Although the cattle were trail-broke, the hardships of the drive did not lessen. In one week alone four calves were birthed. The pregnant cows would get up and pace in the night. In the day they would try to leave the herd, looking for a secluded spot to birth their calves.
Riding drag one afternoon, Balum noticed a pregnant heifer that had cut out from the herd. She was pacing, getting up and laying down repeatedly. He rode his horse to her. The yellowish water sac had protruded from her vulva. He grabbed rope from his saddle and knelt on his haunches, waiting for the front legs to show.
While he waited, William and Dan rode up. For as young as they were, the boys had more birthing experience than the rest combined. They dismounted and stood on opposite sides of the cow’s hind end.
The front legs began to show, but as the head appeared it was clear it was in a down position. Dan instructed William and Balum to press their bodies against the cow’s haunches on either side. He knelt in the grass behind the cow, rolled his sleeves high up on his bicep and took his leather gloves off and set them aside.
He pushed the calf back into the uterine cavity. Once inside he sought the calf’s nose with his hand, but could not reach it. Instead, he hooked his fingers just inside the corner of it’s mouth and brought it part way around. From there he cupped the calf’s nose in his palm and brought the head around to normal position.
He grabbed up the rope and tied in a double half-hitch knot. He placed one loop on the fetlock, the other just below the knee, and waited for the cow to strain again. As she did he pulled, slowly bringing the calf out into the world. He paused again as the cow paused, and pulled again when she strained.
Once the calf was out, he wiped it’s nose, smearing away the amniotic fluid collected in the nasal cavities. William had uncapped his canteen. He splashed a bit of water into the calf’s ear, which caused it to shake it’s head. Within a few seconds it was breathing, and not more than a couple minutes later it was standing, its thin legs quivering, huddled next to it’s mother.
The calves born on the trail stuck close to their mothers, and the men paid extra attention to them. Most particularly at night, when the wolves would slink across the grass, their bodies low to the ground. The two on nightwatch would pay more mind to the risk of wolves than they would to any other potential threat, Indians or rustlers included.
They passed few people on the trail. When they did they would stop to exchange information. Trail conditions, price of cattle, weather, Indians, all manner of subjects were bandied back and forth.
One night two trappers hailed their fire. They had come through Cheyenne and Denver, headed eventually to Missouri to sell their furs. Their wagon was loaded down with uncured hides, which stunk and gave an aura of death over camp. The smell drifted over the horses and cattle and caused them to snort and pace in circles.
The men were unwashed and unshaven. Their hair hung down their shoulders in matted, tangled ropes. They ate without utensils, preferring to spoon the beans into their mouths with their fingers.
The cowboys exchanged looks with each other. They were dirty themselves. They had been on the trail so long they had nearly forgotten what manners looked like. Still, there was a gulf that separated these two men from them. The cowboys had gone months without much contact with civilisation, the trappers had gone years.
They seemed not to notice the glances directed at them.
One of the trapper’s mustaches was so long it covered his mouth. The hairs picked up bits of food and grease from the beans as he ate. When the talk turned to Cheyenne he spoke up.
‘Hell of a place, Cheyenne is,’ he said. ‘But were it me I’d stay put in Denver.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Charles.
The man stuck his fingers in his mouth and licked them all at once. He pulled them out and inspected them. Satisfied, he squinted his eyes at William and Dan. ‘Women,’ he said, and let out a laugh from the depth of his belly. When he did so his bottom lip dropped, exposing white gleaming teeth that glistened in the light of the campfire like small ivory tombstones rising from a ridge of pink gums.
‘There’s more women in Denver than they know what to do with. Enough of ‘em they’ll take the likes of us. I know what you boys are thinking. When we was your age that’s all we thought about too, believe me.’
William and Dan leaned forward, taking in every word.
‘Ya’ll got these cattle here. Sell ‘em is what I say. Get rid of ‘em in Denver and take your money. Ain’t much money in it if you sell in Denver but better than gettin’ gut shot in Cheyenne over it.’
‘Rumor all along the trail has been that there’s trouble in Cheyenne,’ said Balum.
‘Ain’t no law in Dakota Territories and ain’t no different in Cheyenne. We was there but one day. Slept the night under the wagon outside town. No use going in, liable to get shot at.’
‘It’s that violent?’ asked Balum.
‘Violent as hell. The one day we was there two men got shot. Shot in the gut, both. They was in the cattle business, just like you fellas. But something’s screwy up there. Price is sky high, but seems like soon as you bring cattle up you get robbed or killed. Or both.’
The two slept the night alongside the men’s campfire. The stench of their furs drifted out from the wagon and permeated the air around them. Time was insufficient to accustom oneself to the odor. When morning broke and the two trappers climbed aboard their wagon the men waved them off from a distance and started the cattle moving, eager to find fresh air further along the trail.
In a few days easy riding they caught sight of the town of Denver in the distance. The men considered the trapper’s advice on selling the herd immediately in hopes of foregoing trouble. The difference in price however was well known, and not one of them cottoned to the prospect of losing out on so much cash. They had met trouble along the trail and had overcome it. They would do so again.
