The Amarillo Trail

by Ralph Compton

  He unhitched the plow and led Pete to a stall in the barn. He gave him water and grain, closed the door, and walked back outside.

  Floybel stood in the shade of the barn, tapping her foot on dry ground.

  “Jerry Bickham ain’t comin’,” she said, spitting out the words as if they were bitter bile in her mouth.

  “He say why?”

  “Yep, he sure did. He said he didn’t want no part of tanglin’ with Texicans ever again. And none of the other neighbors will come over neither.”

  “That’s a hell of a note,” Clarence said.

  “Jerry said we got too much land as it is, and he don’t have near as much. He said we ought to build a big old road through the middle of it and just charge a toll tax on them herds when they come up.”

  “I got a road through the middle of the property,” Clarence said. He pointed to the road that knifed through all his fields on that side of the river.

  “But you don’t have no gate and you ain’t levyin’ taxes to them cowboys what want to cross our land.”

  They walked up to the house together. Clarence pulled a large bandanna from his back pocket and wiped the grime and sweat off his face. They went to the well and she stood by as he splashed his face and scrubbed his hands with lye soap. She handed him the towel that hung on the hay hook. He dried his hands and face.

  “Look yonder,” she said, pointing to a place beyond their fields. “I seen him gawkin’ and cranin’ his neck the whole time I was in that buggy in sight of the house. He’s been ridin’ up and down for a mile or two, a-lookin’ at our land.”

  Clarence saw the horseman. The man had stopped and was shading his eyes with his hands. He wore the kind of hat he’d seen Texas cattlemen wear and there was a rifle stock sticking up out of its boot. He wore a gun belt and the sun glanced off the cartridges, making them gleam like polished brass ornaments.

  “You ought to walk out there and hail him, Clarence. See what he’s up to.”

  “I can do that, I reckon.”

  “Better take your scattergun with you.”

  “Now, that wouldn’t look too friendly, would it?”

  “No, but he’s got a rifle and pistol and might just shoot you.”

  Clarence considered what Floybel said to him. The rider had started moving again, riding alongside the fields that stretched to the east, the fields where milo, corn, and wheat were already better than ankle high.

  There were a number of other, smaller farms beyond Clarence’s property. They stretched for miles and, he knew, were all planted and prosperous that spring. The ground in that section of Kansas was fertile and homesteads dotted the landscape. Some of the farmers had been there before the war and most of them had come out from Oklahoma, Tennessee, and Kentucky when wild Indians still roamed the land. They had fought for the dirt where they had built their homes, dug and planted and raised families that had spread out clear to Nebraska and beyond. Those men and women had weathered storms and prairie fires, floods, and tornadoes to grow crops that fed people whose fingernails had never been clogged with dirt.

  “If he’s scoutin’ for a trail drive,” Clarence said, “he ain’t goin’ to find no good place ’ceptin’ mine.” His voice was soft as if he were musing to himself. But Floybel heard every word and she tugged at his arm.

  “Go get your scattergun and talk to that feller,” she said. “Find out what he’s up to. Maybe . . .”

  Her voice faded to a silence as the rider turned and rode to the south. That’s when they both saw the dust in the sky.

  “There it is again,” Clarence said.

  “I see it,” Floybel said. “That’s a herd of cattle, sure as rain is wet. And that cowboy is ridin’ straight toward it.”

  “No way I could catch up to him. That ground is rough and would tear the buggy to pieces.”

  “He’ll likely be back tomorrow with a whole bunch of cows a-follerin’ him.”

  “So, Jerry won’t come, you say. That’s a fine friend for you.”

  “Nope. None of ’em. They want to keep their skins.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to make do. See if we can talk them cowboys into crossin’ somebody else’s land.”

  They walked back into the house as the sun crawled down the sky toward the western horizon. They both took one last look at the distant black clouds and shook their heads.

  Inside, Floybel went to her room to change clothes.

  “I’ll have supper ready by sundown,” she called to Clarence, who stood by the window, staring outside at the dust and the storm clouds spreading across the sky like oil on a lake.

