Novel 1963 - Catlow (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Ordinarily a herd of three thousand head would have eleven or twelve riders, and the cost was figured at about a dollar-per-head for the drive from Texas to Kansas. In this case, with the herd owned by the drivers, there would be no outlay for wages, and the men owned their own remuda, so there had been no cost for the purchase of horses.

  Dawn to dusk they drove, usually trying to water somewhere late in the afternoon, then pushing on a few miles before bedding down. Cattle watered late had a way of starting off better and traveling better than those allowed to water in the morning.

  ABILENE IN 1871 was a booming town, but the boom was almost over, although few as yet realized it. There were many in town who detested the cattlemen with their vast herds—600,000 head were driven to Abilene that year—and the men who drove them.

  Texas Town was wild and woolly, and it was loud. The more staid citizens looked upon it with extreme distaste, and wanted to be rid of the yelling, whooping cowboys, the dusty, trail-seasoned men who were making the town what it was. Only a few months later they were to issue a bulletin saying they wanted no more of it, and to their discomfiture the cattlemen took them at their word and went west to Newton, to Ellsworth, to Dodge. By 1872 the citizens of Abilene were crying for them to come back, but it was too late.

  But in 1871 the town was still booming, and Marshal Hickok walked the center of the street, a tall, splendidly built man with auburn hair hanging to his shoulders, his clothing immaculate, his gun always ready for action.

  He was the first man Ben Cowan saw when he rode into town.

  Hickok had paused on a street corner, glancing each way from the Merchants Hotel. He wore a black frock coat, a low-brimmed black hat, and two ivory-butted and silver-mounted pistols thrust behind a red silk sash.

  “Mr. Hickok? I’m Ben Cowan.”

  Hickok’s eyes went from Cowan’s eyes to the badge he wore. Hickok held out his hand. “How do you do? What can I do for you?”

  Briefly, Cowan explained about Bijah Catlow and the herd. “I know the country down there,” Cowan said at the end, “and these cattle were mavericks, open to branding by anyone. I have no share in the business, but Bijah pulled me out of a hole down in the Cross Timbers, and he’s a good man.”

  “We’ve a letter on the cattle,” Hickok replied, “but I am not interested in what happened in Texas. You tell Catlow to drive his cattle to the stock pens. He won’t be bothered unless he or his men make trouble here.”

  Hickok thrust out his hand again. “Glad to know you, Marshal. We’ve heard of you.”

  Ben Cowan limped back to his horse and rode to the Drover’s Cottage, where he took a room, and then sat down to write out his report on the case of the Tonkawa Kid. When he had completed it and left it with the mail at the stage station, he went to the telegraph office and wired Fort Smith.

  Back at his room he arranged for a bath, and after he had taken it he changed into new clothing bought at Herman Meyer’s Clothing Store alongside of the Merchants Hotel.

  Bijah Catlow joined him at supper in the dining room at the Drover’s Cottage. “Twenty-five dollars a head,” Bijah said with a broad smile on his face, “and we split it ten ways, two shares for Johnny Caxton.”

  He reached into his shirt pocket. “Here’s the tally sheet, stamped by the buyer. We picked up a few head of Tumblin’ SS’s and Ninety-Fours drivin’ through, so here’s their money. Will you see they get it?”

  Ben accepted the money without comment, but offered a receipt. “You’re rawhidin’ me,” Bijah said. “Money in trust to you is safer than any bank.”

  He looked at Ben, and slowly he began to grin. As he did so he reached for another bit of paper and pushed it across the table. “Stopped by the telegraph office. This is for you.”

  Ben Cowan opened the folded paper and glanced at it, then he looked up at Bijah. “Did you see this?”

  “Sure! I always was too damn’ nosey.”

  Ben glanced down again.

  OFFICE OF THE U.S. MARSHAL

  FORT SMITH, ARKANSAS.

  CONSIDER THIS A WARRANT FOR THE ARREST OF ABIJAH CATLOW, RIO BRAY, AND OLD MAN MERRIDEW, WANTED FOR MURDER AND CATTLE THEFT.

