Going through the small stock of the store, she chose a brilliant red silk blouse that satisfied her need for color, and a green cotton shirt that was more practical. She found, also, a man’s vest in a very small size, apparently made for a man who admired foppish attire, for it was black with silver threads along the seams and an embroidered silver dragon over the left breast. The high-heeled boots she picked out were also made for men but were small enough for her, and she admired the black sheen of the highly polished texture. As for a hat, she ignored the shapeless cotton bonnets the clerk offered, choosing instead a low-crowned black hat with a medium brim to keep the sun off. It had a leather thong with a silver concho that slid smoothly up and down to fasten under her throat, and a snakeskin band around the crown.
She donned the entire outfit, preening again before the mirror, her cheeks glowing, for her eyes told her that never had she looked so attractive! Stepping out of the dressing room, she enjoyed the slight gasp that the clerk could not restrain and the startled look in his eyes. “I will take these,” she said, then proceeded to choose some undergarments. She could not resist one rather fancy nightgown, although she knew she could not wear it on the trail.
A little fearfully, she examined the stack of clothing, asking, “How much is all this?”
The clerk made a list, totaled it up, then said, “$38.20, miss.”
Rosa kept her face straight, but her heart sank. Money had been scarce at her home, and she was tempted to have the clerk take some of the items off. Just as she stood there struggling with the thing, Winslow entered. She turned to face him, but the look on his face made her pause.
Dan had given little thought to what Rosa would wear, and when he entered and saw her decked out in the new outfit, he was stunned. When he had left her barely an hour before, she had been wearing a drab, shapeless brown dress. Now as he took in the fringed riding skirt and crimson blouse that clung to her rounded young figure, the embroidered vest and the black hat crowning her raven hair, he was speechless. The new garments made her look older and considerably more provocative.
“You look fine, Rosa,” he nodded. “Real nice.”
She smiled at him, a full smile on her lips, the first he’d seen. But she said in a worried tone, “Señor Dan—these clothes, they are very expensive, almost forty dollars.”
“Your dad would want you to have them, I reckon.” Dan paid the bill, and the two of them left the store. Placing her purchases in the wagon, he said, “Let’s get something to eat. Last chance we’ll have to eat at a restaurant for a while.”
They moved along the wooden sidewalk, Winslow very much aware of the overt stares Rosa drew from the men they passed. They found a cafe with red-checkered tablecloths and ordered a meal. The waitress brought them steak and potatoes, with greens and fried squash. They both ate hungrily, and he spoke idly of the trip.
As they were eating, a man entered the door, leaning heavily on a cane. He had a boot on one foot, but the other was heavily wrapped in bandages. He was young, not more than twenty-five or six, but looked pale, and there was a hollowness in his cheeks that spoke of sickness or malnutrition. As he glanced around the cafe, the waitress came to tell him, “Got a table for you, mister.”
“Is the owner here?” the young man asked.
“Yeah, he’s in the kitchen. This way.”
As the young man passed by, walking awkwardly with his cane, Dan saw that he was a puncher; there was no mistaking the rope-burned hands and the dress of a cowboy—worn jeans, checked flannel shirt, and brown Stetson stained by rain and sun. What attracted Dan’s attention was the look on the man’s face. He had chestnut-colored hair and hazel eyes, but his wide mouth was pulled into a tight line, as if he were in pain, and there was a bitterness in his expression. When he passed through the door into the kitchen, Dan and Rosa could hear the conversation easily.
“My name’s Kincaid,” they heard him say. “I’m looking for work.”
“You ain’t no cook,” another voice said at once. “Anyway, I do all the cooking here.”
“I thought I could wash dishes—maybe clean up the place.”
“Sorry, cowboy. Me and my wife do all that. Can’t afford no help. Place is too small for that.”
A small silence ensued, then: “Well—thanks, anyway.”
The door opened and the man came out, his face flushed with shame. He tried to hurry out, but Dan got up quickly, jerked a chair from the table and smiled at him, saying, “How about a cup of coffee?”
