A Thousand Texas Longhorns

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Dust rose ahead, and a moment later, Hannah loped back. He rode a dun this afternoon—the fourth horse he had taken out of the remuda. After reining in, he turned the dun around and pulled alongside Story.

  “River’s just a little more than two miles ahead.” Hannah found his canteen and took a drink.

  “Do we rest them today and cross at first light?”

  “No, we’ll just push them across.” He offered the canteen to Story, who shook his head. “Let’s ride back. You and I will take point. I want to send Peña and Sam up ahead, scout out the best crossing for us, make sure we steer clear of quicksand.”

  Galloping past, Hannah told the cook that they’d be at the Red River soon. He issued his command to the point riders, and took the left side of the herd. As Story rode over to the right, he noticed the cattle. Every day the same steers led the herd. Cattle, he figured, were like men. Leaders and followers. He decided to name the brindle George Washington and the chocolate and white one Grandpa William, the first Story to leave Norwich, England, for Massachusetts back in 1637. How many greats came before Grandpa, Story couldn’t quite remember, but Grandpa William was the one Story male with grit. Till now.

  “Luck’s with you,” Hannah called out over the bawling cattle. He pointed to the west, where thick clouds blackened the sky. “Rains have held off. River’s not high. Should be able to get them across without losing too many.”

  “I’d hate to lose one.”

  Hannah laughed. “Any head we lose crossing the Red, we’ll likely pick two up once we move through southern Kansas. Providing the Texas fever doesn’t kill them. And you wanted a mixed herd, so you got bulls, cows, and heifers. Real good chance we’ll have some calves before we reach Montana.”

  Deciding to continue the conversation, Story called over, “You still haven’t asked for your payment for this herd.”

  “In a couple of days, I’ll have Luis and Peña run a tally. Nobody counts better than Mexicans, Story. That’s one thing I’ve learned.”

  Story had learned something, too. He once figured Texans were all Southern trash. After all, they had fought to keep the Negro in bondage, but here, on a trail drive, Mexicans and Texans worked side by side. No one here remembered the Alamo, or if they did, they never brought it up. Even more remarkable, the two men of color on this drive—Dalton Combs and Jordan Stubbings—worked alongside white men, even men who—since Sam Ireland wore a rebel shell jacket, and Jody Barley’s butternut britches still ran the blue leg stripes of an infantry soldier—had fought for the Confederacy. Combs had won Ryan Ward’s spurs in a poker game two nights ago, yet Combs had allowed the Texan to keep them until they got paid in Kansas City, Missouri.

  Kansas City, Missouri. Story ground his teeth. No. That wouldn’t even be the halfway point.

  Hoofbeats sounded, and Story turned in his saddle as Hannah spurred his horse to reach a fast-riding cowboy. The galloper was Ryan Ward. Story recognized him from the bowler hat he wore with a purple scarf tied around the crown and under his chin to keep it from blowing off.

  “Keep the herd pointed toward the river,” Hannah called out as he rode.

  Story kept glancing back as the men met. Ward pointed down the trail. That was about all Story saw, until both men parted, Ward returning south, Hannah galloping but slowing down as he moved back to his position at the point.

  “Let’s hurry these along,” Hannah said. “That way they won’t slow down when we hit the river.”

  “You sure you don’t want to wait to cross at morning?” Story asked.

  Hannah pointed toward the clouds.

  “And are you sure you don’t want me to pay you for this beef?”

  “Like I said, in a day or two.”

  “What I figured.” Story dropped back, then urged the lead steers ahead a bit faster.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you gave me a bill of sale, I could just show that to the county solicitor, sheriff, and judge and plead my ignorance as a dumb Yankee from Ohio, who happened to be taken in by a cow-stealing son of a bitch. That paper would be my evidence. But this way, no bill of sale, I’m just another dumb rustler. So when you finally got around to telling me that a posse was hot on our tail, I really wouldn’t have much choice but to fight for my life.”

  Hannah laughed. He pointed north.

  “We might not have to fight. Ward said that sheriff is pretty far back, but you never know how a herd will swim a river. Especially the Red. She can be a bitch. And that sheriff, I’m not so sure he would want to risk a trial again. Juries tend to like me.”