  LOGAN S. ROOTS

  U.S. MARSHAL

  Chapter 4

  OUTSIDE IN THE street, a drunken cowhand whooped as he raced his horse past the Drover’s Cottage. In the dining room, with its tables covered with linen cloths, it was very still.

  “It’s my duty to take you in.”

  “I know it is.”

  “The hell with it!” Ben said. “If you were guilty, I’d take you in, but they’ll send you to Texas for trial, with Parkman telling the judge what to do. I’ll resign first.”

  Bijah Catlow leaned back in his chair and glanced around the room. Only a few of the tables were occupied by cattlemen, cattle buyers, or land speculators.

  “Ben, you’re buying me the best supper this place can offer, with the best wine…and they tell me these cattle buyers have fancy tastes. After that,” he leaned his forearms on the table, “you’re going to arrest me and take me to Fort Smith.”

  “The devil I will!”

  “Look, you’re the law. You couldn’t be anything else if you tried. If you resign now you’ve lost all you’ve gained. You go ahead and take me in. It’ll be all right.”

  Ben Cowan started to protest, but he knew it was just what might be expected from a hot-headed, temperamental, impulsive cowhand like Bijah Catlow.

  “What about Rio and the Old Man?”

  Catlow gave him a saturnine grin. “Now, Ben, you know me better than that. I picked up that telegram about an hour ago, so naturally I stopped by camp first. After all, I had money for them.

  “Somehow or other those boys just naturally saw this here telegram and by this time they’re far down the trail to somewhere. You can look for ’em if you want to waste time, but you won’t find ’em in a coon’s age.”

  “Bijah, don’t be a damned fool. You leave out of here now and I’ll give you an hour’s start. If I know you, you won’t need any more than that. You know Parkman has the courts in his pocket. He’ll see you hang.”

  Catlow picked up the chilled wine bottle and filled their glasses. “That waiter’s too durned slow.” He looked up, his eyes dancing with deviltry. “Sure, you’re right as rain. Parkman will sure enough try to string me up, but remember this, Ben, it’s a long way from here to Texas!”

  TWO WEEKS LATER Ben Cowan looked up from his desk where he was making out his final report.

  Roots stopped by the desk. “Your transfer came through, Ben. You go to New Mexico.” He turned away, then stopped again. “Oh, by the way, that prisoner you brought in…Catlow, was it? He escaped.”

  “Escaped?”

  “Uh-huh…four or five riders held up the stage and took him off.”

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “Hell, no. From what I hear Catlow had made friends with everybody on the coach, including the driver, and they were glad to see him get away. We did get an identification of one of the men in the bunch that took him, though. The officer escorting Catlow recognized one of the men as Rio Bray.”

  Bijah Catlow had been right…it was a long way to Texas.

  THE LEGEND OF Bijah Catlow had begun before this, but from this point on, it grew rapidly. The Houston & Texas Central was held up, and Catlow received the credit, whether he was guilty or not. Of one thing men were certain: Bijah Catlow had not forgotten Parkman.

  Parkman sent three herds to Kansas the following year, and lost the first one before it was fairly into the Nation. Somebody stampeded the herd, and it vanished.

  Nobody could offer more than a guess at what happened to it. Herds of three thousand head are not swallowed by the earth, yet vanish they did.

  Meanwhile, it suddenly appeared that Bijah Catlow had registered a brand, the Eight eighty-eight Bar, and around the chuck wagons and in the saloons throughout Texas, men began to chuckle. For three eights and a bar could very neatly s
wallow Parkman’s OP Bar…and apparently they had done just that.

  Catlow was never at home, but a very tough, very seasoned cowman, Houston Sharkey, was…he was not only at home, he was at home with a Winchester and a crew of hard-bitten cowhands who kept strays out of the Eight eighty-eight Bar grazing lands, and allowed no casual visitors.

  Several times the law came looking for Catlow, and they were welcomed to look around all they wished.

  Parkman came, too, and he came with a couple of tough hands, threatening to butcher a steer and read the hide from the wrong side, where the alteration of the brand would be plain to anyone.

  Sharkey levered a shell into the chamber of his Winchester. “You go right ahead, Colonel Parkman,” he said, “and you better hope that it’s an altered brand, because if it isn’t I’m going to lay you dead right where the steer lies.”

