“I said I’ve never had any trouble with the Klees, and wasn’t lying, but I know their reputation, too. I reckon I’d a lot sooner believe one of them could’ve done something like that than I could a McCallister. It’s hard luck for ol’ Davey, though. He was one of the good ones.”
That is an opinion I’ve probably heard a thousand times over the years, even from men who’d never met David Klee, and it’s always irritated me. I’ll agree Dave seemed like a good sort, but you’ve got to remember that he was unemployed because of the war, dodging conscription by hiding out in the swamps with his uncle and cousins, and putting a sneak on our herd, so I’ve got to assume, since he wasn’t an idiot and apparently had a loaded gun in his hand when that ’gator snagged him, that he was up to no good that night. Just like every other Klee I’ve ever had any dealings with. The fact is, when you ride with a bunch like old Judah’s boys, you take your chances. Sometimes you’ll reap the rewards, but as often as not, you’ll pay a steep price for your lawlessness. I reckon that’s what happened to Dave Klee that night below the Caloosahatchee, and that’s why, to me, he wasn’t one of the good ones.
“Where are they now?” I asked after a bit.
“Klees? They pulled out this afternoon.”
“Which way were they headed?”
“I didn’t see ’em leave, but there’s only one way out of Punta Rassa unless you want to swim the bay or buck the swamps.”
I nodded grimly. Jacob Klee had taken his men east, probably following the road at least as far as the lower crossing of the Caloosahatchee near Fort Myers. Where they’d gone from there would be anyone’s guess.
Tossing a nickel on the bar, I said: “Thanks for the drink, Eric. And pass the word about what really happened to Dave Klee, will you?”
“Sure, although I don’t know how much good it’ll do. It makes a better story if people think you dangled him over a ’gator hole like bait on a hook.”
Eric’s words burned hot in my ears, but he was right. It’s been more than seventy years now since that incident, and I still hear folks talking about how poor ol’ David Klee got fed to an alligator.
Slipping outside and still watchful for Yankees or Klees—one being about as bad as the other, in my opinion—I gathered the reins to my marshtackie and stepped into the saddle. My skin started crawling again as soon as my butt hit leather, like someone was watching me from the shadows. I could see Ashworth’s office from the upper end of the street and was relieved to find the windows still lit from within, the door cracked open a few inches, as if hoping for a breeze. I rode slowly back to the corrals, only this time, instead of tying up out front, I led my pony deeper into the maze of pens, finally hitching him to a rail well back where he wouldn’t be easily spotted. Leaving my Sharps on the saddle and hanging my spurs over the wide horn, I made my way quietly through the pens to Ashworth’s front porch.
Without my spurs and by watching where I placed my feet, I managed to reach the front window without attracting any attention. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but if it was a fat man with his shirt pulled up to scratch his belly, then I’d hit pay dirt. I stood there for nearly a minute waiting for something to happen, but Ashworth seemed content to stay where he was, his fingers moving lazily over the bare mound of his stomach, ankles crossed atop his desk. I remember his eyes were closed in a look of total satisfaction. Then my gaze drifted to the floor beside his desk, and I did a double-take. A small wooden chest sat there, its sides reinforced with strap iron, its hasp decoratively engraved; a heavy key protruded from the lock like a knife thrust into the back of a murder victim.
A smile twitched at the corners of my mouth as I eased over to the door and gently pushed it inward. Those hinges must have been recently oiled, because they didn’t make a peep until nearly the halfway mark. Although a tiny sound, it caught Ashworth’s attention immediately. His eyes flew open, and his feet crashed to the floor. He yanked at the top drawer of his desk, but only rammed it solidly into his gut. When he did manage to fumble a stubby handgun from the drawer, he found that he’d grabbed it by the barrel instead of the grips and ended up sitting there with the gun clenched uselessly in his right hand, his mouth flopped open with nothing coming out. I stepped into the room, my Navy leveled firmly on the cattle buyer’s chest.
“Let it drop,” I said.
“You!” Ashworth exclaimed, then returned the weapon to its drawer. “What the devil do you want?”
