by Jory Sherman
“What in hell do you know about odds, Walt? You couldn’t win a horse race or a hand of poker when we was in Dodge City.”
“Seems to me you weren’t doin’ none too good, neither, Al,” Ferguson said.
He was from Clitherall, Minnesota, and he had met up with Thatcher in Dodge City, Kansas, almost a year ago, when both were down on their luck. Thatcher hailed from someplace in Illinois or Ohio, had run away from home, worked as a swamper in saloons, took up the owlhoot trail robbing travelers and pilgrims, wound up in Dodge City where the money flowed like water and was just as slippery.
“I got to think,” Thatcher said. “Give me a chaw of that tobacco, Al.”
Krieger reached into his pocket and pulled out a plug, tossed it down to Thatcher, who bit off a chew and tossed it back.
“Somebody help me get up,” he said, raising one of his arms. Short pulled him to his feet. He stood there like a wounded crane, one leg straight, the other cocked above the ground.
Ferguson looked off to the north, squinted his eyes.
“Let’s see what Pete has to say,” he said. “Here he comes.”
All the men looked around and saw Pete Rosset riding down a slope, leaning back in the saddle, tugging on his reins to keep his horse from running out from under him. He made the bottom and headed their way.
The sun had drifted over the bluffs and the light was slanted, glinting off the tops of pines and burnishing the aspen leaves that twisted like dancers in the soft breeze of afternoon. The creek was turning dark as shadows dusted its ripples.
Rosset didn’t seem anxious to ride up, and his progress was painfully slow to watch. Thatcher spit out tobacco juice and breathed through his nostrils.
“You’re takin’ your sweet time, Pete,” Krieger called. “Ain’t your horse got any git-up in him?”
“We’re both of us tired as hell, Al,” Rosset said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “It’s a long hard way up to that tabletop from here.”
“Well, get your ass over here and tell me what you saw. Settlers?”
Rosset rode up and slumped over, his hands resting on his saddle horn. He slipped his boots out of the stirrups and stretched his legs.
“They’s a whole bunch of Messicans up there,” he said to Thatcher. “They was bringin’ in beeves and wagons. They’s a cabin up there and folks livin’ in it. Hell, they got ’em a chuck wagon and supply wagons stacked with lumber and barrels. Saw Corny, too.”
“What?” Thatcher said.
“Yep, Corny was there and I think he saw me. One feller throwed down on me, but he didn’t shoot. Young feller with what looked like a Winchester ’73.”
“Savage,” Krieger said. “I’d bet money on it.”
“Corny on a horse?” Thatcher asked.
“Yep, a horse I never seen before. There was that kid with ’em, too.”
“You count head?” Ferguson asked.
“Didn’t have time. More’n fifty head of whitefaces, but they was still comin’ onto the tabletop when I lit a shuck.”
“What in hell’s that bastard up to?” Thatcher said. It was a rhetorical question. He didn’t expect an answer.
“Seems like he’s plannin’ to stay,” Ferguson said.
“Hell, he’s likely to build him a city up there. I ain’t seen so many Messicans since we left Denver,” Rosset said.
“This changes everything,” Ferguson said.
“It don’t change nothin’,” Thatcher retorted. “I still aim to put that bastard’s lamp out and jump his claim. I didn’t come up here to watch some other sonofabitch get rich.”
“You gonna do this by yourself, Lem?” Ferguson said, his tone etched with acid, the kind that drips on a man’s brain and poisons his whole body.
“It can be done, Walt. We just need to put our heads together. Come up with a plan.”
Rosset swung down out of the saddle. He slipped his canteen from his saddle horn, pulled the cork, and drank. Krieger shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Short spit a wad of tobacco down at his feet, looking as if he wanted to be as far away as he could get by just wishing.
“A plan, Lem?” Ferguson said. “As good as the last one? As good as the paper our claims are written on?”
The acid was thick as molasses.
“You keep on, Walt, and see where you get.”
“You threatenin’ me, Lem?”
“Not yet, Walt. You’ll know when I do.”
