Bitter Trail and Barbed Wire

by Elmer Kelton

“No,” said Wheeler, “we’ve never had any trouble with the captain.” He smiled then, but behind the smile was a dead seriousness. “I’m just an old dirt farmer. Nobody bothers me. Now you come along with us and get some rest.”

  Trudy Wheeler reached far into the overturned water barrel on the ground beside the blackened wagon, and found a little water there. She soaked a handkerchief in it and returned to Monahan. “We’re going to clean that wound.”

  She paid no attention to his objections. Her fingers were quick and sure and gentle. Watching her closely, keenly aware of the nearness of her, Monahan realized that Trudy Wheeler was less a girl than she was a woman, that there was much of beauty and maturity about her that a man might miss the first time he looked.

  “Too bad we have nothing to put on this,” she said as she finished. A bottle of iodoform had been smashed when the chuckbox fell.

  Bailey brought out his bottle again, gazed regretfully at the little bit still in the bottom of it, and handed it to her. “Here.”

  It burned worse outside than it had inside.

  “You-all catch up your horses,” Trudy Wheeler said. “You’re going over to our place.”

  Monahan was a little surprised at the firmness of her voice. He had first reckoned her as quiet and meek. Now he had a feeling that there was nothing meek about her.

  He gave in because the men had to sleep somewhere, and there was nothing left of the camp. “Just for tonight, then. Tomorrow we’ll leave.”

  * * *

  DOUG MONAHAN HALF expected to see the usual next-to-starvation look he had found in so many dugout and brush-corral nester outfits, including some of the farms over on Oak Creek. He was surprised. Hard work and careful planning had gone into Noah Wheeler’s place, and it showed.

  “Got four sections here,” Wheeler said proudly. “That is, I’m sort of partners with a bank in Fort Worth, you might say. Most of it’s still grazing land. I’ve got sixty or seventy acres broken out, about all I can farm by myself.”

  Four sections. If you went by deeded land, that probably made Noah Wheeler about as big an actual landowner as there was in this part of the country right now. That was more than twenty-five hundred acres, if you figured land that way. This wasn’t the high-rainfall land of East Texas. Here it took more land to produce as much, and most people figured it in sections instead of by acres.

  Monahan wondered if Captain Rinehart owned title to as much as four sections. He probably did; most of the cowmen hereabouts had bought the land where they built their headquarters, and where they could, they bought that around their best water. Control of the water gave control of the land, even though the most of it still belonged to the state, or to schools, or to the railroads which had received it as a grant in earlier times. The ranchers ran their cattle on this land without let because so far there had been little other claim on it. They might own only one section in fee, yet control twenty.

  There were some who owned no land at all but simply let their cattle run loose on the open range. By unwritten rule, such land could be used by the first man who claimed it, and any other man who tried to usurp it had better throw a mighty big shadow. Gordon Finch had tried, and he hadn’t made it. This unwritten title was so well established by custom that a man might sell his ranch to another without actually owning the land.

  Fifteen or twenty good Durham cows were grazing in a green winter oat patch. Monahan noted that there was no fence around it. Wheeler proudly waved his hand toward the cattle.

  “That’s going to be the end of the Longhorn. I’m building me a nice little herd of Durhams. You won’t find any better in a hundred miles. I’ve already got a few cowmen buying bulls from me, and I’ll sell a lot more as my herd grows. A few years from now, they’ll have the Longhorn blood pretty well bred out of the country.”

  The three cows the Wheelers had brought back trotted out into the field toward the others, pausing here and there to grab a bite of green oats.

  Monahan frowned. “This is wide-open country. How can you hold your strain pure if you can’t keep the native bulls out of here?”

  Wheeler said, “That’s the biggest trouble we got. We just have to ride our country good every day or two and run the Longhorns out. It’s the best we can do. A Longhorn calf shows up from one of our cows, we just have to figure on making beef of it. We can’t keep it in the herd.”

  They skirted past the oatfield. Next to it, lying fallow through the winter, was Wheeler’s hay land, plowed clean and neat, the furrows arrow-straight. This field was circled by two strands of slick wire put up on crooked mesquite posts.

  “Will that fence turn a cow back?” Monahan asked.

