The Ellsworth Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “It was my brother, Chad. Abel killed Twyla.”

  Chad’s face froze into a rigid mask as if the breath had been sucked out of him and all that remained was a lifeless shell.

  Chapter 2

  Chad opened his mouth to speak, but his first utterance was a long, soulful gasp as if he were expiring on the spot. Blood drained from his face and, for a moment, Jock thought the man was going to have some kind of a fit, or worse, suffer a stroke. The shock, he decided, was genuine.

  “Chad?”

  Another long moment passed before Chad found his voice. The first sentence, however, came out as a gravelly croak, as if he were being throttled by an invisible hand.

  “Did I hear you right, Jock? Abel killed Twyla? No, that can’t be.”

  Twyla. The sound of her name made Jock wince inside as if he had been stung by a hornet unexpectedly. Twyla, so frail, so delicate, so fragile, like bone china or a tiny humming-bird. Twyla, with her elfin face, her long, raven black hair, her oversized blue eyes set like sapphires in almond-shaped depressions in her alabaster flesh. At times she looked almost transparent, when the sun was just right and she was wearing a pale dress, her skin so thin it seemed translucent, seemed he could see pure crystal bones just underneath. She was like something fashioned out of glass by a sculptor with loving hands. At times she seemed like a tiny fawn that never grew to size, a shy creature of the woods, dappled by sunlight in a grove of green-leafed trees.

  “Twyla had rheumatic fever when she was a child. It did something to her heart, I guess. Made it weak, the doc said. It just gave out when Abel did what he did.”

  “He violated her?”

  Jock winced visibly.

  “He was drunk. Took after her when I was gone. I got back home and he was on top of her. I would have killed him right then, but Twyla was gasping for breath like a fish out of water. That bastard run out buck naked and Twyla died in my arms. God, Chad, it just crushed me. To see her die like that. To see what Abel had done to her, the bastard.”

  “I didn’t know, Jock. I’m real sorry.”

  Neither man spoke for a few minutes. Jock puffed on his cigarette, but did not take it from his mouth. He stared at all the cattle until they blurred into one mottled blob of colors, their horns like a jumble of bones.

  “Abel come by here a couple of weeks ago, Jock,” Chad said quietly.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t know what he’d done. He borrowed some money from me. He was with two rowdies I never saw before. They looked like three hardcases and I was glad to get rid of them.”

  “Was Abel drunk?”

  “Nope. When I asked him about you, he just said you were in mourning, doing poorly.”

  “You gave him money? Where was he going?”

  “Said he was hooking up with an outfit north of here. Didn’t say who. Didn’t say where.”

  “Do you know the names of the boys he was riding with?”

  “One was called Randy. Randy Clutter. The other’n was older. Name of D.F. That’s all the other two called him.”

  “Dan Fogarty,” Jock said. “I warned Abel about him. He’s a no-account.”

  “Looked like a real hardcase to me.”

  “He is. So is Randy. Those boys never did an honest day’s work in their lives.”

  “Why did Abel take up with them?” Chad asked.

  “It’s a long story, Chad.”

  “Yeah, we don’t need to talk about these things now. Have some chuck with us tonight and we’ll chew the fat afterward. I really want you to take this herd up to Ellsworth for me.”

  “Ellsworth?”

  “I’ve got an offer. Forty dollars a head on the hoof.”

  Jock blew a low whistle out of the side of his mouth.

  “How many head you taking up, Chad?”

  Chad waited several seconds for dramatic effect. “Better’n fifteen thousand head, Jock.”

  Jock took the cigarette from between his lips and squinched it out in his bare fist, thumbing it to so much tobacco and paper detritus in the palm of his hand. Then he opened his hand and let the debris fall to the breeze, which danced into nothingness.

  “Have you lost all your senses, Chad? What happened to me could happen to you.”

  “I’ve thought about that. You lost everything you had. Twelve thousand dollars, wasn’t it?”

  “That much. More, really.”

  “Bad luck.”

  “No, Chad. Not all bad luck. Though I had enough of it. Indians ragged us all the way to the Red. We lost cattle crossing the river. Kansas farmers used us for target practice. More Indians, robbing us blind. And then that damned hailstorm.”

