A Thousand Texas Longhorns

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “I’m just thinking about some tongue.”

  “Give your damned tongue a rest,” Story said. “And finish your supper.”

  * * *

  In the mornings, before sunrise and before José Pablo Tsoyio rang the hell out of that damned iron triangle to get the men up and moving, Story could stretch, and groan, and try to rub the stiffness out of his back, the soreness out of his thighs, and sip the first cup of coffee while wondering if he knew what the Sam Hill he was doing.

  Kneeling by the fire, trying to return to life after another miserable night of dreams and rocks biting through the blankets, he sipped coffee and waited for daybreak.

  “Story.”

  The wiry little wagon boss knelt beside him, frowning, not even holding a cup of coffee. “We’re missing one of my men.”

  Story stopped hurting. He set the cup on the stone near the fire. Not even having to think, he said, “Beck.”

  Connor Lehman leaned back on his haunches. “How’d you know?”

  Instead of answering, Story asked, “Did he take the Remington rifle?”

  “It wasn’t by his bedroll,” Lehman said. “He didn’t take anything else, though. Just the rifle and ammunition pouches.”

  Story was already making himself stand, and he crossed the few yards to the wagon. “José,” he said softly, “rouse Sibrian. Have him do a quick count on our horses.” Looking back at the wagon boss, Story said, “I bet that son of a bitch stole a horse, but if he took one of my men’s saddles, I’ll stake his hide across Chimney Rock.”

  As the sky began turning gray, the young wrangler, sleepy-eyed and confused, told Story that, as best as he could tell, the bay with two white feet—the one from Fabian Peña’s string—was gone. All saddles had been counted, but that didn’t make sense. Until Story understood. The thought struck Connor Lehman at the same time.

  “Check Overholt’s wagon,” the wagon boss told Kyle McPherson, who had the misfortune of sleeping too close to the fire and conversation. “There should be six saddles and six bridles.”

  There were only five. A blanket was missing, too.

  Then José Pablo Tsoyio began ringing that damned bell.

  “Sibrian,” Story told the wrangler. “Cut out my black and two other mounts. Use the tack we planned to sell in Virginia City.” He nodded at McPherson. “Show him.” He whirled, spotted Boone, told him to get a horse saddled and be ready to ride. “You’ll ride with us,” Story told Lehman. “You and McPherson.” Then to Hannah, who stood sipping coffee, not knowing what was going on. “Get the herd and wagons moving west. We’ll be bringing a horse thief and idiot back. And I’m going to flay the skin off his back.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Story turned, eyes burning, until Boone nodded toward the east. The sun was up by then, not high, but the light stretched out across the horizon.

  Buzzards circled over a little knoll.

  “That’s about where that buffalo herd was yesterday,” Jordan Stubbings said, and emptied his coffee onto the ground.

  “Maybe he killed one.” Ryan Ward sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “You know. For the tongue.”

  * * *

  Boone rode into the noon camp first. No one asked him a word. They didn’t have to. He handed the reins of his horse to the wrangler and shook his head when Dalton Combs offered to pour him a cup of coffee.

  Connor Lehman and Kyle McPherson came in next, McPherson leading his horse and limping, but not wounded.

  George Dow nudged Kelvin Melean and laughed. “That bullwhacker ain’t used to riding horses.”

  “Shut the hell up,” Melean said.

  The men put down their biscuits and cups and watched the last rider coming in at a trot, a Remington rifle braced against his thigh, and constantly looking back. Jordan Stubbings drew his revolver and checked the percussion caps. José Sibrian took his crucifix to his lips.

  When Story reined in at the edge of camp, he tossed the big rifle to the nearest teamster. “Lehman,” he said.

  The wagon boss turned around. “Your man stole a horse, a saddle, a bridle, a blanket, and a Remington rifle. Those will come out of your pay.”

  Lehman did not look angry or surprised. He simply nodded, and led his and McPherson’s horses toward the young wrangler. But the teamster named Overholt called out, “Would that be Leavenworth or Virginia City prices, Mr. Story?”

