“You sure?”
“Yes. If you’re going to be part of us, then you eat and sleep with us.”
Digger shook his head, as if taken aback. He blinked his dark eyes. “I make you a hand, Mr. Ben, I sure will.”
Good, he’d need lots of hands. He’d better go see what Mark and Billy Jim were doing with the mules. He glanced back at the house. No sounds, so Hap hadn’t killed his latest employee; maybe he’d even fed him. Two or three days since he’d eaten . . . He scowled at the burro over by the corrals grazing like he owned the place. Three boys and one grown man hired. Dru Nelson wasn’t supposed to show up until the next week, when Ben hoped to go to the border for half of the herd.
The mules came next, and he set out for the breaking pen.
On the end of a lead rope with both heels plowing up mud and manure, Billy Jim was hanging on to his mule. A little red-faced, he showed no signs of quitting the process. The wide-eyed animal in the lead acted like the devil himself were on his heels, and he was churning up ground with his hooves to escape the boy on behind him. Ben wanted to laugh, but he knew how serious this matter was for Billy Jim. He swung over the fence and headed off the walleyed one, caught the halter, and jerked the mule to a halt.
“I’m coming, Ben; don’t let loose,” Billy Jim shouted.
When Ben turned enough to see his new employee running for all he was worth, he wanted to shout. But it was too late—the mule reached out and cow-kicked the youth in the stomach and sent him sprawling on his butt.
Red-faced and angry, holding his belly with one hand, Billy Jim got up and took the halter from Ben. His eyes drawn into a squint, he held his fist up to show the mule how mad he’d made him.
“What we calling him?” Ben asked, gathering up the lead.
“How about Kicking Chicken?”
“Suits him,” Ben said, and they moved aside as Mark’s mule made a wide sweep around the pen.
Snubbed to the post in the center of the pen, Mark kept drawing in his slack to get the other black mule up against it.
When the mule went by again, Ben clapped his hands. The mule flew forward and Mark took up slack in the rope and had him tight to the post, the animal’s mouth open wide, his wide-open yellow teeth popping only inches from Mark’s shoulder.
“What are you calling him?” Ben asked, the shocked-faced Mark still giving the mule a berth.
“Nasty.”
“Should I tie mine up too?” Billy Jim asked.
“Wouldn’t hurt.” Ben turned as Jones climbed up the fence and surveyed the mule operation.
“Boys, meet Digger. He’s part of this crew now. Digger, you know about mules?”
“Yes, sah, Mr. Ben, they kicks and they bites and they tries to get ya.”
“We learned that already. You want to try your hand at roping one?” He was anxious to see how well Digger could rope.
“I sure try.”
“Lariat’s on that post. We have those two left.” Ben indicated the sorrel and the paint hiding in the corner. Digger strode across the corral and took down the rope, a shirtless black boy in wash-worn bib overalls. Ben tried not to have any preconceived notions, but an ex-slave from the cotton patch . . . How could he know anything about a lariat? But Ben saw him string out a loop and start in a slow run parallel to the red mule—then he watched the lariat snake out and saw the youth’s skills. Digger jerked slack and the loop caught close to the mule’s throat.
Impressed, Ben hurried in to help him contain the animal.
“Wow!” Billy Jim shouted. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“A Messican fellow. Benito Pasquel. He taught me how.”
“Damn, Digger, can you do that again?” Mark asked.
“I’s sure can try.” He finished wrapping his rope around the other snubbing post and dodged Red’s hind kicks.
“What we calling him?” Ben asked.
“Him the Red Devil.”
Ben agreed and Mark tossed Digger the second rope. He fashioned a loop and in seconds was circling with the paint running stiff-legged around the pen’s perimeter. Out went the loop and Digger jerked his slake. The spotted mule was captured, and the other two boys ran in to help him contain the last one.
“What do we do next, Ben?” Mark asked.
“You going to drive them, Mr. Ben?” asked Digger.
“Yes, they’re going to haul our cook’s supply wagon to Kansas.”
