The Amarillo Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Just out of curiosity, ride on out there and take a look around. See if you can find any dayold horse tracks, like where men might have been able to see the hanging.”

  “I dunno,” Collins said. “That’s pretty far away.”

  “Do it,” Rankin said.

  Collins mounted his horse and rode out to the distant knoll. Rankin saw that he was staring at the ground as he rode. Collins could track an ant across a flat rock. He had been a hunter and guide down in the Palo Duro country until Doc had hired him when they were having trouble with Apaches a few years before.

  “Anybody here know anything about this?” he asked the other men who had come with him after Bledsoe and Wexler had drawn them away from the work of rounding up the small herd for the drive to the Rocking M at Dumas.

  One man spoke up, Pedro Coronado. “Do you know the name of the horse thief you hanged yesterday, Tad?”

  “Nope. He was just a Mexican’s all I know.”

  “I did not see him. I was not here,” Coronado said. “But when I was in town last week, I heard talk of a man named Manuel Gallegos. I know one of his brothers, and he said Manuel’s wife was pregnant and sick. She carried a baby and Manuel had no money to take her to see a doctor.”

  Tad swore under his breath. “Are you saying that Manuel stole those horses?”

  Coronado shrugged. “I do not know. His brothers were in the cantina and they said Manuel was ‘desperado.’ It could have been him.”

  “A hell of a note,” Wexler said.

  Collins returned from his study of the knoll and rode up to Rankin, who had just climbed back in his saddle.

  “Anything?” Rankin asked.

  “Boss, you got good instincts. Yep, there was horse tracks aplenty round that little hill. And signs that three men dismounted, walked around. With a spyglass, they could see what was goin’ on at that hanging tree, all right.”

  “Three men,” Rankin mused, his gaze on the distant knoll.

  “Manuel has three brothers,” Coronado said. “They might have been following him after he stole the horses.”

  “I wonder why they didn’t ride up and try to stop us from hanging their brother,” Rankin said, turning his head to look at Coronado.

  Coronado shrugged.

  “Maybe they knew they was outnumbered,” Wexler said.

  “Likely,” Bledsoe added.

  “So, the Gallegos boys came back, dug up their brother’s body, and then hanged poor old Freddie.”

  “They didn’t hang him,” Collins said. “They drug him. With that damned rope around his neck. Freddie must have screamed to high heaven.”

  “A horrible way to die,” Wexler said, shuddering so that his upper torso shook.

  “Slow and painful as hell,” Bledsoe said.

  “That probably means they ain’t finished with us, boss,” Collins said. “They got one of us and might just come after us, one by one.”

  “Well, we’ll all have to be on our toes,” Rankin said.

  “I’ll give orders to the other men and to Doc when we see him, to carry pistols and rifles and keep their eyes peeled.”

  “Good idea,” Collins said, sliding a cut of tobacco into his mouth.

  “Well, let’s bury Freddie and get on with the gather,” Rankin said. “And get that damned rope off his neck and burn it. It’s already killed two men.”

  Some miles south of Amarillo, on the road to Dumas, Doc encountered them late in the afternoon. The wind was up and sand blew at the men, their horses, and the cattle.

  “You’re late, Tad,” Doc said. “How come? I expected you to be further along.”

  “We had an incident,” Rankin said. He told Doc about what they had discovered at the hanging tree and what he suspected might happen.

  “I gave orders to all hands that they should carry weapons and be on the lookout for the Gallegos brothers. You’d better do the same.”

  “Good idea, Tad.”

  “You keep an eye out, Doc.”

  “I will,” Doc said. “You tell Ethyl?”

  “I did, and she put a rifle by the door and slipped a Smith and Wesson in her apron pocket.”

  Doc laughed, conjuring up the image of Ethyl arming herself.

  The two men watched the cattle streaming past them. Both slipped bandannas over their faces to block the blowing dust.

  “When you deliver these beeves to Miles, you send the other men back to the Slash B and you make the drive with Miles.”

  “You sure you won’t need me?” Rankin asked.

  “I need ten of you, Tad, but you’re my rep. Miles might need you if he runs into any trouble.”

