“Tomorrow we roll out?”
Emory agreed. They had a long road to go. Conditions and people would get no better.
There was something in the air the first morning. Harp tried to spell it out. Was it the excitement of at last going north? Every hand was excited. Even his buffalo horse was fidgety when he saddled him. The new cook Ira Smith would do. He made a great breakfast. Doug was now set to ride point with Chaw. They were already out there and both knew the way for the next day. The wagons were loaded and rolling. Long had described to Ira the next night’s campground. The six-foot-tall cook knew the place.
An hour out, Long left Doug in place as right point rider, and with Chaw on his left set out to find the second night’s camp. Harp studied the big blue steer out in front leading, with the ringing bell on the great belt around his neck. He reined up and moved his horse aside to let the long line pass. They were going north.
Cowboys keeping the herd in place—together. Following each other’s tails like oxen yoked together for their lives to pull freight wagons and plows. Hard as it was to believe they were finally bound for Missouri with him and Long in charge—The O’Malley Brothers from Texas.
CHAPTER 4
On the seventh day they crossed the Colorado River west of Austin. That was their first big crossing. Blue took to the river and swam to the north bank, climbed out, shook off lots of water, and was welcomed by some punchers already over there. The herd followed, swimming over and assembled with little problem. The two wagons went to Web’s Ferry to cross. Harp sent Emory on his horse with them, and they all met up a few miles north of the crossing at the day’s camp.
Under a shade tree in camp that afternoon Emory was seated in a canvas folding chair. He motioned to the other one for Harp.
“We have had a good week.”
“Yes. We lost one horse in the crossing. I told the boys to take the tie downs off them. They will know better at the next one.”
“How?” Emory asked.
“The boy that didn’t listen is doing double herd night patrol for two weeks.”
Emory nodded his approval. “Rank requires decisions. We are moving along well.”
“But we are still deep in Texas. Over half this journey will be on the North’s land. Those days I dread.”
“There is a saying, ‘Dread not. It may never come.’”
“Hell, Emory, I’ve been around long enough to know you have to be prepared. Our father made several trips to trade with the Comanche for a captive prisoner. We rode along. There was always trouble. But we fought and won. He said they were savages. And they were.”
“His lessons tell on you and Long.”
“I hope they do when we have to face opposition.”
“It will.”
It did.
A big man in a suit under a fine beaver hat rode into camp the next day. With him were three pistoleros, no doubt to back and protect him.
“Who runs this sorry outfit?” he said, looking around like Harp wasn’t even there.
“I’m the trail boss.”
“Well, gawdamn, boy. You must just be out of grade school.”
“Mister, state your business or get your ass out of my camp.”
“Hey, young fellar. My name’s Hogan Sargent and I own the Three Star Ranch. All the land north of here is mine, and I don’t want your scrubby stock passing over it. You understand?”
“Is it fenced?”
“I said it was my land. Detour this herd west five miles.”
“That ain’t the Texas way, Mr. Hogan Sargent. If it’s not fenced I can pass over it.”
“Not and live.”
“Oh? I will cross that ground north in the morning.”
“I said—”
“Mr. Sargent, there are six Winchester rifles loaded and ready to send you to the promised land. All of you, drop your pistols with two fingers. Dismount now.”
“You won’t get away with this,” Sargent blustered, but they obeyed.
Harp pushed him aside and told the vaqueros to remove their boots. Again they obeyed. “Now you start walking south. Go back to Mexico. Don’t come back to Texas, ’cause I’ll kill you next time you get in my way.”
“Take the bridles off their horses and shag them back north, boys. They will go home.” They did so and the horses rushed away.
“What about me?”
“Rest easy, Mr. Sargent. Tomorrow you are going to lead us across your ranch for our safety. We get off it you can go home—on foot.”
“My men will—”
“No. ’Cause you will be the first man to die. Sit down, Mr. Sargent. They may ride along but they won’t dare do a thing. Do you understand?”
“You son of—”
“Finishing that will get you killed. My mother is a God-fearing woman who lives near Camp Verde.”
“I’ll have you arrested for this.”
“No jury will find me guilty moving cattle over unfenced land.”
“Then I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
“I’ve killed Comanche, Mr. Sargent, and you won’t be one damn bit harder to kill.”
Harp moved far enough away from Sargent but close enough to watch him. Long came and sat cross-legged on the ground. “What did he do?”
“Came told me I had to drive the cattle five miles around his land. I sent his pistoleros back to Mexico on foot. He’s going to walk with us tomorrow until we get across his land.”
“What then?”
“I guess turn him loose and go on.”
“What if his men come to get us?”
“I guess we do like we did the Comanche. Kill them, too.”
Long nodded and bound to his feet, looked at Sargent, and motioned to Chaw. “Chaw, select two men to take shifts and guard him. If he tries anything, shoot him. He’s paid for.”
“You can’t—”
Long swung around with a finger as a gun, pointing at him. “You have no voice in this deal, mister. Shut up or we’ll gag you.”
“Who in the hell do you think you are?”