“Then let’s harness them, and puts them puppies on a drag. Them two can be my outriders and snub them. I can sure drive them,” Digger said.
“They’re green as grass.” Ben looked skeptical at his latest employee’s ambitious plans.
“That’s how we did it where I was raised.”
“We’ll leave them tied and go find enough posts to make a drag,” Ben said, with little doubt that Digger knew more about breaking mules than the other three of them combined.
The mules were hooked four abreast. Billy James on the buckskin mare snubbed the paint that Digger harnessed on the left, then Red, then Chicken and Nasty on the right side snubbed to Tom Jack and Mark in the saddle.
Digger held the reins, telling Ben to hook them up from behind the drag of poles they had roped together, in case they jerked forward and pulled the poles over on top of him.
His teamster, with the lines thrown over his shoulder, nodded when Ben backed away. “They’re hitched.”
“Good, you boys step forward when I’s cluck at them. Not fast. Not fast. These here mules gonna wanta to leave this place when they finds these here logs be chasing them.”
Digger clucked and gave a wave of the lines. Red went sky-high on his hind feet. Billy Jim took a new wrap on his lead and stopped the paint from acting up. Rearing on their hind feet, wildly braying, the mules headed for the open pasture, Digger half running, holding back on the lines and the lead ponies containing them, along with the drag.
“Not half-bad. Not half-bad, for the first time,” Hap said, smiling after them.
“But they sure ain’t ready for Mexico,” Ben said, and headed for the shed.
“Where you going, Cap?”
“To buy me two more pistols. Don’t think the last two I hired have any of their own.”
“Well, if Billy Jim don’t shoot himself in the foot, you’ll be lucky, and does that mule skinner really need one?” Hap frowned like he disapproved arming any former slave.
“I think so. He’s got to defend this outfit if we come under attack.”
“Yeah, but that’s different.”
“When fifty Indians jump us up in the Nation, you’re going to say, ‘I wish that Ben had taught them boys how to shoot.’ ”
“You win. How long you want them mules drove?”
“All day.”
“That’ll unkink their tails some,” Hap agreed, and fell in with his stiff-legged walk, throwing the right leg ahead and catching up with it.
“We need two more cowboys.”
“You think them three are going to work out?”
“They’ll have to.”
“None of them soldiers that was with us—”
“That was with us. No, they’ve got wives and families, and they don’t want to go fight Injuns and jayhawkers. Their fighting days are over, Hap.”
“Then why are we going?”
“I aim to make enough money to quadruple the size of this ranch.”
“What if you don’t make that much?”
“May have to go again. But I ain’t planning on it.”
“I can see us now, spending the rest of our lives traipsing up and down this trail Colonel McCoy is laying out.”
“You know my uncle went to California in the Gold Rush. He came back with enough gold to buy a big plantation. Others, they came back broke and worn out. I intend to come back from Kansas with enough to buy me a much bigger place or more land.”
Hap jerked off his weathered hat and scratched his thin pate. “Cap’n, when you set your mind you’re a tough man
to divert. Like getting that black boy a pistol—weren’t no sense in arguing.”
Ben clapped him on the shoulder. “Hap, we’re going to do it.”
“Don’t doubt it in the least. You got another straggler up by the corral. You see him?”
Ben nodded. This one was older, maybe past twenty. He wore a six-gun and a flat-crowned black hat cocked back on his head so his curly dark brown hair showed. He wore a snow-white shirt and leather vest, as well as leather cuffs. The blue silk bandanna around his neck must have cost five dollars.
“You Mr. McCollough?”
“Yes,” he said, and stopped to appraise the new arrival.
“Chip Fields, my name. They said in Teeville you were looking for drovers for a drive north.”
“You been up the trail before, Chip?”
“Ah, no, sir. But I can find my way around good.”
“Where’ve you worked?”
“I was raised on a ranch west of Fort Worth.”
Ben knew the clothes this one wore were never purchased on cowpuncher’s wages. “Where else?”