Kincaid halted abruptly; he turned sharply to face Dan. The young man was humiliated, and Dan saw that he was about to refuse his offer. But the friendliness on Winslow’s face made him change his mind. “Well, that would be all right.” He sat down, put the cane on the floor, then said, “I’m Sid Kincaid.”
“Dan Winslow, and this is Miss Rosa Mann.” Kincaid nodded, uttering a brief greeting, and Dan asked, “You get piled up by a horse?”
“That’s it. I was on drive with Charlie Goodnight. Was roping a big steer and my horse stumbled. Stove in some ribs and broke my ankle.” Kincaid shrugged his shoulders, adding, “Mr. Goodnight paid me off, but I been here for four months.”
“Reckon you could wrestle one of these steaks down?”
A faint smile touched the rider’s lips. “Think I might,” he said. He sat there as Winslow motioned the waitress over and ordered another meal, then said, “I guess you heard me hit the owner up for a job.” He shook his head in disgust, adding, “Never thought I’d try for a job as a dishwasher—and get turned down!”
Dan said, “I washed dishes once, in San Antone. Lost every dime I had in a poker game—worked two weeks for a stake—then lost that to the same gambler! Man’s a frail creature and prone to error.”
When the waitress brought the food, Kincaid had to force himself to eat politely. He cleaned his plate, ate the apple pie down to the last crumb, and then leaned back. “First square meal I’ve had in a month,” he said. The food had brightened his eyes, and he took the makings from Dan and rolled a cigarette expertly.
Dan studied the young man with a fresh interest. He’d offered the meal on impulse, having been broke often enough himself to know what this man was feeling. Now he began to speak of the drive to Cheyenne, giving a brief history of his endeavor. “You’ve made the drive, I guess?”
“Sure, five times,” Sid Kincaid nodded. “It can be tough, but if a man knows the water holes and how to dicker with the Indians, it’s not too bad.”
Dan made a quick decision. “You won’t be riding for a few weeks, I reckon—not with that foot.”
“Got nothing to ride, Winslow,” Kincaid shrugged. “Sold my horse and saddle and everything else just to eat.”
“But you could drive a wagon—and maybe cook some?”
Hope sprang into Kincaid’s eyes. “If you’d take me along with you, Mister Winslow, I’d do just about anything!”
“Well, I can’t pay anything, Sid,” Dan was quick to say. “But I need someone to drive the chuck wagon.”
“I can help with the cooking,” Rosa said suddenly.
Kincaid was unable to speak. Dan stood up and smiled. “Well, I take it that’s a yes. Let’s get your stuff and we’re on our way.”
“Nothing much to get,” Kincaid said. “I been sleepin’ down at the stable. I had to give the owner my gun for that.”
Winslow paid the check, and the three of them left the cafe. The stable was only half a block away, and when Kincaid went inside to get his bedroll, Dan asked the owner, a thin man of fifty, “How much for the gun you took for his board?”
“Oh, ten dollars, I guess.”
Dan paid him the money, then handed the gun belt to Kincaid. “Might need this, Sid.” Then to avoid the man’s thanks, he quickly strode out of the stable and swung up on the wagon seat.
Kincaid hobbled out, tossed his bedroll into the bed of the wagon on top of the supplies, and climbed up to sit beside Rosa. He said nothing until they were out of tow
n; then he turned and looked back on the scrubby buildings. “Sure ain’t much of a place.” Kincaid took a deep breath, and Rosa noted that if he were shaved and well-dressed, he’d be a handsome fellow.
****
The first half of the drive went so well that Winslow remarked to Kincaid, “I can’t believe we’ve come this far with no problems, Sid. Sure hope troubles aren’t all stacked up in front of us in a clump.”
“Don’t say that, Dan!” Sid responded instantly. “It’s bad luck.”
Bad luck and trouble were a part of the long drive, which was the climactic event in the life of a cattleman, be he owner or puncher. It was a chance to prove a man’s mettle, moving herds of longhorns from the home range where they were worth four dollars, to a point where they might bring forty a head.
