A Hundred Miles to Water

by Mike Kearby

  Seven

  May 1878 - East of the Nueces River, Texas

  Sixty miles south of Cañón Cerrado, on the edge of midnight, the rain started to fall. The deluge was in its own antagonistic way, incessantly harsh and memorable in severity. In a very short period of time the monsoon had turned the brasada into a viscous ocean of muck.

  Tucked away in a small stand of mesquite a hundred yards northeast of the Gunn herd, Pure sat hunched on his piebald and chewed the Snapping and Stretching gum between his front teeth. Hapless, his oilskin of little use, the -R ranch boss shivered under the chilling rain and between lightning strikes kept a keen eye on the goings-on in the Gunn brothers’ selected bedding ground. He had settled in the mesquite hours earlier, during daylight, and now patiently surveyed the drive layout and noting the watch changes. Even in his discomfort, Pure still inhaled a reassuring breath.

  You boys might have slipped up a ‘might.

  The Gunns, although expert rustlers, were inexperienced drovers, and the night’s extreme weather proved that fact. While the bedding ground was far enough from the Nueces, a half mile west, and the main camp, a mile to the east, the landscape itself was littered with scrub and sage thicket that would make a stampede impossible to control.

  Pure peered out from his wide-brimmed and looked skyward. A barrel of water drenched his face and high up, a streak of chain lightning raced across the sky. C.A.’s caution about thunderstorms and cattle drifted back to him as he wiped a handful of water from his mouth and chin.

  Ride for hell and beyond when the lightning turns blue and jumps for mother Earth.

  Looking back at the herd, his eyes widened in amazement as will-o’-the-wisp, phosphorous balls of electricity, jumped from horn to ear to horn, before dancing on all thousand or so cows at once. A loud crack illuminated the sky directly above his head and caused him to jerk forward abruptly spitting out his gum in the process. Swearing at his loss of balance and gum, he quickly righted himself and threw his gaze out at the herd. The cattle, their long horns reflecting each flash, milled about fretful and uneasy under the storm. Pure winced as another crack exploded above him. He prayed the herd would remain calm a while longer and allow him to finish what he had come here to do.

  Fifty yards outside the herd, two night-herders in slickers circled the beeves in opposite directions. Even from his distance, Pure heard the riders as they mumbled a soft, garbled, nonsensical melody in an attempt to soothe the circling beasts. From experience, Pure realized that the confused beeves were just a little north of spooking.

  Hold them cows, boys.

  Both men had dropped their pistols to the ground earlier. Pure knew it was dangerous to keep a chunk of metal strapped to your waist during a storm of such veracity. He wrapped his hand around the handle of his six-shooter and started to lift the gun from its holster, then paused, thinking. Against his better instincts he pushed the gun back into its holster and decided he would risk a lightning strike this night.

  Just hold ’em now, cowboys.

  The night-herders, unmistakably miserable, kept a steady line of glances rolling toward the main camp, desperate for replacements and ready for the warmth of their hotrolls. Pure grinned at their discomfort.

  God help you boys if these beeves start to run, because without any open ground to turn ’em, there’ll be no stopping a stampede.

  Without glancing down, his eyes fixated on the dark shadow of the herd; Pure slipped an Elgin stem-winder from his pocket and waited for the next lightning strike. Seconds later, the sky crackled and lit up in yellow brilliance. Pure dropped his eyes and peered at the watch face.

  Five minutes ‘til midnight.

  He gentled the Elgin back into his pocket as the yellow-lit sky faded to blue and then darkness. Out in the herd, one of the night-herders turned his horse east and unable to gallop, ploughed through the mud for the main camp.

  The sky illuminated once more.

  Pure’s grin sharpened.

  That’s it, cowboy; go wake up the next shift.

  He lifted his mouth skyward and took a gulp of rain.

  An electrical flash swam sideways across the sky.

  A thousand beeves wailed with a chorus of bawls.

  The stench of sulphur hung in his nose.

  There’ll never be a better time.

