A Hundred Miles to Water

by Mike Kearby

  Nate’s eyes widened at E.B.’s agreement.

  “And,” E.B. continued, “that means sooner or later the colored will show up here to be with his cowboys.”

  “So what are we going to do?” asked Clark.

  E.B. looked down at the bodies and grinned. “You and Foss are going to wait here.”

  Clark’s expression changed to one of confusion.

  “Take these piebalds and hobble them like nothing happened here. Then haul these bodies back to camp and put them in their hot rolls like they’re fast asleep.”

  Nate laughed under his breath.

  “What?” huffed E.B.

  “Like nothing happened? The whole country’s burned-out and black, E.B.”

  “Don’t get smart, boy. That fire is exactly what is going to bring that colored-boy ’a running.”

  Foss ignored the two and threw his hat to the ground. “Well, I ain’t handling no dead bodies.”

  E.B. whirled and moved nose-to-nose with his mutinous son. “Oh yes you will, Foss, and when you’re finished with the bodies, you and your brother are going to wait for the colored to ride in and take care of him just as we did these boys here.”

  Foss clenched his jaw. “And where are we going to hide, E.B.? We’ve just burnt the scrub to the ground for a mile or more.”

  E.B. turned away unconcerned and responded offhandedly, “You’ll figure something out.”

  Nate offered Foss a knowing grin.

  Foss cursed under his breath and then muttered, “And what are you and Nate going to be doing all this while?”

  A depraved snarl tugged at E.B.’s lips. “Don’t get smart, boy!” he growled. “But seeing how you’re so keen to know, Nate and I are riding to the Reston headquarters to find Pure. And when we find him, I’m gonna send him off to be reunited with the rest of his clan.”

  Twenty-Four

  October 1878 - The -R Outrider Camp, Texas

  Just east of the -R headquarters, the heavy cloud of a wild fire became visible across the western horizon.

  Pure lifted his reins at the distant maelstrom with a whispered, “Whoa.”

  July followed Pure’s lead and glancing ahead said, “As dry as that scrub is, I reckoned it was only a matter of time before we saw one of these fires before winter.”

  “On almost any other occasion, I would agree with you, July, but seeing how that plume is rising from out near where our outriders are scouting, we might just have a problem on our hands.”

  July paused, taken aback. “Gunns?”

  “Them or the devil. Both seem determined to have our souls of late.”

  July refocused on the smoke cloud. “But why mess with them? Why not ride full force for the two of us?”

  Pure rolled his Snapping and Stretching gum forward to his front teeth. “Because I figure E.B. follows the old way of things,” he said and began popping the gum between his teeth.

  “The old way?” July asked.

  “The Kentucky blood feud way.”

  “Nasty sounding when you say it like that.”

  Pure gave a quick shake of his head. “It is, and once it starts it takes on a life all its own.”

  “And that’s what we’re all caught up in?”

  “Appears so.”

  “So, how does a Kentucky blood feud go down?”

  Pure set a steely gaze on the horizon. “It gets personal,” he said in a gravel-filled voice.

  “Family personal?”

  “More than that.” Pure said.

  “How far more?”

  Pure glanced over at July and bit down hard on the Snapping and Stretching gum. “Retaliation is extended to any and all associates—just like they were family.”

  July stared into the distance and squinted. The dark plume was suddenly more worrisome. “What’s the thinking of that?”

  “It tends to keep any outsiders from joining the fray.”

  July pushed the soles of his boots deep into his stirrups and arched his back. “We best get out there then.”

  Pure sat silent. The Snapping and Stretching gum bounced between his front teeth.

  July waited patiently for a full minute then said, “Pure?”

  “I don’t like the smell blowing from the west, July.”

  “But we ain’t got much choice other than ride out there,” July insisted.

  “Oh, we’re riding to check on our bunch,” Pure said and pointed north.

  July followed Pure’s gesture and gazed at the darkening north horizon.