  Wheeler shook his head. “Not if she wants in very bad. And when the field is green, they want in.”

  A Durham bull and two cows came plodding back from water.

  “There’s my bull,” Wheeler said. “He’s got a pedigree and a name as long as your arm, but I just call him Sancho because he’s such a pet.”

  He was a big roan bull, not so leggy as the Longhorns but deeper-bodied, with flanks coming down farther and a wide, full rump that would carve out a lot of beef.

  “The only trouble with him,” Wheeler commented, “he can’t outfight these native bulls. I almost had to shoot one of Fuller Quinn’s the other day to keep him from killing Sancho. But one way of looking at it, old Sancho will win out in the long run. His progeny’ll still be around when the Longhorns are gone.”

  Pride glowed in Wheeler’s voice. “It’s nice to be able to count your cattle in the thousands like Captain Rinehart, but I’ll settle for having better quality.”

  A scattering of chickens scratched all about the place. Ducks swam leisurely in a large earthen tank. A few hogs rooted around in damp ground in a pen back a healthy distance east of the house.

  Noah Wheeler’s solid frame house stood near a spring that bubbled a strong, clear stream of water, the beginnings of a small creek which wound down past the fields and out across the grazing land. Both the house and the barn behind it were painted a bright red. Red barn paint was cheap and not hard to get.

  “Built that house myself,” said Wheeler. “Hauled the lumber down from the railroad right after they built into Stringtown.”

  It was a good house, a pleasant-looking house, though not a big one. Monahan wondered where the old stockfarmer intended to bed them down.

  “There’s a lean-to out in the barn,” Wheeler said. “Built it for my son, Vern. If we can’t find enough bedding for you fellers, we got plenty of hay out there to help stretch it.”

  “What about your son?” Monahan asked. “Won’t we be crowding him?”

  Wheeler shook his head. “Farming got too slow for Vern. He’s over at the R Cross, working for the captain.” His voice held a touch of regret. “Vern’s not cut out for a plow, I guess. There’s work aplenty here for both of us, but he’d rather cowboy and be on his own. We don’t see him much anymore.”

  Trudy Wheeler smiled. “There’s a girl in town, and he’s saving every dime he can. He’s afraid if he gets off of that ranch he’ll spend some money.”

  Noah Wheeler rode past the barn and stood up in the stirrups, looking over into a corral. “Wonder if old Roany’s had her calf yet?”

  Monahan saw a fine Durham cow that was springing heavy, and had made a bag. It was easy to see that the calf was due any day now.

  “Roany’s my pet,” Wheeler said. “Best cow I ever owned, or ever saw, for that matter. She’s fixing to have a calf by Sancho, and it’ll be the best one in the country when it gets here, I’d bet my boots on that.”

  Trudy Wheeler smiled. “Dad’s been like a kid at Christmas, waiting for that calf.”

  Noah Wheeler dismounted and opened a corral gate. “Bring your horses on in. We got plenty of feed for them. While you get unsaddled, Trudy and the missus will rustle you up something to eat.”

  Doug found Mrs. Wheeler a strong, clear-eyed farm woman who talked with her husband’s warm enthu
siasm for their place and for the country in general. She ran the house in a quiet fashion but with a firm hand. Doug thought he could see where Trudy Wheeler had gotten her deceptively shy manner.

  Suddenly Monahan was glad he had come. Sitting here in the front room of their little house, enjoying the company of these good people, he had forgotten his own trouble for a time.

  Noah Wheeler said, “You haven’t got any business moving out till you get yourself rested a little. Why don’t you stay with us a day or two?”

  “Just tonight. We’ll leave in the morning.”

  “What do you figure on doing?”

  Monahan’s face darkened. “I’m not real sure what I’ll do later. But first thing, I’ve got a bill to collect from Gordon Finch.”

  3

  Finch’s headquarters lay near the bottom of a long slope, with a big shallow natural lake just below it, lying lazy in the late-winter sun. Spotted cattle of every color watered at its edge, which already was beginning to shrink away from the rank growth of weeds and grass that had sprung up after last summer’s rains and now lay dead and brown from the winter frost.

