Tipping my head toward Punch, I said: “This is Arthur Davis. He’s Big Ed’s boy and Casey’s cousin.”
“Sure, sure, I know Big Ed. And young Arthur, him I have seen, too, when his father used to ship cattle from here.”
“We call him Punch on account of his arm got punched by a round of buckshot a few days ago. I was hoping you’d take a look at it. We don’t have any medicine, and I think it might be getting infected.”
Müller’s shaggy brows bobbed in concern. “An infection would not be a good thing for him to have, Boone.” Motioning Punch forward, he pulled a fragile-looking parlor chair out from the table with instructions for the younger man to sit down. “So, a look I can have at this buckshot you got,” he said.
The lamp was a double burner. Using a splinter of pine pitch, the storekeeper ignited the second wick. The room brightened immediately, illuminating the doubt in Punch’s eyes, the apprehension in Müller’s.
“Go on,” I said, giving the young drover a gentle shove. “Mister Müller knows what he’s doing.”
“Let us hope I do,” the older man amended solemnly. “Come, young fellow, don’t be so afraid. I am not some savage to take a hatchet to your scalp.” He looked at me and shook his head. “Stands up to a man firing buckshot and never flinches, I will bet, but to face an old shopkeeper like myself, armed with only a needle and thread and a pinch of sulphur to cleanse the wound, and like a little boy he becomes. And you, Boone, don’t you be smiling so big. You would be no braver, I think.”
“Probably not,” I admitted, but kept my grin in place—more at Punch’s wall-eyed expression of distress than the older man’s admonitions.
“Your father, Boone, and Big Ed?” Müller asked the question absently, bending forward to ease the ripped fabric of Punch’s sleeve away from the wound.
“They’re on another drive,” I said.
“They’re bound for the railhead in Georgia, if the Yankees ain’t blowed it apart yet,” Punch nervously blurted.
I found myself wishing he’d kept his mouth shut, and that I had, too. The fewer people who knew about Pa’s activities, the better, I thought, and that included trusted friends like Werner Müller.
“And these cattle that you bring to Rassa?”
Speaking quickly, before Punch could let anything else out of the bag, I said: “Just a small herd. We’re looking for a buyer.”
The older man offered me an understanding glance, then turned his full attention to Punch’s arm. Pulling away, the dirty bandage, he clucked his tongue at the angry, red flesh underneath. “I think maybe this shirt should come off, young man.”
Punch gave me a chary look, but then shrugged and slipped out of his old linsey-woolsey, peeling it over his head like a smelly rind, although attentive to his injured arm. While he did that, I dug a couple of coins from my pocket and dropped them on the table for Müller. The clatter of gold caught the attention of both men.
“As soon as Mister Müller is finished with your arm, come on down to the cow pens,” I told Punch. “You’ll see my horse. Wait for me there.”
“You are leaving?” Müller asked in surprise.
“Yes, sir. I’ve got some business to take care of before it gets too late.”
Müller nodded and moved away from the table. “Come, then, I will show you the way.”
I followed him into the first room: a small kitchen and dining area, I saw. The light from the twin wicks illuminated a stack of dirty dishes in a dry sink and a netting of cobwebs from the exposed rafters. Recalling that Müller’s wife had died nearly five years earlier, I felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the older man.
At the door, Müller said: “Them Yankees, you watch for them, Boone, you hear?”
“Yes, sir, I will.” After a brief hesitation, I added: “I was wondering how you were fixed for merchandise?”
“It is a store that I run here, is it not?”
“I know, but everybody says there ain’t anything useful coming into the state since the blockade.”
Müller sighed and nodded. “Ja, there is truth in those words, young one. Go and look at my shelves, and you will see more empty than full. But a few things I have. What do you need?”
I pulled out a list that I’d put together back home. “We’re needing flour and kerosene, coffee, sugar, some quinine, if you’ve got it. We could use some sulphur powder, too, but mostly what we need is gun powder and lead and as many caps as you can spare, musket size and smaller, for our pistols.”
I stopped as the shopkeeper began shaking his head.
