He walked to the door. The men remained still and silent. Charles did not lower the Sharps until Balum had untied both horses and called for him from the street.
They rode back to camp and Joe stayed up with them, riding slow circles around the herd and half expecting trouble at any minute.
It never came. The following day they let the herd roam not more than a mile north. The two boys lay in the back of the buckboard, their cuts covered with aloe Joe had found while hunting tubers. Their bodies were battered but not broken. The swelling was unnerving to look at, but would ease with time. Joe put the covering up over the top of the wagon to keep the midday sun from burning their faces. He took it slow with the wagon, knowing that each bump in the trail was agony to them.
A day later they moved the herd another few miles to the north, putting them in fresh grazing area. Just as they reached it one of the traces connecting to the buckboard snapped. The traces were old and worn, and a quick fix wouldn’t do; they would only break again. There wasn’t any choice but to venture into town again. With the boys laid up they weren’t sure which was best; two men to town or two with the herd. They settled on Charles riding alone to town.
He left on a fast horse and was gone but an hour. When he returned he had new traces and fresh gossip from the shopkeeper. Several of Turnbull’s men had abandoned him. Keeping a gang of such characters together required a strongman for a leader, and when the strongman got whipped he lost the respect of the men. Turnbull had nearly lost an eye, and was letting it be known he aimed to kill Balum.
The shopkeeper had more gossip on Turnbull. Back East he had been involved in several duels and had killed each of his opponents. He was not afraid to kill, and the rumor was he had fled west after shooting an unarmed man who refused to enter into duel with him.
Having given the news, Charles had Joe help slide the traces through the breeching straps and connect them onto the metal hames of the collar. With the herd calm and time on their hands they began to prepare for an early supper.
The riders came before dusk, as the men were standing waiting for the fire to settle to coals. Eight men, Turnbull riding in front of them. The eye with the broken orbital bone was surrounded in white tape, which was wrapped several times around his head. The eye itself was left uncovered, its blood-shot sclera a burnt red color.
He rode with his six-shooter held in his right hand.
Balum took several steps away from the fire, putting distance between himself and Charles and Joe. He stood tall, with both hands hanging loosely at his sides.
Turnbull pulled his mount up fifty feet from the fire and turned him slightly so his line of fire would not be directly over the horse’s ears. His men hung back, their weapons still in their holsters.
‘Let this be a lesson,’ started Turnbull, his gun raised, ‘to all the---’
There was only a flicker of movement from Balum. Some of Turnbull’s men, on later recalling the scene, would say that Balum’s draw was faster than their eyes could track. His empty hand hung suspended next to his gun holster, there was a moment it blurred, and then the gun was recoiling in his palm from the force of the shot.
Turnbull took the bullet from the Colt Dragoon through the side of his jaw bone. The bullet slashed apart his tongue, cut through the soft palate before ripping through his brain, and exited by blowing a hole through the parietal bone in the back of his skull.
His dead body fell sideways from the horse. One of his boots caught in a stirrup, and the animal, startled, dragged him several yards before it stopped.
Turnbull’s men sat still for a moment. They had come to watch their boss gun down a man. Turnbull had not come to give Balum a fair shot; he had come with his gun unholstered and intended to shoot him down without warning. His men knew the odds of beating a drawn gun were next to nothing, and they had ridden out expecting to see an easy killing.
Now they looked upon their dead leader, his bandaged face laying in the dirt.
‘Pick him up,’ said Balum, ‘and take him out of here. We’re riding out in the morning. If we see any of you from here on out we shoot on sight.’
They draped the dead body over its owner’s saddle and rode away from the camp. One of them turned for a last look at Balum, and then they were gone.
Balum had shucked his revolver back into its holster. Joe and Charles stood motionless, watching him. They said nothing, for there was nothing to say.
13
The swelling had abated and the cuts were healing over. They were sore yet, but young as they were the boys were quick to recover, and nobody was eager to spend more time on the Texas border country.
They started the cattle moving the following morning. The dark-hided bull took his place at the tip of the herd as if complying with orders.
Joe drove the chuckwagon. He had tied on the remuda, all five of them. He stayed close to the herd, keeping an eye out for Turnbull’s men. All of them rode with some amount of worry that they would be ridden down by the hired guns, the cows stampeded and their goods lost. They herded the cattle with their rifles in their scabbards, unwieldy as that was, and fixed their eyes on the surrounding hillsides as much as on the herd itself.
Several cattle wearing the Double T Bar grazed within sight of them. One such group contained a few unbranded calves. Balum swung wide and cut two of them out. They were reticent to leave the group, but the grulla knew what it was doing, and soon they were mixed into the herd. There were more like that for the taking, but only two had been stolen from them, and two was all Balum considered taking.
In three days time they had put nearly fifty miles behind them. They moved the cattle at a fast pace, giving them little time to graze. As the days drifted by it dawned on them that there was no attack coming. When hired guns stop getting paid, they lose their drive to fight.