  Doug Monahan skirted the lake, Stub Bailey riding beside him. He had sent the rest of the men directly to town to wait for him. In a quick splash of water, cattle scattered as the two horsemen approached. After running a short way, they would turn and look back, ready to run again if it appeared the riders were coming after them.

  “Natural location for a ranch headquarters,” Stub observed. “Old man named Jenks settled it first. They say Finch cheated him out of it someway or other.”

  Sitting high on the slope was a big rock house that would be Gordon Finch’s. Riding in, Monahan saw corrals that had loose or broken planks and needed repair. A gate sagged and was half patched with wire. An old broken-down wagon stood right where the axle had snapped. No one had bothered to fix it or move it out of the way. Weeds had grown up through the rotting wagonbed.

  Monahan rode up to the house, dismounted and strode up the steps. This had been built out of rock hauled in from a breaky stretch of hills a mile or so off yonder up the creek, and Doug was reasonably sure it had been built by Finch’s predecessor. It was too good for Finch.

  He walked across the lumber-built gallery and knocked on the door. A dog trotted around the corner and began barking at him, but there was no answer from within. Monahan knocked again, trying to see through the unclean oval glass. There was a good chance Finch was inside, avoiding him, but pushing in might give Finch an excuse to put the sheriff on him. Monahan turned and walked back down to the horses. The dog followed him partway, still barking.

  Down across the yard was a long frame building with smoke curling out of a tin chimney.

  “We’ll try the cookshack,” Monahan told Bailey. “One thing we know for sure, he likes to eat.”

  A man stood in the cookshack door, blocking Monahan’s way. Monahan sensed that he had come to the right place.

  “Mr. Finch ain’t here,” growled the ranchhand. He was one of those who had been supposed to help guard the fencing camp.

  Monahan eyed him closely. “You sure?”

  “I said he ain’t.”

  “I heard you,” Monahan replied, and made a move toward the door.

  The cowboy reached behind him and brought up a shotgun. “Stay where you’re at, Monahan.”

  Monahan heard footsteps behind him. He turned quickly, not wanting to be caught between two of Finch’s men. He saw the cowboy named Dundee, who had been with Finch at the fencing camp.

  “Don’t pay him no mind, Monahan,” Dundee said, humor flickering in his brown eyes. “He won’t use that shotgun. And Finch is in there, all right, a-hiding from you. Been lookin’ back over his shoulder ever since we rode away from your camp.”

  Monahan stared curiously at Dundee, then back to the cowboy at the door. “Well,” he asked flatly, “what about it?”

  The cowboy slowly lowered the shotgun and stood back. Monahan stepped through the door and blinked in the dim light. There behind the bare dinner table sat Finch, a cup of coffee and a whisky bottle in front of him. He scowled, but in his eyes Monahan could see the sick touch of fear.

  “What you want, Monahan?”

  “I want my pay.”

  “You didn’t finish that fence. I don’t owe you nothing.”

  Monahan stiffened. “Paco Sanchez was worth more to me than all the land and cattle you’ll ever own, and you got him killed. But I’ll settle for payment for two miles of fence, completed. Twenty-one spools of barbed wire, burned. All the posts I can’t salvage. And two wagons. I got that figured down to twenty-four hundred dollars, even money. I’ll take a check, right now.”

  Finch shoved his chair back. “I ain’t paying you nothing, Monahan. You took that job, and you didn’t finish it.”

  “Finch, you used me to try to run a bluff you didn’t have the guts for yourself. You ran off like a scalded dog and left me and my men to take the whipping for you. You’re going to pay me for that.”

  Finch turned to the man at the door. “Put him out of here, Haskell. If he won’t go, use that shotgun.”

  The man raised the gun but hesitated to move further. Dundee stepped through the door and placed a firm hand on Haskell’s arm. “If he wants Monahan run off, let him do it hisself.”

  Finch reddened. “Dundee, you’re fired.”

  Dundee shrugged. “I was fixin’ to leave anyhow. This outfit’s washed up.”

  Bailey appeared in the doorway, prepared to help Monahan if Dundee threw in with Finch. But that wasn’t going to happen. Monahan looked at the cowboy, thanking him with his eyes. Then he turned back to Finch. “If you haven’t got a blank check, I have.”