Long reached over and jerked the big man to his feet. Then he drew back to hit him. Instead he dropped him. “We are the O’Malley brothers of Texas and don’t you forget it.”
He left him and then walked over and put his arm around Harp’s shoulder. “How is Emory doing?”
“They fed him and he went to bed. Said the day wore him out. He may need to ride in the food wagon tomorrow to rest up.”
“He won’t like that. But we’d better enforce it.”
“How’s tomorrow night’s campsite look?”
“It will do. They say we’re two days at our speed from the Brazos.”
“We will be there by then. The spring grass is making the cattle fat.” Harp poured himself a cup of coffee. “The boys wasted no time getting them guns when we needed them to back us. Things worked like a clock.”
“Yeah. We could use some rain. But no storms.”
Harp agreed.
“They’ll be even quicker next time we get threatened. I took that boy off double guard duty. He’s the one organized things with the crew here tonight.”
“That’s good.”
“Good night, bro.”
“Same to you.”
They fed their prisoner in the morning, loaded him bareback on a sluggish horse, and took him along, grumbling. When they reached their next site, he agreed they were off his place. They gave him his horse and pistol back. He left telling them they had not seen the last of him.
Long shouted after him, “We better have.”
That night it rained. Hard. Most of the lightning was north of them and the cattle were held in the herd, but Harp had extra hands circling them. In the morning they wore slickers and went on. The Brazos River was swollen and muddy, but they crossed it all right and made camp north of it. The two wagons took a ferry downstream. Emory rode with the cook and said he got along fine.
Harp told his brother they needed to make him ride the w
agon more often. Long agreed. But Emory was back in the saddle the next day when the sun came out. Over the following few days the big news came that Robert E. Lee had signed the treaty at a place no one knew—Apple-Mattox.
Harp told Emory he had been right and that now the damn war was finally over. “I know you fought in it. But there’s no telling how the country could ever be like it was before.”
Ira had gotten hold of a secondhand newspaper from a man at the ferry crossing, so Emory could read about it while riding with the cook.
A man came with two black men to their camp. His name was Steven Knight and he asked what Harp would sell two fat steers for. The blacks were his ex-slaves and they worked for him. Harp went to find Emory and ask him what he thought.
“I don’t think he’d pay it but sell him them for forty bucks apiece. We want silver or gold, not paper money.”
Harp was surprised that Knight agreed to the terms and paid him with eight ten-dollar gold pieces. The boys cut out the two steers. Knight asked the cowboys to shoot both, then he and his help went to butchering with a block and tackle and loading the cuts on the wagon they had with them.
Harp asked him what he’d do with that meat. He said he had cash customers and all of it would be sold before dark the next day.
Emory told Harp to keep the money. He’d have some expenses he’d need it for. The money was a novelty. He’d not seen much since the war began. He, Long, and their dad had lots of script. The state of Texas paid them for ranger work in script, and it would pay all taxes due for them and their neighbors. But there were no plans to ever pay anything in cash that he knew about.
They were north of Fort Worth after a few more passing days. They had the cattle set up and someone mentioned they heard about a nearby schoolhouse dance. Could they go see about it?
Harp gave Doug a ten-dollar coin and told him not to spend it all. Six hands rode over there that evening and the rest stayed with the herd. There was lots of grass and a good spring-fed creek to bathe in. So plans were to spend Sunday there, washing and cleaning up. And resting.
Emory wrote his wife and Harp wrote his mother and dad. They were about three weeks along and things had gone well so far. Plus the war was over.
He and Long had stayed with the herd. Both could dance but didn’t feel any urge, and besides, they wanted all the rest they could take on their layover. When the boys came in singing, Harp knew one of them had bought some white lightning. No one got in a fight and all that went had a good time.
Pretty peaceful times.
Bathed and shaved, the outfit looked better. Clothes were washed and hung on a bush to dry. They passed the time sleeping and doing herd duty in shifts.
Three days later they faced the tree-filled Red River. First time Harp had seen it since they crossed it as a boy on a ferry coming from Arkansas. He didn’t have a herd back then to get across, either. Harp sent two boys with the wagons, by ferry. They were too damn scared of water and he didn’t want to tell their mothers he made them swim the Red River and they drowned. They could greet Blue and make sure the wet cattle got up on the north bank safely. All the water coming off them would make that slope slick and cattle would slide back down, so he needed hands to keep them moving.
He said if any steer got swept away—just let him go. They’d gather them later when they came to shore. No better swimmer than most of his hands, the order was to slip off your horse and hang on to his tail when the horse began to swim. Things went smoothly till one rider lost his tail-hold. Long swam after him and got him safely onto shore.
Harp fell down twice in the mud when he and his horse reached the far side. But he made it up, and they all bragged on how good they did at the crossing. Three boys rode downstream to collect the half dozen swept away.
He felt pretty good not losing more than a few. This ford, they told him, would be one of his worst crossings. They moved the herd north to graze and to camp. They were in the Indian Territory and the sign posted said that no alcohol could be carried into this territory. By order of the U.S. marshal from Van Buren, Arkansas. U.S. Federal Judge Story, presiding, would strictly enforce the law.
