CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
At twenty-two, Lowery was a top hand who’d been up the trail three times, the first riding drag. Everybody agreed he had sand. Although the Chisholm took the measure of a man and he’d stood the test, he’d never fired a gun in anger and had never shot at anything more dangerous than cactus pads and empty bean cans.
To sum it up, he was not a match for Jack Hickam in any way, shape, or form.
Nobody knew that better than Lowery himself.
He was young with steady hands and a fire in his belly, and he feared no man. He was off on the scout to set Mrs. Kate Kerrigan’s mind at rest and that pleased him greatly. He’d seen her only from a distance, but it had been close enough to realize that she was a fine-looking woman with a mane of red hair any Irish princess would envy. Young Lowery figured if he earned just one smile from beautiful Kate Kerrigan it would be payment enough.
Lowery rode across the plateau country of the Staked Plains, mile after mile of rolling grassland cut through by deep canyons that some called upside-down mountains, since they suddenly plunged steeply from the flat. The summer grass was sown with wildflowers, mostly honeysuckle and fragrant sumac, and here and there in splendid isolation stood plains cottonwood, bur oak, and red cedar.
As he rode west, a few miles south of the New Mexico border, Lowery drew rein and his gaze reached out across the distance. His sturdy paint pony was a mean bucker, biter, and snorter that the other hands had dubbed Rat’s Ass. He liked the little horse and shortened the name to just Rat, figuring that was plenty enough to describe his steed’s personality.
“Rat, what do we have here? It looks like a settlement where there might be grub for me and oats fer you.”
The pony hung its ugly hammerhead and lost itself in evil thoughts.
“Well, we’ll go take a look.” Lowery was no trail cook and for the last three days had eaten nothing but stale soda bread and beef jerky. Like all cowboys, he wouldn’t pass up the chance of a hot meal, not knowing when he’d get another.
It was a settlement of sorts, served by a wagon track. He rode past a general store with sleeping rooms on the floor above and fifty yards away an adobe cantina with a blue coyote painted on the wall to the left of the door along with the words El Coyote Azul. The charred ruins of a stage station lay at a distance, a relic of some forgotten Comanche raid, and a fat hog wallowed in the mud of what had once been the corral.
Lowery looped the reins to the hitching rail outside the cantina. His paint looked stunted beside the pair of big American studs that already stood there. He walked to the door, a massive portal of iron-studded oak scarred by arrow and bullet holes, and stepped inside a large pleasant room, the walls whitewashed and hung with Navajo blankets. A small bar stood to his right and behind that a curtain partitioned off what Lowery guessed was the kitchen and sleeping quarters. Tables and chairs covered the rest of the floor space. Two men sat at one of the tables sharing a bottle of mescal. Both were tall, angular, dressed in gambler’s broadcloth finery, and carried a pair of holstered Colts in crossed cartridge belts such as Lowery had never seen before. His eyes clashed with theirs, cold as his stepmother’s breath.
“What can I do for you, young feller?” A short, bearded man wearing a stained white apron stepped from behind the curtain and ushered Lowery to a table. When he was seated, the man said, “Sharp set, are ye?”
“I could use some grub.” Lowery smiled. “I’m missing my last six meals.”
One of the gamblers snickered, a nasty, unfriendly, belligerent sound.
Lowery didn’t look at him. He wasn’t scared, but he knew that two men with four Colts was probably a tad more than he could handle.
“I got fried beef and tortillas,” the cantina owner said. “You like beef fried with peppers?”
“I recollect a trail cook fed me that one time,” Lowery said.
“And?”
“I liked it just fine, once I got over the first bite.”
“Drink?”
“Just coffee. I’m partial to sugar and milk in it, if you got them.”
“Honey and goat.”
Lowery nodded. “All right. That sounds good.”
“Comin’ right up.” The proprietor disappeared behind the curtain.
One of the gamblers said, “Where you headed, cowboy?”
Lowery was prepared to be sociable. “Headed west of here, looking for a herd. Figure I’d sign on.”
“What herd?” the man asked.
