by Lou Bradshaw
“Well I reckon we can always find a bed for a Ranger or two, after all you’ve done for the old JR. But let’s have a look at this cowboy.” So I went out and brought him in. While I was gone, Carson explained what had happened back in Lubbock, and that the lad was worth saving.
The interview lasted a matter of minutes, when Draper called someone in from the next room and had him take Ross out to someone else to get him settled. The commissary also acted as a savings bank for the hands who were inclined to put some money away, so Alexander Ross was set up to learn the cattle business.
Draper told us to make ourselves at home, “You’ve been here before, Spade… you know how we operate. You boys just find an empty bunk and lay claim to it for as long as you need it.”
They had the biggest bunkhouse I’d ever seen. It even had its own dining hall and a kitchen. Carson told me there were a number of crews working cattle all over the place with line shacks for four to six men.
“Just how big is the JR?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t rightly know, but we’ve been on it for the better part of two days, and we’ll be on it for another day when we leave… You can believe it or not, but this ain’t the biggest ranch in Texas.”
I was plumb flabbergasted. I thought the MB connected was a big spread, but it could fit into a corner of the JR.
We loafed around till suppertime. That was the first we saw of Zander Ross all afternoon. There were a couple of younger ones, and they seemed to hang together. The truth be known, I didn’t see anyone over twenty five years in that whole dining room, except for Spade Carson and the Chinese cook.
After supper, Carson got Zander in tow and took him off for a talk. I figured he was giving the lad a lesson and telling him how he can have a good life, if he just walk the line. That was fine, and I approved, but I didn’t want in on it, so I went to mess with my horse.
Later that evening, Carson told me, “We had us a real man to man talk, and I think the boy’s got that idea of bein’ a gunfighter out of his head. When he tried to shoot you with an empty gun, that really opened his eyes. He said he hadn’t killed anyone yet… those notches on his gun were just for show… I think he can ride for the JR a couple of years and he’ll be ready to figger out what he wants to do by then.”
We left the JR ranch the following morning, right after breakfast. Zander Ross was already out with his crew learning the business of being a man… Luck to him.
A dry, flat, and sun baked seventy miles lay ahead of us before we’d get to Odessa. By our reckoning, we could make it in three days without pushing our horses too hard. The JR had been generous enough with extra supplies, so we wouldn’t be eating jackrabbits and lizards on the trail. Carson and the Rangers had been helpful to the ranch over the years, so they were always ready to do what they could.
Late on the second day away from the ranch, we had been looking for a good camp site, when I spotted what looked like a man walking his horse ahead. I pointed him out to Spade, and we both naturally took the thongs off our sixguns and loosened our rifles in their scabbards. We moved on with a good deal of caution.
A man alone out here on these plains was strange enough, but to see one casually walking along with his horse trailing was something else again. My first thought, of course, was the horse had gone lame. So we rode on and closed the quarter mile gap.
As we approached him from the rear, he didn’t even turn to see who was coming up from behind. The horse turned to look, but the man just kept putting one foot in front of the other paying us no mind. As we drew up even with him, he looked up and smiled.
“Howdy.” I said, “Your horse gone lame, did it?”
He was a big man, wearing rough dusty clothing, a disreputable hat, low heeled boots, and wire rimmed spectacles’. His stride was that of a man who knew how to walk and did a lot of it.
“Howdy yourselves, Gentlemen… No there’s nothing wrong with my horse. I just feel guilty puttin’ such a burden on his back; I feel good and don’t mind walkin’.”
“Why that’s plum friendly of you Mister….” Carson told him.
“Lynn… Robert Lynn, but most folks just call me Bob.”
“I’m JL Tate, and this is my partner, teacher, and all around task master, and we’re right pleased to meet you… We’ll be settin’ up camp in a few miles, you’d be welcome to join us.”
“If I see your fire, I surely would like that… The only thing I miss out here by myself is the sound of voices… other than my own.”
