Chapter 4: Comanche Moon
The only piece of unbroken wood left to Beef Beens & Likker was the sign outside the saloon’s shattered door. Even the door surrendered when Vern came in; It fell to the floor with a resigned thump.
“Been at it again I see,” Vern said.
Kenan Rand stood over four battered cowhands with his hands on hips. “They asked for it,” he said.
Matt Sheridan stepped from a shadowed corner. “They called him a half breed, Vern.”
Vern shook his head. “Well, he is a half breed.”
Rand thrust out his chin. “I didn’t like the way they said it.”
“Come on.” Vern turned to go.
“Ain’t going nowhere,” Rand retorted sharply.
Matt hesitated, then followed Vern from the saloon.
He cut a furtive glance at the old plainsman. “I reckon I should have helped him out with them hands,” he said.
Why hadn’t he? He was seventeen years old and had mixed it up a time or two. So why had he backed off from this fight, especially since Ken was outnumbered four to one? The question pitched him into a mood as dark as the single street of Red River Station.
Vern took a long-stemmed clay pipe from a pocket. “Damned if I’d have helped him” He leaned on the side of the saloon and filled the pipe. “Rand likes to fight. He’ll poke and prod at a man ‘til he gets what he wants.” A match flared. “Reap what ye sew, Matt…reap what ye sew.”
Matt frowned. “What’s that mean?”
Vern Harmon was tall and thin as a rail. Crinkled eyes turned towards Matt. “Well,” he rasped, “Reckon it means if you step in a fresh cow pie you gotta expect your feet to stink.” His grey, full beard rustled when he grinned.
They headed for Bo Simpson’s barn. It was a long way from Matt’s Richmond home.
Sure wasn’t afraid when he’d plunged the pitchfork into that blue belly’s back. The soldier had yelped and staggered up from his mother. Sure not afraid; just filled with a blind rage. Why was it so easy to kill someone, but not help a friend in a fight?
“You really like Rand?” Vern asked.
“Yeah,” he answered after a moment.
Vern stopped, turned to face him. “Admire him?”
“Sure,” Matt said. “You was there on the trail that time last month when the wheel come off the wagon. We forgot to fetch along a jack. Ken just grabbed on to that ol’ wagon and hefted it right up so we could put the wheel back on.”
Vern scratched at his beard for a moment. “No doubt about it…Rand’s as strong a ranny as you’re apt to find. I just wonder if that’s a good enough reason to admire him” In the ensuing silence Matt sensed that Vern was waiting for something more from him.
They felt their way through the darkness in Bo Simpson’s barn to the tack room in back.
“Home sweet home.” Vern lit a lamp. “Many a time I’d have sold my soul for a place like this.”
Matt fussed with his bedroll then sprawled onto it. He pulled off his ragged boots and examined what was left of his socks. “Darned if I can decide to buy a gun when we get paid or a new pair of boots and some socks.”
Vern grinned at him. “Get the boots and socks.” He crawled into his own bedroll and blew out the lamp.
“S’pose your right,” Matt said into the darkness. “But having two or even three guns out where you’re taking us might be better.”
Vern sighed. Matt heard him squirming around, searching for comfort on the packed-dirt floor. “Naw,” he sighed. “Ain’t nothing to worry about up on Red River . . .just wolves and Comanches and a stray Kiowa or two.”
They were awakened when Kenan Rand staggered drunkenly into the tack room. He fumbled with matches and cursed until the lamp flared. Vern sat up and ran a hand through his shock of grey hair.
“Tell you something, Rand,” he grumbled. “Somebody ought to just give you a good hide-whipping one of these days.”
The youth tried to glare at the old plainsman but couldn’t quite get his blurry, reddened eyes focused. “Yeah,” he slurred. “But just who the hell’s going to do it?”
Vern stared at him for a long moment. “Makes me almost sorry we ever found you starving on the trail.” His look hardened. “Shut up and get your butt in that bedroll.”
Rand glowered at him, seemed to search for some fitting retort, then quietly got into his bedding. Matt reached over and blew out the lamp.
In the morning he and Vern sagged lazily against the barn. Bo Simpson strolled up. He tucked both hands inside his bib overalls.
“Where’s Rand?” the gaunt old man asked. “It be his turn to pick up a haul. Down to Dennison.”
“Seems like to me it’s payday too,” Vern said evenly.
“You’ll get paid when I got the money.” Simpson frowned but shifted his gaze away.
Kenan Rand came up. “You got the money right now, you old geezer.” He scowled at the old man.
“T’aint so.”