“I don’t know who owns it. I only know it’s supposed to be ten thousand head. You need a lot of punchers to drive that many cattle.”
“You here to sign on or are you hunting trouble?” the other gambler asked pointedly. He opened his coat and showed the lawman’s shield pinned to his vest. His companion did likewise.
“I don’t plan to cause any trouble,” Lowery said. “I told you, I aim to sign on.” He tried a smile again. “I reckon the herd is headed for Old Mexico. Am I right about that?”
“And what if it isn’t?”
“No matter. I’m just curious is all,” Lowery said. “Are you fellers lawmen?”
“You could say that.” The man had strange eyes, almost yellow in color. “We’re range detectives.”
“Never met one of them before.”
“Well, you’ve met them now,” Yellow Eyes said. “What was the last outfit you worked for?”
“The H bar H on the Pecos southeast of here. Mr. Jason Hunt’s spread.”
“And he sent you to find out where the big herd is headed, huh?”
“No. I got paid off with the other seasonal hands.” Lowery looked around him. “I could sure use that grub I ordered. What’s taking him so long?”
Lowery didn’t recognize the danger, even when both men rose to their feet and stepped toward him. “You boys leaving?”
“No,” Yellow Eyes said. “You are.”
The man was tall and big as a blacksmith in the chest and arms. The powerful right hook he slammed into the side of Lowery’s face knocked the young puncher out of his chair and sent him sprawling onto the floor. His head ringing, Lowery tried to get up and collided with another roundhouse right that smashed into his face and put him down again.
Then the boots went in.
Lowery felt kick after kick thud into his ribs and head. He was aware of pain, razor sharp and unrelenting, the taste of green bile in his mouth, and the salty tang of blood. Then a man’s voice, muffled, as though he talked underwater.
“Leave that cowboy be. You’ll kill him.”
Lowery was hauled roughly to his feet and slammed into a chair. “Put the honey and milk into the coffee,” a man said. A few moments later, the rim of a cup rammed into his mouth and scalding hot coffee was poured into his mouth and ran down his chin. The young man choked and gagged and the cup was taken away. But his torment wasn’t over. Greasy beef wrapped in a tortilla was rammed into his mouth and a strong hand forced it deeper into Lowery’s throat, the palm twisting back and forth to push the food deeper. For a moment, he thought he’d choke to death, but then mercifully it was over. He was left alone to retch uncontrollably and then throw up all over himself.
Yellow Eyes dragged the young puncher to his feet and slammed him against the wall. “Now that you’ve had your grub, listen up, boy. You go back to your boss and tell him the big herd is coming to the Brazos. You tell him to get off the range or he’ll think he fell asleep and woke up in hell.”
The man pounded Lowery against the wall. “Did you hear that, boy?” The young cowboy said nothing, and Yellow Eyes yelled, “Did you hear that?”
Lowery’s answer was to throw an enraged punch, but it was a feeble effort.
The man slapped away the puncher’s fist, then delivered a vicious backhand to Lowery’s bloody, broken mouth. “Speak to me, boy, or by God I’ll beat you to death.”
“I . . . heard . . . you.” Lowery was barely holding on to consciousness.
“Another thing, boy. Te
ll your boss that any man standing in the way of the big herd will be shot. No excuses, no apologies. He’ll be gunned on sight. Are you listening?”
Lowery knew he was hurt bad and couldn’t take more punishment. “I’m listening,” he whispered. “I heard you.”
Yellow Eyes and the other man dragged Lowery outside and threw him onto his horse. Without another word, they pointed Rat south and slapped the pony into an ungainly trot.
Lowery, facedown over the horse’s neck, slipped in and out of consciousness. Moving between darkness and pain, he didn’t think he was going to make it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“He made it, Mrs. Kerrigan,” Jason Hunt said. “Beaten to the threshold of death’s door, but he got through. Damn it all, if you’ll forgive my language, ma’am, but Lowery has sand.”
“Where is the young man now, Mr. Hunt?” Kate Kerrigan asked as she poured more coffee into the rancher’s cup.
