said as they rode their saddle horses into the small town. “I don’t even see a fort.”

  “Yanks abandoned the fort long before the war,” Boone told him. “Moved the soldiers to Belknap.”

  They stopped in front of the courthouse near a frame building, with the sign, J. W. OLIVER: ATTORNEY AT LAW, swinging back and forth in the wind, the right side hanging down, casting a shadow on the FOR SALE notice tacked on the door. Cabins were scattered about beyond the square, but no streets connected the buildings. The only road led around the courthouse and over toward the West Fork of the Trinity River.

  “Maybe you ought to just stock your store, Nelson,” Tom Allen said. “Go back to Kansas, get the goods there. You’ll make a fortune, and selling airtights, harnesses, everything you ordered—you’d make a killing.”

  “No. I’m going into the cattle business.”

  “Cattle trail through D
allas.” Boone stuck his arm off toward the east. “Thirty miles or so. That’s where you’ll find herds.”

  “Herds bound for Missouri,” Story said.

  “With all the desperadoes, fences, and angry farmers, those drovers might be inclined to sell their herds,” Petty said.

  “For Missouri prices.”

  “Come on.” Boone pushed his bay gelding ahead. The others followed without comment. While not exactly bustling, the businesses around the square started to show signs of life. A grocery. A drugstore. Café. Hotel with a stable out back. A man in sleeve garters swept the porch to a cabin that doubled as a mercantile. Seeing the four men, he smiled pleasantly and leaned the broom against a bench.

  “Mornin’, friends,” he said. “What can I do for you this fine day?”

  “Looking for someone,” Boone said. “Jameson Hannah.”

  The smile flattened. The easiness in the man’s face died, and he straightened. His eyes moved from Story to Allen to Petty—men with Yankee written all over them—then back at Boone.

  “You a . . . friend of his?”

  “No. Never met him. But I served with his brother in the war.”

  “What outfit?”

  He certainly had a suspicious nature.

  “Tenth Texas Cavalry.”

  The man plastered a false smile, and let his head bob up and down. “And how is Caleb doing?”

  “I don’t know any Caleb Hannah. I knew Cody Hannah.”

  “That’s right, Cody. How is ol’ Cody?”

  “Not so good since Murfreesboro. That’s where he was killed. As you likely damned well know.” The man’s face went back to that doubtful look, and Boone waved his right hand toward Story. “This here is Nelson Story. Yeah, he hails from Ohio, but we came from Virginia City.”

  “Nevada?” the man exclaimed.

  “Montana.” Boone figured there was no sense in explaining that Petty and Allen were from Kansas. The man had enough misgivings for an army of secessionists. “We’re looking to drive a herd of longhorns to Montana. And from all Cody told me before he stopped a damn Yankee ball was that his big brother was the man to see about anything when it came to cattle, particular cattle, in North Texas. Now, do you know where Jameson Hannah is or not?”