  “You expectin’ any?”

  “Nary a speck,” Doc said with a sly smile flexing on his lips.

  “See you in Salina, then, Doc.”

  “Try and beat that June first deadline, Tad. I’m counting on you.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  The two men parted company. Doc looked back once and saw that the small herd was moving along despite the wind and the streamers of dust blowing across the trail.

  He had heard of the Gallegos family. They were poor farmers in the middle of cattle country. Their women wove blankets and made pottery that they sold in the outdoor market in Amarillo. He felt sorry for them, but a horse thief was a horse thief. Had Manuel Gallegos asked for money, he wouldn’t have been able to give him much, but that was no excuse for stealing. And, in cattle country, you didn’t steal a man’s horses. There wasn’t a man alive who didn’t know that such an act meant the death penalty.

  Death by hanging.

  Still, he felt badly about the two dead men. Blood was on his hands and he did not know how to make amends.

  The sun was setting by the time Doc rode up to the ranch house. Ethyl was waiting for him on the porch, a Winchester rifle close at hand, leaning against the wall next to the front door.

  He could tell that she had been worried. What he dreaded was hearing her berate him for hanging Gallegos. She knew the law of the West, but she was against her husband seeking justice in such a way.

  He was weary. He was hungry.

  And he felt the weight of what he had done, despite his conviction that he had been right to hang the Gallegos boy for his felonious act.

  “I don’t want to hear it, Ethyl,” he said as he wrapped his reins around the hitch rail.

  “Well, you’re going to hear it, Doc,” she said. “In spades.”

  “I love you, darlin’,” he said, trying to ease the situation before it erupted in his face. He smiled at her.

  But Ethyl didn’t smile back.

  Chapter 7

  Doc felt the cold morning wind bite into his bones. Dawn was just a weary pink scrawl on the horizon, as if the belly of a sockeye salmon had been ripped open with a skinning knife. Freshets of chilled air seeped through the button holes of his sheepskin jacket, and his face felt as if it had been sandpapered raw. His breath made little clouds of mist as if he had been breathing arctic air.

  Roy Leeds, his segundo, rode with his left hand tucked under the armpit of his heavy jacket, his face beet-red, steamy breaths jetting from his rosyrimmed nostrils in frosty plumes. Steam rose from the hides of the Herefords as they banged rib cages together into the teeth of the north wind.

  “This is April, ain’t it?” Leeds asked Doc without looking at him.

  “Yep,” Doc grunted.

  “Seems more like December.”

  “Or January,” Doc said. His teeth ground down the grit between them.

  There were cattle strung out in a long line ahead of them as both men rode drag. They watched for strays or laggards as the bitter north wind whipped at them, lashed at their bodies and their senses.

  “You picked a damned good time to run cattle up to Perryton,” Leeds said, as if talk could lessen the chill that seeped into his bones.

  “I didn’t pick the time, Roy. The market called. I answered. Put it down to fate.”

  “Fate, my ass
,” Leeds said, his voice quavering as he fought the shivers. “More like the Devil.”

  “If you believe in such hogwash,” Doc said. “Fate calls the turn in this life, Roy.”

  “Well, if so, she’s a pure dee bitch.”

  Doc chuckled and the act seemed to warm him some, taking his own shivers to another level.

  The small herd of about 270 head was approaching the Canadian River, on its second day on the trail. Roy and Doc rode drag, with two flankers, Randy Eckoff and Dale Walton, along with the lead man breaking trail, Jules Renaud, with his keen hawk eyes and with the instincts of a wolf. Jules would find the ford across the Canadian, and once across, they should reach Jared’s Lazy J Ranch, south of Perryton, before nightfall.

  The herd had not yet settled into a comfortable routine and Doc knew Jules had been fighting the leaders who kept wanting to turn back. The flankers kept the herd from breaking out of the caravan, but they had been taxed to the limit that first day. It should have been an easy drive, but its leaders kept changing as cows and steers fought each other for the top spot at the head of the herd.

  “I can’t see Jules,” Roy said. “But I can sure smell river water.”

