The O'Malleys of Texas

by Dusty Richards

  “I am the sheriff of this county. My name is Sherlock Harris and I am placing all of you and your men under arrest. Throw down your guns.”

  A mule or two broke rank and had to be jerked back in place.

  “My name is Harper O’Malley. I am a rancher from Bexar County, Texas. My friends and neighbors entrusted me to bring their cattle up here to help the food shortage in the North. Since Sedalia is the railhead, we drove these cattle here so people could eat beef.”

  “You’re a bunch of sap-sucking rebel soldiers.”

  “My men are cowhands who came a thousand miles or more to feed folks who don’t have food. Harris, we will not surrender. Move aside so we can do our things and go home peacefully.”

  “I said throw down your guns or we will start shooting.”

  “Harris, don’t you be stupid. Your men are on mules. When the first shot is fired they are going to buck and kick. Your men have one shot. My men have ten shots apiece in their Winchesters. Who is going to die on this road?”

  “I said—”

  “Harris, think real hard. Lots of folks are going to die here. There are fathers and brothers with you. You going to tell their wives and mothers you had them slayed?”

  Harp knew the man’s temper was controlling him. But he also could see Long had his horse for shield and the .44 was pointed at the big man’s heart.

  “Don’t let him bluff you, Sheriff. We can whip their southern asses.” Verbal advice came from his posse.

  Harp had enough. “Tell that mouthy one to come out here. I’ll fistfight him myself. None of my men will do a thing if I lose, but don’t let my defeat signal you to move. They will gun you down—”

  A shot went off among the posse. Harris’s horse whirled around and several mules and their riders were bucked off into the woods. Obviously it was an accidental discharge, but Harp was glad Harris could see what the mules’ responses were to only one shot being fired—pure bedlam.

  “Does he want to fight me bare fisted?” Harp asked him.

  Harris never looked over his shoulder. “Jonathan Carter, get out here.”

  Another big man, about twenty, took the single shot off over his head by the strap. He handed the shotgun off and someone else took the mule’s reins. Harp stepped off his horse, unbuckled his gun belt, re-buckled it, and hung it on his saddle horn.

  He put his felt hat over it and turned back to the big-chested man.

  “My name’s Harp O’Malley. What’s yours?”

  They had begun circling each other. “Jonathan Carter, the third. I’m going to teach you a lesson here, Reb. One you won’t forget for the rest of your short life.”

  “I’ve had enough lessons. But thanks . . .”

  Head down like a bull, Carter came screaming. Harp threw himself on the ground and made a pair of scissors out of his legs, and that threw Carter ass over teakettle on the ground. He was dazzled some by the tumble, but he came right back at Harp again.

  Harp pounded his head with his fists and then tripped him. He had the man dazed and he didn’t want him back to full strength. He jumped on his back before he could flip over and pulled his head back with all his strength until Carter screamed, “I quit.”

  “You had enough?”

  “Yah.”

  Harp let him go and moved off, keeping his attention focused on him.

  Carter’s face was bleeding and he looked like a wounded bear. He sat up and rubbed his cheeks with his dirty hands.

  “Texas, you are the toughest son of a bitch as I ever tackled. When I get up I want to shake your hand. I won’t ever pick a fight with you again.”

  Harp nodded and brushed his hair back with his sore hand. His men still stood in the line, rifles ready. He shook the big man’s hand. “Carter, I have a job to do. I am no part of the old or new Confederate Army. I have eight hundred steers to sell so that many folks won’t lose their ranches. My boss is dying in a wagon back in our camp from an old war wound. He won’t even see his wife again before he dies. I am in charge. Help me get these cattle on a train to market, and I will pay you and all of these men some good wages.”

  “There’s thirty of us,” Carter said. “How many do you want?”

  “Twenty dollars each when the cattle are on the train going out of here.”

  “Did you hear him?” Carter asked.

  “Hell, yes,” someone shouted, and they all agreed.