  Story didn’t look angry, either. “Fort Laramie’s closer. We’ll see what the prices are at the sutler’s.” He looked back. “Finish your coffee. Eat in the saddle. Let’s cover some miles before dark.” He spurred the horse, did not stop for a drink or another word, and rode the lathered buckskin to the remuda.

  “What happened?” another bullwhacker asked Lehman, who tilted the pot and filled a cup with coffee.

  “Did Beck really steal a horse?” . . . “And a rifle?” . . . “What were them buzzards doin’?” More questions went unanswered, till Jameson Hannah rode up from the herd.

  “Dead?” Hannah asked.

  Boone nodded.

  Constance Beckett lowered her head. Beside her, Molly McDonald fingered the tobacco out of her mouth and tossed the chaw into the grass. Fabian Peña made the sign of the cross.

  “Indians?”

  “Yeah.”

  All banter ceased. Men rose, deposited the dishes in the wreck pan, and walked to the horse herd. Young Sibrian was already heading to the remuda to help.

  “You heard the man,” Hannah said. “Wagons rolling and cattle walking.” He turned the horse and spurred it after Nelson Story. By then, Luke Beckner had removed his hat and bowed his head. “I would have liked to have been with y’all,” he told Lehman. “If only to pray over poor Beck’s grave.”

  “There was no grave.” Lehman limped toward the wagons. “Nelson Story won’t bury a horse thief.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  About the time they crossed the North Platte, somewhere west of Ash Hollow? Constance Beckett tried to remember. Maybe the day, two days, before that bullwhacker got killed, scalped by the Indians. A week ago? She shook the cobwebs out of her brain. A mule skinner lost track of time in this sea of nothingness, but that sounded right. Yeah, that was the last time Constance had seen a cloud. Skies were supposed to be blue, she remembered, but these days the horizon turned a grim white. She could hardly pick out Courthouse Rock to the south a day or so back. Now she barely made out Chimney Rock.

  She looked at the road, at Molly’s wagon ahead of her. She heard the ox-pulled double-hitched wagons behind her, but did not bother to look back. That would be just the same country she had already seen.

  After the death of that fool Beck, Connor Lehman had put one of his big-ass rigs at the rear of the column. “Nice of him,” Molly had remarked after that first night. “So we won’t die alone if the red devils jump us.”

  But they had seen no sign of Indians. Nor wagons, not even a solitary stagecoach coming from the west. Nothing to see here, but waving country, an occasional landmark, and that hot, overbearing endless sky. The Rocky Mountains were somewhere out there, if they hadn’t fallen off the ends of the earth.

  She brought the loosened bandanna to her face, wiped off sweat, and then flicked the lines just to do something. In front of her, Molly spit tobacco juice onto sage. Behind her, the teamster cursed and popped his whip. On days like these, Constance halfway wished she had been captured, tried, and convicted for killing that son of a bitch back at Fort Kearny. She wiped her face again and looked northwest, hoping the wind would cool her off. Her head tilted, and she blinked, closed her eyes and counted to five before prying the eyelids up.

  A cloud? No, she must be hallucinating, having just been thinking about how many days had passed since a cloud had floated across the sky. She thought about calling out to Molly, asking her if that distant silvery cloud might be a mirage. But the thought of talking made her throat hurt.

  * * *

  “¿Es esa nieve lo que veo?” Cursing
himself for talking to himself, José Pablo Tsoyio studied the horizon. As the wagon lumbered along, north of the herd of cattle, he pushed back his hat. Snow? White smoke from another prairie fire? He remembered the big grass fire along the big Platte River, recalled the heat, the filth, the hell. He studied the glittering, moving madness. No, that could not be smoke. Hail? Snow . . . in August?

  The cattle bawled nervously, while the mules pulling his wagon balked at his commands, those spoken, those with his usual firm touch on the leather lines. Tsoyio glanced over at young Sibrian, who had so much trouble keeping the horses under control, the segundo, Jameson Hannah, galloped over to help.

  Whatever that cloud might be bringing, it spooked the animals. Madre Bendita, Tsoyio thought, and shook his head. It troubles my nerves, as well.

  Cursing the mules, he found the whip and made it bark, returned it to the holder, and pulled his gloves on tighter with his teeth. Now, while he had time. Once he had a firm grasp on the lines, he reexamined that strange fantasma. The apparition grew larger, higher, eddying and twisting like a macabre danza del venado.