18
Charles and Joe took the buckboard into the town of Denver. They returned several hours later to where Balum and the boys waited with the herd. They had loaded the buckboard down with enough supplies to last them to Cheyenne.
‘What’s the word in town?’ Balum asked after they had descended from the wagon seat.
‘No one’s looking to buy cattle. We could force it, but we’d be unloading them at maybe fifteen dollars a head. They say the price in Cheyenne is more than twice that, maybe as high as forty.’
‘My vote’s for the forty,’ said Dan.
‘Mine too,’ agreed his brother.
Joe nodded his head.
‘That settles it then,’ said Balum. ‘As long as you’re in for it too, Charles.’
‘Damn right I am. Now you gonna follow these boys into town and see that they don’t get themselves into too much trouble? Look at them. Chompin at the bit. Women on the mind, that’s what it is.’
Balum saddled the roan. As he did he counted what was left of his savings. Eight dollars. A far cry from what he had held not long ago in Bette’s Creek, but enough to have one good night. One hell of a night.
Denver nearly overwhelmed them. It was not the average frontier town of a single street of tattered buildings. There were enough streets to form blocks, and enough people on the move to disappear amongst them.
There were banks and hardware stores and a telegraph office. Two livery stables, hotels, eateries, and a stretch of saloons and brothels where women on balconies made catcalls to the men below.
‘Boys,’ said Balum. ‘You know Charles aims for me to look after you. I might be the wrong man for the job though. I’m a sinner, and this town is built for sinning. So first off, I’m buying us a round of whiskeys. After that it might be you two keeping me out of trouble.’
‘How will we find each other later?’ asked William.
Balum glanced around. ‘Half the folks in this town probably carry timepieces. If we’re not together by just after midnight we’ll meet right here in front of the livery. You boys ready?�
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They directed themselves to one of the larger saloons on the main drag. The sound of live piano music carried through the doors, and when they swung them open and entered they were engulfed by a hoard of people, talking, laughing, all of them drinking.
They found their way to the bar. Whiskeys in hand, they toasted, laughing at the surrealness of being smashed between throngs of people after so long on the unpopulated trail. Balum bought another round for them. Their glasses were only half empty when, just as he had said, they were dispersed into the sea of humans.
So many months with only a few drops of liquor to touch his throat had turned Balum into a lightweight. Two whiskeys put a smile on his face. He bought himself another. With the drink in hand, he eased his way past the cowpokes, the trappers, the shopkeepers off from their work duties, and the businessmen conducting their affairs with the help of drink. He walked by gamblers and slightly-dressed women, by gunmen and drunks and all manner of individuals that found themselves in the chaotic, lawless, untamed and unlimited potential that was the West.
He found an unclaimed barstool near the pianoman and planted himself on it. He sipped the whisky and listened to the notes dance across his ears. He forgot his own troubles for a moment and closed his eyes. The sound of music and laughter and people shouting to each other above the den of noise washed over him.
Suddenly he felt a hand grip him on the shoulder.
It tore him out of his lubricated serenity. His hand dropped to the Colt Dragoon at his hip and he spun with the pull of the hand on his shoulder. His thumb had pulled back the hammer and as he came around full-circle on the stool the revolver was just beginning to clear leather.
Then he saw the face.
‘Chester! Jesus, what the heck…’ he shoved the revolver back into its holster and let the hammer ease back up.
‘Balum, if it ain’t a sight to see you sitting here,’ said the old man, grinning.
‘What are you doing up in Denver? What’s the news from Bette’s Creek?’
‘Bette’s Creek went bust.’
‘Went bust?’
‘You know how it is with these boomtowns. Mines stopped producing. Once the gold dried up why, folks scattered. I got kin up thisaway. They’re in the horse trade. Figured I’d keep right on with the livery business.’
‘I’ll be damned.’
‘Heard Charlise was headed North also,’ he said, his eyes creasing at the corners. ‘Maybe you’ll have yourself another friendly run-in.’ He gave Balum a jab in the shoulder and laughed. ‘What’s your story? What’ve you got going on? Wait, don’t tell me here. I can’t hear a damn thing with this piano racket. Follow me.’
They weaved their way through the length of the saloon and exited onto the boardwalk. A few doors down they pushed through a pair of swinging doors and entered into a darker, quieter, yet respectable saloon. A few men stood idling at the bar and those at the tables seemed to have in mind a quieter night.
They ordered a round of beers and Balum told his old friend about the roundup in Mexico and the drive North.
‘You taking them into Cheyenne?’
‘That’s right. There’s no price here in Denver.’
‘Things ain’t right up in Cheyenne, Balum. There’s too much violence and there ain’t no law. No real law anyway. You take cattle up there you’re liable to lose ‘em.’
‘That’s what we’ve been hearing all along the trail. Who’s rustling them?’
‘Witney mostly. There’s a couple more, small fry mostly, but Ned Witney is the worst. They got the bankers roped in with them. Ten different ways to fleece you. They’ll give you a bill of sale that ain’t no good with the banks. Or they’ll claim you grazed on their land, picked up their stock and they’ll cut your herd. Maybe they’ll accuse you of rustling and get their crooked sheriff to lock you up. Either way you cut it, it’s bad news.’
