The Amarillo Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Doc sat his horse as Miles planted the iron on the calf’s hip. There was a slight sizzle as the hot iron cooked flesh and burned hair, searing into the flesh a ROCKING M. He stepped away and shoved the branding iron deep into the coals while two men wrestled another calf out of the chute and splayed the kicking calf on the ground with brute force.

  Miles looked up and saw his father sitting his horse.

  “Hey, Pop, what brings you out here? How are you?”

  “I’m just fine, Miles,” Doc said, a sarcastic twang to his voice.

  “Well, I can see that. Hell, is this a formal visit?”

  “You got more mouth than sense, Miles. Crawl through the fence. I got business to chaw over with you.”

  “I’m always interested in business, Pop. How’s Ma?”

  “She’s fair to middlin’,” Doc said. “As usual.”

  Miles walked to the fence and climbed between the poles. “She’s tough as a hickory knot, all right.”

  The two walked away from the other men who kept up the branding.

  “What’s on your mind, Pop? You find a buyer somewhere?”

  “I did. That ad in the Salina Register got me a live one.”

  Miles dug out the makings from his shirt pocket, offered the sack of tobacco to his father, who shook his head. Miles slid out a paper and crimped it between his fingers, pulled the sack string, and poured an even line of tobacco into the trough. He licked one edge and rolled the paper tight, licked it again to seal it, and stuck the quirly into his mouth. Doc fished out a lucifer and struck it on his boot heel, held the match to the cigarette.

  Miles drew a breath and sucked flame into the tobacco.

  “Thanks, Pop,” he said, and pulled the string tight around the sack. He slid papers and tobacco back into his shirt pocket and blew out a plume of purple smoke.

  “Miles,” Doc said, “the man in Salina wants upwards of fifteen hundred head at the railhead by June first. I’m running two hundred and fifty head down. Can you make the drive right away? I brought you a map. Should be easy.”

  “Kansas ain’t easy, Pop.”

  “Easier than Colorado.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Fifteen hunnert head, eh? And you only got two hundred and fifty?”

  “I want to make a little money. I can’t get a big herd together just yet. That last drought dropped my numbers. But next year, by God . . .”

  “Well, I can do ’er. Maybe a week to get that many ready for the drive.”

  “You ain’t got a week, Miles. Two days at most.”

  Miles let out a long, low whistle.

  “Jesus, Pop, we just finished the gather and I ain’t sure I got all the newborns yet.”

  “You can tag the ones you missed when you get back. Way I figger it, if this man likes what he sees, he’ll buy more, or word will get around that we got good cattle in the Panhandle.”

  “How much a head?”

  “I quoted him twelve bucks. Could be a mite more, a dollar or two, if you beat the June deadline.”

  “So, maybe thirteen or fourteen dollars a head. Last I heard beef was bringing fifteen dollars a head in Abilene.”

  “Don’t quibble, Miles. I already signed the contracts.”

  “I ain’t quibblin’. Hell, it’s more money than I’ve seen in many a moon. What about Jared? He know about this?”

  “No. And I ain’t gonna tell him. This is between you and me.”

  “Oh, I’m your favorite son now?”

  “You always were, Miles.”

  “Pop, you lie like a Persian rug.”

  “Deal? I’ll meet you in Salina on or before the first of June.”

  “Wished you were goin’ with us, Pop. Yeah, I’ll do her.”

  They walked back to the corral and Doc retrieved a map he had drawn, handed it to Miles. “You stick to that route and you got plenty of grass and water.”

  “Anybody up there goin’ to hit us up for tolls?”

  “Not that I know of. Carry your rifles and pistols and act like you own the whole state of Kansas. You’ll get through, I reckon.”

  “Still wished you was goin’ with us, Pop.”

  “Just get them cattle to market, son. My small bunch should be here tomorrow.”

  “You take a lot for granted, Pop,” Miles said, his face bright with a friendly smile. He was taller than his father, leaner, with brown eyes and brown hair. Sweat blackened his shirt and there were round patches under his armpits. He wore three days of stubble that made him look older than he was.

