He ignored her, repeating, “Don’t sass me, boy!”
“I won’t, Pa,” Silsby said, his eyes watering from the pain. The boy suddenly felt like crying, something he hadn’t done since a whipping he got when he was ten-years-old. It wasn’t so much from the physical discomfort, though it did sting like hell, as it was knowing that his father didn’t like him very much.
Luther gave his son a dark look. “If you’re supposed to be on camp guard, you’d best get to it.”
Fionna interjected, “He said he didn’t have to go ‘til later on.”
“It’s all right,” Silsby said. “I’d just as soon go now.”
He got to his feet and walked toward the tent with his mother following. She went inside with him. “Let me see your ear.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Silsby said, picking up his hat.
“I’d like to see if you’re hurt,” Fionna said. “It looks real red.”
“You don’t care!”
“Oh, darling boy, o’course I do!”
“Well,” Silsby said with a sigh. “Whether you care or not they ain’t much you can do about it, is they?”
He turned from his mother to hurry out of the tent. Fionna stayed under the canvas fighting back her tears. It took a couple of minutes before she was able to wipe her eyes dry and go back outside to clean up after the meal. Rebecca stood by the side of the wagon, watching her mother begin the chore. She walked over to help clear away the dishes. “It’s gonna be hot today, Ma.”
“Not a cloud in the sky,” Fionna observed.
“No matter the weather,” Luther commented, “we’re past spring planting time. But next year this will be a real town with stores and houses, and we’ll be out there somewhere on our own farm. If the Good Lord is willing, we’ll have some fine crops ripening under this here sun.” He got to his feet. “I’m off to the morning meeting.”
Rebecca waited until her father was out of earshot before turning her eyes to her mother. “He hit Silsby hard!” Fionna tried to ignore the remark, but Rebecca was insistent. “Why don’t you say something to Pa? He cain’t keep hitting Silsby like that.” She stifled a sob. “It ain’t right, Ma! When Pa hit him a minute ago, I could tell it really hurt.”
“Get the pot off the stove,” Fionna said. “It’s got to be cleaned up too.”
“Ma!”
“Make sure you get the Dutch oven out of the wagon,” Fionna said. “We’ll have a roast pork and potato dish tonight. Esther Ratner is going to share some of that slaughtered pig with us.”
Rebecca looked at her mother for a few moments more before speaking. “I’ll tend to the dishes first.” The girl sunk herself into the monotonous task, angrily scrubbing each plate and utensil until it was spotless.
“I’m gonna go see Esther,” Fionna said. “Don’t forget the Dutch oven.”
When Rebecca finished the work, she put the dishes away in the wooden box in the back of the wagon. She reached for the Dutch oven and pulled it off the vehicle, carrying the unwieldy appliance over to the water. This, too, was given a thorough washing although it didn’t really need cleaning. After drying the container, Rebecca took it to the hole where it would be buried in hot coals to cook that evening’s supper.
Fionna returned with a crudely butchered pork roast. “Bob Ratner ain’t real good with a cleaver, but it’ll taste fine. No worry about that.”
“I’ll go to the creek and get some more water,” Rebecca said. “I about used it all on the dishes.” She grabbed a bucket.
“Rebecca,” Fionna said softly.
The girl stopped, not looking at her mother.
“I’ve talked to your pa before.”
“About hitting Silsby?”
“Yes. I want you to know that.”
“All right, Ma.”
“Don’t you think it pains me too?”
“I really don’t know.”
Fionna smothered her hurt at the remark, and spoke in as firm a voice as she could muster. “I’m his ma and I ache for my boy.”
Rebecca stared out at the distant horizon.
“Your pa loves Silsby, he truly does,” Fionna continued. “But he’s worried about him. Silsby don’t always pay attention and he forgets things he shouldn’t.”
“I know, Ma. But cain’t you make Pa not hit him quite so much?”
“A man is master in his house,” Fionna said. “And your pa is doing what he figgers is best. I recollect how Grandpa McCracken went hard on all five of his boys. Luther and them took some sharp whacks of their own.”
