The Rocking R Ranch

by Tim Washburn

  There were times that Rachel had wished she’d had nothing but girls because the road for boys was full of hairpin turns. Not that the road for girls was a gentle walk through the woods, but boys, and later as men, appeared to be exposed to more dangers. From bucking broncs to rowdy bulls there were so many ways where things could go wrong. And those were just the everyday dangers and didn’t include the basic male propensity—some carryover from past ancestors, Rachel thought—to use their fists, or a knife, or a gun to settle an argument. Not to say that girls and later women wouldn’t do the same, although they were the exception and not the rule. And damn it, Rachel thought, girls were easier to talk to. She watched as Seth used a biscuit to mop up the residual bacon grease on his plate. Searching for a way to start the conversation, Rachel decided to start with the easiest approach.

  “What happened to your thumb?” Rachel asked.

  Seth picked up his fork and pushed a biscuit crumb around his plate. “Nothin’.”

  “It doesn’t look like nothing to me. How did you hurt it?”

  Seth shrugged as he mashed the crumb with the tines of his fork. “It’s just a rope burn.”

  “Huh,” Rachel said. Well, it was going about as well as she expected. She decided to add a little more pressure. “Did that rope also give you the powder burns on the back of your hand?”

  As an answer, Seth stood, walked over to dump his dirty plate in the washtub, then stopped by the door to grab his rifle, and walked outside.

  Consuelo walked around the table, ran a damp rag across the top, and pushed the chair back in. “Let ’im be,” she said, offering her advice.

  “Everybody tells me that exact same thing,” Rachel said. “What’s everybody going to say if he kills someone or, God forbid, gets shot?”

  Consuelo waved her damp rag in the air. “Phew, te preocupas demasiado.”

  “It’s my job to worry,” Rachel said as she pushed up from the table. She wanted to say that Consuelo would be the last person she’d ask for parental advice but didn’t. No sense in starting an argument this early in the day.

  Rachel stepped over and grabbed her short-brimmed straw sombrero from a hook by the door and stepped outside. Eli would know how to handle it, she thought. She put on her hat and stepped off the porch. Her dress was damp with sweat by the time she reached the corral. There was little activity and Rachel wondered if they’d taken the branding operation out to the far pastures. She scanned the surrounding area for Seth but didn’t see him. Knowing he usually carried the rifle only if he was going out riding, Rachel made her way to the barn. Inside she found Seth saddling his horse. If he didn’t want to talk, then fine, Rachel thought.

  She walked past Seth like he wasn’t there, grabbed a bucket of oats and a rope, and stepped out into the corral. A dozen horses were milling around, and a big black stallion was scratching his neck against the snubbing post. Rachel walked out among the horses, keeping an eye on Big Blacky, as she searched for one of her preferred mounts. A spirited horse who had little use for humans, the giant stallion had a tendency to bite anyone who came within reach. Spotting a roan gelding that she knew had a comfortable gait, she shook the bucket and had to wave away four other horses before the roan dipped his muzzle into the oats. Slipping the rope around his neck, she led him back to the barn.

  Seth was just mounting his horse when she returned. “Where are you going?” Rachel asked.

  “Don’t know yet,” Seth answered as he spurred his horse into motion.

  “Well, okay, then,” Rachel said as he disappeared out the door. After saddling the roan, Rachel steered her horse out of the barn and rode by the bunkhouse, hoping someone was around to tell her where they were doing the branding and if Eli was in the group. But the bunkhouse appeared empty, so Rachel took a guess and rode east. Once clear of the heavily trafficked areas, she began looking for a trail to determine if she was on the right path. An amateur tracker at best, she was hoping to pick up the chuck wagon’s trail. As she rode, she occasionally scanned the area around her, hoping for a glimpse of Seth. She didn’t think he was riding out to help the men with the branding, but where he was going remained a mystery. And the last thing she wanted was to be caught following him. Maybe some alone time would help him get his mind right, she thought.

