Lost in Laredo

by Vivi Holt

  Clive trotted toward him, his eyebrows low over troubled eyes. “Sanchez, where’s yer wife?”

  Antonio stood. “She is dressing some prairie hens she shot earlier today.”

  Clive’s eyes widened. “She … went … hunting?”

  Antonio couldn’t help grinning. “Si, she did.” He’d been surprised himself when she’d shown him her bounty – she held them up by their legs, their feathers fluffing around their plump bodies. There was something different about her, a fire in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

  “Well, that sounds fine and dandy.” He put his hands on his hips and pursed his lips. “I was gonna ask her somethin’, but maybe I could run it by ya first, see what ya think.”

  Antonio arched an eyebrow. “What is it?”

  “Giuseppe’s sick – some kinda fever. I dunno. He weren’t the best cook in the world before, and he sure as heck ain’t now that he’s laid up in the back of the chuck wagon. I told him to get outta there, seein’ as how he was coughin’ all over the food, so he’s gonna camp somewhere else tonight. But heck, I need someone to make supper. And I thought of Lotte. Ya think she’d go for it? I’d pay her, of course.” He coughed and his red cheeks grew a shade brighter as a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

  “I’m sure she would not mind helping out. She is a good cook. I can ask her if you would like.”

  Clive nodded. “I’d sure appreciate it, Sanchez.”

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Buckland? You do not look well.”

  Another drop of sweat dripped from the boss’ chin, and he frowned. “Felt a little under the weather a few days now. But nothin’ a good night’s sleep and a big ol’ steak shouldn’t cure.” He smiled widely, rubbed his Adam’s apple and grimaced. “Dang throat feels like it’s on fire, though.”

  Lotte emerged from behind the chuck wagon, drying her hands on her apron. Strands of hair fell across her face and her eyes sparkled brightly in the firelight.

  Clive seemed to perk up. “Good evenin’ there, Mrs. Sanchez. How are ya this fine evenin’?”

  She smiled nervously at Clive, then glanced at Antonio, who shrugged. “I am fine, thank you, Mr. Buckland.”

  “Sanchez here tells me you done shot some fine prairie hens for supper.”

  She nodded. “I did. They are nice and plump – perfect for frying.” She chuckled and smoothed her hair back into place.

  “Sounds delicious. I was wonderin’ … since yer cookin’ anyway, could ya throw on a few steaks and some taters for the rest of us? See, Giuseppe’s feelin’ poorly, and I told him to take the night off and get some rest. If ya could help us out, I’d sure ‘preciate it. ‘Course, I’d be happy to pay ya.”

  “No need to pay me, Mr. Buckland. You have been so kind to us, and I am happy to help however I can.”

  Clive thanked her and walked away, his head hanging. Lotte hurried to sit by Antonio. “He does not look goot himself.”

  Antonio shook his head. “He and Giuseppe have caught something, it seems. He said his throat is burning.”

  She frowned. “Well, I had best start on supper.”

  With steaks, fresh prairie hens, biscuits, gravy and stamppot for supper, most of the crew were filled with good cheer. Everything had been cooked to perfection, unlike the mush Giuseppe generally served. But Clive only appeared for long enough to get platefuls for himself and Giuseppe before disappearing again into the dark. His face was now red all over, and Antonio was concerned.

  When the cowpunchers pulled out the cards and liquor, he frowned with displeasure. No one should drink on a cattle drive – anything could happen, and if the hands were drunk, they wouldn’t have the faculties to deal with it.

  When Lotte joined him by their fire after washing the plates, Antonio said quietly, “I think we should stay away from the rest of the group again tonight.”

  She nodded with wide eyes. “Yes, Antonio.” They pulled their bedrolls off to one side and climbed into them fully dressed. Antonio listened as the cowboys bet money they didn’t have on each hand and bottles clinked against the sides of tin cups. Lotte sidled closer to Antonio until there was no way of telling where her bedroll began and his ended. Her body trembled, and he could feel her warmth through the blanket. He put an arm around her waist and she pressed closer still. Finally her shivering stilled and her breathing deepened.