“Lying in my own bed being attended to by the ranch cook. Lowery’s almighty sick, ma’am, coughing up blood and hurtin’ every time he moves.”
“Has he eaten or drunk anything?” Dr. Fullerton asked.
“My cook got a little water down him and urged him to make a trial of some salt pork and beans. But he refused to eat.”
“And no wonder,” Mary glanced out the cabin window. “The surrey is for me, Mr. Hunt?”
“I surely hate to impose, ma’am, I mean Doctor.”
“Attending to the sick is no imposition. It’s my job. I’ll leave right away.”
“Young feller by the name of Henry Brown is at the reins, Doc,” Hunt said. “He’s a good man and being afeard doesn’t enter into his thinking. Henry will see you safe to the H bar H.”
“Then I’m most reassured, Mr. Hunt,” Mary said.
“Doc, one more thing,” Hunt said, his craggy face lined with worry. “I don’t care what it costs or how long it takes, but get that boy well.”
“I’ll do my very best.” Dr. Fullerton laid her slender hand on the rancher’s gnarled paw. “He sounds like a fine young man.”
Kate and Hunt watched as she climbed into the surrey and left in a cloud of dust.
“Mrs. Kerrigan, an attack on one of my hands is an attack on the H bar H, and I will not let it stand. I’ll be calling on young Trace and Frank Cobb to ride with us.” Hunt saw the confusion in Kate’s face. “The big herd is headed this way and we’ve been ordered to get off the land. Lowery told me that much . . . maybe with his dying breath.”
“It’s open range,” Kate said. “We have every right to graze our cattle here.”
“Indeed we do, ma’am, but the owner of the herd wants his cows on it, not ours. The only way we can claim open range is to fence it, and we don’t have time for that.”
“Then what are we to do, Mr. Hunt?” Kate asked.
“I plan to ride against the owner, whoever he is, and force him to turn his herd around. There’s plenty of grass in Old Mexico.”
“And if he doesn’t turn around?”
“Then we’ll have a range war on our hands,” Hunt said. “I won’t be pushed off ground I fought for against Comanches, rustlers, Yankee raiders, and the land itself. West Texas did its best to break me, Mrs. Kerrigan. Sure, it made me old and gray before my time, but I never raised the white flag and by God, I won’t do it now. The H bar H is mine and I’ll surrender it to no man.”
“Nor will I, Mr. Hunt,” Kate said strongly. “I’ll fight to the death for what is mine.”
“Mrs. Kerrigan, you got young’uns to think about, two little girls to raise. If it comes, you leave the fighting to the menfolk.”
“That I will not do,” Kate said, her pretty chin stubborn. “I can ride and shoot as well as any man and I will not stay home when mine go off to war. I am not a wilting magnolia of a Southern belle weeping in the big house while her menfolk ride away. The land is mine and I will defend it to my last breath.”
Hunt smiled. “I believe you will. Let’s hope it will not come to that. The herd might yet turn south.”
“But you don’t believe it will,” Kate pointed out.
Hunt’s big shoulders sagged as he glanced out the window, the waning afternoon light gray on his face. Without turning he said, “Last night in a dream, I walked across a prairie that was all afire. But when I looked at the flames, it wasn’t fire at all. Each blade of grass was scarlet with blood. As far as the eye could see there was blood shining on the grass . . . like a sea of rubies.” He turned and started at Kate with haunted eyes. “It was a terrible dream.”
From the time before time, the Irish have set store by dreams. Kate reached into the pocket of her day dress and clutched her rosary in her hand. “May God in his mercy protect us all.”
Hunt bowed his head. “Amen.”
Dusk shadowed the land and the sky looked like a sheet of tarnished copper as Dr. Mary Fullerton returned to the Kerrigan cabin. Her driver refused to wait for coffee, citing chores that needed to be done, and Mary lingered outside the door for several minutes after he left. Finally she took a deep breath, steeling herself for was to come, and stepped inside. She was greeted with smiles and the good smells of coffee, fresh-baked bread, and beef stew simmering in the pot.