  “What was that like?” Chad asked.

  “It was hell. Hailstones the size of a boy’s fist came down with the velocity of cannon-balls. Cattle dropped like stoned rabbits. Our horses, some of my men. There was no shelter, no getting away from any of it. It was like a war and we couldn’t fight back. Those of us who made it hid under dead horses and dead cows.”

  “A fluke of nature,” Chad said.

  “Well, nature’s a big enemy on a cattle drive. What I had left after the hailstorm was taken away by three twisters in the same week. Winds that blew the clothes off your back, picked up cows and horses and men and tossed them back down like rag dolls a mile away. Stuff flying through the air that would cut you to ribbons. One of my boys had his head sliced off by a chunk of lumber. Clean decapitated him while he was riding his horse. His head screamed and I can still see his eyes staring at me as his skull thumped on the ground. His body didn’t fall off for another ten yards and then flapped on the ground like a chicken with its head cut off. You don’t forget those things, Chad. You don’t ever forget them.”

  “You lost your ranch, I know.”

  “I lost everything I had. And then I lost Twyla. I’m a beaten man, Chad. I wouldn’t drive a cow to the milk barn, much less go back to Kansas.”

  “The Jock I knew in the war never gave up.”

  “I’m not the same Jock.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re not a quitter, Jock.” Jock shook his head, built another cigarette. It was what he did these days. Build cigarettes, smoke them, try not to think of the past, the war, the disastrous cattle drive to Abilene, the death of his wife, the treachery of his brother. He tried to turn these memories into smoke, but they remained like burning ashes, like smoldering coals in his mind, tormenting him, ruining his sleep, wrecking his days.

  “Have you got enough men for this drive, Chad? With that many head you’ll need at least . . .”

  “Sixty men, I figure. I got that many. Two chuck wagons, special built. Some damned good wranglers and enough good drovers to teach the new ones.”

  “You’re biting off a lot to chew. I drove three thousand head up north and had my hands plumb full.”

  “That’s why I know you’d make me a fine trail boss. You’ve been over the trail and you know what can happen. Those of us here are all tenderfeet.”

  “I said no, Chad. And I mean it.”

  Chad didn’t argue with Jock, nor did he say anything just then.

  The men who had been at the branding began to mount up after putting out the fire and cooling the irons. Some of them looked over at Chad and Jock. Chad nodded to them.

  “Come on, Jock. Let’s go get some grub. You might know some of the boys.”

  “If I do, I probably owe them money,” Jock said.

  Chapter 3

  Jock sniffed the air as he and Chad rode toward the chuck wagon, following the hands who had done the branding. The aroma of beef and vegetables, likely in a stew, he thought, assailed his nostrils and made his stomach rumble with hunger. It had been some time since he had eaten well and there had been days when he had not eaten at all.

  “Hungry?” Chad said, as the chuck wagon appeared just on the horizon ahead.

  “I could eat the south end of a northbound horse,” Jock said.

  “You’ll have to settle for bee
f. Do you know Jubilee?”

  “The cookie at the Flying W? He was old when I was a boy. I thought he was dead.”

  “He’s not as old as he looks. He’s my main cook. I thought you might remember him.”

  “At roundup, he was a godsend. Jubal Lee Daggett.”

  Chad laughed. “You do remember him, old Jubal Lee.”

  “Who could forget him?”

  “Well, you’re going to eat his grub tonight,” he said.

  As they drew close to the chuck wagon, Jock could hear the clank of utensils, the throaty, muscular conversation of hungry men. Some riders leaned down and drew their arms back, holding something edible before they rode back out to the pastures, their faces as dusted as Jock’s, their shirts black with sweat.

  In the distance, Jock heard the screee, screee squeal of seagulls and, when he looked up, he saw wings flashing white in the sunlight, like someone’s fresh-washed laundry floating on invisible currents of air. Corpus Christi over the horizon, and the Gulf of Mexico, the green, white-capped sea carrying ships in and out of port—another world, one he had not seen in a long time.

  Men sat on the ground holding tin plates with raised edges that resembled large, narrow bowls. The plates were filled with stew and, on some, biscuits of hardtack floated like islands. The talk died down when Chad and Jock rode up and dismounted.

