by Mike Kearby
The oldest of the Gunn boys then turned back, dropped the cinch ring into the fire, and grabbed its white-hot replacement. Hearing Nate’s call to Foss, Street flipped loose his reata and made ready to rope the next beeve as brother, Clark dragged the newly branded EB steer away from the work area.
Out on the perimeter, Foss planted his feet deep into his stirrups and eyed a lanky mossback on the outside of the small herd. His horse responded to a slight neck rein and moved sidewise and then forward to encourage the steer from his surroundings. When the steer was separated from the bunch, Foss leaned over his horse’s right side and with a quick flip of his wrist pitched a loop at the steer’s back legs. The steer started forward, and the loop settled perfectly on both of the beast’s hind legs. With steel-spring precision, Foss tugged the rope tight and quickly wrapped a half-hitch around his saddle biscuit. Five seconds later, the struggling, bawling steer was dragged toward Nate, Street, and the branding fire. Street jumped his horse forward and roped the incoming steer’s horns. In the meantime, Clark freed the re-branded steer and turned his horse into the remaining cattle when the bark of a running dog sounded from the neck of the canyon.
Nate Gunn turned his head in the dog’s direction and pushed his eyebrows together. “What the—?” he barked. Annoyed he immediately dropped the hot cinch at his feet. “Dog!” he yelled to alert the others and then, with a frightening calmness, pulled his .45 and fired. The slug hit the fast-approaching animal square, killing it immediately.
Street looked beyond the downed dog and watched a piebald cow pony race in at a hard gallop. Restons! He glanced up at the horse’s rider and frowned. It was well known that Reston cowboys were the only bunch in the county who, to a man, rode piebald horses, with their unique black and white spotting pattern. Street sucked in a quick breath. The -R cowboy raced by the dog without even glancing down. Unruffled, Street finished wrapping his half-hitch and then filled his hand with a pearl-handled Colt. “Lookey, lookey,” he sniped. “Here’s an old friend come to help.”
Nate immediately recognized the old circle rider from the -R spread. Figuring four to one odds favored his position; he holstered his pistol and tilted his hat back, welcoming.
Wallace pulled rein ten yards in front of the branding fire kicking up clods of dampened soil.
“Howdy, Buckshot,” Nate offered with a pleasant grin.
“Howdy, Nate,” Wallace replied calmly and took a quick glance left, then right, at the well organized brigands. “What have you boys got going on here this morning?”
Nate tossed a quick look at Street and winked. “Just branding up some strays for the old man.”
Wallace pushed his hat back and scowled. “Mighty industrious for such a steamy morning.”
Nate cleared his throat and glanced at the sun. “Yeah, well, we all kinda figured it would only get steamier as the day moved ahead.”
Wallace nodded. “Probably so,” he replied.
Nate nodded back and mumbled, “Yeah, probably so.”
“Where’d you find ’em?” Wallace asked.
“Huh?”
“The strays, where’d you find ’em?”
Nate ignored the question and glanced beyond Wallace to the dead dog. “That your dog?”
Wallace took a casual glance behind him. “Yep,” he said without concern.
“Sorry I shot him like that, but he could have stirred up our branding.”
“No worries, there seems to be as many dogs as beeves running wild out in these parts.”
Nate crossed his arms across his chest and sighed, “Ride far?”
Wallace shifted slightly in the saddle and lied, “No, we’ve got the whole outfit working a mile or so away.”
“Hmmmph,” Nate answered, acknowledging the lie, then asked, “Is that right, what Brother Street said? You come to help us?”
“Help you boys work beeves already branded with the -R?” Wallace glowered. His tone suddenly turned serious. “That sounds too much like double duty for me.”
Nate tilted his head and following Wallace’s lead quickly sobered his own expression. “I guess it depends which side of the brand you’re riding for,” he said sullenly.
Wallace noted Nate’s sudden facial change and felt the rustler’s play would come soon. His eyes left the eldest Gunn and darted speedily around the canyon floor, counting the brothers.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Uh-oh.
There’s two missing.
Wallace’s face paled. His scowl deepened. He leaned forward in the saddle.
