CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Beneath a blazing sun they moved. Slowly, ten miles a day. A muddy stream. A dry arroyo. Nothing to hear but the bawling of steers, the clopping of hooves, the moan of the wind. No one spoke, at least not often. To open your mouth meant to coat your tongue with dirt, even with a bandanna pulled over your nose and mouth.
It was rolling prairie, and the grass, after the rainstorms, meant good grazing for cattle, horses, and mules.
They saw herds of sheep, but Mathew kept the cattle away from those woolies. Every now and then, they even spied a windmill. Once, they even spotted a rough-hewn picket house, a fence, a milch cow, and the beginnings of wheat sprouting from tilled earth. Mathew kept the herd away from the farm and the angry but fearful farmer, who watched from behind the milch cow.
Years back, a wayfarer would have seen nothing but mesquite.
The land grew harder. More clay now, and sandy loam, with juniper replacing the mesquite, and cactus dotting the grasses. Cedar Hill was barely noticeable, but the Lopez Peaks, jutting out at a half mile in elevation, gave them their bearings.
Finally, after six or seven days—nobody seemed certain—Twin Buttes rose, some two hundred feet above the rolling plains. The cattle could smell the water from the river, and early that afternoon, they had forded the Middle Concho, drank their fill, and bedded down for the night.
San Angelo lay across the North Concho River. Mathew had figured that by keeping the herd along the Middle Concho, the town and its demons would be less likely to lure his men from the herd. But it was close enough to take two wagons in for supplies—and a bath for Tess.
“What do we need?” he asked Groot.
“’Bout ever’thing.” Groot wiped dirty hands on his apron. “Don’t give me that look. We got what we could in Dunson City—or your own bins and cellars and smokehouse. But you knows how much things costs in Dunson City. I figured we could get supplies cheaper here. Cheaper, yeah, I reckon further north, but we might run out of grub iffen we waited that long.”
“All right.”
Groot dropped the apron. “No argument?”
“None.”
“Huh?”
“That was smart thinking, Groot. Real smart.”
Groot’s mustache turned as he stretched his crooked lips into a grin.
“Well, yeah, I reckon it was. I mean—”
“Don’t let it go to your head. Get some grub fixed fast for the boys. Let Joey Corinth take over. We’ll take . . .” He paused, rethinking. “We’ll take just the hoodlum wagon in.”
Chuck wagons meant trail drives. If Mathew could luck out, maybe nobody would realize a herd had trailed south of town and kept going east instead of due north. A wagon, a stoved-up cowboy turned cook, and a woman. They could be homesteaders or beginning ranchers—plenty of folks were moving west, taking advantage of the Concho rivers—and Mathew had not been to San Angelo in years. Now, this would not fool anyone who was following the trail. But as Mathew stepped away from Groot and his cook fire, he knew he would learn a bit of news—good or bad—in a jiffy.
“Tell Tess . . . will you?” he said, and stared at the dust to the southwest. Just enough dust for one horse.
* * *
By the time the blood bay loped into camp, Mathew had a cup of Groot’s hot coffee in his hand for the rider.
Teeler Lacey swung out of the saddle and handed the reins to Joey Corinth, thanking the wrangler as the boy led the lathered gelding away. He took the coffee Mathew offered him and sipped some while removing his hat with his free hand and shaking off the dust.
“Well?” Mathew said.
The battered hat returned to the top of Lacey’s head. Then the head shook. “I backtracked seven or eight miles, Mathew. Ain’t nobody followin’ us. Not even a dust devil popped up. Nothin’. Just a whole lot of empty out there.”
Mathew nodded. “That’s good. Thanks, Teeler. Grub will be ready directly.”
Lacey lowered the cup. “What makes you think we’s bein’ trailed? You seen somethin’?”
“No.” He shrugged. “More of a feeling.”
Lacey stared for a moment before sipping more coffee. “Fella might think that’s a bit . . . what’s that word?”
“Paranoid.” That came from Tess.
Mathew turned to find his wife standing by the chuck wagon.
Another voice called out from the wagon’s tongue. “Man ain’t paranoid . . . if someone’s out to plug him.”
