Return to Red River

by Johnny D. Boggs

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Lightning Garth could make no sense of things. Here they were, last night in Dunson City, and no one could agree on what they ought to be doing, how to be spending that twenty dollars in their britches.

  Laredo and Groot hadn’t even come to town, but that made sense. Laredo was trail boss, and Lightning knew that he would be going over plans for the drive with Mathew. Groot? Well, that crotchety old belly-cheater would likely be getting in his two cents’ worth, too, and, besides, Groot didn’t have any money to spend in town. But the new hire, Bradley Rush, he hadn’t come to town, either, and Lightning figured Rush would be a man to get to know, to drink with, or head over to Gloria’s Palace to have a fine time with her petticoats.

  “And here I am,” Lightning said as he took a swallow of beer. “With you?”

  “You say something?” Tom asked from across the table.

  Lightning just shook his head and let out a little chuckle. His brother had barely touched his beer.

  Joe Nambel and Teeler Lacey stood at the bar, drinking, laughing, and swapping lies and jokes with the bartender. They might be better company than Tom, Lightning thought, if they weren’t so dad-blasted old. But that was it. His only choice. Stay with his brother, or join a couple of old-timers.

  The Mexicans in the bunch, No Sabe and Alvaro Cuevas and Yago Noguerra, all going on the trail drive, had hurried off to Mass or to make their confessions or say Hail Marys or whatever they were supposed to be doing before entering the three months of purgatory known as a cattle drive. Two of the vaqueros who were sticking around at the ranch while the real men would be on the drive had joined the other Mexicans at the church. The others staying behind, along with Meeker and a black hired hand called Morrison, had agreed to ride night-herd on the bawling, brawling three thousand longhorns bound for Dodge City, and then some meat-packing plant in Chicago or Kansas City.

  The last he had seen that half Negro, half Indian named Blasingame, he was bound for José’s Place for some grub. Joey Corinth, the mulatto little wrangler, said he was going to get his hair cut and get a fresh shave, then ride back to the ranch. Like that little runt had any hair on his chin for a razor. Come to think on it, the kid didn’t have enough kinky hair on his knob worth cutting, either.

  Lightning killed his beer and was standing up, oblivious to Tom’s questioning look. “I’m going to Gloria’s,” he said, but when he turned toward the door, he stopped.

  Jess Teveler was walking through the batwing doors.

  * * *

  “Matt,” Laredo Downs was saying, “I don’t mean to question you or be contrary or nothin’ like that, but”—he tapped a finger on the map Mathew had spread out across the bunkhouse table—“but, as my ma was often sayin’, ‘You’re goin’ round your elbow to get to your thumb.’”

  Mathew leaned back in the chair, rocking it on the back legs. He studied the old cowhand without comment, waiting.

  “Trail them to Fort Concho,” Laredo said. “Up to Fort Griffin, pick up the Western Trail, and run ’em all the way to Dodge. That’s shorter. Lot shorter. Hardly a body follows the old Chisholm Trail no more, lessen he’s headin’ to Caldwell or is from the northeastern part of Texas.”

  Sipping coffee next to Mathew, Groot nodded. “Way we’ve been doin’ it for a spell now.”

  As if he had to remind Mathew or explain things, Groot kept on talking. That was, Matt thought with a grin, the Groot way.

  “Last time you trailed a herd with us was . . . when . . . ’78? And that was Ellsworth. Trail’s shifted west.”

  “It was 1880,” Mathew said, “and it was Caldwell.”

  “Sure,” Laredo said. “I remember that. But Groot’s right. It was a different trail back then. The tick line. That changed ever’thing.”

  Mathew didn’t need anyone to explain the tick line to him. That was one reason—or what bushwhackers used as a reason—for a lot of their activity in Missouri just after the war. Tick fever. Spanish fever. Whatever one called it, the cattle of sodbusters in Missouri and Kansas started dying, seemed like, just after a herd of Texas longhorns passed through. So they put up a quarantine line, saying no Texas herds could come east of that line.

  So Sedalia, Missouri, lost the Texas business to Baxter Springs, Kansas. Then Baxter Springs lost it to Abilene. Newton replaced Abilene. Ellsworth took over for Abilene. Newton replaced Ellsworth, and then lost out to Wichita. Caldwell took over from Wichita, and though you might still be able to sell a few head in other Kansas towns, the bulk of the business for the past several years had belonged to Dodge City. Queen of the Cow Towns. Hell on Earth. The Sodom of the West.