The two men glared at each other. Rosset cleared his throat and started to loosen his saddle cinch. He rubbed the side of his face. Krieger’s eyes glittered in the dying light as if there were a flame building inside him, a bloodlust such as a man brought to a prize fight.
“It ain’t the end of the world,” Short said, finally. “Maybe that Savage feller is a-goin’ to give up prospectin’ and take to cattle ranchin’.”
Thatcher stared at Short as if the man had lost his mind or gotten into the whiskey stores.
“Yeah, Harry,” Ferguson said, “and maybe pigs got wings and can fly.”
“Harry’s right,” Thatcher said. “We still got some moves left. We’ll sleep on it tonight and talk in the morning. Maybe drink a little whiskey tonight to wash out the bad taste in our mouths.”
Ferguson walked away in disgust, turning his back on Thatcher.
Whiskey wasn’t going to solve a damned thing, Ferguson thought. But already, his mouth was filling up with saliva just thinking about it. That was Thatcher’s way, had been back in Dodge. When times got tough, it was time for a man to pour himself a stiff drink of Old Taylor.
But he knew damned well that drinking whiskey with Lem Thatcher wouldn’t solve a damned thing.
20
JOHN WATCHED AS ORNERY DOBBINS GUIDED HIS TEAM OF TWO horses up to the cabin and deftly maneuvered the chuck wagon into the spot John had designated beforehand. Dobbins set the brake as Eva and Emma ran up to the wagon, their eyes wide at the sight of such a marvel.
“Set it up, Ornery,” John said as he rode up, “and get to cooking. There are a lot of mouths to feed.”
Dobbins cocked his head, pushed his derby hat back an inch, and, gimlet-eyed, stared at John as if he were a weevil creeping into his flour bin.
“I can feed four or forty, mister. You got any water up here? I need helpers. I can do the cookin’ all right, as far as taste goes, but I ain’t no magician and I only have two hands.”
Before John could answer, Emma stepped forward.
“My daughter and I will be glad to help,” she said.
“Can you peel taters, slice onions, prepare sugar beets?”
“Yes, we can, sir.”
Dobbins climbed down from the seat and danced a little jig in front of the two women, lifting his derby as he circled them, pumping it up and down like a vaudeville performer.
“Only one cook here, ladies. Too many spoil the broth, ye know. But you can peel and slice and chop if you’re willin’, and I’ll cook you a feast that will stick to your ribs like glue.”
Eva squealed with delight at Dobbins’s antics, and as she jumped up and down, her pigtails flogged her back like silken whips. Emma smiled and tapped her feet in time to Dobbins’s steps.
John shook his head and rode off toward the supply wagons.
“We have water,” Emma was saying. “Springwater, and we can fetch all you need, sir.”
“Name’s Ornery, ma’am. Ornery Dobbins.”
“Ornery? That’s an odd name.”
“Not as odd as what my real moniker is, pretty lady.”
Emma blushed.
“And what, may I ask, is your real name, Mr. Dobbins?”
“Why, that’s a secret I keep to myself and you look most becoming when you blush, you nameless beauty of a woman.”
“My name’s Emma. Emma Blanchett. And this is my daughter Eva.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ornery,” Eva said, and curtsied, pulling her dress out to her sides like a fan.
“The pleasure is all mine, Miss
Eva,” Dobbins said. “You are a most winsome lass yourself. Now, will you both step up and show me your hands? Palms up, if you please.”
Emma and Eva walked over to Dobbins and held out their hands. He lifted Emma’s hands and turned them over, then moved to Eva. He examined her hands, as well, and then stepped back.
“You both have lovely hands, and I see they are not strangers to work. From the looks of them, I would say you have scrubbed, washed, hammered, and sawed. Now, I’d like one of you to peel ten pounds of potatoes, and the other to chop up a half dozen onions, and can we get about ten gallons of water?”
“Whit,” Emma called as she turned to look at the cabin. “Come here.”
Whit came running, and Dobbins handed him a large blackened kettle.
“Would you be so kind as to fill this kettle, young man, a hand span below the rim, if you please.”
“Yes, sir,” Whit said as he took the kettle from Dobbins. He ran off into the woods and disappeared.