  Jock saw Jubilee look up from his serving table. His face cracked open with a toothless grin. His ginger hair sprouted out from a faded bandanna in little, wiry sprigs. The bandanna was wrapped around his head like a turban, hiding the bald spots—most of them. His apron looked almost edible with its streaks of gravy and splotches of unidentifiable vegetables.

  “Wal,” Daggett said, “if it ain’t Jock Kane, after all these years. All growed up and haired over.”

  “Howdy, Jubal Lee,” Jock said. “You’re as ageless as a live oak.”

  The two shook hands quickly.

  The men sitting around all looked at Kane, some of them disapprovingly.

  “Get yourself a plate, Jocko,” Jubilee said.

  There was a young man standing next to the cook. He handed Jock a plate.

  “I’m Mac,” he said, “Jubilee’s helper. I sure heard a lot about you, Mr. Kane.”

  “Never mind, Mac,” Jubilee said. He ladled Jock’s plate full of the thick stew. The aroma made Jock’s stomach roil once again with hunger contractions.

  “A lot of folks heard about you, Kane,” a man sitting apart from the others said.

  Mac handed Jock a big spoon and put a piece of hardtack on his plate, sticking it into the stew like a miniature tombstone.

  Jock turned around, looked at the man who had spoken to him.

  “Don’t pay him no mind, Jock,” Chad whispered, stepping up to the serving table.

  But Jock ignored Chad and walked over to the man who had made the remark, Lou Quist.

  “What do you mean by that, Quist?” Jock asked.

  Quist, a wiry stub of a man, whose neck was as thick as his head, with sloping shoulders and muscled arms that stretched the fabric of his sleeves, looked up at Jock and squinted one eye as if trying to shut out some of the sunlight and focus on Jock, like a bird eyeing a night crawler.

  “I mean, you got yourself quite a reputation, Jocko. Everybody’s heard about Jock Kane.”

  “Heard what?” Jock said.

  “Well, now, I’m not a man to repeat idle gossip. But you got a mark on you, Kane, just like your namesake in the Bible.”

  Chad stepped up, carrying his full plate. He scowled to show his annoyance with the way the conversation was turning. “That’s enough of that, Lou. Watch your tongue. We’re all friends here.”

  “Kane ain’t no friend of mine,” Quist said. “He owes me six months’ pay, plus the cost of two horses.”

  “How do you figure?” Jock asked.

  “I was drovin’ those three thousand head up to Abilene, remember? The ones you was going to pay us with. And I lost two good horses in that hailstorm.”

  “You can’t lay no blame on Jock for that storm, Lou,” Chad said.

  “Like hell I can’t.” Lou’s face was turning a pale rose in the sun, as if the light had daubed him with pastel chalk. “He drove us right into that sonofabitch, the sky black as hell, lightning dancing ahead of us.”

  Quist got to his feet, leaving his dish on the ground. He was at least a half foot shorter than Jock, but the rest of him made up for it in width. His neck thickened with the rage building inside him and he licked his lips like a man spoiling for a fight.

  “I don’t owe you a damned cent, Quist,” Jock said. “When you signed on with me, the agreement was you’d be paid if and when we got the cattle to market in Abilene. We all lost on that deal.”

  “I don’t figure it that way, Kane.”

  Jock turned to Chad, handing him his plate of food. “Hold this for me, will you, Chad?”

  Then Jock unstrapped his gunbelt, rebuck led it and handed it to another man standing close by. None of the men, including Lou Quist, were wearing sidearms.

  “Figure it any way you want, Quist,” Jock said, “but we didn’t get the cattle to market and none of us got paid. Some of us lost more than others, more than you.”

  “I work for a man, I expect to get paid.”

  “You worked for yourself,” Jock said. “I just provided the means.”

  “You got a way of twisting words, Kane. If I can’t get cash from you, cash what’s owed to me, I reckon I’ll have to take it out in hide.”

  Kane braced himself as Quist drew himself up to full height, thrust his jaw forward in a belligerent manner and glared at Jock.

  “Come on, Lou,” Chad said. “We don’t need no trouble here. Just forget it. At least for now.”

  “I don’t forget,” Quist said. He began to crouch, his muscles balling up like a snake coiling to strike.