We rode on with the sun hanging low over the low hills to the west. And almost as if it had been part of our plan, we spotted a line of trees off to the right a little ways. Trees, in this kind of country don’t grow all willy-nilly. They grow where there’s water, so when you see trees strung out along the landscape, it usually means a stream or a river. Of course, this time of year, if it was a stream, it wouldn’t be running full.
The streambed was a good twelve feet wide and four feet deep in most places. But the actual flow of water wasn’t more than a foot wide or more than a few inches deep at any spot. We took what we could get and were thankful for it.
We put together a nice but slightly brighter fire than normal to lead our guest in to camp. He arrived a bit after sundown. He called out from the darkness,”Hello the fire… Bob Lynn here.”
“Come ahead, Bob, supper’s about ready.” Carson replied.
We…I had the last of beef from the JR cooking in a stew with a few taters. I’d made some fryin’ pan bread with raisins for dessert, and coffee to wash it all down. I did most of the cooking. Carson wasn’t allowed to touch a fryin’ pan or pot of any kind unless both my arms were broken. It seemed to work out better that way. Lynn brought in some squaw cabbage and wild onions. The onions and the squaw cabbage went into the pot.
It was a pleasant meal with nothing wasted… there never was, with Spade Carson around. According to Lynn, he had been a railroad accountant, who woke up one morning facing a mountain of meaningless paper work and endless columns of numbers to be tallied and just walked away.
“There had been days on end when I wouldn’t hear another human voice… just numbers in ledgers. I wanted to meet people and hear their stories. So I sold everything I had and bought this horse. Once I got away from the city, I found a world I enjoyed being a part of.”
“Along the way, I’ve had the opportunity to lend a hand here and there. I found a lot of people who needed a little help; they didn’t ask for it, I just gave it and went on my way.”
“You’re not that Appleseed fella I heard about from Ohio, are you?” Carson asked.”
Lynn laughed and denied ever planting an apple tree, but he recalled the story. I thought it was just a story, but both Carson and Lynn assured me there were thousands of apple trees throughout the mid west that can be attributed to Johnny Appleseed.
We pushed on the next morning, leaving that strange quiet man to travel at his own pace. We wanted to be sure and get to Odessa ahead of Burley Clayton.
Chapter 5
Just like Carson said, Odessa wasn’t much more than a water stop for the railroad. I figured it would grow a little, now that the Texas Pacific had come through. It was located near the tail end of the staked plains, and the horizon was broken a little by a few ridges and hills. But a body could still see for a thousand miles, or at least it seemed like it.
There was one main street, with about a half a dozen buildings facing the tracks. Beyond the street I could see a smattering of houses, most of which were of adobe construction. In this country, there aren’t enough trees within twenty miles to build a wooden outhouse.
This was short grass country, but there were enough outlying ranches to keep the railroad happy and the local economy growing. The folks back east still needed beef, and Texas had cows a plenty.
There wasn’t much to do so we kinda just hung out and waited for Clayton to get there. We assumed he’d be coming by train, but you know what they say about assuming things.
Naturally we were on hand when a train was coming. There were an average of two west bound a day, but not every one stopped, and not every one was carrying passengers.
Carson had managed to get a ten year old poster with Clayton’s picture on it. But a man in prison can change after that much time. He could be heavier or lighter. If he’d been working in the fields, he’d be nut brown, but if he worked inside he’d be pale. So the only thing we could do was study that old picture and try to imagine what he would look like ten hard years later.
When there weren’t any trains due we kept an eye on the stages coming in from the towns to the northeast. That was easy enough since there was one every other day. There were few trails coming into town, and any new rider was big news around town… we were.
Normally we would notify the local law that we were here, but there was no marshal, sheriff, or judge. There wasn’t even a mayor. But there was a saloon, a café, and a two bit hotel. I reckon that’s enough to take care of most of a man’s wants and needs. We worked it out that if one of us was in the saloon, the other one would be watching the street from the hotel porch.
