A Thousand Texas Longhorns

by Johnny D. Boggs

  The children inside Fort Montgomery were hard at work, and Turner could picture Miss Withersteen inside the big building, waving her hands, trying to get these young’uns to sing and not shout. The old fort—green logs covered with dirt built up to the gun ports—had been put to good use since the old schoolhouse burned down. Fort Montgomery hadn’t seen any action when it had gone up during the rebellion. Just a couple of scares—especially after the butchery over at Lawrence in ’63—but nothing really ever happened in Greenwood County. That’s why R. R. Turner didn’t mind being sheriff.

  These days, Eureka boomed. Folks had started talking about incorporating, taking over as county seat since there wasn’t much to Janesville, and Eureka already had a jail. Even a post office. By next year, the schoolhouse they were putting up with limestone would be complete—and this one wouldn’t burn down. Folks talked about adding a hotel one of these years. People kept coming in, putting down roots, either farming or trying to make a living in some type of enterprise—always the sign of a town with a future.

  It was good country. Plenty of box elder and cottonwoods on the riverbanks, even some soft maple. Fine farm country. Good land in general.

  Doc Reynolds had hung up his shingle. A new smithy—McCain, McConnell, McCartney . . . something like that . . . Turner had better learn that name and make friends, because a blacksmith was a good person to have on your side come next election—pounded away on his anvil down the street. His hammering seemed to be about as musical as the bellowing schoolkids. Since April, Eureka had managed to open a store, though it was closed today because old Jim Kerner had to get back to his farm. You couldn’t blame a man for that in prime, fertile country. When the wind didn’t suck out all the moisture, or a tornado didn’t destroy your crops and sod house. But R. R. Turner didn’t farm. He was sheriff, duly elected, and with the rebellion long over and no bushwhackers roaming about, he could spend most of his time smoking a pipe and imagining sweet Miss Withersteen trying to herd those schoolkids.

  “Sheriff.”

  Sheriff. Not R. R. Not Turner. Sheriff. Never a good sign. Removing his pipe, Turner sighed out a stream of smoke and found Myrock Huntley kicking his mule like Quantrill rode after him. Stepping out of the shade of the old fort and away from the screaming-singing kids, Turner opened his mouth but didn’t get a chance to speak.

  “Sheriff, there’s a damned herd of Texas longhorns moving north.”

  Turner blinked. One of the first white men to settle in Greenwood County, Kansas, Myrock Huntley came from good stock. Never one to be in his cups, and if the wind and weather and rebellion and Indians hadn’t driven him loco in nine years, then . . .

  “What?” Turner hadn’t meant to say anything, but . . . cattle? Texas? Longhorns?

  “I saw them with my own eyes.”

  Turner looked at that damned black cloud.

  “Sheriff, I got two good milch cows and the last thing I need is to watch them die of Texas fever.”

  “I know, Myrock. I know.” He didn’t see anyone on the street except Doc Reynolds, and he couldn’t bring the town’s new doctor with him in a posse. What if the Texans killed the doctor? They’d have to patch up bullet wounds themselves.

  “How many cattle?” He felt electricity in the air, or maybe it was just his nerves.

  “I don’t know, Sheriff. The line stretched on forever. Wagons. Horses. I couldn’t count the number of men, either. I just hopped on Bruce’s back and kicked him as hard as I could.”

  Turner appraised the farmer. No musket or shotgun with him, but Huntley had made it from his farm without falling off the mule’s back and breaking an arm or neck. Still, Turner didn’t think Myrock Huntley would make a good posse member.

  “You say they were south of town, moving north, off by your place?”

  “Right through the far side of the pasture I planned to clear next spring.”

  “Thanks, Myrock.”

  “Sheriff, those cattle aren’t supposed to be here. We’ve got a quarantine—”

  “I know that. I’ll take care of it.”

  Already, Turner had started walking across the street toward his office, but he stopped and looked back.

  “Go find Leander Bemis,” he told the farmer. “Tell him I just deputized him, and have him bring his rifle and a belt gun. And not to dillydally.”

  Long strides took him across the street to the fire bell, which he immediately began ringing, drowning out Miss Withersteen’s students and that smithy’s hammer. It brought Edwin Tucker out of his post office and stopped just about everything in Eureka, Kansas, that morning. The circuit-riding Methodist, Preacher Stansbury, stepped out of the blacksmith’s lean-to.