  Parkman looked at Houston Sharkey and the Winchester. He looked at the roped steer. He was sure that it was an altered brand…but suppose it wasn’t?

  If it was not, he had called this man a thief, an insult anywhere, and no court in the country would convict Sharkey of murder. Not with the viewpoint of Texans what it was at the time.

  Parkman looked, hesitated, and backed down. But he went away boiling mad, determined to catch both Catlow and Sharkey.

  Two weeks later a tall, cold-eyed rider headed into the rough country south of the Nueces—a tall man with a Winchester and a tied-down gun.

  Bijah Catlow spoke Spanish as well as any Mexican in the country. He spoke it smoothly and easily to the señoritas, and he was a popular man about Piedras Negras, across the river from Eagle Pass. He laughed easily, was friendly, and swapped horses and bought drinks. He was so popular that when the tall, cold-eyed man rode into town and asked questions, Catlow was informed within half an hour.

  There had been rumors that Parkman had sent a hired killer after him, and the rumors had reached Catlow as well as most of the population of the Mexican village.

  Matt Giles was a methodical man. He had begun his killing as a mere boy in the Moderators and Regulators wars of northeast Texas, and had graduated to a sharp-shooter in the Confederate Army.

  Discharged when the war ended, he drifted back to Texas and the word got around that he was a safe, reliable man for the kind of job he did. Parkman had retained him twice before this.

  Matt Giles had never seen Bijah Catlow, but he had listened to all the stories, knew what he looked like, and privately decided that Catlow was a bag of wind. Arrived in Piedras Negras, he had no trouble locating Catlow—he was the talk of the town.

  The local law approached Bijah…in fact, they had been drinking and poker-playing companions for some weeks now.

  “Our jail,” the person of the law suggested, “will hold another prisoner…for years, if necessary. This man—this Señor Giles—I could arrest him.”

  “Leave him alone,” Bijah said. “If he wants me, I’ll make it easy for him.”

  Bijah Catlow, whose entire life had been predicated on the impulsive and the unregulated, suddenly became the most regulated of men. He took to rising at a certain hour, going to the cantina at a certain hour, taking a siesta according to Mexican custom, and exercising his horse by a ride each afternoon, and each afternoon he went the same way.

  The people of Piedras Negras watched and worried. Bijah Catlow was, indeed, making it easy for the gringo killer.

  Giles watched, and studied Catlow’s movements. Never having known the man, he could not guess his pattern of living had been altered, and to such a methodical man as Giles, the methodical ways of Catlow seemed right and logical.

  Carefully, he studied the route to the cantina, but it offered no good cover. By this time Giles knew that Bijah had friends in Piedras Negras, and he knew there might be trouble before he got away. Therefore the killing had to be done where he was offered a good chance of escape, and where he could, preferably, kill with one shot.

  Going to or from the cantina, Catlow was always surrounded by a group of friends, and it soon became obvious to Giles that the only place where a killing would be safe would be along the road where Catlow exercised his horse. It also became obvious that along this route there was only one place that offered Giles the opportunity he wanted.

  There was a pile of boulders and brush about sixty yards from the trail Catlow rode, and a gully behind that pile which offered a hidden approach to the position. It was made to order.

  Giles was a painstaking man, but not an imaginative one, and it was his lack of imagination that brought him to the fatal climax. He watched, and he made his choice, and on the seventh day after his arrival in Piedras Negras he slipped out of town and took his position among the rocks. He sighted the exact spot where Catlow’s head would be, planned his second and third shots if such were needed—although they never had been.

  Then he settled down among the rocks and waited.

  Suddenly, some distance off, he saw Catlow coming, riding easily on the handsome black horse. Giles felt a moment of swift envy…how he would have loved to own that horse!

  He lifted his rifle and waited. Only a few minutes more.

  Suddenly the rider on the black horse veered sharply from the trail, and Giles swore. Now, what the—!

  An instant later a voice behind him said, “Fooled you, didn’t we?”

  It is given to few men to know the moment of death, but Matt Giles knew it then. With a kind of wild despair he knew he had been trapped, but he was game. He wheeled and fired.