  He pulled one out of his shirt pocket and dropped it on the table. “I got it filled out. All you got to do is sign it.”

  Finch blustered. “You can’t get away with this. It’s robbery.”

  Monahan shook his head. “It’s payment for a job. Legal. And I got a witness.” He glanced at Dundee, and was caught off guard when Finch lunged, fist catching Monahan on the nose and flinging him backward against a cabinet. Tin plates and cups clattered to the floor. A bottle rolled down and smashed.

  Then anger gushed through Monahan. He surged back at Finch. His fist caught Finch’s jaw a hard blow that jerked the man’s head back. Finch staggered a step or two. Fear flickered in his eyes as he stared wildly at Monahan. He had triggered this fight out of desperation, and now suddenly he was afraid, not knowing how to stop it.

  Hatred burned in Monahan, but he checked himself. Finch would not fight back now. Do what he might, Monahan later would be ashamed of himself. He gripped Finch’s collar and jerked him up close. He heaved him backward into a chair.

  “Sign that check, Finch.”

  Finch signed it while Monahan tried to stop his nosebleed.

  Dundee moved a step inside the door. “Just as well write me one too. I got a month’s pay comin’.”

  Never looking up, Finch dug a blank check from his wallet and wrote it out. He turned away then, staring out the greasy cookshack window, sagging in defeat.

  Bailey still stood at the door, hand on his gun, ready in case the trouble got bigger than Monahan was.

  “Let’s go to town, Stub.”

  Dundee followed them out. “Be all right with you if I tag along? Looks like my business around here is all wound up.”

  Monahan shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “I got a warbag and a roll over at the bunkhouse and a horse in the corral,” Dundee said. “I got no good-byes to say.”

  Directly he rode back, thin bedroll secured behind the saddle, a warbag of clothing and personal belongings hanging from the saddlehorn atop his rope. He rode a long-legged bay horse that had a strong showing of Thoroughbred. Monahan looked questioningly at the bay.

  “Don’t worry, he’s mine,” Dundee said. “Owned him when I came here, and I’ve had to pay Finch for all the feed he’s et.”

  T
hey edged around the lake, scattering cattle again. Monahan showed some uncertainty about the trail to town, and Dundee pointed it out.

  “What’ll you do now, Dundee?” Monahan asked after a while.

  Dundee shrugged and rolled himself a cigarette. “Never gone hungry yet. What about you?”

  “Buy me a new outfit and start over again, more than likely.”

  Dundee’s eyebrows went up. “You mean build more fence?”

  “It’s a living.”

  “You’re on Rinehart’s list now. You build another fence around here and the captain’s liable to wrap that bobwire around your neck.”

  Monahan’s voice was grim. “He won’t find it easy to do.”

  * * *

  IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON when they reached town. Stub Bailey was looking toward the saloon and licking his lips. But Monahan had his eyes on the bank.

  “First thing I got to do is deposit this check before Finch sends in here to stop payment.”

  Dundee said, “I reckon I can use my money, too.”

  Bailey pulled his horse aside. “Go ahead, then. You-all know where I’ll be at,” and he turned in and dismounted at the nearest saloon.

  The teller was a small, middle-aged man, bald and friendly looking. He glanced at Monahan’s check, and his forehead wrinkled in surprise.

  “What’s the matter?” Monahan asked, suddenly worried.

  The teller shook his head. “Nothing wrong, Mr. Monahan. Just endorse it, will you?”

  While Doug scrawled his name across the check with a scratchy bank pen, another man stepped out of a back office. He was a huge old gentleman, weighing perhaps three hundred pounds. Grinning, the teller said, “Albert, come over here, will you? Mr. Monahan, I want you to meet Albert Brown, president of the bank. Albert, you’ve lost a bet.”

  Pulling his glasses down from his forehead to his nose, the portly banker read Finch’s check and the endorsement. “Well, well,” he mused with humor, “I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  The teller explained. “You see, Mr. Monahan, when you first came here, Albert bet me ten dollars Gordon Finch would weasel out of paying you for any fence you might build. After I heard what happened yesterday, I was ready to forfeit to him.”