by Mike Kearby
The boys scrambled for their ponies.
Ben reached down and retrieved his hat. He walked quick-like for his pony, never looking back at his father.
E.B. watched Ben saunter off. His glare on the boy never softened. When Ben stepped into the stirrup, he yelled, “Boy!”
Ben pushed a reluctant glance toward his violent father.
“After you get all them beeves back to camp, you can throw some rocks or something over your brother.”
Later toward dark, several miles west of the bedding ground on the far side of the Nueces, Nate tallied the rounded-up cows.
E.B. sat on a dun next to his oldest and breathed noisily through his nose, impatient for the count.
Nate poked at a line of charcoaled Xs marked on his horse’s neck. Each X represented twenty head of beeves. “We’re missing thirty head,” he said without looking at his father.
E.B. pushed down his beard and looked grimly north. “How many head did you say you boys cut out of the -R herd?”
Nate turned his head slowly toward E.B. The old man’s lips were already mouthing the answer. Nate held back a grin. Sharp as ever, he thought and then answered, “Thirty.”
E.B.’s face shook in a frightful tremor. “Them thieving, Restons,” he mumbled.
“What you want to do about this,” Nate asked.
“Ought to hang every last one of them no-good Yankee liars.”
Nate’s mouth contorted, stifling a good laugh. Hang the Restons for stealing their own cattle back from us, that’s E.B. through and through.
E.B. dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and squinted at the rustled herd, pondering. After a moment, he whipped his eyes back at Nate. “I’m going to trade with the Mex. Clark stays with me.”
“Okay, E.B.”
“You take the rest and follow them Restons to the railheads. You boys should catch them easy afore they leave the Nation.”
Nate wiped his hand over the charcoal Xs and allowed, “I’ll handle it, E.B.”
E.B. rolled his neck at Nate, his eyes bore into his youngest son. “You git them thirty head back.”
Nate lifted his gaze and studied his father’s eyes. Even with E.B.’s drooped eyelids, he knew what the old man was thinking…knew all too well what the old man wanted. “Yes, sir.”
“And thirty more to even the tally.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“And Nate.”
Nate peered at E.B., suspiciously.
E.B. looked down at Nate’s boots. His eyes danced in delight at the sight of the shiny prods.
Nate pursed his lips and waited.
“Them new spurs?”
Nate glanced down at Buckshot Wallace’s handcrafted beauties. “Yep.”
“Where’d you get ’em?”
“Back in the canyon.”
“From one of the Reston cowboys?”
“Yep.”
E.B. rolled his hands around one another in child-like delight. “Which one?”
“Wallace.”
E.B.’s grin broadened. “Buckshot?”
“Yeah. Gave them up willingly.”
“Naw.”
Nate nodded. “Swear.”
“Buckshot Wallace?”
“Swear.”
E.B. eyed the spurs greedily and motioned for them with his index finger. “Give ’em here.”
Nate shook his head, amazed, and lifted his right boot from the stirrup. He undid the spur buckle and handed the prod to his father.
A wide smile brightened E.B.’s face as he studied the craftsmanship of the spur. He looked back at Nate and motioned for the other impatiently.
Nate obliged with an accompanying frown.
E.B. held both spurs head-high and nodded, pleased. “Thanks, boy,” he said. “Now git about the business we spoke of before.”
Nate didn’t move.
E.B. stared right into his oldest son’s soul.
Nate inhaled, waiting.
Minutes passed. Silent minutes.
Nate coughed into his hand.
“Well, whataya got to say, Nate? Don’t be shy now, boy.”
“What about Street?”
“What of him?”
Nate mulled over his next words, and questioned if he should even ask them.
E.B. straightened. His face began to redden.
Wonder if he’s going to try and hit me too, Nate wondered.
“Go ahead boy, spit out what you’re chewing on. I ain’t got all day for socializing.”
“Don’t you want to even the score for his killing?”
“Is that so important to you, Nate? Is that your real question?”
“He was my brother.”