Those times did not last long, only about twenty years—from the end of the Civil War to the mid-1880s. But in that brief era, ten million cows walked the trails from Texas to railheads in Kansas and Missouri, some farther into Wyoming and Canada.
A small herd might number no more than three hundred head, but the biggest included 15,000 animals that moved out of Texas in a massive exodus. Sometimes several herds would get crowded together, jammed into a single milling, moving mass at a river crossing. Whatever the size of the herd, each drive seemed to generate its special measure of trouble. Steers would bog down in sinkholes at the river, and Indians constantly tried to beg or steal cows. Settlers drove the herds from their fields with guns. A clap of thunder might set off a stampede during which half a dozen calves could be trampled. There was rarely enough water for the cattle and never enough sleep for the weary cowhands.
Little of this had come to them since leaving Texas. After crossing the Canadian River, water had grown scarce, but Sid Kincaid had earned his keep by guiding them through the arid stretches to water holes and streams that they would have missed otherwise.
Now they were at the Colorado line, with Pueblo, which was touched by the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad, and not much farther Denver, which fed beef to the East via the Kansas Pacific Railroad. There they would cross the South Platte, and after an easy drive, cross over into Wyoming, with Cheyenne only a day or two from the border.
It had been early morning at breakfast when Winslow had made his remark about their lack of trouble and been rebuked by Sid. All day he had walked his horse at the slow pace of the steers. The idea on a long drive was to allow the cattle to pick up weight on the drive so they’d bring a higher price, but even though he planned to sell none, he wanted them to reach Cheyenne in good condition.
He thought of the routine of the drive, allowing the cattle some time to graze during the early morning, then covering another five miles or so in the course of the morning. Sid would move ahead with the chuck wagon to find a good noonday pasture where no other outfit had stopped or bedded down. Winslow or the hands would see a curl of smoke and move ahead to find dinner prepared. After an hour’s rest, the herd would be back on the trail. All afternoon they would move northward, accompanied only by the sounds of the drive: the muffled crack-crack of the cows’ ankle joints, the steady thudding of hooves, and the occasional clatter of long horns swung against each other.
Those afternoons passed almost hypnotically, the prairie unfolding before them in a slow, majestic panorama. For mile upon mile Winslow and the others could see nothing but an undulating expanse of seared brown grass through the rising clouds of dust.
Winslow called out, “Diego, there’s the chuck wagon. Sid says there’s not much water, just some scattered pools.”
He moved on ahead, sensing the gradual coming of twilight. As he got close to the chuck wagon, which was located beside some stunted alders lining an old creek bed, he heard Kincaid singing. The puncher had a fine voice and knew more songs than anyone Winslow knew. The one he was singing now was one of his favorites:
Little Joe, the wrangler, was called out with the rest;
Though the kid had scarcely reached the herd,
When the cattle they stampeded,
Like a hailstorm ’long the field,
Then we were all a-ridin’ for the lead.
The next morning just at daybreak, we found where
his
horse fell,
Down in a washout twenty feet below;
And beneath the horse, mashed to a pulp,
His spur had rung the knell,
Was our little Texas stray, poor Wrangler Joe.
Winslow slid off his horse, stamped the ground to relieve his tired legs, then grinned at Sid, who was busy stirring a big black pot of simmering beans. “Sid, don’t you know any happy songs about cowboys?”
“Ain’t any,” Sid grinned. “We’re all poor unfortunate souls.” He tasted the beans, then called out over his shoulder, “Rosa, bring some more of those hot peppers, will you?”
Rosa was kneeling over a Dutch oven, examining the biscuits critically. She got up, remarking, “How much longer are you going to keep using that foot as an excuse for making a slave out of me?” She crossed to the chuck box, pulled some peppers out of a sack, then returned to toss them into the pot. Feigning annoyance, she said, “I think your foot is all right. You’re just too lazy to go to work.”
Winslow poured himself a cup of coffee, squatted on his heels, and nodded. “I think you’re right, Rosa. All cowboys are lazy.”