Bradley Rush dropped his coffee cup in the wreck pan. Tess laughed, and even Mathew smiled. Bradley Rush was likely the only hired hand who could come up with such a witty response.
“You think someone’s trailin’ us, Rush?” Lacey asked.
“I ain’t paid to think. Paid to punch cattle.”
Quickly, Mathew changed the subject. “All right. Thanks again, Teeler. Groot, Tess, and I are taking the hoodlum wagon into town for supplies. That’s just Groot, Tess, and me. Everybody else stays in camp. We’ll be back sometime tonight. First light, we pull out. Skirt around to the south, give the town a lot of breathing room, and then turn north. Toward Comanche. Then up toward Belknap. Pick up the main train and move toward the Red.”
No one argued. No one spoke. Mathew spun, and taking Tess by the arm as if he were leading her to the dance floor, he moved toward the hoodlum wagon. Groot shunned his apron, barked a few orders to Joey Corinth, who had just returned from the horse herd, and hurried to catch up with Mathew and Tess.
* * *
Raw, mean, ugly. That was San Angelo.
As luck would have it, Tess, Groot, and Mathew had arrived on a Saturday night, and not just any Saturday night. The bluecoats at Fort Concho had just gotten their monthly pay. Five-string banjos were being clawed. So were men’s faces in fights in the streets. Out-of-tune pianos were hammered. So were men holding glasses full of rotgut whiskey. Prostitutes called out from their cribs, or the upstairs rooms. A few made obscene gestures.
Roulette wheels spun. Dice rolled. Pasteboard cards slipped out of faro boxes, or onto poker tables, or out of a cardsharp’s sleeve. An organ grinder choked out some dirge. A barker from the back of a gaudily painted wagon sang out the miracles of “Dr. Jehovah’s Wizard Oil and Miracle Elixir, Cures Liver Complaint, Constipation, Digestive Disorders, Rheumatism, Asthma, Head Colds, Gunshots, Knife Cuts, Gout, Sprains, Ulcers, Warts & Hangovers.” And a frail old man with eyes sunk well into his head, more cadaver than human, danced on the boardwalk as proof of the wonders of the snake oil Doctor Jehovah was selling.
It struck her as funny, how a town like this, seven hundred or more miles from Memphis, Tennessee, could bring back so many memories.
* * *
The River Palace had once been a queen on the Mississippi River, but by 1865, her engines had rusted out, and had she left the banks of Memphis she would have sunk to the bottom in minutes. She smelled of human rot. But she was far from dead.
Reconstruction had arrived in Memphis, but civilization and the law seemed a long way from the Chickasaw Bluffs.
Therissa Millay stepped onto the barroom stage aboard the reliable old stern-wheeler that had become a gambling house. She sang. Back then, her voice came out sweet, lovely. Too many years had passed since that night that she had forgotten exactly what songs she had chosen. Probably one, if not both, had been in French. She had been singing, probably one of those ballads with the double entendre. “Au Clair de la Lune”? No, it was something less childish, a French love song that spoke to those who did not speak the language. It didn’t matter. And as her eyes had swept across the audience, the Yankees in charge of the town, the businessmen, the merchants, the whores, the riverboat men, even the black waiters and waitresses, once slaves, now free, she stopped.
The first time she ever saw Mathew Garth.
Even back then, she would have been hard-pressed to explain what had held her gaze. He was just a worn-out lad, an ex-Confederate soldier heading home . . . if he had a home.
The applause after the French ballad roared. Coins flew onto the stage. So did flowers. Yet she ignored them, and the demands that she sing again, as she made her way off the stage, into the audience, past the chairs being pushed out from tables for her to sit, past men she knew and men she didn’t. She stopped at the table where the ex-rebel sat. The man who would introduce himself as Mathew Garth.
It had ended badly that night. Like most nights on that retired riverboat. Frenchy DeLonge and The Donegal had gotten into a row, and the Irish lout had wound up breaking poor Frenchy’s back. She had dreamed of getting to know that silent young rebel, but The Donegal had stopped that with death.
Yet she had held out her hand to Mathew Garth and said that they would meet again. Mathew had said something about Texas, that he doubted their paths would ever cross. And Tess had squeezed his hand tightly but secretly—so The Donegal would not notice and get his dander up again—and told him that he was wrong, that they would meet again.