  She eventually cut the trail of the chuck wagon and adjusted her course. The heat was oppressive, and she pulled the hem of her split skirt up to her thighs to allow her legs to get some air. Her sister always chided her for not riding sidesaddle and Rachel always responded that if she could birth children, she could sit a regular saddle. And Abby would really be horrified if she saw Rachel riding with her skirt pulled up. She knew modesty was a word that had never been used in conjunction with her name and that was fine. Not that she was a harlot by any means, but she disliked those people who thought a woman had to be prim and proper at all times. Rachel smiled. How those people would blush at some of the things she and Amos had done in their marital bed. Or used to do, she thought. Then she tried to recall the last time they’d had intimate relations and couldn’t come up with the answer. Not that she still didn’t have the urge. But she and Amos had drifted so far apart that it felt like a giant, insurmountable chasm ran right through the middle of their bed.

  Rachel picked up a hint of smoke and, in the distance, she saw the chuck wagon. It was too hot to run the roan and Rachel let him set the pace. That was okay because she wasn’t in a big hurry. She needed her alone time, too. She ran into more and more cattle the closer she got. The calves were sporting new brands and some still had blood dripping from where their ears had been notched after branding. The notching allowed the ranch hands to identify Ridgeway cattle from a distance.

  Rachel pushed her skirt down, rode up to the chuck wagon, and climbed down. The cook, Jesus Reyes, was busy making another pot of coffee. A few hands were hanging around waiting for the fresh pot to brew and Rachel looked at each to see if she knew them. Most were hands from other ranches who were there to claim their cattle for their owners. Rachel recognized all but one—a tall, broad-shouldered man who was standing apart from the others. If Rachel had to guess his age, she’d put him in his late thirties or early forties, much older than most cowpunchers. She walked over and stuck out her hand. “Rachel Ferguson.”

  The man removed his hat and took her hand. “Leander Hays. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ferguson.” He had long, dark hair and a well-groomed mustache and goatee. Rachel noticed all of that during her cursory inspection because it was his gray-green eyes that commanded her full attention.

  “Haven’t seen you around,” Rachel said. “Which brand do you ride for?”

  “The state of Texas.”

  Rachel laughed. “Must be a very large spread. You a Ranger?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was up this way tracking some rustlers and I took advantage of your cook’s hospitality.”

  Rachel glanced at the pistol on his left hip. The butt pointed forward for a right-hand cross-draw, the same way Percy wore his. “I thought they dissolved the Rangers during the war.”

  “They did, ma’am. Guess the state of Texas couldn’t do without us.”

  Rachel smiled. “My oldest brother was a Ranger at one time.”

  “I know, ma’am. Percy, correct?”

  “Yes. Where’s home when you’re not out looking for rustlers?”

  “I have a small place down on the Brazos that I don’t see as often as I would like.”

  “I bet Mrs. Hays feels the same way.”

  “My wife died three years ago, Mrs. Ferguson. Probably the reason I don’t go back as much as I should.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Rachel said.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “If you happen to venture up where the main houses are, please don’t hesitate to stop in.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Rachel turned and walked back to the chuck wagon. It took her a moment to remember why she rode out there. Then she did. “Jesus
,” she asked the cook, “where’s Eli?”

  “He’s watchin’ them brand, Señora Rachel. We having a calf-fry later if you’re hungry.”

  “Thank you, Jesus,” Rachel said. “But I think I’ll pass.” She remounted her horse, took one last look at Leander Hays, and reined the roan around. The branding was taking place about a quarter of a mile away and Rachel could smell the singed flesh and hear the calves bawling long before she rode up. A dozen people were involved, some on horseback herding the calves in, the others roping them and throwing them to the ground so the man with the branding iron could do his work. Another mounted man had his rope unfurled and was using it to keep the unhappy mama cows at bay. Eli was standing off to the side, watching. She walked her horse up to him.

  “What are you doing out here, sis?” Eli asked.

  “I came to see you. I want you to have a talk with Seth.”

  “Seth and I have already spoken this morning.”

  “And?” Rachel asked.

  “The situation bears watching.”

  “Which means what exactly?”

