“Think so, do you?”
Pitney grinned and indicated the cattle visible out the window. “They are animals. Simple beasts. Dull-witted beasts, at that. No different than the many other creatures man has domesticated.”
“I am beginnin’ to regret my decision to sell it,” Bartholomew said.
“Why? Because I regard cows as a commodity? As a means to an end and nothing more? My dear sir, I am a businessman. Cows just happen to be part of the business in which I am currently engaged. If I am to be truthful, I hold them in no more esteem than I do horses. Indeed, I hold them in less, because their sole purpose is to be fattened and slaughtered, whereas horses have a variety of uses.”
“I should have expected this.”
“Expected what? That I refuse to place longhorns on a pedestal? If you ask me, you are overreacting.”
Bartholomew looked at his foreman. “Pack your war bag. You’re goin’ to Wyoming.”
“I hear it is right pretty country,” Owen said, ‘’although it suffers from the handicap of not bein’ Texas.”
Pitney gestured sharply. “Have either of you listened to a word I’ve said? I do not need Owen to come along. The three cowboys you have already mentioned are more than sufficient.”
“Whether you want the help or not, you have it,” Bartholomew said. “In fact, I’m puttin’ Owen in charge until the bull reaches the BLC.”
“Once I pay you, the bull is mine to do with as I deem fit,” Pitney said in annoyance. “I will be in charge. Please ask your three hands to do as I tell them, and we will all get along quite fine.”
“We haven’t signed the agreement yet,” Bartholomew noted. “And I am not goin’ to sign until you accept the following conditions. First, Big Blue does not legally change hands until he gets to the BLC. Second, Owen is big sugar the whole way.”
“I do not believe this.”
“If payin’ in advance makes you uncomfortable, I am willin’ to accept half now and the other half upon delivery. That’s more than fair, don’t you think?”
“Need I remind you that I have come a long distance to make this purchase? Need I also remind you that we agreed on the terms before I left Wyoming? But most importantly, it is improper to change the terms halfway through a transaction.”
“It’s proper when it is in my best interests, and yours, as well, whether you know it or not.”
Anger brought Pitney to his feet. “I have half a mind to walk out and forget the whole arrangement.”
“Go right ahead,” Bartholomew said. “But I won’t sell to a man unless I respect him, and I don’t have much respect for those who can’t accept good advice.”
“Are you saying I am an imbecile?”
“All I am sayin’ is that I don’t want your death on my conscience. Is that too much to ask?”
“Now you have me dying? This is becoming more ridiculous by the moment. Be reasonable, will you?”
Bartholomew had a ready response but his wife held up her hand and said, “We should discuss this later, after everyone has a chance to simmer down. Right now why don’t my husband and Owen show you around while I fix supper?”
“I would like to see the bull,” Pitney said. “This Big Blue of yours. He is here, correct? Not off in the brush somewhere?”
“I had some of the hands bring him in a week ago,” Bartholomew said. “He is out in back of the stable.” Bartholomew rose. “I am more than happy to show him to you. It will give you a better idea of what you are in for.”
Proctor stood and pecked her husband on the cheek. “Don’t be too long. We will eat in half an hour, and I don’t want your meal getting cold.”
The men trailed her from the sitting room. She went left and they turned right, down the hall to the front porch. The sun was poised on the western rim of the world, its blazing radiance contrasted by vivid splashes of red, orange, and pink.
“There is nothin’ like a Texas sunset,” Owen declared.
“Oh, I have seen a few in Bristol that rival any you have here. And Wyoming is noted for its spectacular sunrises and sunsets.” Pitney sniffed a few times. “My goodness. Where is that tantalizing aroma coming from?’
Bartholomew pointed at a building halfway between the stable and the bunkhouse. “The cookhouse. I believe in treatin’ my men right, so I hired the best feed and trough man I could afford. A gent who once worked at one of the fanciest restaurants in St. Louis.”
The corral was partly in shadow as they came around the stable. It appeared to be empty, prompting Pitney to ask, “So where is this holy terror of yours? I’m eager to set eyes on the brute.”