  Harp gave him a sharp nod. “Men, go put up the guns. Let’s get the cattle moving. We’re going to Sedalia and we have help.”

  Long rode in and nodded at his brother. “These guys are as hard up as we were for money?”

  “Maybe more. Start delegating work. You find a place to graze the herd?”

  “The pasture up close to town will cost us a hundred dollars. It has good fences. Best I can do. Has lots of water.”

  “Show us the way. Men! Long has a place to pasture, close to town.”

  “John Sutton’s farm.”

  “Okay. Now, one of you take me to the telegraph office,” Harp shouted at the mule riders, his new employees.

  An older man on a mule rode up. “Follow me, cowboy.”

  “Harp’s my name,” he said, and finished buckling on his Colt and then putting on his hat.

  “Jedadiah Brant is mine.”

  “Long, see to things. I’m going to sell these cattle.”

  “I savvy that, bro. I can handle it.”

  Jed’s mule broke into a trot with Harp’s horse single-footing beside him. It was dark when they reached the train depot. He asked the man at the key if he knew any meatpackers in St. Louis.

  “I have a directory. Who do you need to contact?”

  “All of them.”

  “Write your message on a pad. I can send them tonight.”

  He wrote:

  Name, Harp O’Malley. 800 fat steers for sale at Sedalia MO Stop Asking eighty dollars apiece Stop Send railcars here at once. Telegraph me at the Sedalia Depot. First one with a letter of credit or cash gets them Stop Harp

  “I counted the meatpackers. That many telegrams will cost you twenty-five dollars.”

  “I can pay you.” He dug the money out.

  “I will hold any replies you receive.”

  “I’ll be back to check on them.”

  The clerk, businesslike, nodded. “You from Texas?”

  “Yes.”

  “How the hell did you get that many steers up here?”

  “We drove them. Damn hard work.”

  “Why I thought that posse set out to kill you rebels this morning?”

  “I hired them to work instead.”

  “You did what?”

  “I’ll need some help loading them when the cars get here and driving them in town so they don’t horn anyone.”

  The telegraph operator was laughing. “Mister, you ever sold fish worms?”

  “ No.”

  “I bet they’d take them hook, line, and sinker.”

  He shook the man’s hand. “I’ll be back.”

  “Mister, if you get eighty dollar a head for some old boney steers, I’ll give you the money back for the telegrams.”

  “I’ll be back to collect.”

  “You do that. I damn sure will.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Back in camp that night, two days south of Sedalia, Ira and Long had a candle lamp hanging in the cook’s tent. One of the cowboys put Harp’s horse up. They poured him some fresh coffee.

  “Well, what did you do now?” Long asked.

  “I sent a telegram to every packinghouse in Saint Louis. Told them I had eight hundred fleshy steers in Sedalia to the first buyer who had eighty dollars a head for them. Get me a letter of credit from a bank, and sign an agreement to take them all. You will own them.”

  Long, across the table, shook his head. “Aw hell, no one is going to pay eighty dollars apiece for them damn steers.”

  “If there aren’t any chickens or hawgs left in this country they will and be proud of them.”r />
  “That clown hurt your head this morning. Emory was talking about forty or more. By the way, he’s not any better tonight. I’m afraid he’s slipping away.”

  “We can’t do any more for him. You and I talked about it. I wanted him to know how much we made—we owed him that.”

  “Times you shock me, brother. You figure out angles I never dreamed about. Every packing company in Saint Louis got a telegram from you that said we have eighty-dollar steers in Sedalia?”

  “I damn sure did. Let’s get some sleep. You use part of those men tomorrow to keep kids out of the street while we move the herd to that farm.”

  “Good idea. I’ll arrange the safety. The place isn’t real close.”

  “Jed showed me the shipping pens they have in town.”

  “We will be glad we have all this help.”

  “I agree but, guys, that sheriff told us at Springfield that the Missouri legislature had banned them from the state. We need those steers on the butcher rail in Saint Louis and our butts back in Texas.”

