The O'Malleys of Texas

by Dusty Richards

  “Yes, that was the plan.”

  “Chaw should do okay,” Long said. “The Arkansas will be just inside Kansas where we cross it on this route. Day after tomorrow we cross the Colorado River. That shouldn’t be too high with no more rain than we have received.”

  “Where you figure we’ll have the first trouble?” Harp asked him.

  “Right now I can’t say but I bet them carpetbaggers, like they call them damn Yankees in Austin, are going to realize that tax dollars are going out of state and try to tax us on exporting the cattle. You know the grass isn’t as good this year as it was last.” Long shook his head.

  “Not enough rain this winter. We started later, too, last year.”

  “Bro, if this drive works, we’re going to be big ranchers.”

  “My wife’s word for us is emerging cattle barons.”

  Long laughed. “You are the luckiest man on this earth getting that woman, and you two are as natural together as Mom and Dad are.”

  “You will find someone.”

  “I know.”

  Holy Wars took Long’s horse.

  “Thanks,” Long said after him. “But my leg ain’t broke, I can do it.”

  “Long, you’ve been many miles today. Glad to have you back.”

  Ira rang the triangle. And everyone sleeping woke up and went for grub. Red handled the cowhands, all doing one three-hour shift a night riding herd. That interrupted their sleeping. They could read time on the big dipper. Red used a windup alarm clock like Harp used going north to get the next shift up.

  Harp wrote about the two bronc rides in his diary and started a letter to Katy.

  In the morning big dark ominous clouds began to gather. Everyone tied a slicker behind their cantles before they rode out. It was cooler and rain looked imminent. Once on the move, Harp pulled his hat down low when he got on board his saddle, like most men that wore felt hats. When there were thirty-mile-per-hour gusts, he’d pull some leather strings out of his saddlebags. He would thread them through the holes punched about his ears so the leather strings would hold the hat down, or catch it on his back. All to keep it from blowing away.

  Harp rode up to the point riders and told them close the gap if the weather got rough. Sly made some signals, pointed at the sky, and closed his hands, so across the herd, Jimbo nodded and waved. Everyone knew that if you wanted the cattle to go faster you narrowed the space between them and they’d begin to trot. By trotting they were less liable to stampede even in a bad thunderstorm.

  That herd speed set, Harp rode back keeping an eye on the moving flow. He spoke to the boy on the right flank and they both agreed the incoming weather was going to be rowdy. The curtain swept in and hail arrived on the first wave, thumbnail-sized ice that his horse did not appreciate and danced around in under him. About then, Harp recalled seeing a green-looking curtain under the coming storm clouds, and realized they’d get a lot of hail out of it.

  The downpours were blinding walls of water and ice. The face of the running cattle herd faded in and out beside him, but they were trotting. The thunder roared. Bolts of lightning pounded the ground, and the smell of the nitrogen they produced filled his nose. The surface turned slick and he worried that someone would get hurt. He had Comanche gallop hard north to be close to the front of the herd in case they needed to be turned back or aside to avoid a collision.

  Nothing let up. The rain, the blinding flashes of lightning, or the roar of the angry weather. Water ran off the brim of his hat in buckets, but the surging powerful horse never faltered or stumbled. He swam through it all, racing into the unknown night like it was daytime. Hail pounded them relentlessly, stingingly hard at times. Then he saw Sly and knew he was at the front of the herd, but had no idea what was ahead—if they faced a bluff or a river. The earth tilted down, so he eased up on his horse and, in the next flash of lightning, saw Sly and his horse were in the water. They had crossed a raging wash like it was only a step off and quickly ran up the other side to a new flat.

  Then his God made the storm rise like a curtain and he shouted to Jimbo, “Circle left.”

  Somehow the cousin on the far side heard the command. The huge line of cattle began to slow into a circle as if in a great doughnut and brought them to a halt. The sun was still not out, and the chill of the wetness made him quake sitting in the saddle. Off to the side, he watched as the circle slowed and wound larger.