She didn’t know if she loved him right then. No. More likely, she had simply been intrigued by him. Love came later, when Mathew Garth and his cowboys had ridden to their rescue while she was on her way to Nevada with The Donegal and his den of thieves and prostitutes and cardsharps. Maybe she was certain she loved him when she had helped Edna deliver her baby, and she had placed Lightning in the stunned cowboy’s arms.
* * *
Tess grinned as Mathew stopped the wagon in front of a mercantile. You couldn’t find room to tether another horse in front of any of the saloons, dance halls, or gambling houses—not to mention the brothels—but Jernigan’s Mercantile had no customers.
After helping Tess down, Mathew nodded at another empty business two doors down. “Bath, if you want one,” he said.
“Are you saying I stink?”
He did not answer. “You think you’ll be all right?”
She laughed. “Compared to Memphis, Mathew, this is the Vatican.”
“Vatican . . . ain’t that in Californy?” Groot asked.
She rolled her eyes, stepped onto the boardwalk, and made the bathhouse owner’s night.
* * *
The Milky Way in all its luster led them back to the Middle Concho River. Tess felt clean after the bath, but she knew it would not last, not even an entire day. Tomorrow she would be just as dirty, just as tired, and wondering if she had been a fool. She could have been back at the ranch with her perfumes and dresses and high-button shoes. But then she would have been miles from Mathew and her sons.
Groot kept bragging about his purchase at Jernigan’s store, that the boys would love him even more when he showed them the airtights of tomatoes and of peaches that he had bought. Mathew said nothing, just flicked the lines and kept the mules going. Suddenly he reminded Tess of the hollow-faced, gaunt man in the gray shell jacket—or what once had been gray—with the gold and yellow trim. How silent he had been. Yet that had to be better than who her husband had reminded her of at other times on this drive.
Thomas Dunson.
She felt a chill crawl up her spine.
Yet she relaxed as Mathew pulled the wagon into camp. He set the brake, yelled at the men gathered around the campfire to come help unload some of the grub into Groot’s wagon.
Mathew helped Tess down, and he turned, started toward the fire.
Then, seeing a stranger standing on the other side of the fire ring, Mathew froze.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jess Teveler wore a long, linen duster to protect his clothes from the trail, but Mathew could see the gun belt buckled across the gunman’s waist. The black hat, which had appeared so new a few weeks ago, had been coated with dust and bent some from the wind and rain. The boots carried the scratches of mesquite, cactus, and the rough terrain. He wore chaps, too. Teveler had been talking to Lightning when the wagon had arrived. Now Lightning refilled the visitor’s cup with fresh coffee.
“Hey, Pa,” Lightning said as he returned the pot to the hook that hung from a cast-iron tripod set over the fire. “Look who come a-visiting.”
“Teveler.” Mathew rested his hand on the butt of the Colt revolver.
“Garth.” The gunman was smart enough not to push back the tails of his duster for quicker access to that Thunderer he wore on his left hip.
He sipped coffee and gestured toward the Abingdon wagon, where Meeker, Nambel, Lacey, Laredo, Bradley Rush, and Yago Noguerra busied themselves moving the supplies from San Angelo out of the wagon. Groot told them what needed to go into his Studebaker.
“Need a hand?”
Ignoring the question, Mathew eyed Lightning. “Aren’t you supposed to be nighthawking with your brother?”
Lightning’s head shook. “No Sabe rode out when Jess arrived. Said he’d spell me so I could visit with Jess.” He grinned widely and hooked a thumb toward the visitor. “Jess’s been telling us all some big windies about Grandpa.”
“That so?” Mathew looked back at Teveler. So it was Jess now. First-name basis. Not just once, but three times.
“Well, I imagine you could tell the boy some stories, Matt. More ’n me. I just knowed the man a short while.” More coffee went down his throat. He licked his lips. “But you can learn some mighty interestin’ things in a week or so oftentimes.” Again, the mug pointed at the workers by the two wagons. “You sure you don’t need a hand?”
“Lightning will help them. Enjoy your coffee.”