  He wondered what a hard rain would do to his young stands of corn, milo, and wheat. To Floybel’s garden. They had weathered strong, straightline winds many times before, and they had both seen twisters and dust devils dance across the land like demon dervishes, whipping up dirt and dust, blasting their faces with grit, scouring the paint off the house and outbuildings. But none of the twisters had made a direct hit on their home or their barns.

  In the past, they had seen neighbors come out of storm cellars to see their homes flattened or sailed miles away like toy dollhouses. They had heard the little children screaming, terrified at what had happened to them. They had seen farmers standing on rooftops when the rivers flooded, waving for someone to rescue them from certain death by drowning.

  It was a hard land, sometimes, Clarence thought. And sometimes the land took back all that man had constructed upon it, wiped homes and families off its face as if they were of no consequence. People praised God in good times and cursed Him in bad. Some would say that God had saved them, while others wondered why God had been so cruel and heartless to them.

  And, some said, everything happened according to some divine mysterious plan that only God knew.

  Clarence and Floybel had witnessed many tragedies, and while she read the Bible at night, Clarence studied the stars, the constellations, the moon, and the planets in the night sky. He believed that there was a great force in the universe and that there was a superior being who had created such magnificence. But he didn’t hold with people who either praised or blamed God for everything that happened to them.

  This was a small bone of contention between him and Floybel, and it had continued after they had lost both their boys. Floybel wondered why God had taken them when they were both so young.

  “God didn’t take ’em nowhere,” Clarence said. “They was kilt, pure and simple.”

  “Oh, Clarence, you’re such a heathen.”

  “Well, maybe I am a heathen. God made us in all shapes and sizes. He made you a believer. He made me a heathen.”

  Floybel would laugh at that, and they would go on as they had, both dedicated to their individual beliefs.

  After the boys were buried, neither of them ever spoke of an afterlife again.

  That was just too big a mystery for both of them.

  He heard Floybel clattering about in the kitchen, and he stepped away from the window. He looked at the old musket over the fireplace and the doublebarreled shotgun in the glass cabinet where he hung his old Remington .44 converted from cap n’ ball to percussion.

  He had never used any of those weapons on a man.

  And he hoped he never would.

  But they were tools like those he kept out in the barn. Someday, he thought, he might have to use them. And it wouldn’t be God’s will, he knew.

  It would be his will.

  Chapter 21

  It was close to sunset when Dale rode back to the herd. The herd was moving along the river. The cattle were not dragging their feet, but they looked tired and ready to bed down. He waved at the outriders and reined up when he saw Miles and Roy on drag, bringing up the rear.

  The sky to the west began to take on a gray cast. Blue and purple clouds hung like long loaves of moldy bread above the horizon, and there, off to the southwest, was that growing black mass that seemed to hover in the heavens like some crouching dark behemoth, ready to pounce, its
loins girded for war, its haunches coiled to spring. The air was still and it seemed as if the entire prairie had paused and was holding its breath.

  “Hey, Miles,” Dale said, in a somewhat casual tone, “I hope you ain’t in no hurry come morning.”

  “Why is that?” Miles asked as Dale’s horse snorted and bobbed its head up and down as if trying to shake bit and bridle.

  “They ain’t nothin’ but farms yonder. Miles and miles of farms, all of ’em sprouting corn and milo, wheat and hay.”

  “Where does the trail go?” Roy asked.

  “It just plumb peters out,” Dale said. “Like it run up against a big ol’ wall.”

  “You sure?” Miles said.

  “They’s a little old road acrost one farm, but it ain’t no cattle trail.”

  “Shit,” Roy said.

  “Ditto,” Miles echoed.

  “How far did you ride east and west?” Roy asked.

  “I must’ve rid three or more miles in both directions. Ain’t nothing but farmland far as I could see in either direction.”

  Dale looked at Miles, a questioning arch to his eyebrows.

  “Five extry miles wouldn’t hurt us none,” Miles said. But it was obvious to Dale and Roy that he wasn’t sure.