After a few days, we had most of the locals placed, and we had a pretty good notion what their job was or if they even had one. So when someone strange to us rode down the dusty street, we made note of it and kept an eye on them. We didn’t know who would be coming along with Clayton, but it was a sure bet, he’d need some help moving the gold.
The worst part of having gold especially a lot of gold is hauling it around… and keeping it. You don’t just toss a fortune in gold behind your saddle or sling it over your shoulder. You need a wagon or wagons or pack mules… it ain’t easy to be rich.
The waiting was becoming tedious, actually it was getting downright boring, but the great state of Texas was paying me whether I was bored or not…. Sometimes. The only positive thing was, I was making a few dollars at the card table in the saloon, so it wouldn’t hurt so bad when the paydays were late. Usually I was nowhere near the paymaster when the payroll arrived. That generally meant I was all caught up every three or four months
I was polishing the bench in front of the hotel, when a couple of low grade down and out hombres rode in. They went inside and came back out cussing and grousing in less than a minute. From the bits and pieces from the non-profane parts of their conversation, I took it that two bits a night was too high for them. More importantly, amidst all that swearing I heard, “Burley shoulda reserved a damned room fer us.”
Aha! I thought, At least we’re on the right track.
They climbed back in their saddles and rode out of town presumably to set up camp, which was fine with me, those boys were right gamey. Maybe they’ll find a nice creek and a bar of soap where they’re camping.
As soon as they were out of sight, I walked the thirty feet to the saloon, where I ordered a beer and listened to the bartender’s new joke. When I turned around and was sure Carson was looking my way, I gave my head a little sideways nod toward the door. Then I finished my beer and went back to my bench.
In a few minutes, Spade Carson joined me in front of the hotel. He stood there with one foot propped on the end of my bench, while he rolled a smoke. Then we walked on down to the general store. Along the way I told him about the two men and how they got to cussing and threw Burley’s name out in the middle of it.
“Good.” He said. “At least we know he’s coming. Those hombres sound like they may be the labor…the workers. They’ll be the ones who do the diggin’ and drivin’ of the wagons. I would expect a couple of tough ones for security, but you never know.”
We swapped places, I went into the saloon and Spade found a seat on the front porch of the general store, where he could sit and listen to the old codgers tell tales. Most of what they said was just bull droppings, but now and then… well you never knew. That time he scored a jewel. Neither of us were wearing a badge, and for all intense and purposes, we were just a pair of drifters who landed in town and were just hanging around.
Later in the day when we shifted our positions again he told me, “Old man McClure was fishin’ for news… He’s getting’ a little curious about us. We were alone for a spell and he said, ‘You boys ain’t waitin’ for someone to git here are you?’ I told him that we were just restin’ up before we go over to New Mexico and rob a bank. We both had a good laugh and he went on, ‘That other’n… the good lookin’ one, he’s got gunfighter written all over him. Not so much the way he dresses… but the way he carries it and the way he moves…. A dangerous young fella, that one.”
“I didn’t laugh at that ‘good lookin’, remark, but I listened real good to what he had to say. ‘I happens to know ‘bout a man headin’ this way… I figure you two are here to make up part of his bunch, or else you’re gonna try to take what he’s got… and I reckon it’s worth a good sized bunch.”
So, at least some of the locals who were around ten years ago, either knew or thought they knew about Burley’s gold. And they knew he was on his way back to Odessa. From what information Carson had, Burley had grown up on his pa’s cotton farm not too far from what had later become Odessa. So it’s sort of a home place to him. And we were betting he wasn’t coming for a family reunion…. We waited.
When I was the one watching the comings and goings of those who showed up in town, I made a number of stops at the livery barn, which was back a ways from the general store. Of course, my main reason was to check on the well being of our horses, but I also wanted to see if any new horses had come to town without my knowledge. Since horses don’t normally put themselves in a corral, their presence almost certainly meant some human had put them there.