“I was in the rangers for eighteen months.”
“You retire?”
“Kind of, but I don’t know what my rangering’s got to do with—”
“Driving cattle.”
“Yeah, driving cattle. I can rope fair enough, ride, and you hiring hands or not?”
Ben looked pained at him. Something was wrong here. He was too fancily dressed, for one thing. He sure might not fit in well with his boys. He had an attitude problem for Ben’s part.
“Mr. McCollough, I need work.”
“I need help, but I can’t see you fitting in very well with my crew. They’re some good ranch boys—obviously they ain’t seen all the bright lights you have. But being on a drive like this you have to be like a family and all pull the same load.”
“I’ll pull my share, and any more that’s needed.”
“That’s what bothers me. What happened to you and the rangers?”
“I shot a man who I thought had a gun.”
“What did he have?”
“He was going after a letter from some legislator. I thought he was after a shoulder holster.”
“That’s your story?”
“Honest to God.” He raised his right hand in an oath.
“All right, but don’t go to lording it over the others—including the black.”
“You gotta black cowboy?”
“That not fit you? Yes, I do, and if you can outrope him, I’d like to see it.”
“Yes, sir. Where are they?”
“Out breaking mules. They’ll be back by dark, or the mules will be, anyway. Just remember—I won’t warn you; you aren’t their boss.” Ben pointed his finger at his own chest. “I’m the boss.”
“Yes, sir. What should I do today?”
“Put on some working clothes and replace the weak poles alongside the squeeze chute runway. I don’t want these new cattle laying it down when we road-brand them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hap will show you where the diggers are at. Set them at least three feet in the ground and tamp them in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ben went and caught the gray horse, called Chief. This crew business got tougher and tougher. If he didn’t have trouble with Fields before they got to the Red River, he’d buy himself a new hat in Abilene. He’d better like his old one that he cocked back on his head and then threaded in the latigos on the girth. He talked to Chief to set him at ease, then swung into the saddle and headed for town. In three days or so they were heading for Mexico to get the first round of cattle—half a herd. It bothered him that Martinez might be playing tricks on him to get higher prices now that this new interest in cattle had shown up on the border.
In the gun shop, he purchased five used revolvers and put in an order for a half dozen new Spencer rifles, five thousand rounds of ammo, and plenty of tubes. The 50.-caliber Spencer with its tube-feeding system was much more reliable than the Henry Winchester. The brass works in the Henry were subject to wear in a hurry—couple hundred rounds shot through them and they really were worn out.
The rim-fire .50-caliber ammo for the Spencer wasn’t the greatest, but it gave lots of firepower in the hands of a few men. He conversed for an hour and a half with the gunsmith, Bill Jenkins. Then he had a beer and counter lunch next door. The handguns in a tow sack tied to his saddle horn, he ducked in the mercantile and spoke to Mrs. Whitaker about material. He ended up buying a bolt of deep blue cotton, and when she poked around about why he needed it, he only smiled and said, “For a project.”
Outside on the boardwalk, a boy pushed off from where he stood against the side of the store and hurried over. He wore a straw sombrero on his back held by the string at his throat.
“Señor McCollough?”
He looked hard and recognized Miguel Costa from the fistfight. “You’re a long ways from home.”
“I hear you need cowboys.”
“Who told you that?”
“Rex Ford, he say you asked him to ride to Kansas.”
“How do you know Rex Ford?” Rex was a former member of his company in the war, one of his exes. He’d ridden by and asked Rex to join him.
“He’s married to my cousin.”
“Rex Ford send you?”
Costa blinked his brown eyes in question. “No, he say you hiring.”
“I don’t hire troublemakers.”
“I no make trouble. I make you good cowboy.”
With the flat part of his thumb, Ben cleaned the grit from the corners of his mouth and considered the youth. Every kid in Texas needed work, and he couldn’t seem to hire a grown-up.
“Be out at the MC in the morning. You’re on trial. But if you cause any trouble, I’ll fire you in a minute.”