Where are the other two?
The unaccounted-for Gunn brothers could be a real concern.
Foss loosened his rope and flipped it free of the steer’s legs. “Anything wrong, Buckshot?” he said and eased his pistol from its holster. “You sure looked spooked.”
Wallace tossed a fast glance at Foss and then turned his attention back at Nate. The -R cowboy’s left hand rested on the saddle horn, his Colt was visible across his left forearm. “Where’s your other brothers?” he casually asked.
Nate shrugged and moved carefully toward Wallace’s horse. “You mean Ben and Charlie?”
Wallace nodded.
Nate raised his brow and grinned. “Heck, Buckshot, who can tell with those boys? They might be back home drunk on the porch, or if you know Charlie, just as likely still losing at the card tables.”
“That sounds about right,” Wallace agreed.
Nate tipped the back of his hat forward to shade his eyes. “I can’t ever depend on him.”
“Uh-huh,” Wallace said. He kept a steady gaze on the oldest Gunn brother.
The rustler avoided Wallace’s eyes and rested a hand on the -R cowboy’s saddle cantle. He motioned for the cowpuncher’s Colt while whispering, “You’re outgunned here, Buckshot. You might want to hand over that Peacemaker.”
Wallace took a deep calculated breath.
A sneer crossed Nate’s mouth.
Wallace forced a tight smile and in a barely audible voice said, “Nate, just so there’s no misunderstanding here, there’s a -R cowboy sitting back yonder on that round-top hill looking straight down the barrel of a Winchester at you right now.”
Nate’s mouth fell open. His eyes darted toward the hill. “That cowboy set to hole me?” he gushed in fake surprise.
Wallace exhaled through his nose and stared into Nate’s smiling eyes. And then it struck him, and then, he knew exactly where brothers Ben and Charlie were. His eyes darted toward the round-top hill.
Nate followed Wallace’s eyes and suppressed a grin. “Everything okay, Buckshot?”
Wallace quickly composed himself and rolled his eyes toward the rustler. “Couldn’t be better, Nate,” he said, bluntly.
“Well you looked like you was about to overheat there for a minute.”
At that moment the soft slush of hooves galloping in sand sounded down the canyon neck.
Wallace turned his shoulders and looked back.
Three riders approached. A trussed-up Billy Green rode in the middle spot.
Wallace snorted as the riders got within fifty feet.
“Howdy, Buckshot,” greeted Ben Gunn.
Nate laughed.
Foss, Clark, and Street joined in.
Wallace twisted his mouth and arched his back, nettled at the predicament he now found himself and the kid caught in.
“Or,” Nate tilted his head slightly and added, “Brothers Ben and Charlie might be watching our backs from that same round-top hill, Buckshot.”
Wallace and Green, bound with ropes, and placed back-to-back near the branding fire, sat in stunned silence. Street Gunn stood over the two while his brothers worked in the background.
Wallace ignored the youngest Gunn and stared ahead, expressionless.
Billy Green’s normal bravado was long gone. His back trembled every few seconds, causing his legs and shoulders to jerk uncontrollably.
“T
ake it easy, kid,” Buckshot whispered.
Suddenly, two gunshots erupted behind the captive -R cowboys.
Two dying bawls followed immediately.
“What are they doing?” the kid asked and twisted against the rope binding him. His shivering became more pronounced and impossible to repress.
Wallace took a deep breath, uncertain of how to answer the kid. After a shallow exhale, he said, “Just shut-up, kid and take whatever comes along like a man.”
Street glanced down at the terrified Billy Green and barked, “That’s good advice, kid. Take whatever comes to you like a man.” The younger Gunn brother then looked sideways at Wallace. “He’s kind of a high-strung colt, ain’t he?”
Wallace bit his tongue, spurning a reply, and pressed his back stiff against the kid’s. “Take it easy,” he grunted softly. “Keep it inside you.”
Behind the bound pair, Nate Gunn holstered his Colt and took a long draw at the two shot -R steers. Ben Gunn stood to the right of Nate and dragged the blade of a castrating knife under a dirty fingernail, bored. Next to Ben, Foss lazily scratched the back of his neck while brother Clark yawned at Charlie and shrugged.