  “You see Caroline?” Miles asked.

  “We said hello. She told me where you was.”

  “Sweet woman,” Miles said.

  Doc said nothing. But he nodded and Miles did not see the cloudiness forming in his eyes.

  “I got to go, son. See you in Salina.”

  “So long, Pop.” He looked over at the chuck wagon parked some distance from the branding corrals. There was a lot to do. He crawled back through the fence and started talking to his men. He saw his father riding north and knew he would not look back.

  Still, he wished Pop would be on the drive. Was he getting that old? And could he fill his father’s boots?

  It was a long way to Salina.

  But Pop had told him something a long time ago that came to mind now.

  “Experience is the best teacher,” Pop had said.

  Well, I guess it’s time I went to class, Miles thought, and the grin returned to his face, much to the puzzlement of the men gathered around him. A calf bawled for its mother and one of the men stoked the fire with the business end of the branding iron.

  Chapter 5

  Freddie Morton did not hear the soft tread of footsteps approaching his bedroll. He heard nothing because he was fast asleep next to the branding corral, his face pale as pewter under the faint glow of starlight. He was the only hand there, since the others had ridden off to gather around 260 head of good beef stock and drive them to the Rocking M down in Dumas.

  He jolted awake when he felt a strong palm slam over his mouth. He cried out, but his muffled voice soaked back into his throat like a sodden wad of cotton. He felt strong hands jerk him to his feet from atop his bedroll. He struggled, clawing for his belted knife, but his feet left the ground and he dangled between two strong burly men who smelled of onions, garlic, and the cloying fragrance of cilantro.

  The men carried Freddie toward a live oak growing by Owl Creek. He saw another man standing over the mound of earth where they had buried the horse thief earlier that same day. He was holding a shovel and the tree cloaked him in deep shadow so that Freddie could not see his face.

  Then he heard the liquid flow of Spanish issuing from the shadowed man with the shovel.

  The other two answered him. Freddie did not understand even one word.

  Then he was hurled to the ground. When he cried out in pain, one of the men who had carried him to that spot kicked him hard in his side, just below his rib cage.

  “Levantase, cabrón,” the shadow man spat.

  “He tells you to get up,” one of the other men said.

  “Y callate,” the shadow man said.

  “He tells you to shut your mouth.”

  Freddie scrambled to his feet.

  The man beneath the oak tree stepped toward him, holding the shovel like a warrior’s lance.

  But the man did not give the shovel to Freddie. Instead, he lifted something off his chest and dangled it before Freddie’s wide eyes. Freddie saw that the object was a pair of old field glasses, binoculars that looked battered and worn even in the dim light of the stars and the pale ghost of a fingernail of a moon.

  “Do you know what these are?” the man said in heavily accented English. But he did not expect Freddie to answer.

  “These are what we look through today and see you hit the horse. You make the horse jump away and the neck of our brother breaks from the rope around his neck.”

  “I—I . . . ,” Freddie stammered.

  “Callat
e, tu hijo de mala leche,” the man said, releasing the binoculars so that they thumped against his chest.

  “Do you know the name of our little brother?” the man with the binoculars asked.

  Freddie shook his head, too frightened to speak.

  “His name was Manuel Gallegos.”

  “I—I didn’t know,” Freddie said. “They just said he stole some horses from Doc Blaine.”

  “Because his wife is very sick and she carried a baby in her belly. He wanted to take her to a doctor and he did not have any money.”

  Freddie shrank away from the man who was speaking to him, afraid to say anything.

  “We follow Manuel to tell him it would do no good to steal the horses. His wife died after he told her that he would get money for her when he stole the horses.”

  “I—we—didn’t know,” Freddie said. “We just knew he—”

  “You do not ask the questions, eh? You just bring the rope and take his life.”

  “No, no,” Freddie said. “I didn’t bring the rope. All I did was chase the horse out from under him. I was just followin’ orders, honest.”

  “Where is the rope?”

  “It’s in the grave, I reckon. I think somebody just left it around his neck.”