“I want to know who you sent out on a midnight ride earlier tonight, and I want to know where he went.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the man you sent out the back door when you heard me coming in the front.”
Licking nervously at his lips, Ashworth said: “What were you doing, McCallister, spying on me?” Then he glanced at the iron-strapped box and chuckled. “Or is this what you came for?” He kicked the chest with the toe of his shoe, scooting it several inches to the side. “Go ahead, help yourself.”
“It’s empty,” I said, puzzled. When I’d spotted it from the window, I’d been certain it held the gold doubloons for the cattle.
“You don’t think I’d be foolish enough to keep that kind of money laying around my office, do you?”
I shook my head as if to clear it. “I don’t care why you’ve got that chest sitting there, I just want to make sure you have the money on hand when my boys bring the herd in.”
“I told you I would.”
“You told me you’d have it after nine o’clock tomorrow. I’ve decided we’re going to complete our transaction a little earlier.”
“What do you mean, earlier?” Ashworth’s brows were cocked with suspicion.
“I sent a man for the herd as soon as I found out you’d sent someone running off to . . . well, wherever it was you sent him. Was it to the Yankees at Fort Myers, or to fetch Jacob Klee and his boys? Are you the one behind that old man’s attack in the palmettos?”
“You’re crazy, McCallister. I wouldn’t trust Jake Klee to unbutton his trousers before taking a piss, and I wouldn’t deal with a Yankee for all the gold in Cuba.”
“It doesn’t matter. The herd should be on its way real soon. It’ll be here before dawn, and you’re going to have that gold ready as soon as we’ve got those cows penned.”
Ashworth shook his head. “No.”
“Yeah.” I made a motion with the Colt’s muzzle. “Let’s go get it now.”
“Now? Absolutely not! You’ll have it by nine o’clock, but not a moment sooner.”
Real soft, I said: “These are desperate times, Mister Ashworth. Ordinarily I wouldn’t be so stubborn about it, but I’m in a hurry tonight, and don’t intend to linger past dawn. Get your hind end out of that chair, and let’s go fetch the gold.”
“That’s thievery, McCallister.”
“No, sir, it’s a precaution.” I made that motion with the Colt again, and this time Ashworth edged warily out from behind his desk. “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “We’ll still do a final count. If the numbers don’t match, I’ll make it right.”
“You’re taking what doesn’t belong to you at gunpoint, young man. You can’t justify that by . . . by the insane belief that the money is somehow already yours. Until those cattle are penned inside my corrals and I say the count is acceptable, you have no right to—”
“Hush,” I interrupted gently. “After the war, we can discuss other methods of payment, but tonight it’s going to be my way. Now start walking, and I swear if you try to run or holler, I’ll take one of your kneecaps off with a bullet.”
I’m not going to repeat Ashworth’s reply, other than to acknowledge that it was lengthy, spirited, and included a brief detour into my lineage. The important thing was that he started walking, taking me through the rear door into another crudely constructed room. I followed with my revolver in one hand, the cattle buyer’s lamp, lifted from its bracket on the wall, in the other.
That back r
oom actually had more furnishings than the office. There were stacks of cowhides along one side, a bundle of otter and raccoon pelts in a corner, two unmade cots—one with an honest-to-God Western buffalo robe for a mattress—a cedar wardrobe, a table littered with food scraps crawling with flies, and—pushed up against the wall behind Ashworth’s office—a squatty floor safe on metal rollers.
There was a second door in this room, as well. Studying its location in the wall, I judged it would open near the long chute used to run cattle onto the wharf, where they could be loaded aboard waiting vessels. My eyes lingered on that door for a long moment, then I turned to Ashworth and told him to get moving. He wasted a few seconds glaring daggers in my direction, then got down on his knees in front of the safe. I set the lamp on the floor beside him so that he could see what he was doing, then stepped back where I could keep an eye on him and both doors. Hunching his shoulders to hide the combination, he started twirling the dial. The tumblers fell back with a trio of muffled clicks, then he pressed down on the main lever to release the catch. Stepping forward before he could open the door, I tapped his shoulder with the Navy’s muzzle.