  “He’s probably looking for a ford. You see Randy or Dale?”

  “Yep. Some of the herd are trying to break ranks and get to the river.”

  “Well, they can handle it.”

  “At least we won’t have to beat any of the herd back. By now they’ve all smelt water.”

  The herd picked up speed, their curly backs bobbing up and down as they trotted toward the river. The wind seemed to swirl and lash at them from different directions, but the brunt of it still came from the northwest, brutal and cold.

  Doc closed the distance to the rear of the herd. He motioned for Roy to take the right flank, while he rode toward the left. He didn’t expect any of the cattle to turn back on him, but they might bolt to catch up with those who were streaming off the flanks, leaderless and thirsty.

  Doc looked ahead to see cattle streaking away from the herd in thick bunches. Then he heard Randy yell something.

  A moment later, Dale hollered and this time Doc could hear what he said.

  “They’re cuttin’, Randy.”

  Roy had his hands full suddenly, as the rear of the herd swung away, turning on him in a mad rush to escape whatever was chasing them.

  Doc saw a man waving a horse blanket and chasing cows out of the herd. He was struck by the brazenness of the rider, rustling cattle in broad daylight in front of witnesses.

  “You, there,” Randy yelled. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

  Doc saw Randy pull his Winchester from its boot and put it to his shoulder.

  A second or two later, he heard the sharp report of the rifle and then the whine of the bullet as it caromed off a rock several yards from the rustler. The rustler drew his pistol and fired over his shoulder at Randy.

  Randy ducked but the shot was wild. He halted his horse and swung his rifle at the rustler. The cattle, responding to the gunshots, stampeded in several different directions. Roy yelled out a curse and started chasing cattle that were breaking out of the right flank. He chased some of them back, but was soon surrounded by frightened whitefaces and his horse reared up and clawed the air with its front hooves.

  By that time, Doc had to wheel Sandy out of the way of several head of cattle charging at him from two different directions. He too became encircled with cattle turning back toward him like mindless beasts with wide eyes and flashing hooves. He wheeled Sandy away from one bunch only to run headlong into another.

  He knew it was hopeless to try and catch the cattle that had escaped the herd and were heading not only back toward Amarillo, but off to the east and west. Soon, he saw why.

  There were two other riders cutting cattle out of the herd, driving them off in three separate bunches. He and his hands were almost outnumbered, he thought, even though they were five and he only saw three rustlers.

  He rode down on one of them, who had just run off twenty-five or thirty head and was angling toward the west, his shirt flattened against his chest by the wind, his hat blown off and hanging by a thong between his shoulder blades.

  The rustler saw Doc charging at him and drew his pistol.

  Doc felt a sudden rage that boiled up from inside him and heated his face. He drew his pistol and made Sandy heel over in a tight turn with a tug of the reins. The rustler fired off a shot and Doc heard the bullet sizzle past him like a whirring hornet.

  “Damn you,” he yelled, and cocked his pistol as he raised it to eye level. The rustler stopped, whirled his horse in a tight turn, and fired from the hip when he was again facing Doc.

  Doc lined up his sights on the Colt .45, held the front blade tight against the man’s chest, and squeezed the trigger as he held his breath. The pistol roared and spat flame, sparks, and hot lead out of its black snout.

  He saw the rustler stiffen and heard a smacking sound. Dust flew off the man’s lined denim jacket and the rider grabbed his saddle horn and hung on as his horse continued to turn.

  Cattle raced in all directions, spooked by these latest gunshots.

  Doc heard more shots, from both pistols and rifles, and then he was next to the man he had shot.

  “Who in hell are you?” Doc asked. He grabbed the reins of the man’s horse and stopped it.

  Blood bubbled up out of the man’s mouth as he opened it.

  “M-Miguel,” he stammered.

  Roy rode up a second later.

  “I know who he is,” he said. “That’s one of the Gallegos brothers. You gut-shot him, Doc.”

  Miguel coughed and blood sprayed from his mouth, peppering both Doc and Roy with measlelike dots of crimson.

  “Bastard,” Miguel said. “You murdered . . .”