  “Seth is at a very impressionable age—”

  Eli paused so he wouldn’t have to shout over a wailing calf and a bellowing mother cow. After branding and having a notch cut in his ear, the calf, being a bull, had to undergo further treatment. The ranch hand working on him pulled out a knife, slit open the calf’s scrotum, pulled out the two balls, severed the connection, and tossed them in a bucket. Rachel curled her lip and her stomach roiled when she thought about them appearing on a dinner plate later in the day. She turned back to Eli. “You were saying?”

  “Either what happened to him festers or he’ll eventually learn to put it behind him. Time is the only relative variable that will determine the answer.”

  “Should I confront him? Take the gun away?”

  “Learning to shoot and shoot accurately is not a bad thing, Rachel.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that. I do have a problem with him acting like some would be gunslinger. He was down at the river drawing and redrawing his pistol out of the holster over and over again, Eli.”

  “I don’t believe there is a young man alive who hasn’t envisioned himself a gunfighter at some point in his life. Rehearsing the draw and shooting at targets is far removed from actually being one. However, if he were to start killing small animals simply out of spite then there might be cause for concern. As I said, the situation bears watching.”

  “How concerned should I be?”

  “As of now, I wouldn’t be all that concerned. I believe when his father and grandfather return, he’ll settle back into his normal routine.”

  “That could be a while, but I hope you’re right,” Rachel said. “Will you keep an eye on him when you can?”

  “Of course.” Eli pulled a neckerchief from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his face.

  “What’s up with that Texas Ranger?”

  “I don’t know. Jesse said he arrived shortly after daybreak. Why?”

  “Just wondering,” Rachel said. “Know anything about him?”

  “I know his name. Why does he pique your curiosity?”

  “We live such sheltered lives that it’s sometimes nice to see a new face. Offer him the guest cabin if he’s going to be around for very long.”

  Eli turned and studied his sister for a long minute. “Is there dissension in the Ferguson home that I am unaware of?”

  “Why would you think that? I’m just trying to be neighborly.”

  Eli pulled his pipe out of his pocket and began filling the bowl with tobacco. “I’ve learned that those who play with fire are often burned. I will not be the facilitator in whatever scheme you are currently concocting in your mind, Rachel.” Eli pulled out a match, struck it with his thumbnail, and lit his pipe. After taking a draw he removed the pipe from his mouth and said, “If you’re concerned about the Ranger’s welfare perhaps you should be the one to extend the invitation.”

  “I will. Thanks for lookin’ after Seth.” Rachel put the spurs to her horse and turned back toward the chuck wagon.

  CHAPTER 43

  Despite the continued threat of an Indian attack and the recent near miss of a Comanche arrow, Percy had finally succumbed to his exhaustion. The creaking and rocking of the wagon, along with the heat, were a perfect recipe for sleep and Percy had drifted off. When he stirred awake a while later, the wagon was stopped down in a small creek bottom and his father was manning the Gatling gun. “What are we doin’?” Percy asked.

  Cyrus pursed his lips and spat a stream of tobacco juice over the side then looked down. “Waterin’ the horses. You enjoy your beauty sleep?”

  Percy pushed himself up to a sitting position and took a quick look around, hoping another arrow wasn’t already on its way. “Where are the Injuns?”

  “Wilcox thinks they rode on.”

  “What do you think?” Percy asked.

  Cyrus shrugged. “Don’t know. But I ain’t leavin’ this gun until we know for sure. Probably wanted to get on with their rapin’ and killin’.”

  Percy leaned back against the sideboard of the wagon and rubbed his eyes. “How long was I asleep?”

  “A couple of hours.”

  “How long we plannin’ to stay here?”

  “Depends on what Wilcox finds. Him and Win are out working the ground. But I’d like to stay here till sundown fore movin’ on again. Use the dark in case them Injuns are still around somewhere.”

  Percy threw his leg over the side. “Then I’m going to stretch my legs a bit. Where’s everybody else?”

  “Diggin’ a grave.”