  “You can’t get blood out of a turnip,” one of the other hands said. “If Jock ain’t got no money, Lou, what’s the damned point?”

  “Shut up, Fred,” Quist said. The man who had spoken was Fred Naylor. Jock knew him, but they weren’t friends.

  “Lou, back down,” Chad said. “You and Jock can talk it out later. Let the man eat his supper.”

  “You got the boss sticking up for you, Kane? Maybe you’d like to hide behind his chaps.”

  “Quist,” Jock said, his voice measured and slow, “you blow real hard, but all I hear out of you is a little squeak.”

  Quist uncoiled and struck.

  He threw a roundhouse right at Jock as if he were swinging a sledgehammer. Jock brought up his left arm and took the blow, but he staggered backward from the force of it. Quist followed up with a left jab that caught Jock on the tip of his chin.

  Jock’s head exploded. Lights danced in his brain as if they were inside his eyes. He tried to brace himself to deliver a blow of his own, but Quist charged him, head down, like a bull on the rampage. Quist head-butted Jock in the gut, knocking all the wind out of Jock’s lungs.

  Jock groaned and doubled over. Quist brought a fist down hard and slammed Jock in the back of the neck, knocking him to the ground.

  The men watching, excited now, began to yell and encourage one or the other of the two combatants.

  “Get him, Jock. Get up.”

  “You got him, Lou. Pour it on.”

  Quist didn’t pounce on Jock when he was down. Instead, he drew back a leg and drove a boot hard into Jock’s side. Jock rolled over, grabbed Quist’s boot and twisted, throwing Quist off balance. Jock gave a hard wrench and Quist howled in pain as he cartwheeled to the ground, landing on his shoulder. The onlookers gave out a great cheer and Jock scrambled quickly to his feet. He was panting, and so was Quist, who was hurt in two places, his shoulder and his leg.

  Jock grabbed Quist by the collar and jerked him backward. Then he drove a fist straight down into Quist’s nose. The man yelled out in pain as his nose compressed and began squirting blood. He struggled to r
egain his footing and Jock followed up with another blow to Quist’s left temple. Quist grunted and sprawled out on the ground. But his eyes flared with anger and cunning. He hauled off with a right hand and drove a fist into Jock’s midsection once again.

  Jock waddled backward, holding onto his footing through sheer willpower.

  In a split second, Quist rose to his feet and waded into Jock, fists flying, arms flailing like erratic windmills. He struck Jock in the soft flesh of his side with punishing blows. Jock backpedaled to avoid the flurry of fists and parried the next two blows.

  Jock twisted to one side as Quist continued his bullish charge, then knocked Quist’s hat off and grabbed a hank of hair. He pulled hard and Quist’s neck swung around in a half arc, until he was looking into Jock’s eyes. Jock smashed Quist with a pile-driving right, felling him like an ox. Then Jock kicked Quist square in the belly, knocking the wind out of him until Quist’s lips turned blue as he struggled to suck in air.

  “Kill him, Jock,” someone yelled.

  “Finish him off, Kane.”

  “Come on, Lou, don’t give up,” hollered another.

  Jock was oblivious to the shouts, hearing only the loud sound of his own breath and the pumping of his heart. His legs were wobbly, quivering, yet his whole body seemed charged with electricity. He was running on that force that floods a man’s veins when he’s in danger, when he’s fighting for his life.

  Quist was tough, but he was just stupid enough to make mistakes in a knockdown, drag-out fight such as this. Jock had had enough of it, though. The fight was senseless and should never have happened. He blamed himself, partly, for even talking to Quist. When a man was hot under the collar, it was best to walk away.

  Jock stepped up and cocked his arm. He threw the punch with all his might and felt the shock of the blow shoot up his arm, making his senses scream with pain. He had driven his fist to the point of Quist’s jaw and heard something crack. Whether it was his own knuckles breaking, Quist’s neck, or his chin, Jock did not know. He saw Quist’s eyes roll back in their sockets and then come back to their original positions, but horribly out of focus. Then Quist slumped over, his throat wheezing like a blacksmith’s bellows. He went limp and stretched out, knocked cold by Jock’s hammering fist.