  That was all he said. His eyes rolled in their sockets and he swayed in the saddle for a moment or two, then fell headfirst onto the ground. His legs kicked out and his body shook for what seemed an eternity to Doc but lasted only a few seconds.

  “Looks like you put his lamp out, Doc,” Roy said.

  Doc gulped in a frosty breath of air and shoved his pistol back in its holster.

  “Damn,” he said, “I hated to do that.”

  “The man shot at you, Doc, and he was rustling cattle. We could have hung the son of a bitch and been within our rights.”

  “Killing men is not my idea of how to live life, Roy. We already killed his brother.”

  “Self-defense ain’t no crime.”

  “Maybe not, but taking a life is a heavy burden for a man to carry all his life.”

  “You fought in the war, Doc. You killed men before this.”

  “Hell, he even looks like his brother,” Doc said. “That boy we hanged.”

  “Bad seed. All of them Gallegos brothers. Look what they done here.”

  Doc looked around. He saw Jules ride up like a man who had just been robbed at gunpoint.

  “They weren’t rustling cattle,” Doc said. “Those boys wanted revenge for their brother.”

  “Maybe we ought to hunt them other two down and just put their lamps out same as this one.”

  “That would be murder,” Doc said. He looked at Jules and Roy. “But I’d sure as hell like to do just that.”

  “We got some rounding up to do, Roy,” Jules said. “Ain’t none of the herd crossed the river yet.”

  “We lose any cattle?” Doc asked.

  “Hard to tell. But Randy and Dale run them other two off, so all’s we got is a bunch of cattle roamin’ free all over creation.”

  Doc sighed and slumped in the saddle for a long moment. Then he straightened up and looked at Jules with flint in his eyes.

  “Then let’s get to it, Jules. Let’s round ’em all up.”

  “What about this one you laid out?” Jules asked.

  “Let him rot for all I care,” Doc said, and turned his horse to chase down cattle that were still running.

  Jules and Roy exchanged gl
ances.

  “I reckon if we don’t bury him,” Jules said, “his brothers will find him and carry him back to Amarillo.”

  “Yeah,” Roy said. “This’n they won’t have to dig up.”

  The wind whipped at their clothes and turned their earlobes cherry red. It carried the heady scent of the Canadian River on its gelid breath and April no longer felt like spring in that part of Texas.

  Chapter 8

  Roy dismounted as Doc and Jules rode away. He walked over to the dead man and unbuckled his gun belt. He hung the pistol from his saddle horn and slipped Miguel Gallegos’s rifle from its boot. It was an old Henry repeating rifle. The browned barrel was badly pitted, but the sights were sound and it was loaded. He poked the rifle inside his bedroll, then retied the thongs so that the bundle was tight. He mounted up and rode away, his head bent to shield his face from the wind.

  He joined the others who were chasing down the stampeded cattle.

  “Bunch ’em up,” Doc shouted to Dale.

  Dale turned three head of whitefaces back into a milling bunch of cattle that Randy was working back toward the remnants of the main herd. His horse bobbed and weaved under his expert control with his knees and the reins. Every time the cattle started to bolt, the horse charged and then stopped stiff-legged to block their progress.

  “Randy’s got him a good cuttin’ horse,” Jules said to Doc.

  “You take that bunch and run ’em into the main herd, start ’em all back toward the river. We ain’t got time to waste.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Jules said, and rode off. He too rode a splendid cutting horse. His horse danced into the same spot where Randy’s horse had been as Randy turned his horse away and, spurred on by his rider, dashed off to go after strays that were farther away.

  Doc rode off in a different direction. In the distance he saw a horse and rider galloping south toward Amarillo. He recognized the rider as one of those who had started the stampede. He stopped, pulled his rifle from its boot, and jacked a cartridge into the receiver. He put the rifle to his shoulder and took aim. By the time he lined up his sights, the rider had disappeared over the horizon.

  “Next time, Gallegos,” he muttered, and eased the hammer of his rifle down to half-cock and shoved it back in its boot. He spotted cattle settling down to a confused lope and chased after them.