If there was an honest sheriff in Cheyenne one of the men might ride ahead and ask for assistance. But too many folks along the trail had warned them of the lack law, or the corruption wrapped up in it.
In the end it came down to what they all understood anyway; the gun. None of them had anything to their names. They were poor. Poverty lay behind them and it was all that the future offered as well. This drive and the sale of the cattle was their path out.
Balum, William, and Charles took first watch. The night was overcast and the crescent moon played games emerging and ducking back again behind the cloud cover.
The cattle did not bed down easily. They seemed anxious, as if the tension around camp had rubbed off on them. They bellowed and grunted. Balum noticed the few he could see near him pacing and tossing their heads in the air. The voices of the men and their songs did little to soothe them.
Balum rode the grulla. The horse had picked up on the tension. It’s steps were quick and its body was held tense. He rode slowly along the edge of the herd. He called out to them in a low, deep voice, not in a song but in a calming cadence. The sound of crickets and cicadas lent a background chorus to his calling.
Suddenly he noticed that the chorus of insects had stalled. He stopped the grulla and listened. He heard thunder. Low and rolling, it continued to grow until it dawned on him that it was not thunder at all.
Shots were fired. He turned and saw the stabs of gunfire crack like little bolts of lightning in the sky.
They came out of the west. There was nothing to see except for the brief pops of light from their gunbarrels. It was the sound of hooves that gave warning. More hooves than just that of horses. It was the sound of stampeding cattle.
Balum turned and cut south. There was no chance of reaching the men to warn them. The cattle had already bolted. They moved as one single entity, and the roar of their hooves was deafening.
He rode hard for the southern edge of the herd while cattle stormed in from the west. For fear of being caught moving in the wrong direction he turned and rode with the tide, slowly edging himself out of the path of cattle.
The half moon had emerged again from the clouds. Under its light he could see the mass of animals scattered across the plains, running wildly eastward. Gunshots continued to ring out behind him as he rode.
He felt the grulla lurch unexpectedly underneath him. Seconds later he felt as if a hammerhead had landed behind his eyes. The grulla’s front legs went out from underneath it and his body pitched forward over the horse’s head. He hit the ground and rolled to a stop.
He lay in the small room on Consuelo’s bed. She sat herself beside him and bent to kiss him. The smell of her copper skin enveloped him. She kissed his forehead, his cheek. Her hands were soft. They touched his face gently, her fingers gliding along his rough skin.
‘Volveré a verte?’ she asked.
He opened his eyes. Something was different. Had time gone by?
He opened his eyes again at the sound of voices. More time had passed. He heard the sound of boots stepping through tall grass.
‘I thought you said you hit him.’
‘I did, I swear. I saw him go down.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t see nothin’. Goddamn clouds come in again.’
‘You shot his horse is all.’
‘No, I hit him Lester, swear to God I did.’
‘How you know it was him and not one of the others?’
‘Look at his horse. He was riding that dun. The grulla. Boss said he rides a grulla and a big roan.’
‘Lucky you didn’t have to face him straight on. You know they’re saying he’s the one killed Lance Cain?’
‘I know it.’
‘You don’t find the body, Ned won’t give you no bonus.’
‘I know.’
‘And if it turns out you shot one of the others, he won’t give you no bonus either. He only cares about gettin’ that gunfighter. Balum.’
‘I told you already it was him.’
‘You gonna keep looking in the dark? You can’t even see nothing.’
‘Clouds’ll go away again.’
Balum woke again in the night to the sound of his own voice. He was calling out to Consuelo. He shut his mouth and forced himself to remember where he was, not where he wanted to be. He felt the need to move but his limbs would not heed the orders of his mind. He lost consciousness again. When he woke, day was nearly breaking.
He lay on his back. He was wet with dew and a chill ran deep through his body. An attempt to lift his head sent a hot iron of pain stabbing into the backs of his eyes. He felt back to the ground and rolled to his chest.
A few minutes later he attempted the effort again. He made it to his knees, but the motion of lifting his torso and raising his head sent him collapsing unconscious again back to the dirt.
When he woke again the sun had broken and hung low in the sky. He brought himself to all fours, then slowly eased back on his heels and rested.
Before him stretched the empty plains. The ground was churned and torn from the stampede. His grulla lay dead on its side. The saddle had been stripped off.
He stood slowly and began to walk. He found his hat laying in a tuft of grass. He picked it up and placed it on his head but it would not sit right. He felt the contours of his skull with his fingers. His head was swollen. A bullet had laced a furrow along one side. He could feel the dried blood crusted along the gash.
He stopped next to the horse and squatted on his heels. He put a hand on the animal. It reminded him of Mexico. He felt a sadness for the horse, and some amount of regret. As if he had let Consuelo down somehow.
He looked up. The plain was empty. Whoever had been looking for him had given up. There was no sign of where they had built their campfire the night before. The earth left no clues in the state it was in. He walked to the far western edge of where they had held the cattle, then continued.