  “I’ve been to Dodge City, boys,” Mathew had to remind them.

  “Yeah,” Laredo said, “by train. Lot different in a saddle. You’d be regrettin’ ’em extry days and nights.” The cowhand drew his finger from Fort Griffin straight north to Dodge City.

  Mathew put his pointer finger on the map and began making his own route. “Fort Concho. Fort Belknap. Spanish Fort and Red River Station. Follow the Chisholm Trail up Indian Territory, then take the Cut-Off and drive them straight to Dodge City.”

  Laredo frowned. Groot spit tobacco juice into an empty coffee cup. Lying on his bunk, Bradley Rush simply buried his nose in a copy of The Three Musketeers.

  “But why in hell would you want to go that far out of your way?” Laredo asked.

  Mathew smiled as he began to roll a cigarette. “That country,” he said, “was hit the hardest by the blizzards. The old Chisholm Trail won’t get as much cattle. And it hasn’t gotten much for four or five years now. More grass. Less competition to see who crosses a river first. The Western Trail runs through Kiowa, Comanche, and Cheyenne country. I’d rather deal with the so-called Civilized Tribes when it comes to bartering.”

  Laredo glanced at Groot, who shifted his tobacco to the other cheek.

  “People expect us to be taking the Western Trail,” Mathew added. “That’s another reason to use the old Chisholm.”

  As Laredo pushed up the brim of his hat, he shot Groot a suspicious look, then turned back to Mathew.

  “You think . . . ?”

  Mathew’s right hand went up. “I’m not thinking. I’m just playing things safe. We have a lot riding on getting this herd to market. More than ever. More than at any time since Dunson. I’d feel safer if we did the unexpected.”

  Tobacco juice pinged in Groot’s cup. “Followin’ three thousand stupid cows ain’t the hardest thing in the world to do.”

  “No,” Mathew agreed, “but if anyone has started planning something to happen . . . say . . . here.” He tapped the spot between Fort Griffin and Doan’s Store on the Western Trail. “Or . . . here . . .” His finger pointed to the western edge of the Indian Territory. “It would take them a spell to catch up with us to the east.”

  Laredo drew the old .44 from his waist. He laid the old pistol on the table. “Maybe I should clean this . . . before tomorrow.”

  With a nod, Mathew stood and started to roll up the map. Groot stopped him.

  “Somethin’ else just occurred to me.” He tapped over Red River Station. “I recollect a grave right around these parts.”

  “Dunson?” Laredo Downs was incredulous.

  Mathew waited for Groot to remove his hand, then he finished rolling up the map, which he tucked underneath his arm, and walked toward the door.

  Yes, he thought, that was another reason.

  * * *

  “You reckon you’re safe here, Jess?” Lightning asked as he poured rye whiskey into the tumbler the bartender had brought over. “Rangers and all?”

  They had switched from beer to whiskey. Well, Lightning had. Tom had declined the offer of hard liquor and bought himself another beer.

  “Oh, I don’t think the Rangers are lookin’ for me now.” Jess Teveler held up the glass in a toast or salute, then took a sip and wiped his lips with his tongue. “I’m just a workin’ cowhand who ran afoul with some rich bloke
in San Angelo.”

  “Well,” Lightning said, “I’m plumb sorry Pa wouldn’t hire you. He can be a hard rock—”

  Teveler’s empty hand went up. He kept the rye, however, near his lips.

  “Your pa had his reasons. Can’t say I blame him. There’s a lot at stake here.” He shook his head. “And I really wouldn’t look forward to swallowing dust all the way up the Western Trail.”

  “Not the Western—”

  This time, Tom cut his brother off. “Lightning.” Tom’s head shook. Jess Teveler finished his whiskey in two quick swallows. Setting the glass on the table, he reached for the bottle to replenish his rye.

  “I’ll take one more, boys, and then I’m off. When do you boys ride for Kansas?”

  Lightning started to speak, but shrugged, although the act made him uncomfortable.

  “Soon,” Tom answered. “Still got some road-branding to do.”