  Two bullets tore into him, one going through his shoulder and emerging from the front of his chest, leaving a wound spattered with bone splinters. The second went into his ribs, and for the first and last time he looked directly into the eyes of Bijah Catlow.

  His own bullet whistled away into thin, thin air, high above the Mexican landscape.

  PARKMAN LAY IN his four-poster bed staring up at the ceiling. He had spent a restless night. In fact, he had spent several restless nights since receiving word from Giles in Eagle Pass that he had found Catlow. Each day he looked forward to the news of the death of Bijah Catlow.

  Finally, he could stand it no longer to stay in bed, and he got up and dressed. As he entered the kitchen he stopped abruptly. The table was littered with dirty dishes…his best dishes, brought from Carolina.

  Nobody, simply nobody used those dishes but himself, and then only when he entertained guests more distinguished than the usual run.

  Also, the cook was not at work, and he should have been up—Parkman glanced at his watch—at least an hour ago.

  Parkman was a man who came easily to anger, and he was angry now. He stepped out the door toward the bunkhouse and brought up short.

  Something was wrong—radically wrong.

  The corral was empty of horses. The bunkhouse was dark and silent, and over each bunkhouse window was a blanket, hung on the outside of the building. From the doorknob to a snubbing post ran a rope, holding the door shut, and against the snubbing post was tied a double-barreled shotgun aimed at the bunkhouse door. It was rigged in such a way that anybody tugging on the doorknob from the inside would fire both barrels of the shotgun. It was obvious that nobody had tried, so those within must have been informed of this.

  Parkman went to the post and gingerly unlimbered the shotgun. Then opened the door to the bunkhouse.

  “What the hell’s going on around here?” he shouted. “By the Lord Harry, I’ve had enough of these practical jokes, and—”

  From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of his front porch, invisible to him until now. There, seated in his own favorite chair on the broad veranda was somebody.…Parkman shouted, but there was no reply.

  Finally given somebody on whom he could vent his anger, Parkman started for the front porch, almost running. The stranger sat with his hat over his eyes, apparently asleep.

  Leaping up on the porch, Parkman jerked the hat away, his mouth opened to roar angry words.

  And he looked into the
still, cold eyes of Matt Giles.

  By nightfall the story was told in every bunkhouse within miles, and within a few days it was riding north with the trail herds.

  Parkman had sent a paid killer after Bijah Catlow, and his killer had been returned…dead.

  Moreover, Bijah had stolen Parkman’s corral of fine riding stock, including his own favorite mounts. He had eaten in Parkman’s own house, and on his best dishes. Even Parkman’s own riders chuckled.

  When they buried Matt Giles they noted the position of the wounds, and speculated. Catlow had outsmarted the hired gunman, had come up behind him, given him his chance, and it was quite obvious that Giles had been shot as he turned.

  From Piedras Negras the rest of the story was not slow to arrive.

  And the legend of Bijah Catlow added another chapter.

  Chapter 5

  DEPUTY UNITED STATES Marshal Ben Cowan rode into New Mexico to conduct a quiet investigation into the reported theft of cattle by Comanches, cattle which were traded to Comancheros and sold in New Mexico or elsewhere. Several Texans had created incidents by riding into New Mexico to recover stolen cattle. Childress had done so, as had Hittson, and they had driven the recovered cattle back to Texas. There had been some shooting, and there was apt to be more.

  Cowan heard of the killing of Matt Giles by Catlow before he ever left Fort Smith. He was not surprised. That Parkman had been behind Matt Giles’s mission was obvious, although it was impossible to prove. Giles had been the wrong man to send after Catlow. He was too methodical. A man of method himself, Cowan knew that against Catlow method was not enough. Bijah was a man of quick, instinctive imagination, and might on impulse discard all the accepted ways of doing things and do something radically different.

  Whatever their former relationship, Cowan and Catlow were now unalterably opposed. There was a line beyond which a man might not go, even in the tolerant West. Cowan had himself been a cowhand, and knew enough of conditions in Texas to feel Catlow and his friends were right in branding and driving to sale their herd of mavericks. The killing of Giles was obviously self-defense, but when Catlow drove off Parkman’s saddle stock he had stepped beyond the pale.