“Just so you understand, Mister Ashworth, if you bring anything out of that safe that ain’t pure gold, I won’t waste time shooting you in the knee.”
Ashworth froze with his hand halfway inside the safe, honest fear showing in his eyes for the first time. After a moment’s hesitation, he said: “I’ve got a pistol in there, McCallister. It’s on top of the money.”
“That seems like a good place to stash a pistol,” I agreed. “That’s why I spoke up when I did. I don’t want to see any kind of misunderstanding foul our agreement.”
“What do you want me to do about the gun?”
“I want you to bring it out real slow and set it on top of the safe. Real slow, Ashworth.”
He did as instructed, and a lot slower than he needed to, too, although I appreciated the gesture. The weapon was one of those old, single-shot horse pistols, a muzzleloader with a .72-caliber bore. I used my thumbnail to pry off the cap, and with the gun essentially disarmed, tossed it onto one of the bunks. “All right, bring it out.”
Sweat was rolling freely down Ashworth’s face as he began hauling heavy canvas sacks into the light, each one sagging with coins. I’d find out later that each bag contained exactly 110 gold doubloons, worth approximately $20 apiece. The total came to four solid bags, a slight overpayment, but nothing we couldn’t work out after we’d tallied the herd. I also noticed, as the portly cattle buyer slammed the door shut and spun the dial, that he still had several sacks left. I didn’t doubt that he had more cached elsewhere around town.
Hitching partway around on his knees, Ashworth said: “Satisfied?”
“I am if that’s the whole amount.”
“It’s all there, plus a few dollars more.”
“There’ll be a few cows more, too. You’ll still end up owing me before it’s over.”
All business now that his safe was securely locked, he said: “If the stock is in decent shape and the count warrants it, I’ll make up the difference from my pocket.”
“Gold or silver, Ashworth. I don’t want script.”
Struggling to his feet with a face as pink as a fresh-dug turnip, Ashworth snarled: “What kind of bandit are you, McCallister? All that gold sitting there, and you still won’t take paper for a few measly bucks?”
“It ain’t me that’s made everyone around here distrust you,” I replied mildly. “Come on, let’s go fetch that trunk.”
“No, you can go to hell. That trunk is worth five dollars. I was going to give it to you, but now, by God, you can pay for it. Gold or silver, kid. I won’t take script.”
Laughing, I said: “Fair enough. You can keep the trunk. I’ve got a good pack horse to haul that gold home.” Picking up the lamp, I added: “Grab those sacks, W.B., and let’s get out of here. I don’t like a room without windows.”
We returned to the front office, and Ashworth dumped the sacks on his desk with a solid clunk. Opening the top bag, I spilled its contents across the desk. It took only a moment to count out 120 coins. Satisfied that it was all there, I returned the gold to the sack and tied off the drawstring.
“Happy?” Ashworth sneered.
“As a pig in mud,” I replied cheerfully. Motioning toward the ladder-back chair in front of the desk, the one I’d sat in earlier, I said: “Make yourself comfortable, W.B. It’s going to be a while.”
Moving around behind the desk, I opened the belly drawer and removed a stubby, four-barreled pepperbox pistol. After prying off the caps, I tossed the handgun back in the drawer and slid it closed. Then I seated myself in the cattle buyer’s padded swivel chair and propped my heels on the corner of his desk, although I kept my Colt out where Ashworth could see it.
Punch must have really lit a fire under Casey’s tail feathers, because it didn’t seem like much time had passed at all before I heard the first plaintive bawl of a longhorn from the top of the street. Ashworth had moved his chair away from the desk and tipped it back against the wall. He was lightly dozing, but jerked instantly awake at the distant lowing.
“What was that?” he demanded.
“That’s what you’re buying tonight.” I stood and motioned for him to follow me outside. “Let’s go count your cows.”
We walked down the long ramp to the main entrance to the pens, where the sign hanging from the crossbeam was creaking in a strengthening breeze off the Gulf. Dawn wouldn’t be far off now, I knew.
Spying Casey and Negro Jim out in front of the herd, I felt a quick sense of relief. In those wild times, you just never knew.