Rand wasn’t particularly tall, but what there was of him was nothing but solid bone and gristle. In spite of his hangover he moved catlike and shoved Simpson up against the barn. “You pay us now, old man, or you’ll wish you had.”
Simpson led them to his shack next to the barn and forked over their money.
“Fifteen dollars for three months work?” Rand’s face reddened.
Matt stared at him in surprise. Fifteen dollars was a fortune, more money than he’d had in his entire life. A pair of new socks and a good used rifle. Or should he buy another horse to replace the broken-down nag he’d rode into Texas? After pondering all this for a few moments, the $15.00 was suddenly less a fortune and more of a tease.
“Shouldn’t we try to get some better horses?” he whispered to Vern while Rand argued with Simpson.
Vern’s lined face wrinkled even more when he grinned. A sly twinkle sparkled in his eyes. “I’ve got that taken care of,” he told the boy.
“Ain’t you tellin’ Mr. Simpson we ain’t workin’ for him no more?”
“The old rascal will figure it out for hisself I reckon. Along with what happened to the ponies he’ll be missin’ come tomorrow.”
Matt’s eyes widened. “You mean we’re stealin’ Mr. Simpson’s horses.”
Vern chuckled lightly and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Borrowin’ ain’t the same as stealin’, Matt.
He pondered the ground for a few seconds, then said, “Don’t that depend on who’s deciding what’s stealin’ and what’s borrowin’?”
“Matt, just relax. We’ll bring back enough broomtails from the llano to pay him back ten times over.”
Simpson tried to look stern when he faced Rand. “Now git on down to Dennison,” he said gruffly. “You got paid, now do some work.” Rand’s head came down as if he was about to charge.
Vern held up a restraining hand and glowered at the youth. “We won’t none of us be doing any more work for you, Bo,” he said. “Seems like our plush wages might break you.” He grinned slyly. “Wouldn’t want to do that.”
They left the fuming Bo Simpson and walked over to Red River Station’s only store.
When they pulled out in the morning Matt had two pairs of new socks, an ancient Sharps “Fifty,” and a huge, slightly sway-backed draft bay which he rode bareback. He’d paid for the rifle, a box of corroded shells, and the socks. The horse was, as Vern insisted, “on loan.” They made about fifteen miles that first day and camped in a stand of salt cedar along Red River.
Matt dug a fire pit. Vern built a small fire in it and put coffee on to boil.
The old man’s every move was always so smooth and economical. Once again Matt marveled at his good fortune; Lord knew what kind of fix he’d be in if he’d not found Vern Harmon.
Kenan Rand sat off a little distance and watched the circle of darkness.
Matt noticed his unusual silence. What’s bothering him?
“You homesick, Ken?”
“What home,” Rand snorted.
A shadowed, gossamer light filtered into the tiny clearing.
“Comanch’ Moon,” Vern said.
“Why’s it called that,” Matt asked.
Vern prodded the fire back into life with a stick. “Comanch’, he’s a sneaky kind of man,” he replied. “When a bunch of them go out raidin’ they mostly ride at night and hide when it’s daylight. Big full moon like that. . .” He nodded over his shoulder at the climbing orb. “. . .makes enough light to ride easy at night.”
Rand tossed the dregs of his coffee into the brush. “Stinkin’ Indians to hell.” His gaze was still locked on the fading darkness.
Seems almost like he’s afraid of something, Matt thought. Can’t be. Anybody who’d stand alone against four tough cowhands ain’t afraid of nothing. Maybe a little joshing would change his mood for the better.
“You’re half Indian, Ken,” he said, grinning. “But I reckon your smell is from all of you.”
Rand was up and charging before Matt could react. In another instant Vern stood between them, tall and rigid.
“Stop it!” he snarled. “You want to fight, go on back to town and find your cowhand chums.”
Rand glared at him for a moment, frozen in place, then sagged. As swiftly as his rage had risen, it was gone.
Vern watched him closely for a long moment. “Time to turn in,” he said at last. We ever goin’ to get to the llano we got some hard ridin’ to do.”
In the morning an old loafer wolf fixed them with a resentful stare when they broke from the salt cedars. It loped off, threw a glance back at them, then disappeared behind a ridge.The horses skittered around a little, then settled down to the drudgery of another day’s trek.
Rand kneed his mount in next to Matthew. “Hey, Matt,” he began. “Sorry about last night. I was still kinda hungover.”
Matthew smiled thinly. “All I could think about was that I’m too young to die.”
They chewed hard tack washed down with tepid water. The land became drier, flatter and bristled with stubby tuffs of bunch grass, cactus and low, knobby hills.
“Godforsaken country,” Rand complained. “Quahadi lands, damn there evil eyes to hell.”