  No, no, that could not be smoke, hail, or snow. But it might be hell.

  * * *

  “If that’s a dust devil, it’s the damnedest and biggest one I ever seen,” Dalton Combs told Story.

  “It’s not dust.” Story rode away from the approaching cloud. Dust devils rolled across the ground; this specter remained high in the air, like a tornado that had not touched down. “Sing to them, Combs. Sing something soft. Keep them calm, keep them moving.”

  Looking over his shoulder, Story continued southeast, down the trail. This angle soon gave him a different view of the swirling gale of what resembled dead leaves dancing in the wind, but there could not be enough trees on the Great Plains to produce that many leaves. And autumn felt like an eternity away. Not one cloud, or one . . . whatever the hell it was . . . no. Two. Three. Four. The dun fought rein and bit, jerking Story’s arms one way and the other. On the other side of the herd, Fabian Peña and Jordan Stubbings kept their horses running alongside the longhorns, turning several steers, even one bull, back into the herd.

  “Ain’t sure how much longer I can keep them from bolting, Mr. Story,” Stubbings called out.

  “Keep them moving west,” Story said. “Maybe this . . .” What the hell was it? “It’s high enough, as long as it stays that high, it’ll pass right over us.” He cursed under his breath. “A snowball’s chance in hell.”

  The wind blew harder now, leaving Story to fear that maybe these were twisters, but the air felt hot, and no dark clouds appeared anywhere. Just these silvery, whirling funnels. Then, a faint drumming reached his ears, growing louder as the strange clouds moved with the hard wind. Minutes later, the first cloud went over, and his horse bucked again, wanting to run, but Story pulled the reins tight and to his left, twisting the head.

  He swore, struggling to keep the horse under control. The hum intensified, and he noticed the wild clouds began descending. One, a few hundred yards to the north, unleashed its torrent to the earth. Another cloud passed overhead. The concert of buzzing and droning and a numbing clicking reached a crescendo.

  Whatever this was, it began to swallow everything in its path.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Story saw Mason Boone’s head snap back—Story heard the impact—and Boone, swearing, brought his left hand up to his face, cursing, blood rushing from his nostrils. A moment later, amid the insane buzzing, rasping, something popped against Story’s hat. Hailstones? No. These were alive. Then one slammed into the back of his head. Hurt like a son of a bitch. The horse bucked again, harder, more determined. Story turned. Boone cursed, spit out blood, shouted something, but that constant drone drowned out everything as the funnels closed all around him, the cattle, the countryside.

  The deluge began. But not rain, not hail, but thousands and thousands of . . .

  Another pop in his shoulder, and a blur that slammed into the horse’s withers, caused Story to look down just as a fat insect fell onto the grass.

  “Grasshoppers,” Story shouted, trying to bring the bandanna up over his mouth and nose, as the cloud unleashed its fury with a storm of living insects.

  Locusts. Wings unfolded. Bugs covered the grass. The deafening buzz grew into such a roar, Story barely heard the thundering hooves as the cattle stampeded. His horse reared as Story slapped at the insects. He felt the breath rush from his lungs, the pain in his back, knew he had been thrown. The ground trembled around him, and he rolled over, covered his head, and thought not about his wife and daughter, but his legacy. To die in a stampede was one thing, but to be killed by bugs? Jesus, the professor would have a story in the Montana Post that would be reprinted everywhere, and the whole world would be laughing at Nelson Story.

  * * *

  The mules snorted as the roaring, whirling cloud of insects enveloped Constance and the wagon. She screamed, felt a bug in her mouth, could not stop herself from biting down, and the gall spread across her tongue, down her throat. Insects fell like rain. She tried to spit, tried to keep her hands on the leather lines. A rut, a man, a rock, a horse . . . something jolted her off the bench and into the floor of the driver’s box. Her eyes opened to a whirling world of madness. Locusts covered her hair. Panicked mules carried the wagon off the trail, down an embankment, away from the rise of blurry dullness of Chimney Rock.