  “You’re right about that,” Long said. “That sounds smart to me.”

  “I need some sleep.”

  “The cattle will be in his pasture tomorrow. Can you pay him?”

  “When I sell the cattle. I won’t cheat him.”

  “You better talk to him then. He’s worried we are con men out to beat everyone out of their pay.”

  “I bet they’ve had lots of those guys here during the war.”

  Long nodded. “Tomorrow we will go see him.”

  “Fine. Good night.”

  Sleep didn’t came easy that evening. Harp worried about state officials coming down on him and impounding the cattle. That would be all he needed. So far so good, but the unknown future made his belly cramp.

  Next morning he told Emory about his efforts to sell the steers by wire.

  “You are thinking. Those packers will have the political push to slaughter those steers regardless under the war act, which is still on. Meat’s short enough they can do that. But not Texans, you are right. Long thinks eighty is too high.” He broke into deep coughing and lost his voice. His condition stabbed Harp.

  When he recovered some, he squeezed Harp’s hand. “You have done things ten times better than I could have done them. Do what you can for all of us.”

  That was the last time he ever talked to Emory. He died that evening.

  There were plenty of pallbearers. Harp had the local Methodist minister do the services, and the parson let them bury Emory in the nearby church cemetery. Harp wrote a long letter to his wife and mailed it. Promised her he would be bringing the money back—her share—in a few months when they got home. That they were in Sedalia and her husband was buried with fellow church members.

  He also ordered a granite stone for Captain Emory Greg of the Confederate Army.

  Born in Texas. Died here after a cattle drive in 1865 from his war wounds. Father. Soldier. Cattleman.

  The man said it would cost a hundred dollars. He agreed to pay for it before he left and they would put it up.

  Two special train passenger cars full of cattle buyers arrived in Sedalia searching for Harper O’Malley the next afternoon.

  Long, in town at the time, told Harp, “I told all of them I talked to that you’d meet them eight o’clock tomorrow morning in that one-room schoolhouse down the road from the pasture. They are letting school out tomorrow so you can use it. You owe them something for the use of that building.”

  “I can handle that.”

  “I bet they’ve looked at the cattle already. One guy asked me how many more herds are coming up and I told him none. That Missouri is blocking them.”

  Harp nodded. “What did he say?”

  “That is pretty damn stupid.”

  “Did you tell him we thought the same thing?”

  “Yes. Hey, they need cattle, but we don’t know of any others coming.”

  Harp went to the meeting and took Doug Pharr who had enough education to write things down; Chaw Michaels to be a peacekeeper; and Long to help keep order.

  The schoolhouse was packed. Many taxis and buggies waited for their passengers to take them back into town. Businessmen in suits and derby hats; drovers hitched their horses and went inside. Harp and Long went up front and both took off their hats.

  Harper quieted the room down. “I am Harp O’Malley. This is my brother, Long. We started up here even before the war had ended. We knew you needed butcher cattle and we brought some. We didn’t come to fight the war, but we almost had to. I know of no one else, nor did we see anyone else, on the old Butterfield Stage Road bringing cattle up here.

  “Now I am in charge. My boss, Emory Greg, died two days ago from old war wounds. He knew you butchers needed beef. I can sell them as one lot or several. We are here to sell those cattle to one buyer or all of you. Is there anyone in here wants them all?”

  A man in a fancy lacy shirt and tie stood up. The crowd booed him.

  “Sir, my name is Horace Williams. I am prepared to buy all these steers of yours.”

  The crowd booed him some more.

  “Mr. Williams, are you prepared to pay my price?”

  “No, it is way too high.” He sat down.

  That bothered Harp. Was he too high? Or was that fancy Dan just spouting off? “Then you won’t buy my cattle. Is there any other buyer here wants all my cattle?”

  “Mr. O’Malley sir, my name’s Aaron Kennedy. I have six buyers that can buy from fifty to a hundred head.”