Kate laid down the book she was reading. Frank and Quinn looked up from their checkerboard and Trace ran an oily cloth up and down the barrel of his Henry. The girls made too much noise in their bedroom, and Count Andropov glared at their door in disapproving silence.
Kate rose to her feet and smiled. “How is your patient, Mary?”
Her lovely face like stone, the doctor said, “Lowery died two hours ago.”
Kate talked into the silence that fell on the room. “Oh, Mary, I’m so sorry.”
“His internal injuries were too extensive. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t do anything for him but ease his pain.” Mary let her medical bag drop to the floor. “Maybe a better doctor, a male doctor, could have saved the young man. I could not.”
Count Andropov jumped to his feet. “Manya”—he used the Russian form of Mary—“I will not allow you to say that. You are a fine doctor, but when a man is torn up inside, nothing can be done for him. I remember in Russia a young prince of the blood was gored by a wild ox in the Khimki Forest outside of Moscow. The czar ordered the best physicians in the empire to tend him, but his internal injuries were too great and he soon died. The doctors could not do the impossible and neither can you, Manya.” Andropov smiled slightly. “And they were all men.”
Moses was perched on a stool opposite Kate, an open Bible in his lap. He could neither read nor write, but the Book spoke to him in a language only he could understand. He got to his feet, carefully laid the open Bible on the stool, and stepped to Mary. “Doctor, you don’t blame yourself for that boy’s death, no. The ones who kicked him until his ribs and chest caved in are to blame.”
“Mose is right, Mary.” Kate rose and then motioned to her chair. “Sit here by the fire and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”
Mary managed a smile. “‘There is no trouble so great or grave that cannot be much diminished by a nice cup of tea.’ I read that somewhere.”
“And truer words were never spoken,” Kate said.
Mary seemed glad to sit by the fire, a cup of tea in her hand. But for the rest of the evening, she gazed into the flames and said nothing.
Kate wanted to say a hundred things that might console the woman, but she could not come up with even one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Kyle Wright laid down his steaming coffee cup and said, “How do we play this, boss?”
The six hands gathered in Colonel Jason Hunt’s parlor looked at the old rancher, waiting for his answer. The faces of the young punchers were grim. Lowery had been a well-liked man.
“We ride out to that hell and damnation herd and I tell the owner I want him to hand over the two men who murdered Lowery. Then I’ll hang them.” The stern old rancher lit a cigar. “Two men dressed like gamble
rs, toting lawman’s badges shouldn’t be hard to find. We ride out at first light.” He looked around at the punchers who stood holding up the walls. “Sanchez, you and Brown are the fastest with the iron. If it comes to a fight, make sure you get your work in.”
“Ain’t nobody gonna get the drop on me, boss,” Esteban Sanchez said. “And Brown won’t let it happen, either.”
“Damn right,” Henry Brown said.
Kyle Wright looked around the room. “Any man who wants to step away from this can, and I won’t blame him. You boys ain’t making gun wages.”
After a moment’s silence, a tall, lanky puncher spoke for the rest of them. “I reckon we’ll stick.”
“I expected nothing less.” Hunt rose to his feet in a blue cloud of cigar smoke. “Get a good night’s sleep, all of you. An hour before dawn, we’ll meet in the cookhouse for breakfast.”
After the hands left, Wright said, “What do you expect, boss?”
“I expect a range war,” Hunt said. “That’s what I expect.”
“Nothing good ever came out of one of them.”
“Dead men, widows, grieving mothers, and burned-out ranch houses.” Hunt looked at his segundo with weary eyes. “Nothing good at all.”
A puncher named Ben Clark rode into camp at a gallop because a fast-riding man made a difficult target. He swung out the saddle and hit the ground before his horse had halted.
“Well?” Jason Hunt said, his face showing his worry.
“The herd is three miles thataway,” Clark said, pointing west with a bladed hand. “It’s a big herd, boss, at least ten thousand head, but them cattle are in bad shape, like they’d been held on the caprock. There’s water up on the escarpment but little graze for a herd that size.”
Rain drizzled and spat into the fire under the coffeepot. The sky was iron gray and the air unseasonably cool that deep into summer.
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