The ground beyond told the story. Witney’s men had driven in nearly a hundred of their own cattle. They had started them running a mile from the herd. When the hundred head of rushing cattle arrived, surrounded in gunfire and yells, the herd had stampeded.
He walked back through the churned up earth, looking for anything that might tell him what had happened to the men. He searched, finding nothing, until he came upon what he had hoped he would not find.
A man caught underneath a stampede leaves little behind. Of Dan there was little left but the heels of his boots and broken bits of bone scattered into the mud. Balum knelt and turned the bootheels over in his hands. He felt sadness and rage, lumped together inside of him. That boy was only twenty-two years old. He was a good kid. He knew horses, he worked hard, and he could be counted on when things got tough.
Balum spent another hour slowly scouring the trampled sod. He knew every minute he spent out in the open, on foot and wounded as he was, invited trouble. But the need to know the fate of his companions ran deep.
He found nothing. If they had not been caught as Dan was in the stampede they would have been hunted down by Witney’s men. Whatever the case, there was no way forward but to Cheyenne. Forty miles out. He held his hat in his hand and began to walk.
23
He didn’t make Cheyenne that day. His head ached and he needed water badly. With no reliable sources to be found he instead stumbled along, falling at times and laying in the grass, struggling to get up again.
He stopped in the shade of some pine trees when the sun got hot. Years of fallen pine needles had made a comfortable spot to rest. He reached a hand in his pocket and took out the paper money stuffed inside.
Witney’s men had taken his saddle and gear. Inside his saddlebags were the coins he had picked up in Denver. The bills however, he had kept in his trouser pocket. He counted through them. Fourteen dollars. He counted again.
Still fourteen dollars. The clothes on his back. A Colt Dragoon revolver, and a hat that didn’t yet fit on his swollen head.
It was a sorry thing to think of what he could lay a claim to. He put the money back in his pocket. He could lay a claim to a horse, he thought. That roan was his, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to find it, if it meant shooting somebody out of the saddle.
He could stake a claim to something else too. A rightful claim. He owned a fifth of a thousand head of longhorn cattle. Didn’t matter if they had been stolen. They would be sold, and that money was his.
He thought of Charles and Joe, and of William and his brother. Dead or alive, there was justice to be dealt. Balum knew himself. He knew what he had been through, what he was capable of, and what he could deal out with a gun. He looked northward toward his destination. Cheyenne didn’t know it, but vengeance walked towards it.
He spent the night under a stand of pines similar to where he had rested in the day. He had covered decent ground despite the throbbing in his skull. His hat still did not fit. In fact, the swelling only seemed to grow.
Just once had he seen riders. He had laid his body close to the ground, shielded by the tall grass, and they passed far from him.
He reached Cheyenne the following day in the late afternoon.
It bore almost no resemblance to Denver. Less than half the size and quiet, it had a dying feeling to it. Buildings had been constructed with reused slabs of timber. The few streets had been laid out haphazardly. No one had measured off a grid or taken time to square the avenues.
He walked in on his worn down bootheels, unshaven, bloody and too long without food or water. He was aware of how the sight of him might stir up talk, and news of his presence would bring no good fortune to him or to his partners. If any of them were still alive.
Witney had made his play. He had the cattle, but with them had come a problem; their rightful owners. He would want them silenced, whether that meant dead or disappeared.
Balum had approached town from the southwest. The railheads were situated on the other side of town. Most of the residential buildings were scattered to the north.
He walked to the first structure and circled around to the front. He rubbed a clear circle into the dust on the window and peered inside. Nothing could be made out in the dark interior. He took a few steps into the street and looked up on the facade. The word Crockery was painted over the weathered wood slabs. He walked back into the shade and nestled a plug of tobacco into his cheek.
He had no plan, and he needed one. Balum didn’t consider himself a fast thinker. He liked time to chew on a problem, and when he had it he could usually come up with a fine enough solution. Without knowing the condition of his partners however, time might not be on is side.
He made a list of matters he needed to attend to. First off, he needed a bath and a shave. He’d need the dried blood cleaned from his face and head. Second, he needed to find out what had become of Charles, Joe and William. Third, he wanted his roan back. Fourth, the money.
And finally, there were a fair number of men who needed a bullet put in them.
Across the street was a hotel. In the window was a sign advertising vacancy. The far end of the street where he stood was empty. He crossed it and entered the hotel.
The small reception area was empty. On the counter was a bell in the shape of a windmill. He picked it up and shook it. From the back emerged a spectacled man in black suspenders. When he saw Balum he lowered the spectacles and peered over the tops of them, then pushed them back on his nose and squinted through them at Balum.
‘Mister, I mean no offense, but you look a sight,’ said the proprietor.
‘I can imagine.’ Balum’s voice was raspy. He had not used it in a while, and his throat stung as dry as it was. ‘Can you spare a glass of water?’
The man disappeared from where he had come and returned with a mug. He set it on the counter in front of Balum and watched him silently as he drank.
‘Thankyou,’ said Balum. He set the mug down. ‘How much is a room?’
‘Two dollars a night.’