“Then open them,” Owen said, and nodded toward the darkest part of the shadow.
Alfred Pitney turned. His mouth fell open and he took a step back. “It can’t be!”
7
Big Blue
The size of the monster was beyond belief. Longer than a horse, taller than a man, the bull was no lean-flanked scarecrow of the brush. It was massive, an enormous slab of muscle, with a hump on its front shoulders reminiscent of a buffalo. A redwood neck supported a great triangular head that sported the most amazing horns, nine feet long from tip to tip, with the trademark wicked curl. Its hooves were as big as buckets. Here was a living, breathing engine of destruction, the undisputed lord of the brush country.
Indeed, as Alfred Pitney gaped in wonderment, the thought crossed his mind that here was the lord of all the longhorns, the most magnificent bull ever—and it would soon be his, or, rather, the BLC’s.
Its size was enhanced by its color, an extremely striking brindle blue. Blue was fairly common among longhorns. Pitney had already seen half a dozen or so. But the blue of this bull was twice the blue of any other. It was the blue of the sky or the blue of a lake, and it lent the creature a certain inherent majesty that no mere black or brown could rival.
“You do realize, I trust, that I could not sell you my biggest bull,” James Bartholomew commented.
“This gargantuan isn’t your largest?” Pitney marveled, trying to comprehend an animal that eclipsed this one.
“Big Blue is third, behind bulls I’ve named Bowie and King. I breed them exclusively with my own stock.”
“Big Blue,” Pitney repeated softly, as he might the name of a secret lover. “How fitting.”
“Now that you’ve seen him, can you understand why takin’ him north in a cattle car is out of the question?” Bartholomew asked.
“He would bust the car to kindlin’,” Owen said.
Pitney stepped to the rails and extended a hand, thinking the bull might come to him to be petted. “How tame is he?”
“Not very,” Bartholomew answered. “A tame bull wouldn’t last long in the brush. Oh, he will let us lead him by a rope when he is in the mood to let us, but generally he does what he wants when he wants and there isn’t a whole hell of a lot we can do about it.”
“Then how in the world do I get him from here”—Pitney pointed at the ground—“to the BLC in Wyoming?”
“With a lot of care,” was Bartholomew’s reply, and he was not being glib.
“We have a few tricks,” Owen said. “There are ways of makin’ a bull do what you want.”
“In season?” Pitney bent slightly to stare under Big Blue. “Will that work, though? I mean, how long do longhorns stay in season? And won’t the cows be intractable as well?”
“Some of our cows are as tame as any you have at the BLC,” Bartholomew informed him. “Not as a result of any effort on our part. They’re friendlier to people, and don’t spook as easily.” He paused. “The cows I’ve picked for you are as tame as longhorns ever get. I think you will be happy with them.”
“I’m happy with this brute.” Pitney grinned at Big Blue. “He is everything I had hoped for, and more besides.”
“So you think you have made a wise purchase?”
“Mr. Bartholomew, I could not be more pleased if he were made of solid gold. The infusion of his blood into the BLC
’s herd will work wonders. We will have the hardiest cattle in all of Wyoming.”
“You hope,” Bartholomew said. “Remember what I told you, though. There is no guarantee.”
“I understand. But you must excuse me if I brim with confidence. Just look at him! I only wish the directors of the BLC were here so I could see the looks on their faces.” Pitney laughed.
Owen came to the rails, reached into a shirt pocket, and held his hand toward Big Blue. The behemoth lumbered over and out flicked a tongue nearly as thick around as the cowboy’s wrist.
Pitney arched both eyebrows.
“Sugar,” Owen explained. “Big Blue has a sweet tooth. Another trick that might come in handy on the trail.”
“I can’t wait to start. How soon can we leave?”
“The cook was due yesterday,” Bartholomew said. “I have the wagon all set to go but he will probably want to add a few provisions.”
“What’s this?” Pitney turned. “No one said anything about a wagon. It will slow us down.”
Bartholomew grinned. “Big Blue doesn’t walk all that fast unless he’s so inclined. Don’t worry. The wagon can keep up.”