  “Looks to be a storm gathering in the north,” Pure muttered with a fair amount of thought.

  July sniffed at the air. “This coming storm got you flustered?”

  Pure flipped up his collar as the first nip of cooler air arrived. “Well, I ain’t too keen on it.”

  “Looks to be moving fast.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Shouldn’t drop much moisture.”

  “Hard to say with a fall storm,” Pure said.

  A lone matchbush rolled across the scrub in front of them.

  July watched the plant with great interest. “True enough,” he said.

  The wind picked up and blew harder. Several tumbleweeds bounced past.

  Pure reached behind his saddle and untied his oilskin. He slipped the slicker over his head and then held his gaze back north. A gray curtain of rain began to drape earthward.

  July pushed his head through his oilskin. “That rain looks to be a mile or more away. Might not even reach us.”

  “Might not.”

  Rolling thunder growled across the sky as the approaching cold bumped into the warm air aloft.

  July tossed his eyes skyward. “I know you well enough to know that you’ve been giving this some thought.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s your call?”

  Pure reined his piebald’s head straight into the rapidly approaching front. “Just to be certain, we’re going to ride in from a different direction.”

  A solitary raindrop dotted July’s oilskin. July shivered uncontrollably. “Why?”

  “Sorta feels right to me.”

  A swirl of dust blew up around both men.

  July ducked his chin into his chest. “What sort of bushwhacking is it that’s waiting for us?”

  Pure squinted into the wind. His face showed a panged frown. “I don’t know yet. I just know something inside me says we shouldn’t gallop into that outrider camp head-on.”

  Twenty-Five

  October 1878 - North bank of the Nueces River, Texas

  The norther stalled over the most southern boundary of McMullen County. Pure and July dismounted on a faint rise of scrub above the Nueces beneath an unabated downpour. Across the river, the blackened landscape of the outrider camp projected a dreary image. July had a sense that the four horsemen, themselves would soon appear to drag him to hell.

  July removed a long glass from his pack and stared into the quiet camp. “Something’s not right,” he acknowledged and shook his head, confused. “The horses are hobbled, and the men all appear to be in their hot rolls.”

  Pure gazed skyward scowling. “Maybe they’re staying out of the rain.”

  July handed Pure the glass and watched intently as the -R owner scanned the camp.

  Pure pulled his eye away from the glass and muttered, “I think if our boys are in those hot rolls, then they’re all dead.”

  The words caused July’s chest to slump. A hiss of air rushed from his lungs. “You serious?” he asked incredulously, then added, “All seven?”

  “Most likely.”

  “How can that be?”

  Pure pushed the Snapping and Stretching gum deep into the front of his lower lip. “Dang if I know,” he muttered.

  July turned and gazed across the river once more. He rubbed the back of his neck and mumbled, “Can’t be. Can it?” A long pause followed the question and then further bewilderment. “All seven?”

  Pure stepped up into his saddle. “Even consi
dering the rain, I can’t think of one good reason for those hot rolls to be occupied this early in the afternoon, July,” he said in a low voice.

  “What about the storm?”

  Pure ignored the question and frowned at his ranch foreman. “And neither can you.”

  July grabbed his piebald’s saddle horn and swung up on the horse’s back. “Merciful, Lord,” he whispered and looked toward Pure.

  “You said it,” Pure muttered.

  “Now what?”

  Pure flipped his reins right. “Let’s ride west a little ways and cross the river.”

  July pushed his eyebrows together. “Why not cross here?”

  Pure leaned in close to July. A hard expression gathered on his face. “Because, I imagine if we were to do that, we’d be dead before we reached mid-stream.”

  July straightened and glanced toward the river. Small beads of perspiration popped across the bridge of his nose. He surveyed the barren landscape across the river.

  Pure started his horse west with a quick nod to the camp. “So let’s ride west where we stand a better chance of crossing upright.”

  July turned his horse and followed.