  A sudden surge of sadness hit Percy right between the eyes when he remembered the events from earlier in the day. “I’m goin’ to miss Arturo.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Cyrus said. “Build a small fire while you’re stretchin’. Need to get some food and coffee in our bellies.”

  Percy nodded and climbed out of the wagon. Whether his father felt any sympathy—or felt anything at all—for Arturo’s loss was a mystery. But it wasn’t a discussion he was willing to start. The only time Percy saw his father show any emotion was with his mother and, at that, it was infrequent. Percy cleared those thoughts from his mind, put his hands on his hips, and arched his back, trying to work out the kinks. The wooden wagon bed was even more unforgiving than the ground. Once his back felt like it had loosened up a bit, Percy walked off in search of wood.

  Creeks and rivers were scarce out in this part of the country and Percy was trying to recall the name of this body of water from his previous travels. It was too small to be one of the many forks that fed the Red River system so that narrowed it down some, but Percy still couldn’t hit on the name as he gathered up an armload of driftwood. He carried it back to an area well away from the wagon and dropped it on the ground. After gathering up some kindling and a handful of leaves, he began making a fire and that’s when the name came to him—Wind River. The river part of the name was a misnomer, Percy thought, judging that the small stream of water didn’t stretch farther than four feet across at its widest point. He pulled a match from his shirt pocket, struck it, and lit the small pile of leaves. Once the kindling started burning, he added on some smaller sticks and once those took hold, added a larger chunk of wood and stood up and went after the coffeepot.

  Stepping around to the back of the wagon, he nearly tripped over Arturo’s body, which had been wrapped in a blanket and placed on the ground. Another wave of sadness washed across his mind as he grabbed the pot.

  “How far west you reckon we’ll have to go?” Cyrus asked.

  “Probably best to begin our search somewhere around the Palo Duro Canyon,” Percy said.

  “How far’s that?”

  “A long ways. With the wagon I figure we’ll get there in a week and a half or two. And that’s if we make steady progress without any hitches. And that’s just to get there. How long it’ll take to find Emma’s captors is anybody’s guess.”


  “So, what you’re sayin’ is we’ll be gone at least a month,” Cyrus said.

  “That’s what I’m sayin’. And that’s if we find the Indians quickly, which is highly doubtful. I know why you’re askin’, but I don’t think we’re goin’ to get any cattle up the trail to the railhead this year.” Percy lifted the lid and started ladling water from the barrel to the pot.

  “Gonna have to push some of the cattle north of the river, then. Let ’em graze on Indian land and hope they all don’t get stole.”

  “Waggoner’s been letting his cattle graze up there for years. Might get a tad heated if he finds out.”

  “He don’t own it and he ain’t goin’ to have any say in the matter.”

  “Ole Dan’s got a temper.”

  “I spent a night at his place on the way here and he was mighty hospitable,” Cyrus said. “I don’t see us comin’ to blows over grazin’ some cattle on land none of us owns.”

  “Well, he might think different.”

  “If he raises a stink, we’ll worry about it then. That reminds me of somethin’ I was gonna tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Guess who I run into up at Fort Sill?”

  Even though Percy had slept a little, he was still exhausted. “I don’t know. President Grant?”

  “No,” Cyrus said. “Wild Bill and Charlie Goodnight.”

  “Huh. I didn’t know Bill was still alive and kickin’. What’s he up to?”

  “Doin’ a little scoutin’ for the army and takin’ rich Russians on buffalo hunts.”

  “That sounds about right. How’d he look?”

  “Like he’s hittin’ the bottle pretty hard.”

  “No surprise there. What about Charlie? I sure wish we had him along on this trip.”

  “Me, too. I asked, but he weren’t interested.”

  “That’s a shame.” Percy walked over and nestled the pot of water in among the hot coals as Amos, Isaac, and Luis came walking back. Luis’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen and Percy felt another pang of grief. He knew Luis and Arturo were cousins and both had come to work at the Rocking R almost six years ago. Percy stepped over and put a hand on Luis’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Luis. I know you two were very close.”