  Colonists from Mississippi first settled here, but most slavery men left before the rebellion, before Kansas became a free state. Forming a posse shouldn’t be hard, as farmers in town and the solid stock of Eureka started approaching the fire bell. Sight of McKeag, old Gow, the Reeves brothers, and Dave Smyth reassured Turner that he might live through this day. He hoped like hell Huntley could find Captain Bemis, who had led the Greenwood County militia during the rebellion. If Turner could turn back a bunch of Texas cowboys, no one would even run against him come the next election.

  Suddenly, Turner smiled. Miss Withersteen had stepped out of old Fort Montgomery, a few of the boys and girls peering around her long skirt.

  Despite crazy old Mrs. Hartly’s dream, today might shape up to be a fine day—if Turner didn’t get killed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Lightning came with the clouds long before the sun set, distant at first, and just bats of lightning as they had often seen. But when the storm reached the herd, the wind picked up, and while only a few hard drops of rain fell, flash lightning ripped across the sky, soon replaced by forked lightning. That’s when Boone removed his spurs and revolver, collected the same from his fellow drag riders, and headed off to the wagon driven by Bill Petty, depositing the load into the back.

  “If I get killed by lightning,” Petty grumbled, “I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life.”

  Boone made no comment. He rode a white gelding, which he quickly dismounted, unsaddled, and took his black horse from the remuda. Dalton Combs had already ridden off on his new horse, a blood bay; Fabian Peña came trotting up on his dun. Boone didn’t know if he really believed that a light-colored horse attracted lightning, but he didn’t feel like risking his life. Once he had the cinch tight and the reins to his liking, he swung up, and moved back to drag.

  Ernesto Martinez brought his crucifix—wooden—to his mouth, lips moving in silent prayer. Tom Allen came back on a brown gelding to help out at drag.

  “Cattle seemed spooked,” he said.

  “Cattle aren’t alone,” Boone replied.

  The air smelled of burning sulfur. Ball lightning rolled across the tall grass. Sore-footed cattle began turning back, forcing the riders to work harder to keep them pointed north. Boone’s horse fought bit and rein, whipping Boone’s arms one way, then the other. The horse, like the longhorns, wanted to run. Hell, so did Boone, especially when the electricity in the air seemed to settle down over the prairie like a fog in hell.

  Jameson Hannah loped back, reining up, and spinning his horse around. He spoke to Jody Barley, the most experienced of the drag riders. “We’re bedding them down. No coffee. No supper till this storm passes us. Stay in the saddle. Circle the herd. If you haven’t gotten rid of any iron, dump it now.” He started back, reined up slightly, and looked at Boone. “If I was you, boy, I’d slouch some. Lightning hits the tallest point, and these other boys are damned short.” He laughed.

  No one else did.

  * * *

  Circling the herd, Boone saw it first. A blue flame rose from the tips of the horns on a dark-colored steer, as if someone had doused coal oil on the sharp points and lighted a match. Then he saw another glowing light.

  The stink of sulfur intensified. Blue light glowed across the herd, and Boone leaned back when
he saw the same glimmering on the ears of his gelding.

  His mouth turned dry.

  “Criminy,” Ryan Ward said as he rode toward Boone. He pointed. “Your damn hat’s got it, too.”

  Boone reached up, fingers tingling, hands shaking, wondering if the felt would burn. He lowered his hands and looked at the young Texan.

  “So does yours.” His voice sounded muffled from the strong current running through the air. He couldn’t see Ward’s face, but noticed the wiry kid leaning back in the saddle. The horse jumped, but Ward shifted in the seat, took a better grip on the reins.

  Boone moved his gelding in and nudged the cattle back. “Easy,” he said. “Easy.” Ward’s nervous voice wasn’t quite a harmony, but the steers did not run, just blubbered, turning their heads, pawing the earth, crapping and pissing all over the ground. Boone prayed his bowels wouldn’t loosen.

  He looked up, trying to see how big this storm might be. He wished it would rain. Maybe that would eliminate this . . . evil.