  The pace increased.

  Story could see the darkness of a muddy, deep, fast-flowing river.

  “I sure hope you know how to swim.” Hannah was pulling out his revolvers and sliding them into his saddlebags, then shedding his linen duster . . . all without slowing down. Story didn’t have a duster, but he quickly unbuckled his gun rig and let it hang over the horn. Got rid of any unnecessary weight, or anything that would make it harder to get across that river if his horse panicked and pitched him.

  “I can swim,” Story yelled back.

  “Good,” he heard Hannah shout. “Because I can’t.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The full moon had risen over Rock Bluff by the time the drag riders, and the armed guard at the rear, swam the Red.

  While the crossing seemed treacherous—especially once the sun set—Story could understand why the place had been used. The outcroppings of Rock Bluff forced the herd into what basically resembled a chute, which descended to a solid ford. Swimming proved dangerous and difficult, but once horses and longhorns reached the Indian Nations, the bank sloped north. The cattle just kept climbing up, on an easy grade, and Hannah’s men kept them going, although Story wasn’t sure how the men or horses could manage to keep standing, let alone go forward.

  Story figured he had ridden his horse across that river at least a dozen times—and Jameson Hannah had more than doubled Story’s total. Story’s dapple had dodged horns and limbs, even trees that the wicked current propelled like torpedoes. He wasn’t sure how many head they had lost, but Hannah sent Jimmy Titus and Ernesto Martinez, two of the regular drag riders, downstream. “Keep on this side of the river, boys. Any beef on the Texas side, let Texas keep. Our little present.” He swung his horse around and called out to Fabian Peña: “Take advantage of the moon. Get us two more miles, then make camp.”

  Hannah dropped out of the saddle, urinated, and found a cigar in his saddlebags. “Are you partial to the weed?” he said. “I have an extra cigar. Straight from Havana.”

  “Don’t you think between the moon and the glow from your cigar, you’d make a target?” He pointed across the river, toward the glow of torches.

  “Two cigars might confuse them.” Hannah laughed. He pulled his revolvers from a saddlebag, returned them to his sash, drew the Spencer from the scabbard, and left his exhausted horse on the muddy, dung-covered northern banks of the Red River, while he smoked his cigar and brought Story both Havana and match.

  “You did well for a virgin,” Hannah said.

  Story dismounted, buckled on his gun belt, and accepted Hannah’s offerings. The match flared, the tobacco burned, and Story felt the satisfying flavor in his mouth and throat.

  Ten minutes later, the torches stopped on the southern side of the river. Hannah stood next to Story. Both men smoked. Story’s worn-out horse hung its head and snorted. The two kept horses between them and the posse.

  “Hannah.” A voice roared from the Texas side. “Jameson Hannah.”

  “Is that you, Brock Ephan?”

  “You know damn well it is. I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  Hannah tapped ash into the mud. “I don’t think they allow you to do that, Junior. You’re a far piece from Ellis County.”

  “And you also damn well know that I have a commission in the Texas State Police.”

  “Yeah. I don’t think that’ll do you any good up her
e.”

  “I’m telegraphing the law in Baxter Springs, Sedalia, and Kansas City. You’ll have a hard time selling cattle—stolen cattle—anywhere, Hannah. And I hope the border gangs jump you and cut you to pieces.”

  Lightning flashed in the west. Those clouds moved pretty fast.

  “You best find shelter, Junior,” Hannah said. He crushed his cigar in the mud, nodded at Story, and led his horse north.

  “You show up anywhere near Waxahachie, Hannah, and, by Jehovah, you’ll swing.”

  Hannah did not answer until he moved behind an elm. “Don’t give yourself a hernia, Junior. Tell your voters that you’ve run me clear out of Texas, that Texas and Ellis County and Fort Worth and Dallas and Jefferson and all those fine places will never see Jameson Hannah again. Rest easy, Junior, you’ve seen the last of me.” He grabbed the reins, mounted the horse, and smiled at Story. “I’m going to . . . Montana Territory,” he whispered.

  * * *

  The rains started around midnight. Stopped at one-thirty. Started again at two. Kept going. By morning, the skies showed no signs of relief, and the sun remained hidden.