  But Antonio couldn’t sleep. His heart felt as though it might bounce right out of his chest. Her touch made his entire body tingle, and it was all he could do to keep his hands to himself. Hours passed and the men only grew louder and more rambunctious, but Lotte stayed fast asleep on her side, her hands tucked beneath her head the way she always did. The sight made him smile and he felt warm deep inside. It amazed him what she could sleep through.

  The crack of a gunshot caused him to jump beneath his blanket. He leaped to his feet and crept back toward the fire to see one of the cowpokes throwing empty bottles in the air and another shooting them with a pair of six shooters. The restless cattle began to bawl and stamp in circles. His nostrils flared.

  He was about to speak up and intervene when the man with the revolvers shot a bottle while his friend still held it. It shattered, spraying shards of glass everywhere, including into the holder’s face. He cried out with a loud curse as his hands flew to his eyes. He plucked sharp pieces of glass from his face, blood trickling down his cheeks and forehead, and scowled as he stared at his hands smeared with red.

  Antonio edged behind the end of the chuck wagon and peered out from behind it, watching the men closely.

  The shooter laughed out loud and slapped his thigh. “Sorry, Shep – shoulda waited, huh?” But his laughter was cut off when Shep drew his own gun and shot his friend in the chest. The man fell to the ground, his hands clutching his chest, and writhed for a few moments before falling still.

  Three men seated around the campfire playing cards stood and ran to attend to the man on the ground. “You shot Clem!” one of them bellowed. “You shot my cousin, you dirty rotten …” He yanked out a pistol and shot Shep in the head. Shep collapsed in the dust, spilling blood everywhere.

  “What in tarnation’s wrong with you, Tad?” cried another cowboy with a dirty red kerchief strung around his neck, his hands on his scalp as he stared at Clem and Shep on the ground in disbelief.

  Tad spun around, his face clenched in anger, his eyes flitting between the remaining two cowboys. “You gonna say somethin’ else smart, Al?” He leveled the pistol at Al’s head.

  Al shook it vigorously. “Now, Tad …”

  “How about you, Whitman? You’ve always got somethin’ to say – let’s hear it!”

  Whitman shook his head.

  Antonio silently slipped his Colt from its holster and hid it behind him, his eyes narrowed. Things had gone from bad to worse very quickly, and he didn’t intend to become Tad’s next victim.

  Tad threw his head back and laughed maniacally – and Whitman drew his pistol and shot Tad in the neck. Tad wobbled, a look of surprise on his face as blood poured down his chest. Then he fell flat on his face.

  Antonio watched as Whitman and Al exchanged a look, picked up their saddles and saddlebags and hightailed it for the horses picketed nearby. He stepped out from behind the chuck wagon and listened to the thunder of hooves as the two remaining cowboys galloped south across the prairie, disappearing into the night.

  Suddenly Lotte was by his side. “You should not sneak up on a man holding a gun, querida.” He uncocked the revolver and returned it to his holster.

  She put her arm through his and stared wide-eyed at the three dead men lying on the ground. “Oh my …”

  He patted her arm. “You check on Giuseppe and Clive – tell them what happened. I will bury the bodies.” But she didn’t move, and he felt her hand tremble on his arm. He cupped her cheeks in his palms. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head violently, her eyes welling up with tears.

  “They are gone now.” H
e stroked her face. “It is over.”

  “But why …?”

  “They were drunk and foolish. Those two do not mix well together, especially not on the trail.” A tear ran down one of her pale cheeks, and he caught it with the tip of his thumb, then wiped her cheek dry. “Come now, querida – we have work to do. We must keep moving and stay alert – we do not know if they will be back. When we find the nearest sheriff in Kansas, we will tell him everything.”

  She nodded and sniffled. “You are right. We have to be on our guard. I will tell Giuseppe and Clive. They must be awake after all that noise, but I did not see either one come out of their tents, or even pull back the flap.”

  He frowned. “Perhaps they did sleep through it. They must be very sick if they did. Go.” She went, and he searched the back of the chuck wagon until he found a shovel. He spent the rest of the night digging holes in the prairie. By the time he’d buried the trio, the horizon glowed orange, throwing the tall grasses into sharp relief against the changing sky. He returned to the campsite, exhausted and covered in dirt, and washed up with water from a canteen.