  Red joined him. “One helluva storm. I bet there was a tornado somewhere with it. I have no idea the losses, but I will count riders first.”

  “Yes, there was a tornado, I bet. Red, you check on the riders and I’ll search for the camp bunch.”

  “If a man never had any religion, surviving a storm like this would bring him around, wouldn’t it?”

  “You want the two of us to pray?” Harp asked his man.

  “Harp—yes, please. You have words I don’t.” He bowed his head and waited.

  “Our dear heavenly father, thanks for preserving our lives, sir, so we may continue our journey. Protect all our crews on the trail and accept any part of our departed crew in your arms now, sir. Forgive our sins and help us lead a better life and be safe. Lord, care for our families at home as well. Amen.”

  Red put his wet hat back on. “Thanks . . . I needed that.”

  “We both did.”

  Sly had ridden over. “I didn’t interrupt your praying did I?”

  “No. Help Red find all the crew. The cattle will settle and I am going to try to find our camp crew.”

  “We can do that, sah.”

  “I trust you two can.” He smiled at them in the dim light.

  They parted. Harp rode east feeling they’d deviated a lot to the left in the rain. This part of Texas was fairly flat, broken here and there by woods. In an hour he found a road he decided was the route. He looked south, saw nothing, and decided to go north for a while. He took a good look at the surroundings where he had merged on this north-south road to know the route back and set it in his memory.

  Short-loping his horse, he crossed a high horizon. Then in the growing light of the broken sky he saw the canvas wagon top way off in the distance. They’d stopped there and he was grateful. One of his horses, with Holy Wars on him, showed up on the panorama bringing in the horses behind the bell mare that kept the geldings with her. The scene warmed Harp under the canvas coat he’d chosen over a rubber slicker.

  “How is the herd?” Ira asked when he reached him.

  “Intact in the west. Red is checking on the men. I came to find you. Everything all right?”

  “Me and the boys are fine. Helluva storm. Holy Wars is bringing in the remuda.” He gave a head toss toward them.

  “I am glad to see you’re not hurt. Follow me.”

  The outfit was going to take two hours at wagon speed getting back. He rode his mount back around to Ira and the wagon. “I need to get back. I’ll tie a rag on a stick where you have to turn west.”

  “We’re coming. Ride careful; we sure need you.”

  He waved to the pair on the seat and set the horse in lope southward, taking a shortcut to get back to the herd. The rest of the day was going to be a pick-up-the-pieces day; so much for things going so smoothly. His bighearted horse ate up the miles and past noontime he heard bawling and topped the rise to see cattle spread out everywhere. He gave a sigh of relief at the sight of them settled. He noticed some saddled horses in a group and swung Comanche left to join them.

  Coming closer, he saw they had a body on the ground covered under a blanket.

  Harp slid his horse to a stop and dismounted. A hand caught him by the reins. “I’ve got him.” Red came to meet him. “New hand, Johnny Green. Must have broken his neck when his horse went down. We destroyed his horse. Everyone else is okay.”

  “I hate we lost him. He was single?”

  “He has a widow mother, the boys said.”

  “We can’t give him back to her, but we can help her.”

  “Is the wagon coming?”<
br />
  “Yes. They are fine and the horses are good.”

  “That’s wonderful. Of course we don’t have a shovel,” Red said.

  “Fellows, I am sorry about Johnny. When Ira gets here, he has a shovel and we will bury him with services. Get some rest . . . the worst is over for now.”

  They all nodded.

  “All the benches and our things are in the wagon. Too wet to sit on the ground and not a tree trunk close by. Boys, they say it is miles between trees north of here. Guess we will get used to it.”

  “What was Missouri like?” the cowhand holding his horse asked.

  “Big hardwoods, steep mountains but not high ones. Lots of farms burned out and abandoned. They fought hard over in that part of the country, back and forth. I figure many folks have moved back in there by now. Small farms in pockets in the woods . . . nice rivers. No money there, either.”