“Some of that stuff, maybe a little I’ve got, but no gun powder or caps of any kind, and not so much lead, either. Medicine, none of that I’ve got. What little there is goes to the army. The flour, too, goes to the army, but some cane sugar I have, and kerosene.” He chuckled. “Plenty of kerosene. I guess the army does not use lamps so much.”
“Probably not,” I agreed. “What about coffee?”
“Ja, a little of that I have, too. The blockade runners get it through from time to time. Not to here, not since the Yankees came back, but in the Ten Thousand Islands they unload onto small boats, then bring their goods in overland, through the swamps.”
I whistled softly. “That’s a rough job.”
“Very much so,” he agreed. “But plenty they charge me for it, too.”
“I’ll take as much coffee as you’ve got, and five gallons of kerosene, if you can spare it.”
“Sure, in two-gallon cans the kerosene ships. Six you will have to take, or four. For coffee, maybe five pounds I can let you have. What else do you need?”
“I reckon that’s all I need if that’s all you’ve got.” I paused, then said: “How bad is Punch’s arm?”
“Young Arthur’s arm is going to be pretty bad, but maybe not so bad, you know?”
I shook my head. I said a minute ago that I could usually understand the things Müller said, but that wasn’t always so. Usually it would be the way he strung his words together, more than his clabber-thick accent, that stumped me.
The elderly Dutchman, though, had long ago resigned himself to regularly having to restate a remark or opinion. Struggling to find the right words, he said: “Young Arthur, who you call Punch, I think all right he will be if the infection does not get any worse. I will give him some salve to put on it. It is for horses, this salve, but it is all I have. The rest, for humans, always it goes to where our boys are fighting. But the salve is good medicine, and it does not stink too bad. See that he keeps the wound clean, and the salve, at least once a day he should put it on. Don’t forget always to wash the wound first.”
“Tell him,” I said, vaguely irritated that Müller seemed to be trying to dump the responsibility on me. I wasn’t Punch’s mama, after all.
“Ja, I will, but sometimes it is best also to tell a friend, no?” He hesitated. “You are his friend, ja?”
I sighed resolutely. “Yeah . . . ja. Don’t worry, I’ll remind him.”
“Good.” He was smiling now, grateful, I suppose, that I’d accepted at least part of the albatross’s carcass to bear. [Ed. Note: Here McCallister is referring to Samuel Coleridge’s poem, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” (1798), where a dead albatross becomes a metaphor for the carrying of a mental or emotional burden.]
“Now go,” Müller told me, “but be careful. Troops I have not seen in town for almost a week, but there are sympathizers, even here in Punta Rassa, who feed them information . . . about our own soldiers, and the cow hunters, too. The Federals, they are always hungry for beef. Beef and information.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” I promised, picking up the Sharps where I’d left it leaning against the wall beside the door. I didn’t tell Mister Müller good bye, and he didn’t offer me an adiós, either. I waited in the shadows close to the outer wall until I heard the door’s lock slide closed behind me, then strode purposely across the bare ground to where we’d left our horses, as if I had every right to be there. I led my m
arshtackie to the street, pausing at the alley’s entrance only long enough to be sure there was no one loitering nearby, then swung a leg over the cantle and rode toward the Gulf.
My little marshtackie’s hoofs didn’t make much noise as we crossed the sandy loam toward the cattle pens. Night birds calling from the scrub, along with croaking of frogs and the cries of katydids, raised a bigger racket. As we drew near the shore, the gentle lapping of the Gulf’s waves became more noticeable, a lulling melody I’ve always found comforting. The surf at Punta Rassa generally seemed tamer than other locations along the coast, its power tempered somewhat by the curving embrace of Sanibel Island, across the bay.
By 1864, cow pens covered most of the land south of town, with a wharf on the west side jutting into the bay. It was there that the cattle were loaded onto ships bound for various ports around the Caribbean. Cuba, mostly, but a lot of Florida beef went to other islands, too—Jamaica, Hispaniola, the Bahamas. Some even went as far south as the Yucatán Peninsula in Mexico.