  Thankfully, the cattle had resettled after the chaos and either were sleeping or grazing contentedly. With no one but Adam to watch them, they’d spread out across the prairie. He sighed – it would take them all morning just to round up the herd and get them heading north again.

  Lotte pushed open the flap on Clive’s tent and poked her head out. “Antonio, you are back. Can you please come here?”

  He walked to the tent. She looked as tired as he felt, pushing messy hair out of her face. “What is wrong?”

  “You were right – Clive and Giuseppe are very sick. And I don’t know what to do to help them.” She frowned.

  He went inside the tent. Clive lay still, his mouth open, gasping for breath. His face was covered in a red rash, and sweat poured down his forehead.

  “I think it is scarlet fever,” Lotte whispered. “I have heard of it – when we were traveling west with a wagon train, one of the women told me how she lost a child to scarlet fever. The way she described it … Clive and Giuseppe may both have it.”

  Antonio’s eyes widened. “What can we do?”

  She shook her head. “I do not know.”

  “I should go for a doctor.”

  She frowned. “But where? How far are we from the nearest town?”

  “A few days, at least,” he groaned.

  “I do not think they will last that long.” She shook her head. “I will fetch more water. Stay with Clive. He wakes every now and then, and it would be good to have someone here if he does.”

  “Of course,” Antonio replied as she slipped from the tent.

  “Sanchez …” Clive’s voice was weak.

  “Yes, Mr. Buckland, I am here.”

  “I’m a-dyin’ …”

  “No. You will be fine, Mr. Buckland. Lotte has gone to get you some water. Are you thirsty?”

  Clive nodded and took a shallow breath. “Y’know, this was my dream?”

  “It was?”

  “Yeah. Was gonna take these beeves … up to my homestead in Montana Territory … set m’self up a ranch. ‘S real beautiful up there, ain’t it, Sanchez?”

  Antonio smiled. “Si, it is.”

  “Always wanted m’own ranch. Thought I might settle down, y’know … find m’self a wife, have a few younguns. Really wanted kids of m’own. Y’should have some, Sanchez.”

  “You will someday, Mr. Buckland. Do not give up on me.”

  Clive coughed and groaned. “So cold … gimme a blanket, will ya? W-wait. Gotta tell ya somethin’.”

  Antonio leaned closer. “What is it?”

  “The cattle … I don’t trust them scoundrels out there with’m. They won’t treat’m right. You take care of ‘em for me, won’t ya?”

  “Of course I will. You just get better, you hear me?”

  Clive’s head lolled to one side, then back again as he whimpered, “Ain’t gonna get well, Sanchez. I can feel it … m’mind’s a-goin’. But ‘fore it does, promise me … you’ll look after the longhorns.”

  “I promise, Mr. Buckland.”

  “And the homestead.”

  Antonio’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  Clive fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a worn folded square of paper, dropping it at Antonio’s feet. “’S yers. Don’t want none of ‘em varmints takin’ it. You have it.”

  Antonio’s eyes widened. “But Mr. Buckland …”

  “No buts, Sanchez. I like ya – ya and yer pretty wife. Yer good people – ya deserve a break. Ya ain’t told me much ‘bout yer life … but I reckon ya had it tough. Time someone gave ya a break. Well, this is it … don’t waste it, y’hear me?” Clive coughed again, and this time he couldn’t catch his breath. His body shook as he gasped for air.

  Antonio closed his eyes. He didn’t dare touch the man to comfort him for fear of catching the fever himself. “Si, señor. I will take care of the homestead and the longhorns for you – you have my word. You rest now, get your strength back.”

  Clive’s coughing quieted and his eyes drifted shut. He fell into a restless sleep and Antonio watched him with a heavy heart before tucking the deed into his shirt pocket. He’d made Clive Buckland a promise, and he would keep it.

  When Lotte returned with a canteen of cool water, he shook his head. “He woke for a few moments, but he is asleep again.”

  She sighed. “The next time he wakes, I will give him a drink. Did he seem better?”

  “No, I do not think so.” Antonio closed the tent flap behind him, then pulled out and unfolded the deed. It was in fact for a 160-acre homestead in Montana Territory, just as Clive had said. He put it back and hurried away, needing to breathe fresh air. The stench of death had filled the tent, making his head spin. He sat down onto his bedroll and stared up at the sky as dawn swept slowly across it. They couldn’t move out first thing as he’d planned, or move out at all – not with two invalids to take care of and only he and Adam to care for five hundred head.