  Then with an easy flick of his spur, he directed his piebald cautiously toward the bedding ground and the lone night-herder. Ankle-deep mud would assure that the next watch would take at least fifteen minutes to reach the bedding ground. Certain of his aggrieved decision, he reached in under his oilskin, slipped the Peacemaker from its holster, and rested the gun across his covered lap. Right or wrong, Buckshot Wallace’s silver spurs no longer occupied a place in his mind.

  Eight

  May 1878 - The Bedding Ground, Texas

  Pure walked his piebald onto the bedding ground unnoticed. At each thunderous crack, he pulled rein and held the seasoned cow pony in place, waiting, and lurking in deadly silence. Once the sulphurous flash dissipated, he would start the horse forward while never taking his focus off the remaining night-herder.

  When he approached within fifteen feet of the solitary watchman, he slid the Colt from under his oilskin. A flash of lightning moved closer to earth and discharged a thunderous crack that caused the night-herder to roll his shoulders forward in the saddle.

  “Blazes!” the rider swore, unsettled, and then sank back in the saddle.

  Pure remained calm, squinting as a steady deluge of water rolled off his hat brim.

  The night-rider shivered once and then seemingly spooked, glanced around as another bolt illuminated above the bedding ground.

  Pure twisted his lips against one another. He recognized the face. His expression softened, but only momentarily. This was the one Gunn brother he had hoped he would not have to face tonight, but even so, he would not be deterred from carrying on, the code demanded such.

  Startled by the figure saddled behind him, the watchman jumped and then cursed loudly, “Hell! It’s about time! I’m all done playing cow nurse for tonight.”

  “Hullo, Street,” Pure hissed through closed teeth. His voice was level and ice cold.

  A hellish bright orange bolt rolled overhead lighting up the landscape.

  Street compressed his neck into his shoulders and glanced askance at the figure in front of him and then the piebald horse. His eyes tightened. Restons! He was familiar with the pony and the oldest Reston brother. His right hand instinctively dropped toward his holster, but only air filled his palm. A regretful frown gathered at his mouth.

  Pure inched the piebald forward. “You tossed it on the ground, remember?”

  “What the?”

  “Funny thing,” Pure smirked. “A man throws his gun down in a lightning storm to be safe and then still ends up dead.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing out here, Pure?” Street stuttered.

  “I promised to tally up the books for an old friend.”

  “What kind of nonsense are you ranting about on a night like this?”

  “I’m the tally man for tonight’s herd.”

  “What?”

  Pure’s right hand moved slightly. “Call it professional pride,” he uttered. “Every roundup needs a tally.”

  The click of a Colt, a click so unmistakable, hammered back, and sounded in the rain.

  Street’s eyes widened. He sucked a gulp of air through a half-closed mouth. “Whoa, whoa now, Reston!” he said in a rush of panic.

  Pure leveled the gun at the youngest Gunn’s chest and lifted his eyebrows. He waited for the rustler to acknowledge that he knew why Pure was here. “Say it!” he ordered.

  “Say what?”

  “Say it!”

  Street eased both reins toward his chest. His horse took a step back. “You’re loco, Pure.”

  “La muerte de vaca?”

  Thunder boomed and lightning flashed simultaneously.

  Street rolled his
head to the right, confused. “Now what in the hell does that mean?”

  Rain danced off the Colt’s barrel. “The death of skins, Street,” he said, steady. His voice smouldered with contempt.

  “Never heard of that expression before.”

  “Com’on you remember, Street.”

  Street glanced into the distance. “Night crew will be riding in here any minute.”

  “Not likely.”

  “You prepared to take that chance, Reston?”

  “How come it is that bad eggs like you always talk in circles?”

  Street sucked in a breath and brushed his hand against the empty holster.

  “It’s not there, remember?”

  Street leaned forward in his saddle. “You still got time to ride out of here, Reston.”

  “With my tail between my legs, Street?”

  “Better than dying in the rain a long way from home.”

  “You said it, boy.”

  Street pushed back hard. “Damn you.”