“Who are they?” Matthew asked.
“Worst brand of Comanch’ they is, boy,” Vern told him. “Meaner than a stomped on rattler and tougher than hickory bark.” His eyes never stopped roaming, first up close, then sweeping out to the far distances. “What tribe your folks from?” he asked Rand.
“Kansas,” he answered crossly.
“Pawnee then. Your mother or dad?”
“Mother. They caught her once. . .had her over two years before she killed herself.”
Vern chewed on this for long moments, then looked over at Rand. “Life’s hard,” was all he said, but his eyes held the youth several seconds.
A week later Vern halted them on the Prairie Dog Town Fork of Red River. To the west a continuous vault of rock extended north and south.
The caprock. Matt had heard about the stone rampart that vaulted the Texas plain upward along a north-south line. Beyond was the llano, an absolutely flat and treeless grassland. He felt the unknown, trackless realm tug at his imagination. All this empty vastness filled him with a desire to explore and know it all.
“Out on west is the heart of Quahadi country, up on the Llano Estacado, the Staked Plain.”
A little distance behind them, Rand kicked his horse into a trot and pulled even. More and more he rode behind the others, only to force his mount forward, like a ship tacking against a strong wind that only he experienced.
“To hell with them rotten Indians,” he cursed. “Rotten, stinking, thieving Indians…all of them ought to be wiped off the Earth.”
They made camp in a stand of post oak at the foot of a round-topped mesa. “This will be home, boys,” Vern told them. “Get settled in today, and tomorrow we commence to rustle up wild horses.” Already they’d spotted bands of ragged-looking horses standing with heads raised high in curiosity at their passage.
“First thing is to make some meat. Plenty of antelope around, and ought to be deer up in the breaks along the cap rock.”
They left the horses picketed in camp and walked on westward where a dark line of cloud had boiled all day.
Vern had just mentioned a threat of rain for that night when he suddenly froze.
“Git down,” he whispered. The three went to their bellies.
Matthew heard the warning and his gut instantly tightened with fear.
“What you reckon?” Vern asked Kenan Rand. “Comanches?”
Matthew’s fear surged into his throat, constricting and choking. Not far to the northwest, two mounted figures rode from a break in the caprock.
“Look like Kiowas,” Rand said. “Probably visiting Quahadi relatives. Heading home now.” He brought his rifle around to bear on the riders, now less than half a mile away.
“They see us?” Matt asked. His voice was high and ridden with dread. “They spot us, Vern?” He was so scared.
As if in answer, the two Indians stopped and stared directly at them.
Rand’s gun boomed. “Damned, filthy, good-for-nothing heathens,” he cursed. He levered in another round.
Without warning, the butt of Vern’s Spencer struck Rand on his temple. He sighed and went limp. “Crazy fool,” he muttered. “Get us all killed with his hatred.”
Matthew wanted to run. Instead, he brought his old Sharps .50 up.
“I’ll do the shooting, Matthew.” Vern took careful aim. His Spencer roared and a horse went down. Its rider tumbled to the ground. “Hold your fire, Matthew.”
The second Indian wheeled about, kicked his mount, then leaned down and scooped the fallen Kiowa up in front of him.
“Lordy but they can ride!” Vern exclaimed.
A faint shout: “You Texican sumbitch,” then the two disappeared back into the caprock where billowing clouds towered. Lightning forked and thunder muttered.
“Thunderbird talking,” Vern said.
“What’s the thunderbird?” Matt asked
“Indian legend. He’s a giant bird lives up somewhere on the caprock, but comes down now and again to feed on buffalo, other critters. . .and men, too.”
Kenan Rand groaned and sat up just as a black curtain of rain struck. “What’d you hit me for, you old bastard?”
“If you’d killed one of them Kiowas they’d be back with half the Quahadi tribe, you damned idiot. “Now they’re too embarrassed, what with losing one of their horses to an old man and two boys.”
Vern reached out and patted Matt’s back. “You done good, Matthew.”
A single bolt of searing lightning blasted the ground scant yards away. Hail pounded down.
Kenan Rand was suddenly on his feet, eyes wide with terror. “Thunderbird,” he cried. He whimpered and began running back towards their camp. “Thunderbird! Oh, God. . .the Thunderbird!”
Matt watched his headlong flight in amazement. “He’s scared,” he said. “Rand’s scared.”
Vern Harmon rested a hand on his shoulder. “Looks like,” he said. “But so was you, Matthew. Me too.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “Seems to me that it ain’t what a man’s afraid of, but what he does with it.” He rose from the muddy ground. “Come on, boy. . .let’s find a place to get outta this rain.”
Delectus Page 4