My destination that evening was a small, shack-like building near the wharf, constructed of sun-scoured cypress and sand-pine shingles. Despite the late hour—it was probably closing in on 10:00 p.m. by then—there was light glowing from the windows. I pulled up about fifty yards away, my gaze drifting cautiously over the surrounding pens. It lingered briefly on a sign hanging from a crossbar above the main entrance. The last time I’d been there, that sign had read: Punta Rassa Wharf. A lantern hanging from a post outside the small office revealed a new name that night—Ashworth Shipping Company, and in smaller print beneath that: Lumber, Cattle, Hogs, Honey, Salt.
My jaw tightened involuntarily as I studied the freshly painted sign, its owner’s ambition set out there for everyone to see. Pa had dealt with W.B. Ashworth before, so I suppose my opinion of the man might have been more than a little colored by his assessment of Ashworth’s character, as well as his cautionary warning on the holding grounds, just before pulling out for Georgia.
Get the gold, Boone. Don’t let that slick-talkin’ son-of-a-bitch con you into taking script. Bring the herd back if he tries.
Lightly tapping my mount’s ribs with the sides of my stirrups, I rode on down to a smaller corral fronting the office. I kept my rifle with me as I climbed the long, wooden ramp to the porch, my eyes darting swiftly, as if I expected to find a Yankee hiding inside every shadow. Although I tried to tread lightly, I guess the jingle of my spurs gave me away. I was still twenty feet shy of the front door when the light inside abruptly blinked out.
I jerked to a halt and half raised the Sharps, my heart thumping. Those damned Yankees had us all spooked.
“Who’s out there?” a voice demanded from inside.
“It’s Boone McCallister. I’m looking for W.B. Ashworth.”
“McCallister? You kin to Jeff McCallister?”
“I’m his son. He sent me down here to talk to you about a note you sent him . . . assuming you’re Ashworth.”
There was a long pause, followed by what I swore was the sound of a door being quietly opened and closed. Although little pinpricks of distrust were running up and down both arms, I held my ground. Finally the voice inside said: “Come on in, but have a care, friend. I have a gun that I’d gladly use if my hand is forced.”
The cattle buyer’s threat struck me the wrong way, and I strode swiftly across the porch and slammed the door open. Ashworth was relighting a squatty hurricane lamp on the wall behind his desk when I entered. He jerked around at my sudden appearance, the bang of the door’s inner knob cracking as sharp as a drover’s whip against the inside wall. Seeing the rifle in my left hand, he took an involuntary step backward. His match sputtered and went out—those early matches never did work well in Florida’s humid climate—and he dropped the still-glowing stick into a spittoon beside his desk.
W.B. Ashworth was a short, portly man in his mid-fifties, with a pasty complexion, thinning brown hair, and lips that always looked a little too wet and red. As if trying to regain some of the dignity he’d lost at my entrance, he pulled his chair around and reseated himself with a series of tiny huffs, as if my presence was more bother than opportunity. I didn’t see the gun he’d threatened me with, although I didn’t doubt that he had one stashed somewhere. Not many men went unarmed in those days, even if they didn’t carry their firearms openly.
“I was expecting your father,” Ashworth stated in a blustery tone.
“Pa sent me, instead.” I glanced around the room. It was clean but sparsely furnished, just the desk and a couple of chairs, a coatrack on a cracked stand, and a single wooden filing cabinet in the corner. The floor was cypress—and I suppose by now you’re starting to realize just how important that tree was to Florida’s early pioneers—deeply gouged from the spurs of previous cow hunters, the walls plain and unpainted, without even a calendar to mark the seasons. My gaze lingered on a door in the rear wall, and the memory of that whisper of latch and hinges I thought I’d heard immediately after the light went out in Ashworth’s office hit me.
“Did you bring the agreed-upon merchandise?” Ashworth asked.
“I’ve got a shade over two hundred and fifty head of longhorns stashed out in the pines east of here, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Is that all?” He scowled magnificently. “I was hoping for closer to three hundred.”
“You should’ve said three hundred, if that’s what you wanted. I left the Flatiron with two hundred and sixty-four cows, but we lost a few along the way. I haven’t done a final tally yet, but I’d guess we still have two hundred and fifty or fifty-five head.”