  Pure glanced back at his foreman and shrugged. “At least that way we’ll have a chance to spot where our assassins are hiding.”

  July nodded and muttered under his breath, “Damned Kentucky blood feud.”

  Thirty minutes later, both men dismounted with a tremble as the last remnant of the norther blew past. The passing rain mixed with the burnt scrub land to form a concoction of heavy black sludge that clung desperately to boots and leggings.

  July took one step forward and then kicked one boot awkwardly in the air in an attempt to dislodge a bite of the dark muck. “Might be a bit hard to ambush a man in this ooze, Pure.

  Pure ignored his foreman’s remarks and continued to flip the Snapping and Stretching gum from his bottom lip to his front teeth as his eyes intently gazed around the surrounding camp.

  July recognized Pure’s cogitating. Waiting patiently, he exhaled and tilted his head toward the ground. A small waterfall of water poured from the brim of his hat.

  Pure walked around his piebald and carefully slid his Henry from its leather holder.

  July straightened and lifted his brow. “What is it?” he asked in a whisper.

  Tight lipped, Pure lifted his chin toward July’s rifle.

  July looked at the gun and then reached over his saddle and yanked the rifle from its scabbard.

  Pure pulled his piebald’s head around and rested the rifle across his saddle.

  July expression became fuddled. He quickly re-positioned his horse, cocked the Henry, and then laid the rifle on the saddle seat.

  “Might keep you from slipping in the mud,” Pure said and pushed his shoulder into the gun.

  “What are we doing?” July whispered.

  Pure closed his left eye and drew a bead on the nearest hotroll. “Don’t ask questions, July. Just follow my lead.”

  July stared incredulously at Pure and then tossed a quick glance at his boss’s target. His mouth hung open, dumfounded.

  The first shot hit the nearest hot roll with a dull thud. The camp remained silent and still. Pure aimed at the next hot roll and pulled the Henry’s trigger.

  A leaden thump sounded.

  Pure opened his closed eye and glanced at July. “You gonna help or what?” he asked and then repositioned the Henry.

  July took aim on one of the hot rolls and mumbled, “I don’t even know what we’re doing.”

  Both guns exploded simultaneously.

  Pure’s target sounded with a muffled clump.

  July’s shot brought forth a loud groan and then slow movement from the bedding.

  “What the?”

  Pure moved his sight in rapid succession on each of the remaining targets. “Watch out now,” he shouted. “There’s bound to be more!”

  Suddenly, Foss Gunn jumped up from his concealment, screaming, and levering his Winchester.

  Pure set the Henry’s sight on the exposed man and pulled the trigger. The Henry bucked loudly.

  Foss dropped back into the hot roll, dead.

  A numb quiet fell over the camp.

  July lifted his head from the Henry. He stared at Pure in wonder. “They didn’t stand a chance.”

  “That’s how I prefer them.”

  “How’d you know?

  Pure swung his rifle from the piebald’s back and laid the gun across his shoulder. “I could smell them both,” he said in disgust.

  The next morning, after burying the -R cowboys, Pure and July followed the Nueces south and west. The bodies of Foss and Clark rested face-down across the back of their ponies.

  In the early afternoon, Pure stopped along the banks of the river on Gunn land and studied a sizeable oak tree.

  “We’ll hang them both here,” he said. His voice betrayed no emotion.

  July swallowed and glanced over at Pure. “They aren’t going to get any deader,” he offered.

  Pure’s face reddened at July’s words. He cast a steely gaze at his foreman. “We’re gonna hang them here and then set them both afire.”

  July’s expression dropped. “We’re gonna what?” he asked, incredulous.

  The Snapping and Stretching gum popped loudly in Pure’s mouth. “We gonna hang ’em and burn ’em,” he said. His voice was strong and unwavering.

  “Pure…we can’t…we can’t do that?”

  “Why not?”

  July grabbed his hat and rolled the brim downward. “Why . . .” he started, suddenly riled. “Did you ask, why not?”