  “At my price?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, if you want cattle at eighty dollars a head form a line over here. I will not sell you any steers crippled or in poor condition, but you will get them at random, since they are range cattle. Any animal not fit can and will be culled.”

  The number of buyers lining up on the north side of the schoolhouse was impressive. Horace Williams stood up again. “You, obviously, with these small lot buyers have not sold the entire herd.”

  “What do you suggest, sir?”

  “I will take the remaining cattle—at your price.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He wanted to take his old felt hat and throw it at the clouds outside. But he never cracked a smile. Emory, old boy, wish you were here. We’ve done it.

  “Gentlemen. Thank you. We lost a few and there could be some culls. But we left Texas with a long count of eight hundred head. You will only pay for what you get. I have spoken to Ralph Edmonson at the Corner Stone Bank here. Be sure to have your money–letter of credit into him today.

  “Has anyone talked to the railroad about getting cattle cars here?”

  “They are sending all they have now,” Williams said as he waved his hat to tell the room. “They plan to have more here shortly.”

  Williams walked up to the teacher platform. “You two guys are mighty young to have pulled off a sale the size of this one.”

  “Our late boss never thought so. We left Texas before Lee surrendered. We were in Fort Worth, I think, when that news came. That’s several hundred miles from our home near San Antonio. We have bribed Indians, swum rivers, dealt with thugs, and run into the law in Missouri.”

  “How could you get more cattle like these up here?”

  “Long, what do you think?” Harp asked his brother.

  “We damn sure aren’t coming up here again. Maybe when the railroad gets built to the west we can deliver more.”

  “If you two ever need financing, contact me. I’ll partner up here with you when you find a delivery point.” He handed Harp his business card.

  “Thank you, sir. Long and I may do that.”

  Williams turned to Doug who was adding up the list of takers. “Less the ones we lost and sold, you will have two hundred and sixty head, sir.”

  “I can handle that. Well, thanks, my rich cowboy friends, and good luck to you.”

  A man in a blood-stained apron came up. “I can buy the culls if we can settle on a price.”

&
nbsp; “There may be a few, sir. I can discount them. What is your name?”

  “Adam Swartz, I am a small butcher shop man. Thanks.”

  “Have a representative ready to take them at the pens when we load the rest?”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you, sir.”

  “Doug, you have the list of buyers. We’ll take it to the bank and they can collect from these men. We have plenty of help to load them.”

  Long clapped Harp on the back. “I can’t wait to tell Father what we’ve done.”

  “Hell, yes. He won’t believe us anyhow.”

  “No he won’t.”

  The three rode back to the bank together and they left the list with Edmonson who just stared at the paper, then at them, and softly asked, “Eighty dollars apiece?”

  “That’s what they will bring.”

  “I can’t imagine that much money for cattle.”

  “They will all be by with a letter of credit. You will furnish clerks to handle the money transactions at the depot?”

  “Oh, yes; when will it start?”

  “They say cattle cars are coming now.”

  “We will be ready; I am sure proud you boys did so well here.”

  “So are we. Thanks for furnishing your help, sir.”

  The cowboys were equally excited in camp. Chaw said, “I never believed we’d make it, but I am damn sure happy I came and we did it. Thanks to you two guys. What do you have planned for next year?”

  “We told them we aren’t coming back to Missouri, but if there are places out west of here where we can meet the trains, we may bring a herd up to there.”

  “Sign us boys up,” Chaw said. “I’ll damn sure come back. Hot digitty dog I am going to find me some sweet Missouri puta who’ll love me, and then I can ride home happy as a pig in sunshine.”

  Harp laughed. “We still have to load the cattle first. That will be a chore.”

  “Naw, we’ve made it here. Loading will be just another piece of cake, boss man.”

  Harp wished he felt that way. He still had cramps in his belly expecting trouble to break out at any time. No way would he feel safe until the last door slid shut on the last steers and they were in the saddle going home. It couldn’t be fast enough.