  The man thrust the shovel at Freddie. Freddie grabbed the handle to keep from being knocked down.

  “Dig,” the man said. “You dig my brother out of the earth. And ten cuidado. You do not touch my brother with the blade.”

  Freddie began to dig. He started on the outer edge of the dirt mound and marked the boundary. Then he began to scoop dirt from the mound, paring it down until it was almost level. He dug around the edges, careful not to venture into the center where he knew the Gallegos body lay a-moldering. The three Mexicans watched him carefully. Freddie’s hands began to shake and quiver, both from the strain of digging and from fear that the shovel blade would slice into the dead man’s body and perhaps chop off an arm, a hand, fingers, or even his head. Sweat beaded up in the furrows on his forehead and soaked his sleeves under his arms and dripped from his bony wrists.

  Freddie was careful. He saw the dead man’s trousers, his boots, his belt, and his shirt. He dug out dirt away from the body until it emerged on a platform of dirt, untouched. Dirt covered the dead man’s face.

  One of the brothers bent over and began to sob.

  “Pobre Manuel,” he wailed. Tears streamed from his eyes and drenched his face.

  “Calmate, Jorge,” one of the brothers said to him. “No te lloras, mi hermano.”

  Jorge looked up at his brother, his face contorted with grief.

  “Se fue, Carlos,” Jorge said. “He is gone. Forever.”

  “Sea un hombre, Jorge,” the man in the shadow said.

  He took the shovel from Freddie and continued to look at Jorge. “No muestra su cara a este gringo, esto pedazo de susio.”

  Jorge wiped his sleeve across his eyes.

  “Tenga razon, Miguel,” he said to his older brother.

  “You are right. I must be a man. I must not show my face to this gringo. This piece of filth.”

  Miguel slapped Jorge on the back and smiled.

  “We will bury our brother next to his wife, gringo,” Miguel said. “We will bury you in this dirt here. That is where the worms will eat you. Your soul will go to hell.”

  “No, please,” Freddie said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about your brother. Please don’t kill me. I didn’t want to hang your brother, honest.”

  Miguel reached down and picked up the piece of rope that was draped across his brother’s body. He pulled the noose from around Manuel’s neck after he loosened the knot. He held the rope up by the noose in front of Freddie’s face.

  “We will hang you, gringo. But you will not hang from a tree. You will die the slow death.”

  Freddie took a step backward. He looked at the rope in Miguel’s hand as if it were a poisonous snake, a live snake.

  Carlos jabbed the barrel of his pistol in the small of Freddie’s back. Freddie stiffened and froze.

  Miguel nodded to Carlos and Jorge, who grabbed Freddie’s arms. Miguel slipped the noose over Freddie’s head. He pulled the knot tight until it was snug under Freddie’s ear.

  “No, you will not hang from a tree like Manuel,” Miguel said.

  “Tie the gringo’s hands behind his back, Carlos. Jorge, bring the horses. Quick, quick.” All in Spanish, but Freddie knew what they were going to do.

  He begged and pleaded with Miguel to let him live. He got down on his knees, but Miguel jerked him back up on his feet. He shook with fear and soiled his trousers. Miguel gave him a look of disgust as Jorge returned with their horses.

  “I will drag you to death,” Miguel said to Freddie. “You will strangle and die, but you will also scream to die.”

  Freddie was sobbing too hard to say anything. Carlos tied the end of the rope to his saddle horn. The brothers mounted their horses. All looked back at Freddie, who was standing there with his knees bent, his hands tied behind his back, his face soaked with tears. He was praying and crying when Miguel dropped his arm and the three rode off.

  The rope behind Carlos’s horse tautened and jerked Freddie off his feet. He pitched forward, his body slamming into the ground with a thud. Then he began to scream and the rope pulled his body along the ground. Rocks, stones, pebbles, and sand wore away Freddie’s trousers at the knees, first, and then his shirt began to rip and tear. Sharp stones dug into his flesh. He screamed until Carlos spurred his horse to a faster gait.