  “Fox fire.” Dalton Combs, usually a swing rider who rarely night-herded on the same shift with Boone, rode by. He still wore a bandanna for a bandage over the ear that had been mangled by one of the Kansas ruffian’s bullets. The bandanna was a yellow faded to almost white. The white stood out.

  “What?” Ernesto Martinez said.

  “Fox fire. Sailors used to call it St. Elmo’s fire. Maybe they still do. They’d see it on the masts.”

  “What is it?” Martinez asked.

  Combs shrugged. “Other than what I told you, I don’t rightly know.” He grinned, pointing. “Look at that.”

  Boone saw the blue light floating, sparking, waving. Even long blades of grass glowed with bluish illumination. The cattle bawled louder as the sulfuric scent turned heavier. Boone realized he was cold, shivering, his shirt drenched in sweat.

  “Never seen fox fire like that.” Combs nudged his horse forward. “Keep them easy, boys. This drive has been finer than split silk. I’d sure hate for hell to break loose now, us bein’ closer to Kansas City and a hatful of money.”

  * * *

  The last man to ride into the camp and unbuckle his revolvers and spurs did not surprise José Pablo Tsoyio. On the other hand, the fact that Nelson Story finally rode in, stepped out of the saddle, and unbuckled the belt and spur traps, and deposited those items—even a pocketknife and a watch—made the cook think that the hard-ass might be halfway human.

  “Coffee, patrón?” Tsoyio nodded at the fire.

  Wind whipped the flames so much that Tsoyio could not say the coffee was hot, even lukewarm, but it was black, and strong. Story turned from the wagon, stared at the cookware. He said, “Shit.”

  When Tsoyio turned, blue light sparked off the top of the cast-iron tripod holding the big pot over the fire.

  “In all my years,” the cook said, “I have never seen it this bad, or last this long.”

  “I’ve never even seen it.” Story came closer to the fire. “Seen the northern lights. Twice. Never this.” He nodded at the pot, and José Pablo Tsoyio knelt, found a tin cup, and, using a towel to protect his hands from the heat, poured coffee. Still kneeling, he held the cup out toward his boss, who took it. José Pablo Tsoyio also filled a cup for himself. He was about to stand when he saw the glow of the fox fire, on brims of hats, ears of horses, and what, moments later, he understood to be the barrels of rifles, shotguns, and revolvers.

  “Who the hell is running this outfit?”

  The riders fanned out. Story’s horse stutter-stepped, and he quickly grabbed the reins before the gelding bolted. Blue waves moved about the strangers. The wind blew so loudly, José Pablo Tsoyio had not heard the riders. He counted ten, but it was dark—even with the freakish wild light.

  “I am.” Story had the reins in his left hand, the cup in his right, and his weapons inside the wagon.

  “You’re breaking the law,” a man said, jabbing a long gun toward Story, sending blue fire stems crazily, spooking not only Story’s horse, but several of those carrying riders.

  “Allan,” a calmer voice said. “Let me handle this.”

  This rider’s weapon remained holstered on his left hip, with the flap fastened. The stranger dismounted, keeping the reins in his right hand. He would be so easy to kill, José Pablo Tsoyio knew, but Story had no weapons, and there were too many for José Pablo Tsoyio to kill alone. Besides, José Pablo Tsoyio had seen two stampedes, and on a night like this, anything might send the herd running—straight for this camp.

  “My name’s Turner,” the calm man said. “Sheriff of Greenwood County. There’s a law against the shipping of Texas cattle this time of year. You’re coming up from the south. I don’t think these are . . .”

  “They’re my cattle,” Story said. “And they’re from Texas.”

  “I have to place you under arrest.”

  “And the cattle?” Story asked.

  “We’ll kill them,” a man to Story’s right said. The fox fire bounced off his stirrups.

  “Enoch,” Turner said. “We’re not killing any cattle. There are no farms in this area . . .”

  A hammer cocked. Then another. A voice in the darkness said, “Sheriff, maybe you best go back to town. We can take care of . . .”

  “By all means.” Story even smiled, though José Pablo Tsoyio did not believe most of the riders could see the Montanan’s face. “Go back to town, Sheriff. Let your boys start shooting my beeves.” He drew in a deep breath. “Smell that. See that.” He pointed to the glowing ears of the sheriff’s horse. “Fox fire. First shot’ll send cattle stampeding all across this country. You won’t be able to find them till first frost. By then, no telling how many milking cows you’ll be burying.”