All waited for Nate to decide. Something. Anything.
After a moment’s time, the eldest Gunn looked back at the two trussed-up -R cowhands and rubbed a day’s worth of beard. He hesitated for a breath, then muttered to the others, “Awright boys, get them hides peeled.”
Street whooped at Nate’s pronouncement. “Hwooo!” he laughed. “This is going to be something, Buckshot.”
Wallace stared up at the youngest Gunn with black eyes.
Street’s smile faded slightly. “Oh come on, Buckshot,” he lamented. “You’d be doing the same to me where our fortunes turned.”
“Shut-up, Street,” Nate hollered at his brother and walked tensely over to the roped cowboys.
“Awwwh,” Street moaned, “I was just ribbing these boys a ‘might.”
Nate motioned for his brother to move away and glanced down at Wallace. “No hard feelings, Buckshot?”
Wallace exhaled sharply and lifted his gaze toward Nate. “No, no hard feelings. What Street said was true, were it reversed, I’d do the same to you.”
Nate smiled and nodded.
“What’s going to happen, Buckshot?” Billy Green asked in choked breaths, panicked.
“Calm down, kid,” Wallace answered coolly.
“What are they gonna do to us?”
“Quit asking so many questions.”
Billy Green trembled uncontrollably. “They’re gonna kill us, aren’t they?”
“You’re riling everybody up, kid,” Wallace warned.
“I ain’t ready to die, Buckshot.”
Nate shook his head in disgust. “Hell, kid, who is?”
“But why you gotta kill us? Keep them strays for all I care,” the kid cried. He pushed hard against Wallace’s back. “Right, Buckshot?”
Wallace stared straight ahead, emotionless. “Shut-up, kid.”
Tears began to drip down the kid’s face. “Tell ’em, Buckshot, tell ’em to keep the strays.”
Wallace remained silent.
The kid began to rock back and forth, pleading, “Tell ’em, Buckshot. Tell ’em!”
Nate ignored the kid’s whining and lifted his chin at Wallace. “Can I get you anything?”
Wallace thought hard, shook his head no, and then resignedly added, “Nate, I’d be mighty beholden if you’d take my spurs.”
“Tell ’em, Buckshot,” the kid continued to spout.
Nate pulled his Colt and poked the butt of the pistol against the back of Billy Green’s head. “Shut-up, kid or I’ll shoot you right where you sit!” he shouted.
The kid snapped his mouth shut, but couldn’t stop his whimpering or crying.
Nate shook his head and glanced down at Wallace’s silver spurs, suspicious. “Why would you want to go and give me those spurs of yours?”
Wallace rolled the toe of each boot to the side and admired the handcrafted silver. “They’re something ain’t they?”
Nate directed his gaze on the spurs. “You’re serious?”
“As a Nueces steer,” Wallace spouted, never looking away from his prized possessions.
Nate’s eyes brightened at the offer. “You’d really do that? Go slick-heeled and all?”
Wallace kept his focus down his outstretched legs and motioned with his chin at the spur’s rowels. “I bought ’em in San Antonio from an old vaquero, called Alavez,” he said and then added proudly, “hammered them himself, he did.”
Nate’s face lit-up. “I’d be much obliged to have them.”
Wallace strained to look back at the remaining Gunn brothers. “This Alavez was a real craftsman.”
Nate nodded, tight-lipped and squeezed Wallace’s shoulder once before turning to join his brothers.
Wallace watched the rustler walk away, and then after a moment, called out, “There is one other thing, Nate.”
Nate turned back, silent, and lifted his brow, waiting.
Wallace licked his lower lip and asked, “You fellas’ wouldn’t by chance have any canned peaches with you?”