“Surely you don’t expect us to eat our own cookin’ the whole way?” Owen asked. “Why, that would be plumb inhuman.”
“On long drives to market, and when my hands are out on the range brandin’, a cook wagon always goes along. It’s how we do things,” Bartholomew said.
“It’s a necessity,” Owen amended.
“Wouldn’t a string of packhorses suffice?” the Brit hopefully inquired.
“Horses can’t carry all the grub and supplies a wagon can. And they sure as blazes can’t whip up a hot meal as good as Pedro Chavez’s brother.”
“Who?”
It was Bartholomew who explained. “Pedro Chavez is my cook. He’s from a village just over the border, and he can cook anything under the sun. Mexican dishes, American dishes, you name it. I can’t spare him for as long as it will take you to reach Wyoming, so I’ve hired his older brother, Benedito, to cook for you. Pedro swears Benedito is a wizard with a fryin’ pan.”
“He better be,” Owen said ominously.
“I had no idea cowboys attached so much importance to their stomachs,” Pitney commented.
“You don’t sound very pleased with the arrangements I’ve made,” his host observed.
“Forgive me if I seem upset. It is just that there is a lot more to this enterprise than I envisioned, and I am not entirely convinced, as Owen would have it, of the necessity. However, I bow to your superior judgment in these matters. If you say a train is out of the question, then a train is out of the question. If you say we must have a cook and a wagon, then we will have a cook and a wagon.” Pitney smiled. “Just so you don’t tell me I must carry Big Blue piggyback, as you Yanks sometimes say.”
The rancher chuckled, then moved toward the gate. “I suppose we might as well get it over with, then.”
Pitney followed him. “Get what over with?”
“The introductions. Big Blue doesn’t take to everyone, and if he doesn’t take to you, you might want to rethink buyin’ him or one day he’s liable to put a hole in you where there shouldn’t be a hole.”
“He has gored others?” Pitney was horrified.
“Only two or three that I know of,” Bartholomew said. “Two were rustlers whose rustlin’ days are over. The third was a hand of mine by the name of Whiffy. He wouldn’t take a bath but once a year. Claimed it was bad for the constitution.”
“Bad for the nose, too,” Owen said.
“Whiffy came close to Big Blue one day, and Big Blue took one sniff and lit out after him like a riled bear,” Bartholomew related. “Luckily for Whiffy a horse was handy and Big Blue lost interest after a while. Scared Whiffy so bad, he up and quit on me.”
“And good riddance.” From Owen. “Whenever he was in breathin’ distance, I about gagged.”
Bartholomew opened the gate and beckoned to Pitney. Failing to hide his nervousness, the Britisher stepped into the corral and smiled thinly at Big Blue. “Nice bull,” he said. “Be a nice bull and like the dickens out of me.”
Owen hid a grin by tucking his chin to his chest, then looked up and said, “Don’t worry. If he doesn’t cotton to you, he’ll snort and paw the ground before he charges, givin’ you time to get out of there.”
“How encouraging,” Alfred Pitney said, but he did not sound encouraged. His throat bobbing, he stopped when Bartholomew halted some six feet from the longhorn. “What do I do?” he whispered.
“Just stand there.”
Big Blue did not move, make a noise, or in any way acknowledge their presence. The seconds dragged into minutes.
Nervously wringing his fingers, his face slick with a sheen of sweat, Pitney made bold to ask, “What the deuce is it waiting for?”
“Stay still,” Bartholomew cautioned.
Pitney tried. He repeatedly gnawed on his bottom lip and repeatedly clenched and unclenched his hands. Several more minutes went by, and he said in rising irritation, “I must be honest with you. I do not know how much more of this I can stand.”
Suddenly Big Blue snorted and tossed his huge head, his horns dipping and rising as they would if he were to use them as weapons.
Startled, Pitney involuntarily backed up, straight into Owen, who had come up unnoticed behind him.
“Whatever you do,” the foreman said, “don’t run. He might come after you.”