  The whiskey vanished quickly, but this time Jess Teveler didn’t refill his glass. Instead, spurs chiming, he pushed back his chair and slowly rose.

  “Well, I’m off to take in some horizontal refreshments at Gloria’s Palace. Wish you boys luck. Maybe I’ll run into you when you get back from Kansas.”

  As soon as he was gone, Joe Nambel and Teeler Lacey came over, pulling up chairs, eyes on the banging doors and following Teveler’s boot-steps outside. Lacey found the rye, refilled his own glass, and held it up toward Lightning.

  Joe Nambel merely raised his glass of bourbon to his lips and said tightly, “You boys would do well by staying away from that gent.”

  “He saved our hide, Joe.”

  That surprised Lightning. It was Tom Garth who had spoken.

  “He’s a killer. Rode with Tom Dunson all them years ago.”

  “So did Bradley Rush,” Lightning said. “You want to explain that to us, boys? You two bein’ older, wiser, and with college degrees and all from twenty fancy universities back East.”

  Tom shook his head. If either one of those men had seen the inside of a one-room schoolhouse, he would be surprised.

  “Bradley,” Lacey said, “killed his men while they was lookin’ at him.”

  “And he ain’t had no trouble with nobody since . . . hell . . . I can’t remember how far back,” Nambel added.

  “Reads books, too,” Lacey said.

  Lightning rose. “You two ain’t my keepers. Man done right by me. That’s all I know. He done right by me. Else I might be six foot under. I’ll see you around.”

  As he walked toward the exit, Tom rose.

  “Where you going, Lightning?” he asked.

  Without turning around, Lightning waved a dismissive hand. “Gloria’s. We won’t see no females till Dodge City.”

  “Lightning!” Tom called out.

  “Yes, Mommie. I hear you.” He stopped at the batwing doors. Now, he did look back at his brother and the two cowboys. Just when he had started to feel some kinship with Tom, just moments after that goody-goody kid brother had even defended their friendship—hell, Lightning wasn’t even sure he would have called it friendship—with Jess Teveler, now he was all worried and cautious and acting like a nanny or some grandpa.

  “Don’t worry. I ain’t tellin’ nobody nothin’.”

  And he was gone.

  BOOK III

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Take them to Kansas, sons.”

  That’s what Mathew said, even if Lightning and Tom were at the back of the herd and had already pulled down the brims of their hats and pulled up their bandannas over their mouths and noses.

  “Take them to Kansas.”

  He knew what he said. But what he heard was, “Take them to Missouri, Mathew.” Thomas Dunson’s voice.

  Whipping off their hats and slapping them against their chaps, Lightning, Tom, and Meeker began yipping like coyotes, riding back and forth, getting the longhorns to start moving. Ahead of him, the other cowhands did the same. A cacophony of voices, shouts, curses, most of which proved incomprehensible.

  Longhorns. Some of these, no, probably almost every last one of them, a descendant of the first cattle brought to Mexico by Gregorio de Villalobos back in 1591, after Christopher Columbus had deposited some in Santo Domingo back in 1494. Around 1690, a herd numbering roughly two hundred had been trailed to a Texas mission near the Sabine River. Now Mathew Garth had to get these cattle to Dodge City, Kansas.

  All steers, all colors—red, yellow, brown, black, orange, white, gray . . . lineback, roan, brindle, mulberry, grulla, and plenty of speckled patterns—all malcontented, stubborn beasts that would hook you with their horns. Those horns, with the curved tips, could span between three and ten feet, tip to tip. Weighing between a thousand and twenty-five hundred pounds. A leathery ton of lean beef, and one piss-poor attitude, on four legs.

  His horse circled around, and Mathew raked the sides with his spurs as he raced over toward the three drag riders. Already, the dust seemed blinding, and he had to shout over his sons and the loud bawling of the herd.

  “Push them hard!” he yelled, and saw Tom’s grim nod that he heard, understood. “Wear them out.” His horse stumbled, but righted itself easily, and Mathew shifted his weight in the saddle. “Tired beef are less likely to stampede.”

  This time, Lightning and Meeker acknowledged him with a nod. Mathew put the spurs to the bay he rode, and loped off to the herd’s left. It was a fairly long run, but he knew that the herd would thin out as the day, and then the weeks, slowly rolled by.