E.B.’s eyes contracted and sank deep into their sockets. “Not full, he wasn’t,” he snarled, turned, and spit on the ground. His expression showed a brewing storm. “He weren’t from me, anyways.”
“Well, to me he was, and I aim to settle things with the Reston clan for his murder.”
E.B. leaned over his saddle and muttered, “You do what you gotta do, boy, but make damn sure you secure those sixty head of Reston beeves first.”
“How come you never liked him, E.B.?”
E.B. trailed his tongue along his upper lip. “I liked him as well as any stray a man takes onto his property.”
Nate started to reply and then thinking better, lifted his rein to leave.
E.B. grabbed his oldest son’s forearm.
Nate glanced down at his forearm with a frown.
A flash of evil sparked in each of E.B.’s eyes. “You want justice for Street?” he said with a quick nod, “then do it.”
Nate’s eyes narrowed into small points. “I plan to.”
“You’re old enough to act on your own.”
“Don’t need you to tell me of that fact.”
An evil smile crossed E.B.’s mouth. He squeezed Nate’s arm harder. “But if you’re gonna do it, do it like the Good Book says, an eye for an eye, boy. You take their youngest in return.”
Nate slid his arm out of E.B.’s grip and nodded. And that was it. The old man had conceded. There would be no holds barred with the Restons going forward. He nodded his acknowledgement of E.B.’s orders all the while wondering when the old man had ever read the Bible.
E.B. smiled, wicked and villainous, then quickly frowned. “And Nate,” he said, showing his teeth, his voice edgy. “If any of my real sons git themselves killed during your bandying about, it’ll be you I’ll hold the blame to.”
Nate choked back a shiver and held his composure with steady eyes. For all the old man was, Nate knew that he wasn’t ever a liar.
Journal Entry - Around the last week of June, Pure caught up with the drive herd at Doan’s Crossing on the Red River. And true to his word, he drove in with him twenty-eight re-branded -R beeves as well as two head carrying the EB brand. Being that those two were to make up for the two beeves the Gunns killed in Cañón Cerrado. We were all excited to see him back safe, but Pure acted funny that day, closed, sad-like, and to himself. He refused to answer any questions about finding the Gunn boys, or the whereabouts of Buckshot’s spurs, and there wasn’t an hour that went by that he didn’t squirm in his saddle and watch the drag. It wasn’t until a few days later when we reached Brushy Creek in Indian Territory that he told Paint, Isa, and me about the lightning storm on the Nueces and the demise of Street Gunn. And then I understood why Pure fidgeted in his saddle so much because soon I found myself checking the drag too. All the way through the Nation, I checked it. For I knew once E.B. settled Street into Mother Earth and traded our stolen beeves, he would send the rest of his boys after any cowpuncher riding for the -R brand. What I didn’t know, not until much later, was why Street’s death caused Pure so much anguish…and the real cause of this running argument between Gunns and Restons.
Ten
July 1878 - The Western Trail, Indian Territory
The line of -R cattle stretched for a mile or more down Otter Creek in th
e northwest corner of Indian Territory. Soaking spring rains had left the grass full of protein and the watering holes filled. The drive was operating without a hitch which made Pure uneasy and nervous. He rode from point to drag repeatedly preaching, “Keep your eyes peeled and don’t be getting too comfortable.”
The -R cowhands, confused by Pure’s out of character barking, simply lowered their heads and concentrated on their drive duties.
“I don’t want any problems reining us in today.”
July, riding on the wind side point, noticed Pure’s anxiousness and stopped the trail boss as he rounded the curve closest to the Reston ranch foreman. “What’s crawling up your spine today?” he asked, dry throated.
“Just don’t like getting overconfident.”
“We’re covering ten miles a day.”
“Like I said.”
July squinted, thinking. “And right on schedule to arrive in Dodge City with one of the first herds.”
“And I aim to make sure that doesn’t change,” Pure said, more agitated now.
July ran his tongue over his lips. “Ok, boss,” he conceded.
