Ralph Compton Brother's Keeper

by Ralph Compton

  “My pard knows all about rattlers,” Ned said. “He’s an expert.”

  Jesse Lee laughed.

  “I knew a puncher once who got a hankerin’ go be an ore hound,” Crawford went on. “So he took himself to Arizona, bought a mule and a shovel and a pan, and went to it.” He paused. “Apaches staked him out and skinned him alive.”

  “I’m not about to be no prospector,” Ned said.

  Thal gazed up at the sky, which had darkened and was filling with stars. “Thank you, Lord.”

  “There’s a lot of talk about gold up the Black Hills way,” Jesse Lee remarked. “Ever since Custer found some.”

  “There’s also a lot of Sioux in the Black Hills,” Crawford said, “and you might recollect that they wiped out Custer and most of his command.”

  “They’re as unfriendly as the Comanches,” Jesse Lee said.

  “I’m not hankerin’ to go to the Black Hills either,” Ned informed them. “I was thinkin’ more like driftin’ up Denver way, and maybe Montana, after.”

  “News to me,” Thal said. “A pard is always the last to know.”

  “What’s in Denver besides whores?” Crawford said. “I hear tell they’ve got more than just about anywhere.”

  “More than New Orleans?” Jesse Lee said.

  Crawford nodded. “More than a thousand work the line, I’ve heard. They call it the Row, and it’s wide-open.”

  Jesse Lee whistled. “That’s a heap of whores.”

  “I wouldn’t go to Denver for the whores,” Ned said, sounding irritated. “I’d go to take in the sights.”

  “Which?” Jesse Lee said.

  “How the blazes do I know? I ain’t been there yet.”

  “It seems to me,” Crawford said, “that you’ve got ants in your britches, and unless you scratch powerful hard, they’re liable to lead you to who knows where.”

  “Now it’s ants,” Ned said in disgust.

  “Well, it’s somethin’,” Thal said. “But you’re my pard and I’ll stick by you.”

  That was what pards did. He’d tried to explain that once to a drummer from back East. The drummer wasn’t acquainted with cowpoke lingo and thought that a pard was the same as being a friend. Thal had set him straight. A pard was more than that. A pard was a range mate, a bunkhouse companion, confidant, adviser. A pard was more a brother than anything. Pards were inseparable, and would do anything for each other. Which was why most chose their pards with care. A bad pard could bring a man to ruin.

  “Don’t pack your war bag just yet,” Ned said. “I ain’t even decided if I’m goin’ to go.”

  “I hope you don’t,” Jesse Lee said. “You two are the best friends Craw and me have.”

  “If you were to drift, I might even go with you,” Crawford said.

  Jesse Lee gave him a sharp glance. “For real?”

  “You say that a lot,” Crawford said.

  “For real?” Jesse Lee said again.

  Crawford chuckled, and shrugged. “I haven’t seen much of the world my own self, and as you three chipmunks keep pointin’ out, I’ll be sproutin’ gray hairs any day now.”

  “Chipmunks?” Ned said.

  “Ever see how a chipmunk’s cheeks bulge when it’s gatherin’ up nuts and such?” Crawford said.

  “I have,” Ned replied.

  “Well, your heads are a lot like their cheeks.”

  “Are you sayin’ we’re the cheeks or the nuts?”

  “Guess,” Crawford said, and laughed.

  “If anyone ever tells you that you have a sense of humor,” Ned said, “shoot him.”

  Now it was Thal who laughed. It struck him how much he liked these three, and working at the Crescent H. He hoped Ned didn’t give in to his wanderlust. It would be a shame to give up the good life they had.

  Off in the growing darkness, hooves drummed.

  A puncher who was spreading out his blanket looked up and said, “Someone is comin’.”

  “Who’s left that ain’t here?” another man asked.

  They all looked around, and then Old Pete said, “No one is left except the two ridin’ herd. And the rider ain’t comin’ from that direction.”

  Thal rose to his feet, and he wasn’t the only one. Whoever it was was riding hard, and that was unusual unless there was an urgency involved.