“Now, then,” Dobbins said. “Taters and onions for my stew.” And he walked to the back of the chuck wagon, dropped the tailgate, reached in, and grabbed two sacks. As the women crowded up to him, he laid out cutting boards and knives, along with a battered bucket that he set on the ground.
“I’ll do the potatoes, Eva, while you peel and chop up the onions.”
“Oh, dear,” Eva said. “I am surely going to cry.”
Dobbins laughed and walked to a cupboard on the side of the wagon, where he retrieved a small shovel. He began to dig a pit and lined it with stones. When Whit returned, he told him to bring plenty of kindling wood and logs cut to a length of two and a half feet each. He hummed to himself as he set up a sideboard with salt, pepper, and other condiments, humming a merry little tune that put the women in a good mood as they peeled and chopped and watched the bucket fill up.
The sun sank slowly beyond the distant peaks, flaming the string of clouds with peach and salmon, shooting rays through them in a wide fan that seemed to proclaim the glory of either the heavens or the western sky, depending on a person’s preference. Twilight crept through the pine forest, as the sun gilded the trees’ green crowns, and hushed the jays and the crows.
Some of the cattle were lining the banks of the two spring-fed streams that coursed through the plateau, while others were scattered over several acres, nibbling grass. John rode through their long shadows, admiring them with a feeling of warm contentment. The stock seemed at home, and that gave him much pleasure. There were bulls among the herd, and some had already gathered their harems around them, watching over them with wary eyes on the younger bulls.
“Get those wagon sheets out and carry them up to the house,” John told Pepito. “Lay them out on the flattest place you can find in front of that cabin.”
“We will have the music and the dancing?” Pepito said.
“You bet your boots, Pepito.”
Pepito grinned and went back to unloading a wagon of its lumber and tools. The other supply wagon was nearly empty, the lumber stacked neatly on a large tarpaulin sheet. Gasparo and Corny were pulling the last of the two-by-fours from the wagon bed. A pair of guitar cases lay nearby, alongside a fiddle case.
“You doing all right, Corny?” John asked.
“It feels good to be doing some honest work for a change,” he said.
“There’s nothing dishonest about gold panning,” John said.
“That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“On where you’re panning and who you’re panning with,” Corny said.
“I see your point,” John said. “Gasparo, don’t forget the wagon sheets.”
“We will carry them up to the cabin, John. Do not worry.”
“Then I want you and Corny here to put up a small corral near the cabin. For the milk cows and their calves. Can you do that? Just put up a quick pole corral.”
“I can do that, John. There is much timber for such a corral.”
“I will tell Renaldo to get some axes,” John said, and rode off toward the cabin, through the long shadows of late afternoon stretching from the grazing cattle and the tall trees that bordered the plateau. He looked at the fiery sky and knew they would have good weather on the morrow, and, with luck, a starry night and a moon to light the entire tabletop and keep the wolves at bay.
Gasparo looked across the pasture and pointed. John saw a man leading two Guernsey cows and their calves.
“Renaldo brings the cows,” Gasparo said. “We will have milk in the morning.”
“I’ll show him where to take them,” John said, and rode off at a fast trot.
Renaldo Alicante sat in a small spruce grove, holding the two ropes that held the cows as they grazed in place. He was waiting for orders from either Carlos or John. He waved to John as he rode up.
“Hola, Renaldo,” John said.
“Will you take one of the ropes, John?” Renaldo said as he rode up to John. “My hand is sore from holding them.”
“Sure.” John leaned down and took a rope from Renaldo, who flexed his hand to restore circulation.
“This is a good place,” Renaldo said. “Much grass. Much land.”
“Yes,” John said. “To me it is Eden.”
“Ah. To me it is Argentina.” Renaldo had lived in Argentina for many years, learned about cattle from the gauchos. He was a good vaquero.
John looked up at the sky to the west. It would be dark soon and there was much to do. The sun was slipping down behind the most distant peaks, and many of the purple clouds were dusky, the light draining from them like sand through a sieve. The shadows beneath the trees had thickened to dark puddles, and the treetops were gradually fading into the faint bronze color of old tintypes.