“Sí, señor. Gracias.”
He watched the boy run off between the two buildings. What did he ride, a burro too? That confounded thing Digger rode in on was still grazing around the house when he left. Maybe one of Jenny’s boys would want it to ride. He’d ask—then he recalled the purchase of the bolt of material underneath his arm.
He’d better set up some credit at the store for her, too, before he left for Kansas—in case she needed something. He scratched his left ear. This taking a woman was serious business. Lots he knew, and plenty more he didn’t know about females. He almost wished he were coming back from Kansas and not just about to go. In all his planning for the drive he felt certain that he’d have those seasoned veterans he knew so well with him to meet the trail problems—not green recruits.
He undid the reins and swung into the saddle. Delivering the material and seeing Jenny was next on his list. Why did his stomach churn so at the prospect? No telling. He booted the gray and headed north in a long trot. It would be good to see her—somehow this courting had him feeling like an inexperienced schoolboy. Lord help him, he had a ranch full of them.
Over the last ridge, he dropped down the slope for her place. The dried grass made a ribbon between the wagon tracks. There was not much traffic. Of course, as meager as her living must be, she didn’t have to run back and forth to town and outfit a crew either.
It would be different having a woman in his house. He’d not broached the subject to Hap yet either—for that his conscience niggled him. With no plans to run Hap off, he’d have to handle this whole matter with kid gloves. One more thing to fret about. His life was getting more complicated than all his problems as company commander had ever been during the war.
“Ben’s here, Maw,” Tad, the thirteen-year-old, shouted.
The stock dogs barked and wagged their tails.
“You got Mark working hard, Mr. Ben?” Tad asked.
“Yeah, he and the boys are breaking mules today.”
“Breaking mules? You gonna plant cotton?”
“No,” Ben said, dismounting. “Hap needs them to pull his supply wagon.”
“Tad,” Jenny said from the door, “Ben
don’t need to answer a million questions. Good to see you. What brings you over?”
“Oh, I brought you this.” He held out the bolt to her.
She looked speechless and blinked at him. Then she sniffled and turned away. Was she about to cry? He’d only brought her a bolt of material; he’d no idea how much cloth was on it or how much it took to sew a dress.
“It’s sure pretty material,” she said, hugging it.
“Just blue material,” he said, feeling awkward about the whole thing.
“Come in. You must be starved. We’ve got brown beans.” She took him by the arm and he spoke to her ten-year-old, Ivory, coming inside. After she seated him, she carefully put the bolt on the bed’s quilt top, still looking very impressed with the gift.
“Come on, Ivory, we’ve got cows to milk,” Tad said.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Good to see you, Mr Ben.” And the barefoot boy beat a tattoo on the worn floor as he headed out after his bucket-carrying brother.
Jenny brought Ben a bowl of beans and a spoon. When she bent over to set it down, he saw a tear coming down her cheek. With the side of his finger he caught it and looked deeply into her eyes. He had never come to upset her or show off. It was just a bolt of blue cloth.
“Will it make the dress you want?”
She closed her eyes and then gave him a peck on the cheek. “That and shirts for my boys and even curtains. You know how much material is on a bolt like that?”
“No, ma’am, but if you get all that from it, it’ll be cheap enough.” She made a good show; he decided that things were even closer at her house than he had imagined.
“We’ve been talking,” she said, going for the coffeepot. “The boys and I . . . could we watch your place while you’re gone to Kansas?”
“Sure going to need someone to do that. Yes, I’d say you could. Would twenty and food be enough?”
“Enough? Why, Ben—”
“Hey.” He stood up. She put the coffeepot on the table and fell into his arms.
“Oh, I hate so to beg.”
“You aren’t begging. When I come back you’ll be my wife; it’ll be half yours.” He patted her. Damn, he felt so weak holding her and still so strong. For a long moment he closed his eyes. Maybe when he returned he could live a real life with her. God, he hoped so.
The Abilene Trail Page 5