Pure cut a rough glare at his foreman and then eased his pony in beside the cowboy.
July lifted his brow, waiting for Pure to speak.
Pure worked the Snapping and Stretching gum forward from the back of his jaw. “I almost wish something would happen,” he rasped and then kneaded the gum rapidly between his two front teeth.
“You just can’t stand good fortune,” July joked.
Pure’s thoughts drifted back to the lightning storm and Street’s demise. “Well it’s just that this prosperity you speak of always seems to come with a heavy price.”
“In all the years that I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you afraid of a gamble.”
“This ain’t a card game, July.”
“True enough. I reckon it’s just life and that’s always been a bet whose odds favor the house.”
The tension in Pure’s face eased some. “I ain’t got the time to listen to philosophizing,” he said.
“Would you relax if I sent a scout up ahead?”
Pure twisted his mouth in thought and chomped hard on his gum. After several moments of contemplating, he glanced over at July. “Yeah, I would,” he said and without a thought added, “Send Isa.”
“Okay. Anything in particular you want explored?”
Pure looked at the vast emptiness on the western horizon. “Yeah, tell him to scout the next few crossings carefully.”
“He’s gonna want to know why?”
“’Cause I said so,” Pure huffed.
“Like I said, he’s gonna want to know why.”
Pure exhaled, annoyed. “You tell him that with the rivers and creeks running full and with two other Texas outfits in close proximity, I need to know that the waters are safe for our beeves to swim.”
July hid a grin. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that answer,” he said.
The tendons in Pure’s neck rose visibly. “And you also tell him that if the water is suspect, then he is to find us another crossing spot.”
July nodded.
Pure stared ahead with feigned agitation. “Any other cowboy working for me that I need to do any explaining to?” he asked.
July kept his gaze up the trail and refused to look in Pure’s direction.
Pure bore a hard glare on July. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then get back to it.”
July nodded and turned his pony’s head, but before riding off, offered, “You know he ain’t gonna to be too happy about being singled out for this job.”
Pure raised one eyebrow at July. He stared at his foreman for two seconds and then said, “He’ll get over it.”
“I know he will, but he’s gonna feel like you’re punishing him.”
“He’s just one more cowboy on this drive, July.”
“I know, but—,”
“That’s how C.A. treated every one of us boys.”
July tightened his lips and thinking, nodded his head.
Pure ran his tongue over his lower lip, unconcerned. “He’s like a young colt testing his bucking legs right now.”
July grinned. “More like a young man rebelling against a father figure,” he said and then clucked his tongue loudly, loping his piebald toward the right swing position where Isa was riding.
Pure watched July ride off and muttered, “He’s no different than you and I were at that age.”
Isa stormed across a stretch of flattened prairie, silent and gloomy, still angry over his dust-up with Pure in Cañón Cerrado. He mulled over July’s orders.
Isa, Pure wants you to ride out ahead and check the water crossings.
The youngest Reston seethed, cussed and muttered to himself as he drove his pony up the trail toward Brushy Creek.
Yeah, Mr. big-shot trail boss, in case you didn’t know, prospecting is your job, not mine.
Five minutes later, he crossed the creek still upbraiding Pure mentally. His pony, a thick-legged, easy-gaited horse called Crow-hop by the Reston cowpunchers, became restless during the swim to the other bank. The cow pony got his name for his penchant to bucking when he sensed trouble about. Crow-hop had been Isa’s mount since his first day as a cowpuncher. The youngest Reston could read the horse’s temperament and signals expertly, but today, as he tossed Pure’s comments from the past several weeks back and forth in his head, he missed all of the horse’s visible signs of irritability.
This ain’t your fight, Isa.
Crow-hop came out of the creek irritable. His nose sniffed high into the air. A low whinny rumbled from the pony’s throat.
And it won’t be your fight until I say so.
Angry, Isa kept a blank gaze downward and all of his focus inward, oblivious to his surroundings. He paid no heed to Crow-hop’s rapid head movements or disquieting snorts.