Pitney had to swallow to get his voice to work. “You don’t say?” He raised an arm and wiped a sleeve across his face. “I’m not a coward,” he said, defending himself. “It’s just that—”
“No need to make excuses,” Owen said. “We all feel jittery the first time. It’s only natural.”
Big Blue took a step toward them. His eyes were dark pools of bovine mystery; it was impossible to tell what the animal was thinking. Each wheezy breath was akin to the rasp of a bellows. His ears flicked and his nostrils flared, and he stamped a front hoof with a heavy thud.
“Oh Lord!” Pitney exclaimed, certain the sound had been the peal of his personal doom.
“Easy does it,” Owen advised. “He’s not fixin’ to charge or he would lower his head. He’s testin’ you, is all.”
“Bulls do that?”
“Longhorns do.”
Big Blue ignored Bartholomew and Owen. Focused exclusively on Pitney, he came so close that Pitney saw a fly crawling about on the top of his head. Big Blue’s warm breath fanned Pitney’s face. Suddenly Pitney felt fingers touch his own, and something was pressed into his right palm. Something small and square.
“Give it to him,” Owen whispered.
Pitney held the sugar on his palm below the bull’s nose. “Let’s make friends, shall we? That’s a good chap. I promise all the sugar you can ever want and a harem that would turn a sultan green with envy.”
Big Blue’s tongue curled across Pitney’s palm. Gobs of spit were left in its wake. The tongue was so slimy, Pitney was reminded of a giant snail. He could barely repress an unmanly shudder.
James Bartholomew smiled and clapped his guest on the back. “You did it. Big Blue has accepted you. So long as you abide by the rules, the two of you should get along just fine.”
“What do you mean by rules?”
“There are things you shouldn’t do when around a longhorn. Never startle one. Never shoot a gun too close to one, or shout unless you have to. Never walk directly in front of one. Never ride too close in front of one. Never walk or ride too close behind. Never put your hands anywhere near a longhorn’s eyes or ears unless it’s ailin’, and then only if you absolutely have to.”
Pitney studied his acquisition with rising dismay. “Is that all?”
“Don’t ever get between a bull and water when it’s thirsty. Don’t ever get between a bull and a cow when romance is in the air. Don’t ever smack this bull to get him to stand up or move. Don’t ever wave a rope in his face. Or a blanket or a sh
irt. It goes without sayin’ that you never hit or kick him. And for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t ever try to ride him.”
“You jest, of course?”
“We had a hand try it once,” Owen said. “He was drunk, which is a poor excuse. Figured he would throw his saddle on Bowie and ride him.” The cowboy sadly shook his head. “He learned the hard way a bull isn’t a horse.”
“That’s preposterous,” Pitney said. “I would never do anything so silly.”
“I never reckoned Dexter would be so foolheaded, either,” Owen said, “but that’s what happens when you’re so booze blind you can’t count past three.”
Bartholomew was holding the gate open for them. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m famished.”
“I’m invited to table?” Owen swatted dust from his shirt. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? I should change.”
“Proctor won’t mind. She doesn’t get fussy over a little dirt.”
The sun was almost gone. The bright colors of a while ago had faded to gray except for a pink band that divided the horizon from the vault of sky. On the nearby hill several steers were starkly silhouetted in all their primitive majesty.
Pitney remembered the lean longhorns he had seen in the brush, and thought to ask, “How much does Big Blue weigh?”
“The last time we had him on the scale, close to fifteen hundred pounds. Mind you, weighing him is a challenge. He can be temperamental,” Bartholomew said.
Owen remarked, “But he’s nowhere near as bad as a bull we once had by the name of Lopsided. We called him that because one of his horns pointed up and the other pointed down. He wasn’t near as big as Big Blue but he was snake mean. He liked nothin’ better than to sneak up on a rider from the rear and bowl the horse and puncher over. Strange thing was, once they were down, he never gored them. He’d just stand there and look at them as if he thought it was funny.”
“Forgive my presumption,” Pitney said, “but you seem to attribute human characteristics to mere animals.”
By the Horns Page 8