  “He’s in an awful hurry.” Ned had said the very thing that Thal was thinking.

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the rider drew rein in a flurry of dust and dismounted.

  “Why, it’s Hank,” Jesse Lee said.

  Hank Winslow was the Crescent H foreman. Like their cook, he had a reputation for being one of the best in the business. He had more experience with cattle than just about anyone, and he was fair in all his dealings. So long as a puncher did his job to the best of his ability, Hank was willing to forgive the occasional mistake. But cross him, and he came down on the offender like a stampede.

  Hank didn’t look all that tough, which was deceptive. He had a square jaw and a scar on his chin from the time he was kicked by a bronc. Now he nodded and said simply, “Boys.”

  Old Pete produced a cup of coffee. “Here’s some Arbuckle’s to wash down the dust.”

  “I’m obliged,” Hank said.

  “If you came to check up on us,” a cowboy named Fisher said, “you’ll be happy to hear there hasn’t been a hitch.”

  Another puncher nodded. “The roundup is goin’ exactly as you wanted. We’re even ahead on the count.”

  “It’s not the cows I’m here about,” Hank said, and shocked Thal by pointing at him. “It’s Christie here.”

  “Me?” Thal blurted.

  “There’s been a development,” Hanks said. “The big sugar sent me to fetch you back.”

  “Me?” Thal blurted a second time. He couldn’t imagine a single circumstance that would call for the ranch owner to send for him.

  “He’s not bein’ fired, is he?” Ned said. “Because if he is, when he goes, I go.”

  “Why would we fire a good hand like Thalis?” Hank said, and grinned. “Now, you, on the other hand . . .”

  Old Pete cackled and some of the others joined in.

  “It’s nice to be loved,” Ned said.

  “What can Mr. Hooper possibly want with me?” Thal asked. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “He got a letter,” Hank said.

  “Mr. Hooper did?”

  “It wasn’t President Grant.”

  Old Pete did more cackling.

  “Mr. Hooper got a letter that has somethin’ to do with me?” Thal was unable to hide his bewilderment.

  “It’s from your sister,” Hank said.

  “Ursula?”

  “If she’s the only sister you’ve got, that’s who it must be.”

  Thal could have been floored with a feather. He’d left home nearly six years ago and hadn’t heard from them the entire time. Not that he blamed them. He’d only ever sent word to them once, about hiring on at the Crescent H, and how much he liked it. “Is it my ma or my pa? Are they sick or dead?”

  “Mr. Hooper didn’t say and I didn’t ask,” Hank replied. “The letter was addressed to him. I wasn’t there when he read it. All I know is that he sent for me and told me to fetch you right back, and here I am. We’ll leave at first light.” He turned and went over to some other punchers.

  Ned placed his hand on Thal’s shoulder. “Don’t look so stricken. Maybe it’s good news.”

  “Sure,” Thal said. He didn’t believe it for a minute. Letters from home were rare, and nearly always brought bad tidings. Something was wrong. He felt it in his bones.

  “You should turn in early and try to get some sleep, pard,” Ned advised.

  “Fat chance,” Thal said.

  Chapter 4


  Ezekiel and Carmody Hooper were third-generation Texans.

  Zeke’s grandfather had come West from Ohio with a small inheritance. He’d bought up all the land he could and took to ranching like a duck took to water, which was remarkable given that back in Ohio he’d made his living as a store clerk. He started with a small herd and grew from there. Zeke’s father expanded the herd, and their range, even more, and turned the Crescent H into a prosperous example of what a ranch could be when it was run right.

  Their prosperity was reflected in the ranch house. Three stories high, it had a porch that ran around the entire house, with whitewashed pillars and a railing carved in a flowery design. Inside, the home was downright extravagant. Polished mahogany floors, a music room, a den and library—the house had it all.

  Thal had only stepped foot inside twice before, and each time had intimidated him. He wasn’t used to so much wealth. It made him nervous to walk on floors so clean he could eat off them. He wanted to take his spurs off before going in, but Hank didn’t give him time. No sooner did they dismount than the foreman ushered him and Ned inside.