When it fully sank in that they were in the clear, their spirits lifted and the mood around the campfire lightened. The boys had healed up from their wounds and the chuckwagon was still full of grub.
They met up with the Pecos on an unusually hot morning shortly before entering into the New Mexico Territory. It was full and wide from the melting snows of the Rockies, and the cattle were happy to drink at its banks. The men stripped out of their dusty gear and waded into the frigid water. They laughed at the change of appearance in themselves with the dirt scrubbed from their faces and their jaws freshly shaved.
‘Pity there’s no town around,’ Balum said to William and Dan. ‘First time in a long time you two are in a presentable shape for womenfolk.’
‘We’re stopping in Fort Sumner, right Charles?’ asked Dan.
‘We are. Those soldiers will be hurting more for a woman than you two though, believe me.’
‘Dang,’ said William, ‘We’ll be old men before we find a woman worth looking at twice.’
‘You just might be,’ laughed Charles. ‘It isn’t till Pueblo or Denver that you’ll see a real town. That’s a fair bit up the trail.’
They stayed close to the Pecos. There were fish in the river, and Joe had a knack for pulling them out. The grass had thinned out, but sporadically they found patches of decent grazing.
The cattle were trail-broke, and so were the men. The days were routine. They would wake with the light of dawn and eat breakfast Joe had prepared. They’d saddle their horses, load their gear into the chuckwagon, and rotate their positions on the herd. They would ride on through until suppertime, stopping only to change out their mounts. The men carried pemmican with them, and when hungry they would eat in the saddle. Charles or Balum would scout ahead for a decent spot to camp for the night, and when they arrived to it they would bunch the cattle. Joe would get dinner going and each man would care for his horses.
At night they took turns watching the cattle. They would sing to them as they circled the herd. The animals seemed to find this comforting, as poorly as the men carried a tune.
By the time they reached Fort Sumner their supplies had run low and the
cattle had lost weight. In the surrounding area of the Pecos River Valley was plenty of open range with decent enough grass. The men agreed to let the cattle graze a couple days and fatten up before moving on.
They bunched them in an open plain not far from the river and only a short ride to the fort. Balum, Charles, and Joe took the buckboard in the following morning, leaving the boys to mind the herd. Promising them a night to themselves at the fort was all the bargaining it took.
Fort Sumner itself was not much to look at. A few single-story barracks and officer’s quarters formed a square, where a few dozen soldiers milled about. There was a central office, in front of which were several Navajo families formed in a line. The children clung tightly to their parents. Their faces were somber, and no conversations took place.
Joe pulled the wagon up on one end of the office building. The men tied up their horses and entered. After some inquiring they found a lieutenant happy enough to attend to them.
Immediately outside the fort was a white settlement, and the lieutenant suggested they discuss business in a tavern nearby. The men saw no reason to argue. Within minutes they were seated at a table in a shack that resembled a saloon in no way whatsoever save for the painted slab of wood above the entrance that claimed it to be such a thing.
They ordered beers and bowls of stew. They were served quickly, and stuck their spoons into the bowls of steaming slop.
‘Where the hell is the meat?’ said Charles. He drew several spoonfuls of liquid and let it plunker back into the bowl.
‘That’s the predicament we’re in,’ responded the lieutenant. ‘The price of cattle in Cheyenne has risen and with it have gone the herds. Which is why I’m happy to see you folks show up.’
‘Suits me just fine,’ said Charles. ‘We’re low on cash money. I’ll trade stock at the going rate. You have eggs?’
‘We have eggs.’
‘Good. Bacon?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Tobacco?’ said Balum.
‘Coffee?’ asked Charles.
‘Tobacco yes, and all the coffee you can drink. In fact we have just about anything you want except meat.’
‘What is the price in Cheyenne by the way?’
‘Tipping forty dollars for fattened stock is what I hear.’
‘Ho, you hear that boys?’ Charles hit Balum on the arm. ‘Forty dollars a head.’
‘You need to get there first,’ said the lieutenant.
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ll find your share of trouble along the way. The price high like it is has brought out the trash. There’s no law between here and Cheyenne. Except for Denver maybe. Otherwise it’s open country filled with thieves. Not even Cheyenne has any law to it yet. Reports are starting to drift down this way about killings and cattle robbery. Rustlers come in many forms, my friends.’
‘We’re quite aware,’ said Charles. ‘We’ve had our run-ins already.’
‘You’ll have more. You say you picked these cattle up out of Mexico?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘So they’re full-grown.’
‘Yes.’
‘They wouldn’t carry a brand then would they?’
‘No, they do not.’
The lieutenant shook his head. ‘There’s some big outfits starting to run herds between Denver and Cheyenne. Big outfits but few morals. They’ll try to cut your herd in half, if not steal it entirely.’
‘What have they got, an army of outlaws riding with them?’
‘Worse. From the gossip I’m hearing they’ve jumped in bed with the bankers. The bankers sell to the buyers, and the buyers know better than to stray far from the railheads. They do business with whoever shows up with the cattle and don’t ask too many questions.’
‘What about the law?’