  Freddie’s body rolled and bounced over the ground. His flesh opened up as Spanish bayonets and prickly pear spines gouged his skin and blood poured through dozens of open wounds.

  Freddie screamed and screamed. Until he screamed no more and the Mexicans took one last turn to make sure Freddie was a corpse, then halted their horses by the open grave, where the body of Manuel still lay, his sightless eyes staring up at the stars.

  In silence, all three Gallegos brothers lifted Manuel’s body and threw Freddie’s into the grave. They took turns throwing dirt on the dead man until he was no longer visible.

  Carlos and Jorge walked a little ways from the creek and returned with a burro-drawn carreta. They lifted Manuel’s body into the cart where they had laid out soft blankets. They did this with solemn reverence, while Miguel looked on with sad eyes.

  “Let us go,” he said. “Let us go home with our dead brother.”

  “What about the others?” Jorge asked.

  “We will get them,” Miguel said. “We will get them all.”

  “We will steal their cattle, their horses, rape their women, and kill their babies,” Jorge said. “Then I will be satisfied.”

  “I will never be satisfied,” Carlos said. “Never.”

  Miguel said nothing. As they rode across the night lands, he tapped the binoculars dangling from his neck. The glasses knew who the others were who had hanged their brother. And so did he.

  They would all pay, he vowed, for murdering their brother Manuel. He crossed himself and made the promise to God. Now, he thought, his vengeance would be sacred.

  Somewhere along the creek, a coyote began to bay. Others joined in the chorus, until the air was filled with their yapping. They had discovered the fresh grave, the shallow grave, and were already beginning to scratch and dig. Tomorrow the buzzards would come, but tonight’s feed belonged to the coyotes.

  Chapter 6

  Lenny Wexler rode the last loop of the night herd watch. His track took him close to the live oak by the creek near the branding corral. It took him within smelling distance of the Mexican horse thief’s grave. He rode, also, very close to where a pack of coyotes were rooting like wild hogs in that grave.

  “Hee yah, hee yah,” Wexler yelled as he charged into the pack. He waved his hat and turned the horse in a tight circle as the coyotes retreated a few feet and formed a circle around the grave. The sun was just rising in the east, its fiery rim just above the creamy rent in the
horizon. Clouds began to flow with colors as the sun painted their underbellies with salmon and gold. The sky was paling to a pastel blue and the morning star winked out, its silver swallowed up by the star closest to earth.

  Wexler saw enough of the body to know, first of all, that it was not the horse thief they had hanged the day before. He recognized the clothes and the part of the face that was still left. There was a rope around the neck of the dead man. Wexler gasped when he realized that it was Freddie. He felt a greasy swirl in his stomach and turned away to keep from vomiting. He swallowed air and gasped for a clean breath. He rode through the remaining coyotes and yelled at them. Somewhere on his circuit was another night rider, Jack Bledsoe. He rode into the opening maw of dawn, calling out his name.

  Jack emerged from a shadowy clump of trees along the creek where several head of cattle were lined up, sucking water into their bellies. He heard the calls of birds in the trees and, behind him, the coyotes yapped in a ravenous chorus.

  “Jack, Jack, come quick.”

  “What’s up, Lenny? You seen a ghost?”

  “Somebody killed Freddie and there’s no sign of the Mexican.”

  “What?”

  “Come see for yourself.” Wexler turned his horse and galloped back toward the grave, Bledsoe right behind him.

  A half hour later, Tad Rankin tried to make sense out of what he saw in the grave.

  “Looks like they brung in a cart to haul the Messican off,” said Norm Collins, one of the men going on the drive to Dumas. “Them small hoofprints probably belong to a burro.”

  “I agree,” Rankin said. “No shovel left behind. Looks like they come prepared to dig up the man we hanged, and carted him off to someplace else.”

  Rankin shielded his eyes from the sun and gazed at the surrounding landscape. He made a full circle.

  “Norm,” Rankin said, “you’re our best tracker. See that knoll way out yonder?”

  Collins turned and looked in the direction Rankin pointed his finger.

  “Yep,” he said. “I see it.”