Journal Entry - Mr. Charlie had a saying that we all repeated, it would have been hard not to—for he recalled it at least twenty times during a work day. If any cowpuncher ever complained about his lot on the trail— whether it be riding a wind-broke pony, or wearing a kerosene poultice— well that cowboy always got the same sympathetic lecture. The old man would push both hands into his back pockets, rock on the heel of his boots, stick his chin into the complainer’s face, and in a booming, gravelled voice, whoop, “Blazes, Rawhide, it ain’t the hundred-mile to water problem! Toughen up, and be a cowboy!” And what the old man meant by that was driving two thousand thirsty longhorn beeves a hundred miles over dry land to water—now that’s a problem. Not getting enough sleep or riding in a thunderstorm were and would always be small irritations to Mr. Charlie. And on the morning that we rode into Cañón Cerrado, we knew right away that we were all fixing to git off into a hundred-mile to water problem.
Four
April 1878 - Above Cañón Cerrado, Texas
The four -R cowboys sat on their piebald ponies in stiffed-back silence and stared down the cut of a low dome hill in the southern scrub. Peacemakers hung from each man’s waist. The Colts were all black, rubber-handled, and neatly tied mid-thigh. The men’s expressions were serious revealing hard-bitten character. Not dally welters, but honest-to-God real rawhides, wholly intent on the job at hand and all of a fixed purpose.
From the shade of a mesquite tree, Pure Reston squinted at the canyon floor, uneasy. Buckshot and the kid didn’t make it in to camp the night before and Pure knew that only meant trouble. A light scent of hide drifted between his upper lip and nose. He flared his nostrils at the faint odor and shook his head, indignant. He had caught the smell first. He always did. His pa, C.A., Charlie Albert Reston, had once bragged to a neighbor that Pure could smell the singe of cow hide, no matter the instrument used, from a mile away.
And then from below, a thin gray plume, barely visible through the mesquite caught Pure’s eye. A branding fire simmered its last embers. The fire, small but adequate, was almost entirely spent, and across one corner a rolled-up piece of cowhide rested. Pure inhaled painfully and worked a piece of Snapping and Stretching gum from back in his mouth to his front teeth while his eyes swung over the canyon floor. The rolled-up cowhide was the cause of the rising smoke. Pure didn’t allow his eyes to stray from the fire. He chewed the gum resignedly; his lips drawn tight; his mouth closed. He chewed slowly at first, judging the scene below and then faster in angry realization of what the fire indicated.
The three remaining men, brothers, Isa and Paint Reston, and ranch foreman, July Walker, recognized the sign. Pure was thinking. And more often than not, when he chewed his gum in such a fashion, unpeaceful things were soon to follow. The three cowboys instinctively slid the Peacemakers from their ho
lsters and hunched over, then checked their loads in a deliberate, patient manner.
A moment later, Pure stopped chewing, looked up from his cogitating, and muttered, “Let’s go around.”
Inside the dry ravine, dozens of tracks, moving in two directions marked the area. Pure stopped chewing and stared at the mid-day sun. For days after a rain storm in this country, the air was slathered with a wet heat that exhausted even the strongest of men. Pure pushed back his hat and wiped his forehead before sniffing the air once more. “They came this way that’s a certainty,” he muttered and nodded at July Walker.
July, the son of free slaves, had worked for C.A. Reston since he was a young man. C.A. had taken an instant liking to the hard-working cowhand and always treated him like one of his sons. It was C.A. who nicknamed him July after he showed up at headquarters looking for work during the rise of the brightest summer star. July stood six-foot-four inches tall. He was a mountain of blackness, a bull of a man, and a pistoleer of great skill. July stepped out of his stirrup and bent down to read the track. After a few minutes of study, he straightened and pointed at several spots in the sand. “Mixed,” he sighed and glanced up at Pure. “Eight horses and thirty head of beef.”
Pure lifted his chin slightly to indicate his agreement and stared down the narrow draw. Fifty yards ahead, the long cut meandered left. He began to roll the gum around his mouth again. His eyes darkened. The rolled-up cowhide flashed in his head. “They went down there,” he said.
The youngest and tallest of the Reston brothers, Isa, pursed his lips and squinted down the draw. “The thirty head or Buckshot and Billy?”
“Both.”
The middle Reston, James, better known as Paint for the generous spat of freckles running across his nose and cheeks, nudged his pony forward until he sat even with his older brother and pointed down the ravine toward Cañón Cerrado. “Well, are we riding in?”