“Tie these cows up, Renaldo,” John said, handing him his rope. “Pick a spot for a corral. Tonight, you’d better lay your bedroll close by. The wolves might find those calves mighty tempting.”
Renaldo got to his feet. The calves were staying close to their mothers, but were still frisky. They chased each other in between bumps to their mother’s udders, and wagged their short tails at each new discovery in their new home.
“Keep your pistol close tonight after you go to bed,” said John.
He left Renaldo and went looking for Ben and Carlos. Dobbins had a fire going, and John’s stomach twisted in hunger as he rode into the gathering twilight, across the plain, and into the hush of early evening. Shadows moved around the cook fire like actors on a stage, and he heard the crinkle of Eva’s laughter, the lilting brogue of Dobbins as he voiced an Irish ditty, while some of the cows moaned low in their throats as they began to bed down.
He saw the men carrying the wagon sheets across the grassy plateau, and the darkness beyond where the world had disappeared and nothing was visible. A pair of quail whirred by like oversized insects and glided into the trees along the edge of the grassland, and he heard the first querulous ribbon of fluting notes from the throat of an owl.
Ben loomed out of the gloaming, riding toward the cabin.
“Where’s Carlos?” John asked.
“Over at the north creek,” Ben said. “One of the cows stirred up a rattler and got bit in the leg.”
“Let’s find him, Ben, before it’s full dark.”
“It’s full dark over yonder now, John. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.”
“All right, we’ll find him, anyway.”
“You can see in the dark, Johnny?”
“About as well as you can, Ben. But we’ll know where Carlos is when we hear him cussing in Spanish.”
Ben laughed.
“He’d be doin’ that, all right,” Ben said, and they rode to the creek, listening for the liquid sound of Spanish invective, two shadows on horseback as the blue sky blackened and the first stars began to sparkle in the blackness above them.
21
PEPITO TACKLED THE CONVULSING STEER, GRABBING ONE OF ITS hind legs as it thrashed the brush and kicked at him. Carlos dove
for its neck, grabbed its left horn, and wrestled it to the ground. The horn dug into the dirt as the animal crashed down. Juanito grabbed another leg and pulled it toward the other. The cow kicked, and its sharp hoof struck Juanito in the groin. He cried out and doubled over in pain, his testicles swelling from the blow.
“Hold him,” Carlos said in Spanish.
Carlos twisted the steer’s head, while putting some of his weight on its neck in a bulldogging maneuver.
“Ay de mi, no puedo,” Pepito cried as the steer pulled its leg free and kicked Pepito in the stomach while it twisted its lower body away from Carlos, trying to get away. The animal was breathing hard, trying to twist its head and lift it to smash its tormentor with a vicious sweep of its horn.
Carlos groaned as he fought to keep the steer’s head twisted, but the burly animal shifted its body and got its hind legs under it. Still, Carlos hung on.
Pepito reached out and grabbed a rear hock, but the steer kicked and the foot flew out of Pepito’s grasp.
“Andale, Pepito,” Carlos yelled. “Hurry.”
Pepito scrambled to his feet as the darkness deepened. He rushed the steer and butted it in the flank with his head, pushed on its hind quarters with both hands. The animal staggered and toppled over onto its rump.
The steer shook its head, trying to break Carlos’s grip, but Carlos held on, his boots digging furrows into the ground as he pushed and pushed.
John heard the scuffle as he rode up, and saw the dark shapes squirming on the ground.
He watched as the two men wrestled with the steer. They turned like a pinwheel on the ground as the heavy animal fought to free itself.
“Mi cuchillo,” Carlos grunted. “My knife.”
John jumped from the saddle and ran over to him, drawing his knife.
“Corta la garganta,” Carlos said in Spanish.
John understood him. “Cut his throat.”
He knelt down, grabbed the free horn, and pulled the steer’s head back, so far back he heard something crack. Then he slashed the blade of his knife across the animal’s throat, cutting through hide and sinew, clear to the wind-pipe. Blood gushed from the open wound, drenching John’s hand and knife.