Caring for your friends is a man’s greatest responsibility. Hah!
Half a mile out of the creek, the land was open and often used as a bedding ground by the -R outfit on the yearly drives. Crow-hop faltered at the open ground, and then stopped altogether, refusing to move any farther ahead.
Well, to hell with you big brother. I’m just as smart as you.
Isa was suddenly aware of Crow-hop’s balking and taking it as stubbornness, he rolled his spurs along the pony’s side and shook the reins. The pony resisted with a shake of his head and remained firmly in place, unmoving.
Maybe I’ll go off with my own. One third of the cattle profits from this drive are mine.
Abandoning his idle-indulgence, Isa quickly directed his attention to Crow-hop’s insistence on not moving forward, He lifted his gaze to the horse’s neck and muttered, “What’s gotten into you, Crow-hop?”
The cow pony snorted twice, then turned his head left, and smelled Isa’s boot.
“Hey,” Isa mumbled, annoyed and jerked Crow-hop’s head around.
Crow-hop backed up, irritated.
Isa glanced at the horse’s flank and raked his spurs a little deeper in the animal’s side. “You get up, here.”
A rousing round of clapping sounded in front of him. Isa pushed his eyebrows together and tossed a self-conscious glance ahead.
Charlie Gunn swung a wide-brimmed sombrero off his head. “Ride ’em buckaroo.”
Isa squinted and looked left to right. Riled, Crow-hop danced on his back legs and swung his head up and down.
“Hee-yaw, cowpuncher!” Foss Gunn pulled his reins chest-high and imitated riding an outlaw pony.
A feeling of tightness compressed Isa’s chest. He cursed his stupidity. Ben Gunn sat directly in front of him, gun drawn.
Isa swallowed and pulled hard on the left rein. “Whoa,” he said forcefully. Crow-hop settled immediately.
From his right side he heard, “Look at how he handles that cow pony, boys,” the voice laughed.
Isa’s face paled. He twisted toward the voice and then shrugged abj
ectly at the figure. “Howdy, Nate,” he said, sullen, suddenly wishing Pure, and Paint, and July were riding beside him.
“Howdy,” Nate replied and then gestured at Isa’s holster. “I’ll be needing that pistol of yours, Isa.”
“How’s that?”
Nate pointed at Isa’s holster. “Your gun. Hand it over.”
Isa gathered himself. “It’s dangerous for a man to be without his gun on the trail, Nate.”
Nate glanced around at his brothers and then looked back at Isa with a hard grin. “We’ll keep ours then as protection.”
“So you want to protect me?”
“Why not? We are neighbors after all.”
Isa twisted in the saddle and looked down the trail. “You know, I think I’m going to keep my Colt, Nate,” he said and spun back toward the Gunns.
Nate fell silent.
Isa studied the oldest Gunn brother’s face intently.
After a minute, Nate said, “That’s too bad.”
Isa felt the blood drain from his face. A single drop of perspiration beaded on the tip of his nose.
Nate pushed his hat above his forehead. “Yeah, that’s too bad.”
The pained images of Buckshot and the kid flashed in Isa’s head. La muerte de vaca.
Nate frowned. “I just saw something in that expression of yours that troubles me, Isa.”
Isa stared blankly past Nate.
“We ain’t gonna have any trouble here, are we?” Nate asked.
Isa broke away from his thoughts and fixed an uneasy stare on the oldest Gunn brother.
Nate’s face dropped slightly. “Are we?” he asked louder and more forcefully.
La muerte de vaca.
Nate tilted his head and tightened his mouth, waiting.
“No,” Isa smiled with a blank stare. His right hand lurched toward the Peacemaker. “No trouble at all.”
Eleven
July 1878 - The Western Trail, Indian Territory
An hour before dark, Nate, Charlie, and Ben sat saddled on the far side of Brushy Creek. Nate held the rein to the riderless and saddle-free Crow-hop in one hand.