Lightning did not argue. He hurried around the fire, glanced a confused look at his mother, and took an airtight of tomatoes from Groot.
“Fine coffee,” Teveler said.
“You could get better in town, I warrant,” Mathew said.
Teveler grinned. “No, I reckon not. Not in San Angelo.”
“You’re pretty close to a rope here, aren’t you?”
The grin widened. “I figured the law might not look for me this close to that there town.”
“There was a likeness to you that I saw on a wanted dodger while we were buying supplies.”
“Was I handsome?”
“No illustration. Just a description.”
“Must’ve been some other fella. Blessed with my good looks.”
“And your name.”
He finished the coffee. “You gonna try to collect that reward?” Still, Teveler made no move toward his revolver.
“I’m no lawman. And I never begrudge a man a cup of coffee, or even a hot meal, in my camp.”
“You’re a good man, Matt Garth.”
“You were a good man, too, Teveler . . . once. Or so I hear.”
Teveler moved, crossed toward the chuck wagon, and dropped the cup in the wreck pan.
“I’d like to repay my debt, Garth.”
Mathew’s head shook. “Coffee’s always on the house, Teveler. Like I said.”
“But I figured you might be hirin’ now. Permanent-like. Least till Dodge City.”
“How so?” Mathew asked.
Another grin stretched across the gunman’s face. Mathew guessed that he had not shaved in a couple of weeks. “Heard you lost a man,” Teveler said.
“Where’d you hear that?” Mathew asked.
“A little grave told me,” Teveler replied. “At Dunson’s Corner.”
“We’re full up. Commissary man from Fort Concho ran into me in town, by the way. Wanted to look at some of our beeves. I thought that selling some steers here might be a good idea since the army pays better prices often enough, and since I told him we’d be moving on at first light, I’m sure he’ll have a few troopers with him. To drive any beeves he buys back to the fort. Likely bring more men than he needs, too, since soldiers aren’t real good with cattle.”
Teveler adjusted his hat. “I see. Then I reckon I’d better ride on, eh, Garth? Bound for the Nations, I think. Lawless country up there, but a man can lose himself. I’ll be seein’ you, Garth. You take care.”
Mathew was aware that work had stopped behind him. As Teveler disappeared into the shadows, Mathew did not look ba
ck at the wagons. He made for the coffee and filled a cup—he did not care whose—and squatted by the fire.
“Wait a minute, Jess,” Lightning called out. “I’ll help you with your horse.”
Mathew frowned and his stomach twisted into knots, but he said nothing. Tess, Laredo Downs, Joe Nambel, and Teeler Lacey gathered around the fire, while Groot kept instructing the others as to the proper placement of the merchandise. When they had finished, they wandered off to their bedrolls, and Groot joined the others by the fire.
“I swear, Mathew.” Teeler Lacey was the first to speak. “If he was followin’ us, I never saw no dust. No nothin’.”
“He wasn’t following us. Not since Big Lake, at least. Probably not since Dunson’s Corner. He probably rode this way, figuring he’d meet up with us here.”
“Why would he do that?” Joe Nambel came to a realization. “You think him . . . Jess Teveler . . . you think he’s after our herd?”
Mathew shrugged. “He gave us fair warning. Said he was off for the Nations. If he wants the herd, that’s where he’ll try to take it.”
“But why on earth . . . ?” Nambel did not finish.
Laredo looked off toward the remuda. “Lightnin’s takin’ a likin’ to that no-account.”
“Yeah.” Mathew tested the coffee. It didn’t taste so good now.
“Is there really some bluebelly from Concho comin’ out to buy some beeves?” Groot asked.
“No,” Mathew said.
“Damnation, Mathew Garth,” Groot said. “You never told no lie before. Not even to some rapscallion on the owlhoot like Teveler.”
“He didn’t lie.” Tess waited until everyone looked at her. “The commissary officer at Concho did happen by the store where we were loading the wagon. He recognized Mathew. Asked if he were trailing a herd. Mathew told him yes. The officer said he might be interested in buying some cattle, said he would be willing to bring some men out tonight, and he could pay in a government voucher or scrip.” She waited. “And Mathew told him . . .”
Mathew shrugged. “That my beeves are going to Dodge City.”
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