  “They said you had a tough time getting there?”

  “Reb haters. They even had a law barring Texas cattle coming in.”

  “Did you really hire the posse who came to kill you?”

  “Yes. It was a lot cheaper than killing them.”

  They laughed.

  Mid-afternoon Ira and the horse herd arrived. Long rode up, gave his reins to a hand, and headed for Harp.

  “We lost a new hand, Johnny Green,” Harp said. “His horse went down in the rush. He has a widowed mother we need to help when we get home.”

  Long agreed. The men had shovels and were digging the grave. Harp had lots to put in his diary. He hoped his pregnant wife was safe. He figured they weren’t much over sixty miles north of home—maybe not that far. No matter—

  CHAPTER 25

  On day six of the drive Harp and the herd reached the Colorado River. The floodwater had receded some, but it still made for a full enough river bank to bank. Camped west of Austin, Harp listened to Long’s explanation of where Ira’s supply wagon could cross on a ferry and rejoin them north of there.

  Harp gathered his riders and went over the river-crossing plans. “Put your clothes and boots in the wagon and hold on to your horses and the saddle horn. Stay out of the way of any cattle fighting in the river. Keep an eye out for anyone who can’t swim, loses his hold, and point him out to the swimmers. We need to help each other, but if you can’t swim don’t try it. Go with Ira and the wagon.”

  Four men, who felt they couldn’t swim, went with the supply wagon. They would be at the other end to receive the herd and move them away from the landing as fast as possible to avoid a pileup.

  Things were set. This would be, so far, the wildest crossing for them. He didn’t want to lose another man. They’d made it to Missouri with no casualties. He hoped he’d lost his last man for this trip. When the welcome party was assembled across from them, Sly put Blue in the river and the crossing of three thousand steers began.

  Things went smoothly. A few steers floated downstream, but they crossed and could be gathered. Harp watched them closely, from a high point, and noted the cattle had settled a lot since the spooky bunch they were when they first combined them into the larger herd.

  When the large part of the herd had crossed, dressed in his underwear, Harp slipped the horse into the river and headed for Abilene. The water was cold. Reminded him of the day he took Katy swimming and it was too cold to swim. A shiver went up his spine as he clung to his saddle horn and the veteran pony took to swimming. Shortly, Comanche was shaking off water on the far bank. They headed up the wet slope past the steers, reached the top, swung around them, and headed for the wagon.

  Shivering, he dismounted. Long threw a blanket over him. “Get over to the fire and warm up.”

  “I will. Boy that was cold. Thanks.”

  “It looks like it went smoothly.”

  Harp nodded. “We were later last year weren’t we?”

  “Yes. It was a bit warmer then.”

  Harp agreed, shivered again, as the trash underfoot hurt his bare soles as he headed for the fire. Once with the others, he nodded his head at his men huddled around the fire also trying to warm up.

  “I never wanted to be a sailor.”

  They laughed.

  It was a good sign that they had some humor left in them after a cold crossing.

  Long came over and told him they were all across with no losses.

  “We will get reassembled and move out in the morning,” Harp promised him.

  The sun warmed some as the day advanced. In his diary he wrote down the uneventful cold crossing and laughed. Remembering how he thought the cold crossing reminded him of his previous cold swim with Kate, he added that along with his enchantment and his missing her.

  In the following days they rode on, finally reaching the Brazos, and knew Fort Worth wasn’t far away. The crossing of the Red would be farther west this time, and they’d be west of the Indian Territory wet bottoms that they mucked through the first trip. His plans were to resupply the wagon at Fort Worth and give the men a two-day holiday. Actually only a one-day off for half the crew to go to town and the other half going the next day. Each with five dollars in their pants. Beer was ten cents and the more common ladies of the night cost a dollar or less for a toss in the hay.

  What more could a young drover want than that . . . ? Oh, maybe eat a big meal in a café. Ira would drive the supply wagon in and replenish the food supplies. Long was careful not to get their cattle close to any other herd also parked for the same reason.