  “If that’s all it is,” Roy said. “Dale, did you see any sign of a cattle trail? Anywhere?”

  Dale shook his head. “If there was a cattle trail, even a skinny one, Roy, I’d’ve seen it. It’s like somebody took a great big broom and swept all signs of a trail away. Not only that, but the main farm I seen, the big one, has posts stuck up for a good stretch.”

  “Posts?” Miles asked.

  “Yep, round old posts like you would stick up in a pole corral. Only these are made of iron or tin or somethin’.”

  “Posts,” Roy said.

  “Yep, posts,” Dale said. “And them posts got signs tacked to ’em. Big old painted signs.”

  “Spit it out, Dale,” Miles said, plainly irritated. “What in hell did the signs say?”

  “Ever’ one of ’em said ‘Texans Go Home.’ In big letters and that warn’t all.”

  “Damn, Roy,” Miles said as he looked at Roy, “it’s like pullin’ teeth from a hippopotamus to get anything out of this man.”

  “He don’t say much, Miles,” Dale said, “but he’s got a kind face.”

  “Yeah, the kind I’d like to smash with my fist,” Miles said. “Damn it, Dale, what else?”

  “Skulls,” Dale said, and let the word float over the other two men like some ancient scrap of parchment. Dale’s eyes glittered in the dying light of the day, and he wet his lips with his tongue as the word seemed to sink in with his two listeners.

  Cattle lowed and kept moving like some lumbering aggregation of curly-haired beasts on a pilgrimage to a slaughterhouse.

  “Skulls?” Miles asked. “Human skulls?”

  “Nope. Cattle skulls,” Dale said.

  “Cattle skulls?” Roy repeated in disbelief.

  “All bone and white, with empty eye sockets, and bleached horns, like they was dipped in acid to burn the hide off.”

  “Shit,” Miles said.

  “Gave me the pure willies,” Dale said.

  The men walked their horses behind the herd as the western sky began to fade into a deeper gray and the blue over the horizon faded like chambray after many washings in lye soap.

  They did not speak for several moments.

  Then Dale said, “Well, shoot. It looks like Farmer Brown is expectin’ us.”

  “We have to get this herd through,” Miles said, a stubborn bone in his teeth. “Maybe we can bargain with one of them farmers.”

  “Them boiled skulls tell a sorry tale, boss,” Dale said.

  “If that farmer or any of ’em shoots one of my cows, I’ll run right over him,” Miles said.

  “That’s the spirit, Miles,” Roy said. “Farmer Brown murders a cow, you murder him.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Roy. I meant we got to get these cattle up to Salina, farm or no farm.”

  “Well, you got all night to think about it,” Roy said. “It’s goin’ to be pitch-dark and them clouds will block off any light from the moon.”

  Miles looked off to the west. The blackness was creeping across the sky and he saw the silver glitter of the evening star in the pale border that still held a trace of blue.

  “Bed ’em down, Roy,” Miles said. “Dale, you tell Jules to bunch ’em up. We’ll camp here for the night.”

  “We might have to beat a storm that’s raggin’ our tail,” Roy said. “From the looks of that sky to the southwest.”

  “Maybe Farmer Brown won’t see us if we get a heavy rain,” Miles said as they both watched Dale ride off toward the head of the herd.

  “You do have a sense of humor, Miles. Otherwise, I couldn’t live with you.”

  Miles laughed a dry mirthless laugh and both men crowded in on the rumps of the cattle in the rear, pushing them until the herd seemed to stop all up and down the line, as if on cue.

  Miles turned and waved to Carey, beckoning for him to pull wide of the herd and set up night camp. Carey turned the horses and flanked the herd as the night came on in a sudden rush, the sky filled with stars and the Milky Way sprawled across the sky in a wide band of sparkling diamonds.