  Just then, Al and Whitman trotted their horses back into camp. They dismounted and eyed Antonio with distrust. “Hey, Pedro – how’s it goin’?” asked Al. Whitman stared with red-rimmed eyes, but didn’t speak.

  Antonio’s heart pounded. “I am doing okay.”

  “We was just taking a look around,” said Whitman, his gaze fixed on Antonio’s face. He spat tobacco juice into the dirt at his feet.

  “Where’d the, uh … others go?” asked Al, his eyes sweeping the campsite.

  “I buried them,” responded Antonio neutrally.

  Whitman’s eyes narrowed. “We gonna have a problem, Tejano?”

  Antonio shook his head slowly. “No problem.”

  Whitman grinned. “Glad to hear. Now, what’s for breakfast?”

  Antonio shifted so he could reach his gun if he needed to without being obvious about it. “I am surprised you came back.”

  Al smirked. “Well, why not? We ain’t done nothin’ wrong. And we didn’t have no food with us neither.”

  Whitman nodded. “That’s right. This here’s our cattle drive and we ain’t gonna leave like that. Not when we was just defendin’ ourselves.”

  Antonio nodded. “I should warn you – Giuseppe and Señor Buckland are very sick. We think it is scarlet fever.”

  Al’s eyes widened and he turned to Whitman with a cry. “Scarlet fever! Ya hear that, Whitman?”

  Whitman shrugged. “Makes no never mind to me.”

  “Well, I don’t wanna die,” Al yelped, crossing his arms and backing away.

  Whitman slumped beside the fire and poked at it with a stick. “I want some coffee,” he hissed.

  Antonio shrugged. “You may have to build one yourself, señor. I need to go talk to Adam – he has been out with the herd all night. Do not go near Clive’s tent unless you want to catch the fever.”

  Whitman cursed and spat on the ground again. “I dunno know why we came back here, Al. Seems like we’d b
e better off grabbin’ some chuck and headin’ on into Kansas. If’n we stay here, we’re like to catch bubonic plague or some such. And ain’t no one cookin’ breakfast for us no-how.”

  Al nodded vigorously. They hurried toward the chuck wagon, filled their pockets and saddlebags with as much food and ammunition as they could carry, then with another glance at Antonio, they remounted their horses and galloped north, soon disappearing into the thick prairie grasses.

  Antonio grinned with relief as he watched them go. He stood and wandered over to where the horses were picketed, led Hans back to camp to saddle him and mounted up with a yawn. He’d best have that talk with Adam, and see how he’d fared overnight. There were a few things the boy needed to know.

  11

  Antonio cantered Hans out where he’d last seen Adam with the herd. That boy had a lot to learn about cattle drives – he’d let the entire herd wander through the night. Antonio had to follow their tracks where they’d trampled the prairie grasses or left hoof-prints in a muddy hollow. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his week’s growth of beard. He might be days gathering them all again Not that it mattered much now, with Clive in such bad shape and most of the cowhands gone … except he’d made Clive a promise.

  Not for the first time, he wished he and Lotte had never caught up with Clive Buckland’s cattle drive. Granted, if they hadn’t there’d be no one taking care of Clive and Giuseppe right now, and those canallas Al and Whitman would likely have their hands on five hundred longhorns and the deed to Clive’s homestead. No matter how he looked at it, Clive and his herd needed them, and Antonio would do whatever he could to help the man.

  He frowned. There were three sets of horse tracks – two fresh, and one where the mud had dried the hoof-prints. The fresh sets looked hurried, while the other meandered, never in a straight line. And still no sign of Adam.

  He leaned forward over Hans’ neck and kicked the horse into a gallop. “Hiya!”

  He found a good section of the herd a mile away in a lush dip in the prairie beside a slow-moving stream. Hidden from above by the stream banks, cattle grazed or drank, flicking at wayward flies with their tails. He pulled Hans to a stop and stood in his saddle, shielded his eyes from the sun as he scanned the prairie, then the lowlands. He saw Adam’s horse standing in the shade of a burr oak, the horse’s head low as it cropped the sweet grass. Adam lay prone beneath the tree.