  Thal had asked if his pard could come along, and Hank didn’t object.

  Now, standing in the cool hallway with their hats in hand, they waited for Hank to return. He’d gone to announce them, as he put it.

  “Lordy, this place is somethin’,” Ned said quietly, as if they were in church. He gestured at a small table with a vase that held fresh flowers. “I’m afraid to touch anything for fear it might break.”

  “I know what you mean,” Thal said. He was more concerned, though, about his sister’s letter.

  “I wonder if you and me will ever live high on the hog like this.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “What kind of way is that to talk?” Ned said. “Where’s your confidence? You and me could start our own ranch someday, and it could do right well. You never know.”

  “I know I’m not as smart as Mr. Hooper,” Thal said. His pa always used to say that a man should know his limitations, and Thal liked to think that he knew his. He wasn’t a fast thinker, like some. He knew a lot about horses and cows, and that was about it. As for running a business, especially a large operation like a ranch, that took more than he felt he had in him.

  “I bet we could do it,” Ned persisted. “We’d learn as we go, like most folks. Maybe we’d make mistakes, but we’d have a good ranch, and make do.”

  “I admire your pluck,” Thal said.

  “I wish you had more of it yourself.”

  Thal was taken aback. Ned hardly ever criticized him. Not a serious criticism anyway. “Well, we are how we are.”

  “Not so,” Ned said. “We can change. No one stays the same their whole life long.”

  “I meant in how we think and what we can do.”

  “So did I. It’s not like we go from the cradle to our grave always the same. We grow, don’t we? We start out as babies and end up as old men.”

  “That’s our bodies,” Thal said. He was watching down the hall for Hank to reappear.

  “So what? Our minds can grow just like our bodies do. I don’t think the same way now as I did when I was wavin’ a rattle around and poopin’ my diapers. That’s because my mind has grown.”

  “Maybe you only think it has,” Thal said. “Maybe it’s the same mind, but all you did was fill it with words.”

  “That’s ridiculous. It’s not only words. We do things. We experience things. We grow from that too.”

  Thal shrugged. “All I know is that I’m the same person now as I was when I was ten. I’m bigger, sure. And I know more stuff. But I’m still the same person.”

  “You have a strange—” Ned began, and stopped.

  Hank had stepped out of a doorway and was beckoning.

  “Here we go,” Ned said.

  Thal had butterflies in his belly. For all this fuss to be made, he had a hunch either his ma or his pa had died, or maybe his younger brother, Myles. His sister had to be all right. She wrote the letter.

  “Mr. Hooper will see you,” Hank said, and stepped aside so they could enter the parlor.

  Mr. and Mrs. Hooper were seated on a plush settee. She wore a lovely dress with a high collar, and her shoes were polished to a sheen. He wore a suit, which wasn’t unusual, as he only donned work clothes when he had work to do.

  “Howdy, men,” their employer said, rising to greet them.

  As nervous as a cat in a room full of dogs, Thal shook and nodded and said, “Mr. Hooper.”

  “Call me Zeke. I prefer that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thal smiled at the wife. “Pleased to see you again, ma’am.”

  “Same here, ma’am,” Ned said.

  Mrs. Hooper had remained seated. She smiled in return but didn’t say anything.

  “Have a seat,” Mr. Hooper directed, indicating nearby chairs.

  “We’re not all that clean,” Thal said. He hadn’t been able to take a bath in over a week, and he sorely missed it.

  “Nonsense. Be seated.”

  Roosting as delicately as if he were sitting on a flower, Thal complied. He began to wring his hat, and caught himself.

  “We won’t keep you in suspense,” Mr. Hooper said. “As Hank has no doubt explained, I’ve received a letter from your sister.”

  “Ursula,” Thal said.

  “Yes. It was addressed specifically to me and not to you. I hope you won’t mind, but I’ve let my wife read it too. Only us. No one else knows the contents. Not even Hank.”