‘I’ll need a couple nights. Anywhere to get a bath around here?’
‘Ah,’ the man in suspenders hesitated. ‘Mister, I don’t mean to make it my business, but this man wouldn’t be you, would it?’ He drew a piece of paper from behind the counter and placed it on top.
Balum looked down on it. A crude drawing of a man’s face took up the center. Above it were written the words WANTED: CATTLE THIEF . Below was written NAME/ALIAS: BALUM .
‘Where’d this come from?’
‘Ned Witney’s men dropped it off yesterday. Made it pretty clear we ain’t supposed to help this man if we see him.’
‘I’m no cattle thief. I am the man they’re looking for though.’
‘Like I say, it ain’t my business. I ain’t happy to help Witney out, believe me. But he finds out you’re staying here, I’m a dead man. I’m sorry.’
Balum folded the paper and put it in his pocket. ‘I had four partners. One’s dead. Any news of the other three?’
‘They come in yesterday morning. Two whites and a half breed. Them the ones you’re talking about? Ok. Well, like I say, they got brought in yesterday morning. They’re sitting in the jail. Witney usually has folks he don’t like hung real quick, but the US Marshal came through and stuck his nose in it. Says they need a trial. Lucky for them. ’
‘Is Ned Witney the sheriff around here?’
‘Sheriff’s name is Boiler. Teddy Boiler. He ain’t no real sheriff. He just does what Witney tells him.’
‘Where’s the jail?’
‘Up on the corner,’ the man signalled with his finger. ‘Across the street from the Central Bank. You can’t miss it.’
Balum stepped out onto the boardwalk. A ways down was a cross street. A large two-story building loomed over one corner. The Central Bank of Cheyenne. Balum started towards it.
A couple buggies rolled down the street. Horses were tied to hitching rails and folks were out and about. Balum stuck close to the fronts of buildings, under the darkness of awnings. He squeezed his hat over his swollen head and tipped the front of it down to hide his face. He passed up a hardware store, a carpentry shop, and several buildings whose functions he could not discern.
Ahead of him two men stepped out of a store and onto the boardwalk. Their long trench coats were pulled back, revealing weapons on their hips. Witney’s men.
Balum turned abruptly and grabbed a door handle of the building at his side. It was unlocked, and swung open easily on its hinges. The establishment he entered was small and dark, but clean. His eyes adjusted to the light. A counter stood along one side of the room. Behind it were a few bottles of liquor and stacked glasses. Not much of a selection, and empty of customers.
The room contained a few tables and chairs, along with two aged but elegant looking couches. A curtain hung at the back of the room and a staircase leading to a balcony hugged the wall. Balum’s eyes scanned the second story. Three doors were all that lined the walkway.
He took a second look around. This was not a typical saloon. As he took in his surroundings the curtain at the back parted and two blonde girls stepped through. They were thin and pretty, and wore dresses exposing their arms, shoulders, and the tops of their breasts. They smiled at Balum and sat next to each other on one of the couches.
Balum took his hat off and released the pressure clinching his skull. He sat at a table and placed the hat on top. The whores continued to stare at him from the sofa.
A door opened and closed from the balcony, breaking the silence. Out of it came a woman, a black dress wrapped around unconcealable curves. She was older than the girls, full-bodied, and moved with authority. She descended the staircase, her eyes locked on Balum.
When she reached the bottom she glanced at the two whores on the sofa and walked to Balum’s table. She paused for a moment, taking him in with her eyes.
‘You’re not here for a drink,’ she said.
‘No ma’am.’
‘Or a girl.’
‘No.’
‘You
look like a couple wolves got ahold of you.’
‘Feels that way.’
She stood facing him on the opposite side of the table, her hands on the back of a chair. Outside on the boardwalk a group of men passed by. Their voices were broken up by the sounds of their bootheels striking the walkway.
‘You’re here because you don’t want to be out there.’
Balum looked her in the eye. She spoke with no nonsense, her eyes unwavering. Balum did not answer. Her eyes moved to his gun, and back to his face again.
‘You need a bath,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’
24
She had him set his clothes outside the washroom door. The tub was already filled. The water was cold and had clearly been used before. He submerged his body up to his neck and closed his eyes. He lay in the tub, facing the door with his gun on a stool beside him for a long while.
The woman had given him a bar of soap and a razor. He bathed his skull, wiping away the dried blood and bits of debris that had collected there. The grime from his body turned the water murkish. He stared at it, his mind blank. After a while he stood and climbed out of the washbasin. He shaved at a small square mirror pegged to the wall. When he finished he sat naked on the stool with his elbows resting across his knees.
His clothing dried quickly in the afternoon breeze. He heard a tap at the door. When he opened it he found his clothing folded on the floor.
Dressed, shaven, and somewhat refreshed, he exited the washroom and walked through the curtain into the bar room. The woman stood behind the counter, her head bent over a ledger.
When she saw Balum she motioned for him to follow her up the stairs. At the top she opened the door at the far end of the balcony, revealing a sparsely furnished bedroom.
Rustlers Page 9