‘People say the price is high there.’
‘It is high. But the buyers don’t go much past the railheads and them that are fixing to steal your herd will do it long before you reach them.’
‘So the trick is getting them to the railheads before they get to us.’
‘I guess so. I wish you well Balum. Wish I could help.’
‘You already have.’
‘Wish I could do more.’
‘Know where I can get in on a card game?’
Chester laughed. ‘Now on that I can help you. Come here.’
He stood from the table and walked past those standing at the bar to the back of the room. They stopped before a doorway covered by a drape hung across a rod.
‘Poker without all those prying eyes,’ smiled Chester.
‘I owe you friend.’
‘Stay safe in Cheyenne,’ he said, and tipped his hat.
19
The room behind the curtain was large enough for only four card tables. Two of these were occupied with poker games, the cards and the men holding them dimly lit by a couple lanterns on the back wall. The other two remained empty.
Balum stood still for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darker atmosphere. Four men sat at each game. He reached a hand in his pocket and ran his fingers through what remained of the eight dollars. An empty chair waited for him at the far table. He crossed the room and asked to join.
‘You can have my seat,’ said one of the men. He tossed his cards onto the table and rose. ‘Hope you’re a better gambler than I am.’
Balum took the man’s place. Seated to his left and to his right were two men both similar in appearance. They both packed guns, and each looked as rough around the edges as the other. The man on his right carried a birthmark that ran from his ear along his neck to the bottom of his chin. Even in the dim light of the small gambling room Balum could see its shape. His mind ran through descriptions of men to be wary of who carried such a mark as this, but his memory served up nothing.
The man seated across from him had pulled in the cards and was shuffling them.
‘Would you like a drink, friend?’ he asked.
‘I could use another whisky.’
‘Dottie,’ the man’s voice directed itself across the room. ‘Go grab this man a glass of whisky.’
Balum turned. He had not seen the woman seated in the dark corner. She stood and Balum watched her exit through the curtain.
‘Thank you,’ said Balum.
‘I like to be hospitable. Do you have a handle you go by? ‘This man’ won’t do for long.’
‘You can call me Balum.’
‘A pleasure Balum. Mr. Daniel Randolph at your service.’
Dottie returned with the whisky. She handed it to Balum and left through the curtain.
Randolph began to deal. Balum could not help but stare at the man. He was no cowhand. His hair was thick and black and worn long past his shoulders. He dressed in tailored clothing, the likes of which Balum had seldom seen before. The pile of money before him was small. It was clear the two roughnecks at the table had been cleaning up.
‘Would I be correct to say you’ve been on the trail for some time?’ asked Randolph.
‘I have,’ Balum folded and said goodbye to his ante.
‘You wear it on you. In a good way. I myself spend too much time in the city. The walls it puts up are not only physical.’
‘And what is it you do?’
‘I enjoy many pursuits. I’m a philosopher, and a reader of books. A critic of theater, and at times a gentleman of leisure. At the moment I find myself a gambler,’ he smiled and raised his glass to Balum.
Balum couldn’t help but smile in return. He liked this fellow.
Birthmark had won the hand. He pulled in his money and compiled the cards.
‘You from back East?’ asked Balum.
‘Far from it friend. From the greater area of San Francisco.’
Balum picked up his newly dealt hand. ‘Never been.’
‘I think it would suit you.’
‘You two gonna jabber away all night?’
interjected the man to Balum’s left. He had raised substantially and waited for Randolph to play. Randolph folded his cards as did Birthmark. Balum pushed enough in to see. They revealed their hands and the man smiled and swept his arm across the table, raking Balum’s money into his pile.
The other table of players had finished their game and left through the hanging curtain. Balum drank a sip of whisky and shuffled. He fluttered the ends of the cards into each other and bridged them between his hands. The cards shot one over the next until they formed a concise deck again.
When he had finished dealing he found two pair in his hand. He finished trade-ins and when the betting began he bet hard and lost more than half his money to Birthmark’s straight.
‘I’d buy you another whisky but I’ve given away nearly everything to these two,’ said Randolph. ‘We’ve had six different players sitting right where you are now, and each one has emptied their pockets for these fellas. I’m barely hanging on here.’
Balum looked at his dwindling pile of coins. His luck hadn’t changed.
The man to his left had shuffled and now dealt. When the final card fell in front of the dealer he spun the deck around in his hand, placed it on the table and picked up his cards in one fluid motion.
Birthmark’s arm shot across the table. His index finger was extended, pointing to the dealer’s hand.
‘Hold it a minute. Show me that hand. How many cards you got there?’
The dealer pulled his cards closer to him and Birthmark lunged across the table. His hand reached the dealer’s cards and he grabbed them and ripped them from the man’s fingers. He stood and inspected them then threw them on the table. Three aces could be seen among six cards.
‘You son of a bitch,’ said Birthmark. His hand swung back toward his hip and the dealer rose from his chair, his own hand pulling his gun from its holster as he stood. The two men’s guns swung up across the table and exploded together as if only one shot had been fired.
Rustlers Page 7