  “Do you want me to go, then?” the foreman asked.

  “No, you stay,” Mr. Hooper said. “You should know his decision as soon as he makes it, since you might have to reassign some of the hands.”

  “My decision?” Thal said.

  “You’ll understand shortly.” Mr. Hooper sat back down on the settee and touched his wife’s arm. “I’d like Carmody to read the letter. Since it’s from your sister, that’s only fitting.”

  Thal didn’t see how, but didn’t say so.

  Mrs. Hooper reached down beside her and picked up an opened envelope. Extracting the letter, she unfolded it, smoothed it in her lap, and gave a slight cough. “‘My dearest brother,’” she began.

  Thal felt his ears grow warm. Ursula and he had always gotten along well. She was five years younger, only seventeen to his twenty-two. Their brother Myles was twenty.

  Mrs. Hooper had looked over as if expecting him to say something, and when Thal merely sat there, she went on. “‘I’m writing this to your employer. I would have written to you, only you can’t read.’” She stopped and looked up again.

  Thal squirmed in his chair. “That’s true,” he felt compelled to say. “Not real well anyhow. My ma taught us the alphabet and such, but I always had to wrestle with the words to make sense of them. The letters never look right.”

  “How’s that again?” Mr. Hooper said.

  “The letters,” Thal repeated. “When I try to read, they’re jumbled or upside down. I don’t know why that is.”

  “How unusual,” his employer said.

  “I’ve heard of one or two people with a similar condition,” Mrs. Hooper remarked. “They’re born that way, I’ve been informed. It’s very sad.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Thal agreed, although reading had never been high on his list of favorite things to do.

  Mrs. Hooper bent to the letter once more. “‘Please ask your employer to forgive my boldness, but I am at my wit’s end and have nowhere else to turn. Ma and Pa can’t help, so that leaves you.’”

  Thal sat straighter. He had been right; something terrible must have happened.

  “‘Myles has left home,’” Mrs. Hooper continued. “‘He’s older than you were when you left, and went off to make his mark in the world. What is it with you men that you have to leave yo
ur marks?’” Mrs. Hooper paused, and chuckled. “She has that right. You men truly do.”

  “Carmody, please,” Mr. Hooper said.

  “Sorry.” Mrs. Hooper gave another light cough. “‘I asked Myles not to go. I told him Pa can use his help around the farm. But Myles wouldn’t listen. He has that mark to make. I did persuade him to write to me every chance he got, and he did so regularly for a while. He’d heard about that gold rush in the Black Hills and wrote that he was thinking of going there to make his fortune. I wrote back, warning him how dangerous it was. The Sioux have been scalping folks. And the country is infested with cutthroats. Ma says she’s heard that there are killings and robberies and lynchings all over the place, and that no God-fearing Christian should go anywhere near that country. I wrote and told Myles, but he wrote back that he was going anyway. It about brought me to tears.’” Mrs. Hooper stopped.

  “Is your throat dry, my dear?” Mr. Hooper asked. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “I’m fine,” Mrs. Hooper said. She was staring at Thal. “Your sister cares for your brother and you very much.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re fortunate in that regard. My own sister and I have never gotten along. Even less so after I married Zeke. She’s jealous, I believe.”

  Mr. Hooper frowned. “Do you deem it wise to air our family linen in public? It’s none of their concern.”

  “I was only making conversation,” Mrs. Hooper said. “But very well.” She continued. “‘In his last letter, Myles went on and on about someplace called American City. I never heard of it and don’t know where it is except that it’s supposed to be right in the heart of the Black Hills. I wrote back asking him to let me know when he got there and how he was faring, but three months went by and I didn’t receive a single letter. So I wrote to American City, general delivery, care of the marshal. I don’t even know if they have one, but most towns do. I asked about Myles, and if there was any chance someone could inform me of his whereabouts and his health. To my surprise, I received a letter from a Mr. Tweed. He didn’t say who he was or what he does. It was short and to the point, and said only that Myles had been shot and was recovering.’”