  Pure stared straight into July’s eyes. His pupils contracted into small black dots. “That’s what I said.”

  “Bu…But, why, Pure?” July stuttered.

  “It’s E.B. who set up our direction, not me.”

  “Our direction?

  “The rules, July. How we conduct ourselves out here.”

  “Rules? What rules?”

  Pure raised a hand to his mouth and removed the Snapping and Stretching gum with his finger and thumb. He glanced at the chewed chicle briefly and then tossed it into the dirt.

  “I don’t want any part of hanging and burning dead men, Pure.”

  “It’s too late for that, July.”

  “It’s not too late for me.”

  “You told me once that I couldn’t switch my horse mid-stream.”

  July tightened his lips against his teeth and muttered to himself.

  Pure settled the tip of his boot over the discarded gum and ground it into the ground. “I told you before; we’re following the old way of doing things now.”

  July shook his head. His expression turned from disbelief to disgust. “Well I ain’t liking it none,” he said. His voice was low and strained.

  “For what it’s worth, neither do I.”

  July untied a coil of rope from his off-side latigo and stepped down from his horse. He walked briskly for the hanging tree, lariat in-hand, and mumbled under his breath, “Damned Kentucky blood feud.”

  Journal Entry - In 1903, the San Antonio Express News interviewed me on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the feud. The interviewer told me that vendetta was an Italian word. Its origin was from Latin…vindicta, which means vengeance. I told that reporter that those Italian fellas seemed to have a pretty solid grip on the word. And I will admit to you that since those days, I have come to realize that in many ways vengeance is sorta like a beeve stampede. Because once one starts, everyone near-by joins in. And I believe on judgement day, my participation in the hanging and setting of Foss and Clark Gunn’s bodies afire after the dust-up on the Nueces will merit a lengthy explanation to my maker. Even though both of them deserved the death we gave them, I don’t think either merited mutilation. But by that time, the cycle of killing, both Gunns and Restons, had proceeded to a point where the only way either family would ever have peace from the vendetta was through outside influence or by the killing of all on one s
ide. What I didn’t know until days later was that on the morning Pure and I rode into Dogtown, Pure had Mr. Edwards send for the Texas Rangers. People can think what they will about Pure…but he knew full well how deep he was sinking into the violence and retaliation, and that the man he started seeing every morning in the shaving mirror was a stranger he didn’t much care for. And that’s why he sent for help. The Rangers arrived a week after we killed Foss and Clark, but by then, Dogtown had also taken sides in the feud and those siding with the Gunns had sent word warning E.B. and Nate about the Rangers. I can’t tell you for certain how that news affected E.B., but I can promise you he must’ve been none too happy about it, because before he and Nate lit out for Mexico, they burned the -R headquarters to the ground. And while the Rangers wouldn’t venture across the Rio Grande…it didn’t hold Pure back any. And he seemed to arrive at a peace with himself, understanding that the only way he could end the feud was by blood. After that day, he never talked about being tired of killing or seeking peace with the Gunns. It seemed that the whole reason for the feud had become lost somewhere among the blood and the bodies.

  And what I write here now… is something I haven’t ever shared with another living soul. But I reckon it’s time to record what really went on when Pure and I rode across the border in December of ’78.

  Part Two

  Assassin

  (n). one who murders by surprise attack.

  Twenty-Six

  December 1878 - Across the Border in Tamaulipas, Mexico

  Pure twisted in his saddle and squinted back into the morning sun rising fast on the Texas side of the Rio Grande. “Now that’s something,” he said.

  July twisted the stopper out of a water bladder and lifted the bag to his lips. “Makes a man feel kind of naked being out of his own country,” he said and took a long drink.

  “I was thinking more of Stonewall Jackson’s last words.”

  July lowered the bladder. A slight shudder flashed across his shoulders. “Is that supposed to provide some comfort to me?”