“All right, Ma.”
Rebecca left the wagon to go down to the creek. When she reached the bank, she bent down and dipped the bucket into the cool sluggish water. She had just straightened up when shouts came from a short distance away.
“Riders coming in!”
“Cattlemen!”
Rebecca, though slowed by the weight of the bucket, hurried as fast as she could back to the wagon. By the time she got there, Luther had returned from the meeting. Rebecca said, “They’s two boys running in toward the creek yelling the cowboys is coming.”
“Yeah,” Luther said. “They’re riding in from the west too.”
“That’s where Silsby is!” Fionna cried.
“He’s all right, Fionna,” Luther said. “Silsby is over at Byron’s wagon right now.” He went into the tent and got his Winchester rifle. When he came out he said, “All the womenfolk and kids is supposed to stay by the wagons and tents.”
“Be careful, Luther!”
“I will,” he promised. “Ever’thing will be all right. They’s a whole lot of us.”
Luther trotted back through the wagons, leaping over tent ropes and boxes. When he reached Byron’s vehicle, most of the other men were already there. He wasn’t surprised to note a lot of excited, loud talk as information, misinformation, and speculation were exchanged among the thirty-six males of the camp. The younger boys who had served as lookouts stood off to the side as they had been ordered to do.
Ed Byron signaled for quiet. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! If you please!” He waited for them to calm down. “Dewey Harknell and about nine or ten of his men are coming in on the southwest side of Boomer City. We’re going out there to meet them and listen to what Harknell has to say.”
Harvey Matthews yelled, “We know how to answer him!”
A cheer went up, and Byron smiled. “You bet we do! Now everybody must be calm. Please remember what we agreed to do about this confrontation. I will be the only one speaking to him. I have our demands written down here —” He held up several sheets of paper. “— and I will let Harknell know the facts. After that, his reaction will determine what we will do.”
“Let’s go!” Luther yelled out. He had grown bone weary of all the rhetoric of the other Boomers. Byron waved at them to follow him. Luther and Bob Ratner were on the newspaperman’s heels as he strode toward the southwest corner of the camp. The rest of the men brought up the rear in a crowded bunch.
Back at the wagons, the women and children watched in open apprehension as their husbands, fathers, and older brothers went out to confront the cattleman and his drovers.
Byron and the others walked from Boomer City, striding purposely toward the approaching horsemen. The two groups drew closer to each other as the rancher, with ten cowboys behind him, rode up slowly. His foreman Charlie Ainsley was at his side. The two kept coming on, not reining in until Harknell’s horse almost bumped into Ed Byron.
“Just what in hell do you damn fools think you’re doing?” Harknell growled down at the Boomers.
Byron smiled confidently, almost arrogantly. “I think our purpose is quite apparent, Mr. Harknell.”
“If you people ain’t off the Grasslands by nightfall, you’re gonna be the sorriest bunch of son of a bitches that ever lived. I don’t give a godamn if they’s a thousand of you out here.”
Byron ignored the threat. “Welcome to Boomer City, Mr. Harknell.”
“Boomer
City? City?” Harknell scoffed. “This looks more like Boomer Shit Pile to me.”
Byron ignored the sarcasm, holding up the papers in his hand. “I’ve got something to read to you.”
Harknell quickly leaned down and grabbed the sheets. He angrily wadded them up, and threw it all into the air to drift away in the breeze. “You don’t read shit to me, you land grabbing son of a bitch!” he yelled. “Now I’m telling you—”
“No!” Byron interrupted with a loud shout. “We’re telling you! This is Boomer City, Indian Territory from this day on! We’re here to stay! Understand? To stay!” The Boomers cheered, and Byron went on. “You, your cowboys and the Indians might as well pack up and leave. Because we are not going anywhere! Sir, we are in our new homes.”
“I got the law on my side,” Harknell said. “And I’m warning all of you. You’re trespassing on land I got leased legal from the Cherokee Nation. They own it according to treaties they got with the United States of America godamned government and they can do what they damn well please with it. What it pleases them to do, is to lease it to me.”