  Lightning flashed. Thunder almost immediately followed. José Pablo Tsoyio saw the tension in Story’s face, his hands wrapping the reins tighter. The wind carried the anguished cries of frightened longhorns, but not the rumbling of hooves. José Pablo Tsoyio made the sign of the cross.

  “I’m riding to my herd.” Story turned to the horse, found a stirrup, and grabbed the horn. With his back toward the unwelcome visitors, he said, “You want to shoot me in the back, now’s your chance. You’ll notice I’m not wearing a gun. And that shot will send a thousand Texas longhorns every which way from Sunday.” Now, slowly, he pulled himself into the saddle.

  “If I were you boys,” he said, “I’d ride out to the herd with me. Because on this night, we’re going to have to work together. One bolt of lightning too close. One thunderclap too damn hard. One match striking. One stinking fart. Anything might send this herd into a run. All you boys have to do is sing softly and call out nice prayers to my beef. Once this storm passes, if we’re still alive, we can talk about your laws.”

  The horse stepped forward.

  “He makes good sense,” said a rider.

  “He’s a damned Texas . . .”

  “I’m from Montana,” Story said. “And before that Leavenworth. I’m a businessman. Right now, my business is cattle.”

  The sheriff stepped back to his horse, easily mounted it.

  “One more thing.” Story nodded at the wagon. “You boys had better shuck all your hardware. Guns. Knives. Spurs, if you have them. Anything metal that might bring a bolt from the sky that’ll light you up brighter than fox fire.”

  He eased the horse away from the wagon, past the sheriff and the bravest of the men, and reined up, waiting.

  “He’s bluffing,” one farmer said.

  Another streak of lightning blinded them, as though summoned by this godlike man, or Satan’s captain, Nelson Story.

  The sheriff moved to the wagon, unfastened his flap, and laid a big revolver inside. He even unpinned the badge on his lapel, and gasped when even the tin star began sparking with eerie flames. One by one, farmers and townsmen rode up to the wagon to rid themselves of metal before disappearing into the night that was alive with blue light practically everywhere.

  * * *

  With the
wind, the ferocity of the storm, and as much electricity as the storm carried, Story expected a burst from hell at every flash of lightning, every roll of thunder. He also expected the storm to move past the herd quickly, but this one dragged on slowly. Every minute took a millennium. Each second, he expected the longhorns to bolt. A night like this, he thought, almost made him believe in God, or, at least, Lucifer.

  That nightmarish scent of sulfur faded, as did the ball lightning and the fox fire. Clouds took the lightning—plus the rain those damned farmers wanted—east and south. To the west, and soon above the herd, Story began to see stars. He let out a long sigh.

  The night, the danger, might be over, but he knew better than to jump ahead. Those cattle remained skittish. Even the horses in the remuda pranced around, nickering and moving in circles. Sam Ireland had sent most of the drag riders to help the wrangler keep the horses from scattering.

  Jameson Hannah rode up.

  “Well,” he said.

  Story nodded. “Well.”

  Hannah let out a half chuckle, half prayer. “That was something.”

  “It was.” He made out the outline of another rider approaching slowly. The size of the horse revealed the rider as a Kansan. Story also had to deal with that.

  Hearing the hoofbeats, Hannah twisted in the saddle.

  “Hell,” he whispered.

  The rider stopped near Story. “You think it’s over?” He couldn’t see the man’s face, but recognized the sheriff’s voice.

  “Storm’s passing. Cattle are still ticklish.”

  “Then maybe we can talk.”

  “Sure. How about some coffee, Sheriff . . . ?”

  “Turner. R. R. Turner. Coffee would hit the spot.”

  “Good. Let’s go back to camp. Our cook makes some fine coffee.”

  As Story brought up the reins, the sheriff raised his arm. “If it’s just the same with you, sir, I’d rather serve you town coffee.” Story heard the metallic click.

  Hannah whirled, but Story said, “Don’t.” He leaned forward in the saddle. He couldn’t see what was in the lawman’s hand, but he knew it was a gun.