  Story sat in the back of the covered wagon, out of the steady rain, sipping lukewarm coffee with Jameson Hannah and the point riders, Fabian Peña and Sam Ireland. The trail boss had given the crew some extra sleep, although with no tents, and only cutbanks and trees for shelter, he doubted if many men actually slept.

  “What we’ll do,” Hannah said, “is push on. Move on toward Fort Gibson, then trail up the Neosho toward Kansas.”

  “Baxter Springs?” Ireland asked.

  “Story here wants to sell at Kansas City. Maybe Westport.”

  The lie made the coffee seem extra bitter, and Story tossed it out through the opening in the canvas.

  “All right,” Ireland said. “But Kansans have been as tetchy as Missourians lately.”

  “Well, I figure to swing a bit farther west than usual. Take longer, maybe, but you boys are getting paid by the day. Grass should be green, too, with all this rain.”

  “And the rivers will be higher,” Peña said.

  Hannah nodded without comment, turned toward the front of the wagon, and called out, “José, ring that triangle and get those sons of bitches up. Coffee only. But I want a full meal of bacon, biscuits, and beans for supper.”

  Story studied the supplies in the wagon. Cookware lay scattered about in boxes, and he found enough coffee to last two months. But the flour wouldn’t get them to Kansas, and the bacon was getting low.

  “We’ll outfit at Fort Gibson,” Hannah said after the two cowhands had climbed out into the misery. “Get your boys some fitting duds for a trail drive, too. You could use better clothes yourself.”

  Story let his head bob.

  “Speaking of money, I guess it’s time for you and me to settle up,” Hannah said.

  “I thought you wanted to do a head count.”

  “No need. I am a man of my word, same as you.” He sipped coffee. “You said a thousand head, and that’s what I got you. So ten dollars a head, I’ll take ten thousand dollars.”

  Story dropped his cup in what the Texans call a wreck pan.

  “Ten dollars for a bull,” Story told him. “Eight-fifty for a steer. Seven-fifty for a cow.”

  Hannah laughed. “I don’t seem to be able to find an abacus in José’s wagon. That math might take a college professor to figure out, anyway.”

  “I happen to have attended college,” Story said. Which was true. He hadn’t finished, but that didn’t really matter, and math had never been his best subject, either, even when he had been teaching school.

  “You really want to count that way?”

  “It seems fair to me.”

  Hannah drew in a deep breath, held it, and slowly exhaled. He opened his mouth to protest, but Story was already talking, “You have plenty of time to get this herd counted.” He looked out the opening to make sure no man remained in earshot. “It’s a long way to Virginia City. Your dilemma is when do you count the herd. Do it now, and maybe we haven’t lost that many head. Wait till Kansas, maybe we pick up some by accident and some from mamas dropping their babies. Which reminds me. Calves, five dollars.”

  Hard raindrops began pelting the canvas. Story glanced up, found his hat, and placed it atop his head before the canvas started leaking.

  “Well, let’s say I get you a tally by the time we hit Fort Gibson. And we can dicker over those figures you came up with over some Chock beer. We settle that, we shake hands, and then you pay me. So . . . how do you plan on paying me? Gold? Scrip? I really don’t care much for checks.”

  “You get the herd’s count, and that’s what you’ll be paid for. But you’ll be paid like all the rest of the men.” He smiled, and quoted Hannah from that hillside just north of Fort Worth: “‘Paying in full at the end of the drive.’ That being Virginia City.” He was standing now, moving to the opening, ducking, and climbing out and into the rain. He pulled the brim down lower, looked up, and nodded at Jameson Hannah. “Minus, of course, the hundred and fifty dollars I advanced you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The sun reappeared, disappeared, and after two days, Story began to wonder if it would ever reappear.

  “At least we ain’t thirsty,” Jordan Stubbings said.

  * * *

  After Bill Petty reined in the farm wagon on a knoll overlooking the camp, Mason Boone pulled up his dun and said, “What is it?”

  The rain had slowed into a drizzle as they rode back from a trading post at Boggy Creek, where Story had bought India rubber ponchos, flour, salt pork, beans, bedrolls, chaps, and just about everything the grizzled old half-breed had in stock—all now piled into the back of the wagon—which Story had also bought—except for the new clothes Boone donned.