“Why should I wrestle with a bunch of smelly old steers when I can sit down on a nice wagon seat with a pretty girl all day? I ain’t had all my brains kicked out!”
Rosa smiled at his compliment. She liked Sid, though at first she had been offish with him. When he offered no attentions toward her, she had spent the long days on the seat with him pleasantly enough. He rarely asked her to do anything, but was always quick to notice and thank her when she did gather wood or help with the cooking.
Kincaid had been an invaluable asset on the trail. He’d found the best grazing spots and water and had proved to be an adequate cook, even if somewhat limited in his choice of meals. Winslow acknowledged his contributions now, saying, “You’ve sure enough saved our bacon, Sid. Don’t see how we’d have managed without you on this drive.”
Sid kept stirring the beans, not answering for a few moments. Then he lifted his eyes to Winslow. “Not many bosses would have taken a cripple along” was his brief comment. “Why, this is just a vacation—lots of fresh air and sunshine! And if you’ll cut me out a horse, reckon I can do some herding. This foot’s still a little touchy, but not bad.”
“You just cook the beans, Sid,” Dan smiled. “I’ll go wash up.”
When he was gone, Sid said, “He’s a square sort of fellow, Rosa. You were pretty lucky—having him come to get you.” She had told him her history, and he added, “Lots of men wouldn’t do for this job—to take a handsome young lady all the way to Cheyenne with a bunch of tough hombres like us.” He tasted the beans critically, found them satisfactory, then added, “Did I ever tell you about the sermon he gave me about you?”
“No, Sid.”
“Told me to treat you like a lady or he’d break my other leg and leave me for the buzzards. Reckon he might just do it, too. He’s a hard nut, Rosa. But he’s sure took good care of both of us.”
“Yes, he has.” Then she pursed her lips in an oddly restless manner. Suddenly she asked, “What if he hadn’t told you to stay away from me? Would you have tried to kiss me?”
Sid looked startled, then laughed out loud. “You ever know a cowboy who would leave a pretty girl alone? I’d have made a pest out of myself, you bet.”
She cocked her head, studied him, then laughed. “No, you are not a bad man with girls.”
“Aw, I’ve got you fooled,” Sid grinned. “Give me a chance when this drive is over, and I’ll be in the line of poor cowboys comin’ to get their hearts busted.”
Rosa looked up as Winslow appeared. “He will never do that,” she said so softly that Sid barely caught the words.
Winslow ate,
then rode out so that Diego and the others could come in. He stayed out until midnight, and when they relieved him, he came in and got a plate from the wagon, piling it high with beans. He was eating slowly when Rosa’s voice suddenly came from behind and made him jump.
“There is some peach pie. I will get it.”
“Great guns!” Dan exclaimed. “Don’t sneak up on a man like that, Rosa! I thought you were asleep in the wagon.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” She got the pie, brought it to him, then sat down in front of the fire. She was wearing one of her old skirts and a white blouse; her hair was down, falling almost to her waist. Holding her knees with her arms, she watched him eat, saying nothing.
“You make this?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Fine cooking.” He finished the pie and stretched. “You remember your dad, Rosa?”
“Yes. He came to San Saba twice. I was very young the first time. But he came again when I was twelve.” Her voice was soft and her eyes thoughtful as she stared into the glowing coals. Despite her mature appearance, there was still an innocence about her that Dan admired. “He took me to a show and bought me a new dress and some shoes.”
“He’s a fine man. I’ve known him a long time.” He sipped his coffee as he sat there telling her about his youthful days with Logan in the army. He was tired and sleepy, but this was the first time he’d spoken to her so freely. Finally he rose to his feet, put the dishes back, then turned to say, “I know you’ve had a hard time, Rosa, but your dad wants to make things better for you. I think that’s why he wants a ranch—to have a place for you.”
She had risen when he did, and now she stood looking up at him. She was barefooted and he was wearing boots, so he towered over her. For days she had been worrying about what would happen when they got to Cheyenne, and now she put her fears into words.
House of Winslow 14 The Valiant Gunman Page 15