  Clouds of dust drifted over him, so he pulled up his own bandanna as he rode. Over the clopping of hooves and cries of the longhorns, Mathew could make out a few indistinct voices.

  “Ho, cattle. Ho. Ho. Ho.!”

  “Get movin’, you damned ol’ critters. Move, damn you, move.”

  “Yip, longhorns. Yip. Yip. Yip.”

  He gave a quick wave as he rode past Joey Corinth, but the black wrangler didn’t notice. The kid had his hands full with the remuda. Sixty spare horses, most of those still half-green, and six mules. Each rider had about six horses in his string, and he would use, at least, two a day—on good days. The mules would be for the hoodlum and chuck wagons in case one went lame or got snakebit. That might be unlikely, but Mathew had decided to add them to the remuda, just to play things safe. He had to make this drive. Glancing back as he loped past the remuda, Mathew felt satisfied. Joey Corinth could handle those horses.

  Ahead, pulling in front of the lead steers and Laredo Downs, were the two wagons, Blasingame in the hoodlum and Groot in the chuck wagon. They would make it to the first camp well ahead of the herd.

  Eight miles a day. That would be good. Mathew wanted to make ten today, just to wear out the longhorns. Twelve would be even better.

  As he reached the flank, he slowed his horse to a walk and caught up with Yago Noguerra, who barked out Spanish curses and slapped his sombrero against his leg. The young vaquero, not yet twenty-five, had been riding for Mathew since 1880. The kid’s first drive, while he was still in his teens, had been Mathew’s last one—till now.

  “How are they looking?” Mathew called out over the din.

  Noguerra turned in his saddle, and wiped his face—already covered with dust and grime—with the sleeve of his yellow shirt. “¿Quién sabe, patrón?” He grinned and looked back at the herd.

  “We’ll move them fast today, probably tomorrow,” Mathew said.

  The vaquero answered, “Sí.”

  That was the way people communicated on the Texas-Mexico border. Anglos spoke in English. Mexicans answered in Spanish. Those who had lived in the country long enough—and Matt had for some forty years now—could understand enough of the languages to carry on a conversation.

  He patted Noguerra’s shoulder. “Bet you’ll have to buy another shirt when we reach Dodge City. This one will be black by then.”

  “Es verdad.” Noguerra showed his, still white, and Mathew left the vaquero to his business. Yago Noguerra knew it better than many cowhands i
n Texas.

  “How they looking?” he called out to Bradley Rush.

  The former gunman looked across the wide sea of longhorns toward No Sabe, his counterpart on the swing position, then up and down the thick line of hide and horns.

  “They’ll string out,” he said through his already filthy bandanna.

  Mathew merely nodded at Teeler Lacey when he reached the point, pleased to see the lavender-colored steer Thunderhead pointing the way. That old mossy-horn had to be twelve years old by now and had guided many a herd to the railheads in Kansas. He had been on Mathew’s last drive to Caldwell. Some steers proved keepers, and Thunderhead was one. They always brought him back. Two other steers, a brindle and a black, seemed to be learning quickly.

  He was glad to be out of the dust, and kicked the bay into a gallop until he caught up with Laredo Downs, sitting on a knoll, one leg crooked over the horn of his saddle as he fired up a freshly rolled cigarette.

  “Want to turn back?” Laredo grinned and drew deep on the smoke.

  “Not if you want to get paid,” Mathew said as he reined in the bay.

  Laredo exhaled and gestured vaguely to the north with his smoking cigarette. “We get close enough, I’ll send Lacey up to check things out round Horsehead Crossin’.”

  Horsehead Crossing was the one place you wanted to ford the Pecos River, whether on horseback, wagon, or pushing three thousand head of cattle to Kansas.

  Although he nodded in agreement, Mathew’s voice expressed caution. “We’re a long way from the Pecos River, Laredo.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Laredo took another drag on his smoke, exhaled, and tilted his head more to the west. “But that black sky don’t look promisin’. Even if she dumps a turd float in the Guadalupe Mountains, she could make things mighty damp at the crossin’.”

  At best, it would take them more than a week to reach Horsehead Crossing.

  “We Texans never begrudge a little moisture,” Mathew said, but he didn’t care much for those darkening skies, either.

  “We trail bosses sure do,” Laredo said, and smoked some more.