Casey’s whip cracked sharp as a pistol shot across the town as he and Jim bent the herd’s leaders toward the corrals. Ashworth and I stood silently outside the gate. With the cattle lined out, Casey loped his marshtackie over to where we waited. “Howdy, boss,” he said. “Everything all right?”
“So far,” I replied, although I wasn’t relaxing just yet.
“Where do you want these critters stacked?”
“Over here,” Ashworth said, drawing the latch on the gate and walking it back to fasten to the corral rail. “Put them in here,” he told Casey, then looked at me. “We’ll rough count them as they go through.”
Casey wheeled his marshtackie to return to the herd, while Ashworth lit a pair of lanterns hanging from iron spikes driven into the uprights on either side of the gate. While they were doing that, I went into the maze of corrals to fetch my horse, riding back through the gate just as the lead cows were coming up. Ashworth, I noticed, had already climbed onto the top rail of the outer corral with a ledger book and a couple of pencils. I took a position opposite him, folding both hands atop the broad horn of my Texas saddle and leaning forward for a better view. The cow hunters’ whips were really popping now, forcing the rear of the herd forward even as the leaders balked at this new obstacle. Then, the first of the longhorns darted through the gate, and I began to relax. Barring a lightning bolt or cannon fire, the rest would follow without resistance.
The cattle’s incessant bawling must have awakened the town, because it wasn’t long before a small crowd had gathered on the low rise above the pens. I guess it had been a while since they’d seen a herd as large as ours, and they were curious about who we were and what we were up to.
I counted 257 head. W.B. claimed 255. Since neither of us wanted to do a recount, we agreed on 256. Ashworth grumbled some, but forked over an additional $210, and, as odd as it may sound, I believe I was more taken aback by what we got for those last six cows than I was the nearly $9,000 sitting in his office. Sacks of Spanish gold had grown kind of common around that part of Florida, especially when we were used to bringing in herds numbering closer to a thousand head. But getting over $200 for six scrawny beeves—and believe me, most of those scrub cows would be considered sacks of bones compared to the bulky Herefords and Angus you see on the ranges today—brought home the reality of just how muc
h $35 was for a single animal.
While me and Casey went to fetch the gold from Ashworth’s office, Jim and Ardell rode in among the cattle to cut out the two pack horses. We met back at the gate, and after stashing the money inside one of the panniers, I ordered Jim to take the pack animals up to Müller’s store and pick up the supplies the old German had promised to have waiting for us.
“You’s gonna be comin’ along real soon, ain’t you, marse?” Jim asked.
“In a bit. Tell Müller I won’t leave without settling up our account.”
Jim looked relieved, and I was once again struck by how thin a line he had to walk sometimes. Out on the Flatiron range, Negro Jim was as equal as any man Pa had ever hired, and more so than most, due to his being a part of the McCallister crew for so long. It took coming into civilization every now and then to strike home how people really felt about colored folks. It had been the same way in Texas when I rode for some of those big outfits west of the Brazos. If there was a Negro on a crew, he’d be treated about as equal as any man there—until we got into a town where there were white women, layabouts, and troublemakers. Then it was “yes-suh” this and “no-suh” that, until I wanted to take an axe handle upside the skulls of some of those white-skinned sons of bitches who caused most of the trouble.
After Jim had ridden off with the pack horses, I turned to Ashworth and, after a moment’s hesitation, stuck my hand out. He looked momentarily puzzled by the gesture, then grudgingly accepted the shake.
“No hard feelings, W.B.?”
The cattle buyer’s mouth worked a few times, like he was wanting to get something off his chest. Then he spun on his heels and stalked back into his office without having uttered a word.
“I believe that ol’ boy might be harboring a few ill feelings, after all, Boone,” Casey observed.
“Well, I can’t say that I blame him. I treated him pretty harsh.”
“Punch told us about that rider he saw lighting a shuck outta town, and how Müller said them Yankees have got sympathizers right here in Punta Rassa, although I’m damned if I can figure their feelings.”
Miami Gundown Page 7