“That’s a lot of cattle to lose over such a short drive. What happened? Raiders?”
“The swamps.”
Ashworth said—“Ahh”—and let it drop.
I’ve already mentioned we’d taken the long way into Punta Rassa because of the Yankees’ return to the area, but I don’t recall saying much about how dangerous that country just north of the Big Cypress could be. Although we’d stayed to high ground as much as possible, there hadn’t been any way to avoid occasionally having to plunge straight into some of those deep marshes and sloughs that fringed the northern border of the swamp. It was in the middle of a half-mile-long slough, not too far west of Pete Dill’s trading post on the upper Caloosahatchee, that we’d lost most of our cattle. At least a dozen big ’gators had appeared seemingly out of nowhere to converge on the rear of the herd as we drove through green-algae-blanketed water up to our horses’ bellies. Even though Casey and I had ridden back as fast as our little marshtackies could carry us, opening fire on the big reptiles with our revolvers as soon as we got within range, we’d still lost five head. I think we probably lost a few years off the tail end of our lives, too.
A couple of days later, we lost another animal when it was bitten on the nose by a cottonmouth and had to be put down. Then later on, some Seminoles lifted several head out of the middle of our herd, slick as new boots on wet moss. We wouldn’t have even known there were any Red Sticks around if I hadn’t sent Ardell and Calvin back to look for the missing animals. [Ed. Note: Red Stick is an antiquated reference to the Creek Indian influence on the Seminoles of Southern Florida in the early nineteenth century. Following the Indian defeat at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend in 1814, many Creek refugees from Alabama sought sanctuary among the Seminoles. Their influx aggrandized the Seminole nation, which in turn aided that tribe’s resistance to white encroachment. The term Red Stick refers to the red-dyed war clubs and ceremonial branches used by Creek medicine men and warriors.]
After finding the Indians’ trail, Ardell and Calvin had hightailed it back to where we’d stopped for the night to warn us of the Seminoles’ presence. Some of the boys had wanted to go after the stolen cattle, but I put a stop to their plans before they got too fired up. After the Indian Wars, us McCallisters tried real hard to get along with the Seminoles. Pa said he’d rather feed them a few times a year than have to fight them again.
&nbs
p; Let ’em have a cow every once in a while, he used to say whenever we found evidence that a party of Indians had crossed our range or driven off a few steers. We’ve got enough.
We did, too. At least up until the Civil War broke out. At one point Pa estimated the Flatiron brand was burned into the hides of at least fifteen thousand head of cattle, scattered along the upper Caloosahatchee and Pease Rivers, then on over the High Lands toward the Kissimmee. Of course, all that changed after the Northern invasion. If the South won, we figured to come out all right—Pa had several satchels filled with Southern script and promissory notes, received on herds already delivered to the Confederacy—but I think by ’64, even the most die-hard Rebel had to know the war was turning against us. That was why Pa sent me to Punta Rassa with my own small gather and warned me to accept only gold in return.
Ashworth sat there quietly for a moment. I suspect he was waiting for me to go on about what had happened to the cattle we’d lost along the trail, but I didn’t see any need to fill him in on the matter. To be honest, I wasn’t feeling overly charitable toward the man that night.
Sensing that I’d said all I meant to on the subject, Ashworth motioned toward a straight-back chair in front of his desk. “Might as well make yourself comfortable,” he grumbled as he started rummaging through a desk drawer beside his knee. He came out a few seconds later with a sheet of paper covered with penciled notes and scratched-out sums. A solitary number near the bottom was circled several times, as if for emphasis. Reading it upside-down, I saw the figure—“$18 per . . .”—and felt my muscles tighten.
“I don’t know if your daddy had a chance to inform you of the agreed-upon price, but it is significantly more than what you’ve gotten in the past,” Ashworth said.
“It was thirty-five dollars a head,” I replied, wanting to establish that figure as quickly as possible. “And you’re right, that’s a lot more than we’ve ever gotten before.”
Ashworth chuckled. “Well, thirty-five dollars a head was a starting point. I didn’t have a firm commitment from my buyer at the time, so I was forced to make an offer based on several assumptions.”
Miami Gundown Page 5