Earlier in the day, I had taken a little stroll behind the store to fuss with our horses a little and check on any leather that needed to be worked on. As I was giving our animals a once over, I looked across the back of Spade’s horse and saw an extra one standing in the shade of an overhanging roof.
Looking around, I didn’t see the owner or anyone else, for that matter, so I walked to the barn. The sun was bright and the barn was dim so it took me a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. I’m never quite comfortable when I can’t see clearly. I could barely see a shadowed form cleaning out one of the stalls. It was too big to be Clarence, the proprietor. I was on the verge of putting my hand on my gun butt when my vision cleared.
“Well good morning, Bob Lynn, I guess that was your horse out there. Kinda figured you’d be making your way into town sooner or later.”
We exchanged pleasantries, and he lowered his voice and asked, “JL, are you boys in trouble with the law?”
“We can both get into trouble pretty easy, but no, neither of us have had any kinda trouble with the law…lately…eh…that we know of. What makes you ask?”
“I’ve been in town since yesterday, and some of them that come by to visit with Clarence are speculatin’ that you boys are outlaws. They seem to think you’re hiding out in this little out of the way railroad town. If you’re outlaws, then you’re the friendliest outlaws I could ever imagine.”
“I can’t claim to be wearing white lace, or no Angel wings, and neither is Spade, but you won’t find any wanted posters on us… in fact you be more likely to find a couple of NOT WANTED notices on both of us.” He had a good laugh and returned to small talk.
“Workin’ for Clarence, are you? I didn’t figure he had enough business to be able to hire help.”
“Oh I’m not working for him… He stepped on a nail a few days ago, and he could barely hop around when I arrived. I got him back in the house and started doctoring it. It look almighty frightful, but I think I got it cleaned up and draining. I don’t think he’s got lock jaw, but we’ll have to wait and see. In the meantime, I’m helping him out here and doin’ his cooking and such.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, Lynn. There’s probably not more than one in a hundred who would go to that much trouble.”
“I’m sure you’re way off on that number…. Doesn’t ever
ybody love their fellow man?” He said with a chuckle.
That same afternoon, I was taking my shift watching the comings and goings, when a rider came up the dusty street. He was tall, lean, and dusty, but he didn’t have the look of a cattleman… he had the look of a gunman. When he dismounted and adjusted his belt the first thing he did was take the thong off his six-shooter. That was all I needed to see for me to take my own off.
As he passed me, I touched my hat brim and gave him a howdy. He ignored me and walked straight into the hotel. I’ve seen trouble enough to know what it looked like, and that hombre had all the features. He stayed in the hotel a few minutes, and then he came out and unloaded his saddle bags, bedroll, and rifle. When he came out again, he turned and walked straight to the saloon.
As soon as he was inside, I got up and went into the hotel. The owner, a man named Brady, was behind the desk. I asked him about the new arrival.
Brady gave me a look of dread and disgust. “You saw it too?” He said. “He didn’t have to sign the register for me to know him…. That’s Cole Cassidy…. When I was working in San Angelo, before I bought this place, he was a regular there… nothing but trouble.”
“He got into several shooting scrapes, and the big winner in a poker game was killed and robbed in the alley behind the cantina. That’s where Cassidy and him had been playing. They couldn’t prove anything, but the marshal ordered him out of town… I’d hoped not to ever have to deal with him again.”
Was Cassidy part of the Clayton bunch or was he just a coincident? I guess we’d just have to wait and see. It seemed like we were doing more waiting than seeing these days.
Chapter 6
This time we didn’t have to wait too long. The very next train coming through left two passengers on the platform. It wasn’t something that happened every day, so most of the town came out to see who was getting off. One of the men was dark of skin, hair, and droopy mustache. His clothes were also dark but well cared for. From his bushy black eyebrows shading close set black eyes and his hawk like face told a person that he was nobody to mess with. The smooth worn grip of his Colt resting in a well cared for low slung holster seconded the message…nobody to mess with.