  The herd settled down. Some of the cattle bent their knees and slumped to the earth. Others followed as riders circled them, singing “Oh! Susanna” and “The Camptown Races” in low tones. Carey had the cook fire blazing and the smell of food wafted on the still night air. When he banged the metal triangle, some of the men rode up and dismounted, dusting themselves off with hand pats and hat slaps. They got their plates and eating utensils, stood in a line as Carey dished boiled beef and turnips onto their plates and pointed to a basket of yesterday’s biscuits and a bottle of ketchup next to the salt and pepper shakers.

  “I’ll take the morning watch,” Miles said after supper.

  “You don’t have to,” Jules said. “I’ll be up come midnight.”

  “I don’t think I can sleep,” Miles said. “Thinkin’ about tomorrow.”

  “Hell, Miles, don’t let them farmers put a burr under your blanket,” Roy said. “Way I figger it, they’re already housebroke.”

  “What do you mean?” Miles asked, vapors of coffee floating up from the cup in his hand so that his lips were moist.

  “If they got signs up ’gainst Texans, means they already had run-ins with a herd or two. My bet is them other Texans got through one way or another. They might have lost a cow or two, but they got to the railhead.”

  “I think Roy’s right,” Randy said. “No farmer can stop a big old herd from crossin’ his land. I mean, ain’t that illegal? Like restraint of trade or somethin’ like that?”

  “Boy, you been readin’ too many of them Dallas papers,” Jules said. “A man’s got a right to pertect his property.”

  “Sure,” Randy said, “but if’n the govamint wants your land, they can take it, ’thout nobody sayin’ nothin’. It’s Eminent Domain.”

  “He does read, don’t he?” Dale said, flicking the ash from his cigarette into the fire. “Govamint’s one thing, cattlemen’s another, I say.”

  “Well, we might have the law on our side,” Randy said, but his words were crippled and lame and they died on the ears of the others, some of whom snorted at him in dismissal.

  “We won’t solve it at this campfire,” Miles said. “That’s for sure. We’ll see what Farmer Brown has to say come mornin’. If he has a bunch of others backin’ him up, we might have to drive east for a long ways.”

  “Yeah, we might have to make a big old circle and come into Salina from New York,” Carey cracked as he scraped a plate into the fire.

  Ralph Beasely wandered into the fire circle on foot. The others looked up at the fiftyish man who was still one of the tougher men on the drive. They could almost hear his bones creak. They certainly heard his knees crackle when he sat down and asked C
arey for a cup of coffee.

  “Cattle ain’t restless tonight,” he said. “Like they know we’re goin’ to run into trouble in the mornin’.”

  Carey poured Ralph a cup of coffee in a tin cup.

  “You think cows can see into the future, Beasely?” Dale asked.

  “They sure as hell know when a storm’s a-comin’. Dogs too. And horses.”

  “Oh yeah?” Randy said. “Cows are dumber’n dogs or horses. They don’t know their asses from their noses.”

  “All the same,” Ralph said as he blew steam off his coffee, “these cattle are sure restin’ up.”

  The talk continued until men got up and walked to their horses to ride nighthawk or crawl onto their bedrolls for some shut-eye. Miles was the last to leave the fire.

  “You want me to give you a couple of toothpicks, boss?” Carey asked him when he took his empty cup.

  “What for?”

  “So’s you can keep your eyes open. You ain’t had no sleep and you’re nighthawkin’.”

  “Coffee’ll keep me awake, Carey. Don’t you worry none.”

  “G’night, Miles.”

  “Good night, Carey.”

  Miles found his horse and climbed into the saddle. He rode in a slow loop around the herd. Some of the cattle were still grazing, but most were bedded down. Some chewed their cuds and moaned at his passing. One or two flicked a tail as if to swat mosquitoes or flies.

  Chapter 22

  The storm struck with a vengeance just before dawn. The cowhands were all awake and they had the herd moving when wind and rain whipped across the prairie. Thunder boomed; lightning flashed all around them like some demonic fireworks show. Men yelled and cattle bellowed. Yellow slickers bobbed in the predawn dark like lit lanterns. The river churned with raindrops and waves smacked against the banks and rolled frothy combers in all directions.