  “You and your brothers have been throwing the big loop on Reston land for too long now.”

  “There ain’t no proof of that, and you know it!”

  “I figure I’ve got all the proof I need.”

  “So, now what?”

  “La muerte de vaca?”

  “I told you before that I don’t know what that means.”

  “Oh, you know, Street.”

  “The rain must have got you all loco, Reston.”

  “It’s how you and your sorry lot of brothers killed two of my men.”

  Street’s jaw quivered. “That’s crazy,” he stammered.

  “Two Reston cowpunchers.”

  “You’re sniffing in the wrong bush, Reston.”

  “Two of my own family, Street.”

  “Why would we want to kill Buckshot?”

  Pure tightened his grip on the Colt, more incensed now, no longer caring which of the Gunn brothers it was. He leaned forward and whispered angrily through clenched teeth, “Who said anything about Buckshot, Street?”

  Street’s shoulders dropped. “You did?” he responded nervously. “Just before.” His attention never wavered from the Colt.

  Pure started to answer the lie but held-back as the near-deafening rain suddenly stopped.

  Street blinked twice and then glanced up, nervous.

  An electric chill rolled through the air.

  Pure’s eyes swung toward the bedding ground.

  The herd had stopped milling. Every cow’s neck was stretched northwest. A strange silence descended through the blackness.

  Street swallowed and looked out at the herd. “That’s mighty unusual,” he said, unsteady.

  Pure knew the signs. He felt the hair on his arms stand up.

  It’s fixing to hit right on top of us.

  He lurched off the piebald as if shot and squatted beside his horse, holding both reins tightly.

  Street glanced at the riderless piebald. A puzzled looked froze his expression. Then sensing an opportunity, he flipped the rein and turned his horse toward the leading edge of the herd. Rolling his spurs against his horse’s side, he screamed, “Git up!”

  A deep prolonged growl reverberated from west to east. The sky boiled fire, and a sharp crack exploded overhead.

  Pure‘s head shot up. A low rumble shook the ground beneath him. “They’re running!” he screamed, and swung back up in the saddle, desperate to put distance between him and the crazed herd.

  A series of lightning strikes ignited and bore violently into the bedding ground. The jagged blue bolts gnawed repeatedly in the middle of the herd. A rolling mass of bawls and bellows followed and soon the stench of melted hide burned the air.

  Out in front of the stampede, a string of curse words echoed in the darkness quickly followed by a gut-wrenching scream.

  Pure tossed a glance to where he last saw Street. The rustler’s horse was stopped dead in its tracks, swinging its head from left to right, flailing and whinnying in terrifying shrieks.

  Pure gritted his teeth unable to look away.

  The animal was hopelessly bogged down in the muck.

  “Get behind your horse!” Pure screamed above the roar. He knew the rush of cattle prone to split around men and horses would never see Street or his horse in the darkness.

  Street’s horse gave one last wail and then collapsed on its side under a horrific crack of bone.

  Pure raised both hands to his mouth and leaned as far forward over the saddle as he could. “Get behind him, Street!” he shouted through cupped hands.

  The exhausted horse lay sideways in front of the leading edge of the stampede.

  Pure cursed the boy’s youthful ignorance and spurred the piebald away for the mesquites and safety.

  Darkness descended once more.

  Thirty seconds later, clear of the rush, Pure reined his piebald to a stop and glanced back. Both he and the horse huffed for breath.

  A solitary flash illuminated overhead.

  Pure exhaled a labored breath and surveyed the carnage. Hundreds of dead cattle littered the bedding ground in a neat circle. The remaining beeves rolled in wild headlong rush for the Nueces. Street Gunn and his pony were nowhere to be seen. Pure dragged a wet palm across his mouth and cursed aloud, “You damned fool!”

  The sky faded from orange to charcoal to black.

  Then softer with regret, “You damned fool.”

  Pure waited in the darkness, knowing he should turn and ride away but for unfathomable reasons sat paralyzed, cold, and empty. Lightning flashed on the eastern side of the bedding ground. He looked up, stock-still.