“We know all about those arrangements,” Byron said. “They mean nothing. The Medicine Bundle Grasslands is two hundred thousand acres of prime land that is not going to be allowed to be wasted by ignorant Indians on some conniving cowherd.”
“What’d you call me?” Harknell roared.
“A conniving cowherd,” Byron yelled back. “Which is mild compared to the cursing and insulting appellations you have hurled at us, sir!”
Spittle flew from Harknell’s lips as he hollered, “You get your godamned squatting asses off the Grasslands, you sons of whores! You godamned hunks of mule shit! You son of a bitching, no godamned good turd-eating clodhoppers!”
The cowboys, apprehensive and alert, shifted in their saddles. The foreman Charlie Ainsley signaled them to keep calm. Luther, standing beside Byron with Bob Ratner, was suddenly worried. At that moment he took into consideration that the cowboys were not family men. They were unattached bachelors with a wildness that could mean a dangerous situation for the Boomer women and children if things took a violent turn. Now he wished he and the others hadn’t brought their guns with them.
Byron pressed on. “Your kind does not frighten us, sir. I’ve never heard such evil drivel come from the mouth of one man. Right is on our side and right shall prevail as it always does!”
Bob Ratner had grown excited, forgetting the instructions that Byron would be the only spokesman. “We’ll meet your damn threats, Harknell! We’re ready for whatever you throw our way.” He reached into the waistband of his trousers, and pulled a revolver. He displayed the weapon by waving it around. “If you —”
Luther shouted, “For the love of God, Bob! No!” He made a move toward Ratner to push his gun down.
At that exact moment, Charlie Ainsley whipped out his own pistol, firing quickly four times. Two of the bullets went wild, but one hit Ed Byron in the head and the other smashed into Bob Ratner’s chest. Both men collapsed, tumbling to the grass as an eruption of shots exploded across the scene.
Luther McCracken cocked his Winchester as the cowboys all began firing. The outburst of shooting startled their horses, causing the animals to rear and pitch, throwing off their riders’ aim. The loud reports deafened ears as the Boomers immediately shot back. Two of the cowboys were gunned out of their saddles, and lay among the stamping hooves. Harknell, realizing they were badly outnumbered, yelled out, “Get the hell out of here, boys!” He and his cowpokes galloped off, continuing to fire back as they covered their retreat.
Suddenly all was quiet.
One of the men panted rapidly if he’d been running. Another sobbed, wiping at his eyes as the gravity of the situation swept over him. Others were silent, shocked by the unexpected violence. Four bodies lay in the grass. One cowboy was face down with arms askew; the second had fallen to his back with his head turned to one side; Ed Byron was on his stomach with his arms under him; and Bob Ratner had collapsed on his side with his legs drawn up into a fetal position.
Luther, remaining calm, knelt down to examine Byron. He’d taken the bullet under the right eye, popping it out of the socket. The slug had gone on to blow away the back of his head. Luther could see it was useless to try to revive him. He turned to Bob Ratner. The man’s shirt was soaked in blood, and he, too, was dead.
“Oh, my Lord!” somebody said.
Luther looked at one of the nearby men. “Check them cowboys, will you, Tom?”
Tom Ralston, the bachelor, walked over and nudged each with the toe of his boot. He came back, saying, “They’s dead.”
Ed Benson spoke. “What the hell is gonna happen now?”
Luther McCracken sensed the need for somebody to take charge. He stood up and surveyed the crowd. Everyone looked at him with an expectant expression. “The first thing we do is get back to camp and make sure none of the womenfolk or young’uns was hit by stray bullets,” he announced. “Then we got to get ready for trouble. Harknell is gonna gather up ever’ cowboy and range tramp he can find.” He pointed to some of the men. “Harvey, Lawrence, Steve, we got to bring all the wagons in close together.”
“Right, Luther!” Harvey Matthews responded.
“Get ’em into a tight circle,” Luther ordered. “We’re gonna turn this camp into a fort.”
“What about the rest of us, Luther?” W.R. Dunbar asked.