  While they lay over Harp rode south and found Doug’s herd. They spoke about the storm and two of his boys hurt—one with a broken arm and the other a broken leg. All else had gone well. Doug said Chaw, who was two days behind him, had no problems.

  The Indian Territory came next. With a head-aching bunch of moaners and groaners they left the area west of Fort Worth and in a few days made the crossing over the Red River. There was a carpet of wild flowers covering the land they crossed.

  The wagon went over first with some of the hands on the ferry with their mounts. The far bank was steep and wet and they didn’t need stalled cattle on the slope blocking those in the river trying to get out. He warned Red several would be swept downstream but instinct would deliver them on the north side. But if they tried to come onto land separated by large log floats they’d probably drown trying.

  Some of the large dislodged trees were coming downstream and split some of the herd, but they managed to miss most of them, so the stream of cattle recovered. It was a hair-raising crossing with that many steers and took hours to get all of them over. More time was spent to drive the ones back that went downstream. But losses projected, they’d lost less than a dozen head. This satisfied Harper, on the north bank, warming at the big bonfire under a blanket. The Red River was a tough one at any time to cross. He thanked his maker, and when dry, killed the fire, dressed, and rode on into camp.

  Somehow, he had a feeling his brother was not nearly as excited about this journey as he had been the year before. It was more of a job to do than the adventure they had going to Sedalia. But this one held even greater rewards for them if they succeeded. Maybe, too, they had simply become more grown up in the time span, branding mavericks, wheeling and dealing in ranches, and getting ready to go north.

  Kate had promised him a son. He damn sure missed her, but the sex of the baby was not earth shaking for him. Healthy, the both of them, is what he wished for, and then there would be more. He hoped. His mother never had another one after he was born nine months after Long, but this was the future and he’d have lots of time for that later.

  The Indians came for beef. Not the same ones, but these three demanded beef by the handfuls. In broken English, he let them talk on, forever, about how ferocious their warriors were.

  Finally Harp had enough jabbering and he held up two fingers and said to come for them in the morning after they started. The hands would cut out two limpers from the back of the herd for them.

  The Indians ranted some more, but Harper was unshaken and they
finally agreed and rode off.

  Red laughed. “I think you argued more last time.”

  “We aren’t through here yet. There will be more beggars, so get ready for them.”

  Two days farther up the road, with the herd on the road a few hours, Holy Wars came back and told Harp there was a woman they’d found delirious beside the road and Ira wanted him to come look at her. She had nothing but the clothes on her body.

  “I better tell Red where I’m going. Only take a minute . . . he’s not too far away.”

  He swung back on his horse and galloped off.

  Catching up to Red, Harp explained, “Holy Wars found a woman on the road this morning. Says she’s delirious. I am going to try to help her.”

  “Be careful. Things are smooth with this bunch.”

  “See you later.” He and his wrangler rode off in a lope.

  He spotted the supply wagon and they rode to it.

  “How is she, Ira?”

  “She’s under the wagon’s shade on a ground cloth. Don’t make a lot of sense to me, but maybe you can understand her.”

  He hitched Comanche to the nearest wheel and went around to see her.

  Someone had beaten her up—badly. Her right cheek was purple and her other eye was black. He guessed her to be in her teens. The wash-worn dress needed replacing. No shoes and by her splayed toes he figured she’d not worn many shoes, if ever.

  How old was she? Sixteen, seventeen? Her hair needed brushing and she was dirty.

  “Miss, can you hear me?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s your name?” He was on his hands and knees bending down so she could see him.

  “I really don’t kno—Is he gone?”

  “No one was with you when my men found you, unconscious.”

  When she tried to sit up, she hit her head on the trailer beam and fell back down.

  “Sorry. Be careful. You are lying under a wagon. So, you don’t know your name?”

  She ran her hand over the new bump. “I-I ain’t sure.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy that beat you up?”

  “Is he the one standing there behind you?”