  Storm’s moving away.

  Overhead, the departing storm flashed a departing grumble. The electrical charge flicked weakly across the sky.

  Get going. There’s nothing more you can do for him or here tonight.

  Pure lifted the rein and turned his piebald back northeast but unable to contain his curiosity as to the boy’s fate, he took one final look back. Another lightning flash sparked in the east. Beneath the cracking bolt, hurried movement caught his eyes. Two riders rode into the bedding ground slaughter, gesturing wildly.

  Are they pointing at me or the die-up?

  Pure flipped the rein and turned the horse around. He stared at the two riders as the light faded to black.

  Did they see me?

  Anxious, he took a quick glance skyward and prayed the lightning wouldn’t flash again.

  Did they see me?

  But he knew the answer to his question before it even left his mouth. If he could see them, then they sure enough could see him.

  Calm down. They could never make-out who you were at this distance.

  A sputter of lightning flashed overhead.

  He glanced down at his pony and started to rein the animal to the northeast but paused. His eyes remained fixed on an oval ink spot on the horse’s neck. His mind raced. He gritted his teeth and kneaded his brow with his thumb and index finger. A sense of dread shivered down his spine and gooseflesh rolled up his arms.

  If they saw me, that means they saw the piebald too.

  His head drooped toward his chest. He gripped the saddle horn with both hands and leaned all his weight against leather wrapped pommel. A sense of inevitable bad luck shook his thoughts, and inside he cursed himself.

  Everyone in South Texas knows that to a man only the Reston outfit rides piebald ponies.

  Nine

  May 1878 - The Gunn Bedding Ground, Texas

  In the shadowy first light of morning, Echol Brocious Gunn stared down at the mash of horse, man, and mud mixed together and flattened into an oval depression. E.B., as he liked to be called, was a squat, iron-fisted, cruel man and no stranger to thievery or violence. His eyes, one blue, the other gray, discomposing to even the most hardened rowdy, melted black at the horrific sight.

  The brothers Gunn watched patiently as their father stroked a full-faced beard that hung past two buttons on his undershirt. The boys knew bette
r then to speak. E.B. was reckoning, working himself up, and getting angrier with each glance at the flattened corpse of Street. They all knew that a fire was boiling inside their father’s belly, and when he did speak, it would be of a desperate order filled with rage.

  “Didn’t leave much of him.”

  Nate looked on. “Damned, Restons,” he said under his breath.

  “Yeah,” E.B. said.

  “Calls for an answer from us,” Nate said.

  E.B. ignored Nate. His attention was preoccupied with the gore at his feet.

  The other brothers shuffled glances elsewhere and didn’t answer.

  E.B. coolly pointed at the mush. “Is that Street’s ribs or the horse’s?”

  Clark and Foss turned their heads back and cleared their throats.

  E.B. glanced at the pair, shook his head, and then looked toward the river. “Gawdallmighty, them beeves is probably spread from here to Mexico.”

  Nate nodded but held his tongue.

  E.B. looked back at his oldest, tightened his mouth, and then glanced back at the muddy depression. “Nothing more to be done for Street,” he said matter-of-factly. “You boys saddle up and start rounding up those stampeded beeves. The Mex will be here tonight to trade.”

  Ben furrowed his brow and before considering, asked, “We just gonna leave him like that?”

  Nate winced.

  E.B. turned on his heel and gave a quick tug at his beard. His eyes melted into one another. “Damned you, Ben,” he cursed wildly, “you got cow chips in those ears of yours.”

  Ben pushed his lips together and lowered his eyes.

  E.B. took three quick strides toward the now submissive boy and with a powerful swing slapped him flush across the jaw.

  Ben stumbled slightly. His hat toppled from his head. He winced but didn’t raise a hand to his face.

  “I told you, boy, to mount up and start looking for beeves!” Spit flew from E.B.’s mouth. His voice was frighteningly deliberate, and ice-cold. He spun toward the others. “Well? What are y’all waiting for?”