  Petty pointed. “It just isn’t what I thought it would look like.”

  Staring below, Boone saw what he had been seeing daily. Beef. Horses. Puddles that became lakes. A gray horizon. He wiped his face, sniffed, and asked, “What?”

  “That.” Petty shook his head. “It didn’t look anything like that in Ma’s Bible.”

  A weary sigh left Boone’s mouth and he shook his head, waiting to hear the joke.

  “Just not what I figured Noah’s ark would look like.” Allen laughed, looked at Boone, and explained with a grin. “It’s the wagon. See. José’s wagon. Ark. Wagon.” His chuckling stopped sooner this time, and he sighed, turned away from the unsmiling Boone, released the brake, and drove to camp.

  * * *

  Story dreamed again.

  He’s a boy, digging in the Ohio farm. Digging a grave. A grave for a dog. He doesn’t see the dog, can’t even know which dog it is. He just digs.

  Digs.

  Digs.

  Story flinched, eyes shot open, and in the darkness he made out the face of the Mexican.

  “Patrón,” José Pablo Tsoyio whispered. “It is time. I have coffee ready.”

  Story threw off the blanket, sat up, watched the cook moving toward the fire. He could smell coffee. He stared at Tsoyio’s back, wondering if the cook had heard him muttering something, sobbing, anything, but Nelson Story could not ask. And he wasn’t about to start thinking dreams meant something, like a god telling him something, foreshadowing, bullshit like that.

  He knew what the dream meant. Hell, he even remembered the dog’s name.

  * * *

  The weather refused to break. Dark clouds hid the blue sky. Rain fell. And fell. And fell. The Clear Boggy Creek looked just as muddy as the Muddy Boggy, only substantially higher. Water levels at creeks and streams revealed that it had been raining upstream for a long time. Not spring thunderstorms, those treacherous displays of roaring winds, pounding hail, and driving rains—and, sometimes, destructive twisters—but steady, cold storms with no end. One cloud passed, another appeared. On and on, wet misery followed soggy melancholy.

  * * *

  “How many miles did we make today?” Story asked, stand
ing in line behind most of the water-soaked drovers for coffee.

  “Seven.” Rainwater ran off Jameson Hannah’s hat like a waterfall.

  “This normal for this time of year?”

  Hannah looked at the man in front of him, Fabian Peña.

  “No,” the point rider said.

  “I don’t like it,” Sam Ireland said. “Too much rain can mean disaster up the trail.”

  Story ran his toes back and forth inside his boots, feeling his soaked socks.

  “The beeves will have plenty of grass to eat.” Dalton Combs walked toward them, smiling though practically waterlogged, but holding a steaming cup of coffee and a bowl of beans in his hands. “Fattening up.”

  “Till come the drying winds,” Peña said, staring at the puddle at his feet.

  “Right.” Ireland pulled the makings from his shirt pocket, looked at the drizzle, shook his head, and shoved the pouch back out of the weather.

  “What does he mean?” Story asked.

  “That the grass will grow high,” Hannah said. “And you’d think that’s good, and it is good, till it gets hot, and that wind starts blowing. Then you’ve got dried-out grass. Tons of it.” He snapped his fingers. “Lightning strike. Prairie fire.” His head shook. “It’s not a pretty thing.”

  “Good thing for us,” Stubbings said, “is that we’ll have this herd delivered and off to Chicago before it gets hot.”

  Story stared at his boots, no longer moving his toes.

  “Yeah,” one of the men closer to the cook said.

  The rain made the lie he had told these men feel heavier, but that passed quickly, when he stepped under the tarp, out of the weather for just a moment, and got a bowl of beans seasoned with chile peppers, and coffee with even a cube of sugar to drop into the cup.

  * * *

  Dark clouds hung low that morning, but no rain had fallen since just after midnight, when the wagons driven by Bill Petty and José Pablo Tsoyio stopped in the soggy sand.

  “What’s that?” Petty pointed ahead.

  “The Canadian River,” the Mexican said as he pulled out his crucifix from a jacket pocket and brought it to his lips.