  No longer encumbered with the lines, she swatted at the bugs. Screamed again. The mules carried her and the wagon toward the North Platte. Suddenly, the wagon lurched, and she felt herself flying, sailing with the swarm. Dimly, maybe she made out the crash of the wagon as it catapulted its supplies in all directions. She hit the ground, rolled into more sand and weeds, as breath exploded out of her lungs. She tried sucking in air, only to feel more locusts cover her. Rolling over, she wanted to keep rolling, squishing as many of her tormentors as she could. Reach the river, go under, drown the sons of bitches, drown herself. Instead she slammed into the embankment. She had rolled the wrong way.

  Her hands swatted, slashed, combed away bugs. All around her, the insects clicked, tapped, buzzed, whirled, devoured grass—and buried her. They covered her shirt, her pants, her soul. Well, God had to punish her for killing that bastard.

  Constance wanted to cry. Maybe she was. Bugs would soon eat her flesh, and her soul. She bit through another insect, and finally relented, bringing arms over her mouth and nose, squeezing her eyelids shut, feeling and hearing the madness of click, clack, click, clack, click . . .

  The nightmare deepened, and at last she understood that God was not punishing her for taking a life.

  This had to be Armageddon.

  * * *

  Boone found her. He swung off the claybank, but did not let go of the reins, keeping the leather wrapped tightly over his gloved left hand. Given a chance, the gelding would not stop running till reaching Texas.

  Once locating the overturned wagon, he tied the gelding up short. He would have hobbled him, too, but somewhere during the stampede he had lost his saddlebags.

  “Cory,” he called out, and wished to hell he knew her real name. “Cory.”

  Nothing. His boots trod over the remnants of grasshoppers, locusts, whatever the hell they were, crunching their bodies, and he came to the first mule.

  “Son of a bitch.” Boone tugged the Colt out of the holster, eared back the hammer, and touched the trigger. The noise shocked him, and he realized the stillness, the frightening quiet that had descended over the plains after some Old Testament nightmare. Stepping around the dead mule, he found the rest of the team in the river, up to their knees, alive, frozen in panic or stuck in the mud. Drowned insects floated downstream, attracting schools of hungry fish. Much of the grass had vanished, and even the trees along the riverbank looked as though an early fall had struck.

  “Bennett,” he tried again. “Cory Bennett.”

  The remaining locusts answered with mocking snaps and ticks. He turned back from the river, he
ard something that sounded almost human. Then he saw her. Boone ran to the cutbank, dropped to his knees, and reached out for the woman’s shirt.

  “God,” he whispered, quickly dropped the revolver, pulled off his vest. His hat came off next, and desperately he yanked the shirt over his head. The woman sobbed, but her eyes opened, darting this way and that, and she slapped Boone’s hands as he pulled her up. She screamed. Boone handed her his shirt.

  “Put this on,” he told her.

  Her cry pierced Boone’s soul.

  Another voice came from behind him. “Get away from her, you jackass.” Mickey McDonald’s boots crunched over the carcasses of the swarm before Cory’s pard fell onto his knees and stared. “God A’mighty,” Mickey said.

  Most of Cory Bennett’s outfit had been devoured, her shirt reduced to yellow horizontal stripes—the green cotton gone. Her green bandanna hung in threads. The green checks on the tan pants had . . . vanished. Locusts, either hungry or crazy, consumed anything resembling grass or leaves. Even cloth that wasn’t green had been chewed. Bark, Boone noticed, had been stripped off trees.

  “Sons of bitches eat everything,” Boone said, realizing his shirtsleeve was chewed in places with more efficiency than moths.

  Constance screamed again, and McDonald reached down, put his arms around Cory’s back, and lifted her as the remnants of the shirt slid off her pale body. She must have rolled over and over trying to escape the attacking horde, and that had loosened the linen wrappings used to keep her breasts hidden. Blood trickled down her back, her stomach, her sides, from the sand and hard weeds. “Get that shirt on, boy,” McDonald ordered. “Be damned quick and—”

  The girl sobbed on McDonald’s shoulder. Boone wanted to be gentle, but felt clumsy, tried not to see her nakedness, her breasts, the pale skin, the cuts and scratches, the remnants of bugs. He had no idea how to get the shirt over her. Maybe he should just use the vest.