There would be lots of tribes and many Indian Nations to cross through, so Harp was glad Long was his scout. They’d talk to him, being part Indian, though he didn’t know one word of any Indian language and sounded like the rest of the Texans. Harp and his brother knew their origins because their father explained it and he never showed any side to one over the other, unless they were wrong.
Their mother doted on both of them. Harp really missed her great cooking and sweets she made specially for her men. She made them learn schooling and manners. And since he’d left home, he realized how pretty she was and why his father married her on their first date.
That second Texas ranch, at Camp Verde, they’d carved out of the west Texas land below Kerrville; it was a solid place. Someday he and Long would have a place together, or maybe even places of their own—someday. This trip might contribute to getting one if they made it. He had lots to learn about business and law, but he’d find out how. For right now moving these cattle from ten to fifteen miles a day was his job.
Long spoke about what some friendly Indians told him on the road—that there were gangs of outlaws robbing and murdering people along the stage road. That everyone was to go in pairs whenever they left the herd.
The next day six Indians, wrapped in blankets despite the growing heat and with rifles in hand, stopped them in the road. One old man in a headdress of feathers acted like the leader. Long was ahead scouting, so Harp met them before they could stop the herd.
Harp held up his right hand like his dad did when meeting the Comanche in peace. He gave a head toss for them to move aside. They did to allow the stream of steers to go by.
Harp dismounted and the old man did the same. They sat cross-legged on the short grass and faced each other. The old man began telling him how the great white father gave his people this land. For crossing it he owed them many dollars and several steers for his starving people.
“I have no money.” He turned his hands up. “I can give you one steer.”
“No. No. Six steers.”
With one finger held up, Harp showed him what he’d give him. The old man shook his head and went back to talking. He said he had many warriors and they could massacre the invaders and stampede his herd.
About to tell him to go to hell, Harp stopped and asked, “Do you have a shovel?”
“Huh?”
“Do you have a shovel?”
“Why?”
“When you and them warriors come back to kill us, bring a good shovel. My cook broke the handle out of ours this morning. You bring your shovel.”
“Why?”
“I am going to need it to bury you.”
“We take one wahoo.”
“I figured you would. I’ll cut one out when we stop around noon.”
The chief gathered his men and they rode off.
One of the boys came by and asked, “What did you give him?”
“One lame steer when we make camp at noontime.” Harp stood up and brushed off his seat. “Plenty enough . . . the government can feed them.”
“Didn’t he want a lot more?”
“Hell, you can ask for anything. But you aren’t getting it all from me.”
The Indians came after lunch and Harp had a limper cut out from the tail end of the herd. The Indians chased him off, ran him about a quarter away, speared him like they did buffalos, and a dozen squaws set in to butcher him.
The Froggy Bottoms was a real swampy land to cross. They avoided farms all they could and tried to not let any cattle break into crops. Another three weeks and they’d crossed the Canadian, which was at a summer low Long heard. Next to cross would be the Arkansas River and circle around to go north of the river city and get back on the stagecoach route to go over the mountains.
They’d moved along at a good pace and the grass had strength, so the steers were
getting slick. They had few losses and the cowboys were all well and the horses doing all right.
Long found a place to ford the Arkansas with the herd. He told the wagon drivers and cook to go through Fort Smith, over to Van Buren, and meet them north of there. The cook said the hill going north through that town was tough for wagons.
“Hire an extra team to pull you,” Long told him.
“They cost money I don’t have.” Ira the cook shook his head.
“Harp, give him some money to get out of Van Buren,” Long said.
Harp did and now he was down to six coins.
“I’m feeling good. I’ll ford with the cattle,” Emory said.
“I wish you’d ride in the wagon. We’ve never crossed this before,” Harp told him.
“I am not an invalid. I’ll ride.”
“I am not convinced it is a good idea, Emory.”
“I do own this outfit.”
“But Long and I have to answer to your wife if anything happens to you.”
Long dropped his head and shook it. That meant he would not argue with Emory about the issue. That left Harp upset but he said, “Watch yourself. River crossings can be bad.”
They lined up to cross the shallowest portion of the Arkansas west of Fort Smith in the Indian Territory. There was another spot below Fort Smith but they’d decided this place was better to cross at and go east to Arkansas, then turn north. The camp boys and Ira the cook planned to meet them near Lee’s Creek north of Van Buren.
There was some open land for the herd to graze on there. Then they would turn northeast to get on the Butterfield Stage Road over a range of mountains in the north. The plans were to move north into a land they had a map for. The route was situated east of where the O’Malley brothers once lived at Cincinnati before their father moved the family to Texas.
Harp was down at the river edge with Chaw and Doug. The big steer Blue acted ready. Long had told him that this was the shallowest crossing there was for miles.
“Then, let’s go,” Harp said, and they shooed Blue into the water. Bell ringing, the large steer set out wading headed north in the wide river, crossing toward the far shore with hills behind beach. Harp reined his horse around as the line of steer began entering the Arkansas’s water, some stepping in and others taking a run and splashing into the water. They were bawling their heads off. He met Emory on the hillside.
The O'Malleys of Texas Page 5