“Get back to your families and wait for further word,” Luther said. “Stay there! Don’t wander around, please! If ever’body is going here and yonder, we ain’t gonna get nothing organized. We got to keep order if we’re gonna stay ready for the trouble that’s already started.” He looked down at the two Boomer corpses. “Let’s take Ed and Bob back now.”
“What about them cowboys?” Harvey asked.
“We’ll bury ’em later when ever’thing else is took care of,” Luther said. “Or maybe Harknell’s bunch will come and fetch ’em.” He glared at the Boomers. “Let’s go, fellers! We ain’t got a lot of time!”
The men suddenly began moving.
Chapter Five
Dewey Harknell had known violence all his life. As a youngster he’d helped his father and brothers fight off Comanche raids on their small ranch in northwest Texas over a period of several years. Small bands of the plains warriors made numerous raiding expeditions into northern Texas during the mid-nineteenth century. These incursions were mostly to steal horses, but the Indians also hit other targets of opportunity.
During the occasional raids on the Harknells’ small ranch, the mother and two sisters, squatting on the rough plank floor behind overturned furniture, kept the family’s arsenal of guns loaded. When one of the male members of the family ran out of bullets, he exchanged the empty firearm for a freshly loaded one. The resistance put up by the desperate family was always fierce enough that eventually the Indians would abandon the assault against the house, turning their attention to stealing the cattle. Fortunately the Comanches weren’t proficient herdsmen, and most of the bovines scattered, then wandered back toward their home range after the war parties headed for other areas to kill and plunder.
These attacks occurred every summer when the Indians, after a winter of being fed, quartered, and sheltered by the Department of the Interior at the agency in Fort Sill, Oklahoma Territory, stole away to go to Texas. They did this for more than loot; vengeance for the loss of land by the ever encroaching whites was the main reason for this violent behavior. It was ironic that the warriors were well armed and equipped with weapons and ammunition given them for hunting under the auspices of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. As experts in guerrilla warfare, the Plains Indians were ready to employ any advantage to their cause.
At other times, frontier rustlers and bandits — including gringos, texicanos and mexicanos — came to steal cattle and property. Consequently, Harknell reached adulthood as a violent man who had learned to defend himself and his belongings with a righteous fury. By the time he grew into m
anhood he had shot and killed no less than two dozen men in deadly confrontations, and ordered the hanging of twice that number caught with cattle bearing his brand. With no legal systems of civilization to give him protection or limitations, Harknell enforced his own rules of survival and retaliation. These were stark situations of kill or be killed, leaving no room for hesitation or giving the other fellow the benefit of the doubt.
The rancher had expected only another inconvenience in his confrontation with the Boomers that lethal afternoon on the Grasslands. He’d run them off before and was confident he could run them off again. He also recognized that these interlopers had their women and children with them, and were unlikely to provoke deadly confrontations. The cattleman had been caught uncharacteristically flat-footed when the Boomer drew a pistol that set off the gunfight.
When Harknell returned to his ranch after leaving behind two dead cowboys, his men wanted to gather up the rest of the crew for an immediate attack on the Boomer camp to pay them back in triple for the outrage.
This was also the boss’ first inclination. But as he thought more about it, Harknell fully realized that he was not standing alone in a conflict. The law was on his side and there were agencies available to back him up. He could act like a civilized man for the first time in his life, and turn to the authorities for help. This would also assure that he faced no criminal charges as an instigator or conspirator. A couple of charges of murder against the sodbusters would dampen their desires to settle on the Grasslands.
But he had to make sure his cowboys didn’t take on a vigilante mentality. That was a big problem. The ranch hands were a volatile and impetuous bunch who were in a dangerous mood. It would take a great deal of hard-nosed persuasion to keep them from going on a crazy killing spree. After calming them down with assurances that the law would avenge their two dead pards, he further assuaged their feelings by paying for a special visit to the debauchery offered in the settlement of Kensaw. They could drink themselves into stupefaction along with bouts of being pleasured between the chubby thighs of the town prostitutes. All this on the boss man’s money.
Medicine Bundle Page 5