‘Like I said, there is none. Or worse, it’s been been bought. They’ll only back the bankers.’
Charles sat back in his chair. Balum and Joe had finished their stew and were draining the last swigs of beer. The little shack was crowded. Soldiers mingled with locals, shoulder to shoulder at the bar. There were a couple tables crammed against the wall with poker games going.
Two dirt-stained men stood with their backs to the bar. They were unkempt, with matted, greased hair protruding from their hats.They had been observing Balum’s table for some time and he had taken notice.
What pricked his attention more was the man standing beside them. This man stood facing the bar, his back to their table. Balum could see no more than a sliver of his profile. He was well-dressed. His clothing was all store bought, all in good condition. The way he stood next to the filthy men though, gave Balum the impression they were together.
Something didn’t set right with those three. Balum turned to ask the lieutenant if he knew who they were. Before he could speak, two men passed the table, giving Joe’s chair a shove on the way.
‘Want us to take this half-breed out to Bosque, lieutenant?’ said one. His friend laughed.
‘Move on,’ was all the lieutenant replied.
‘We need to move on ourselves, lieutenant,’ said Charles. ‘We’ll meet you at the supply tents in a couple hours. Sorry we can’t spare more than a couple cows, but we just don’t need, and can’t carry, that much in the way of supplies.’
Before they left Balum took another look at the men at the bar. One of the soiled men watched them go. The other two were bent over the bar with their heads together.
14
Balum and Joe remained with the herd. Charles had promised the boys an evening in town, and aimed to deliver. They cut out two heifers and headed back to town. Charles drove the wagon.
Balum rode in slow circles around the herd, singing to them softly. Joe tended to the remuda. He brushed their coats and went over their hooves, dislodging the small stones working their way into the cracks.
Balum looked over to him each time his circle brought him close. The man was distracted. He had been unnerved by the comment about Bosque Redondo and seeing the Navajo, dressed in rags and huddled in line for rations.
It upset Balum as well. He was glad they had not swung close enough to the reservation to see it. He had fought Indians. He had traded with them too though, shared meals, and slept in their lodges. To see them hounded to such condition gave no sense of pride or victory, only sadness.
Balum let Joe be, as no words of comfort came to him. He continued his watch over the herd, waiting for the boys and Charles to return.
When they rode in late that night it was clear the boys had been disillusioned by Fort Sumner. They had been pining for a night of drinking and gambling. They imagined themselves arriving at a town filled with saloons and stores and dining establishments, and beautiful women around every corner.
The reality of the small settlement adjoining Fort Sumner was a sad array of small buildings and weary people. It was soldiers and travelers with few women to spare. The one tavern in town serving meatless stew was an odorous box of filth.
The men abandoned their plans of staying on for a couple days to let the cattle fatten. Without any word of discussion, each of them assumed their morning routines, and shortly after sunrise they had the cattle on the move.
It turned out they had no reason to hang back. The snowcap melting on the Rockies turned the valleys green in front of them. The water in the Pecos overflowed its banks in many spots and the men moved the herd several miles from it. They had no lack of water, as numerous small streams crisscrossed the land, each adding their contents to the massive river.
The cattle put up very few problems. They saw no one. No settlers or towns or wagon caravans. At times they passed by belongings discarded by those that had gone before. Broken wagon wheels, bleached and cracked by the sun, or an empty sack of flour blown in from some place far away.
When they tired of eating food from the chuckwagon they would take to fishing in the river. Joe’s adeptness at pulling them out seemed nearly magical, until he lost it. A streak of several
days passed without catching anything. The complaints around the campfire grew at night until Balum picked up his rifle one day and rode out into the vast green plains stretching toward the mountains.
He didn’t realize until he had put all sight of the herd behind him how pleasant the solitude was. The cattle weren’t the only ones trail-broke; the men were too. They were worn down and frazzled from the constant attention the herd demanded.
He rode easy atop the roan, his rifle resting across the saddle. His focus alternated between the surrounding horizon and the ground beneath him. Tracks there were in abundance. Mostly deer, but also antelope and occasionally the tracks of a bighorn sheep.
He crossed a few shallow streams and cut through a thin line of trees blocking the view of the foothills. Coming out on the other side was more of the same. He nudged the roan forward.
Suddenly he pulled up. Cutting into the soft earth before him were the tracks of three men on horseback. They had ridden through only hours before. He turned in the direction they had come and followed their trail. The men, whoever they were, had ridden within only a few miles of the herd. They had kept the thin line of trees between them, concealing their view from the cowboys.
At one point the men had dismounted and walked through the tree line to the opposite side. They had clearly stood and watched for some time; the remnants of rolled cigarettes had been thrown to the ground. From their position they would have had a decent view of the herd traveling by. They would have been able to estimate the size, their rate of travel, and the number of men riding with it.
Balum took out a plug of tobacco and tucked it into his lip. Those three riders showed an uncanny interest in their herd. The way they took such careful measures not to be seen raised an alarm.
Rustlers Page 5
