“There is nothin’ mere about longhorns,” Owen replied. “You’ll learn on our way north to Wyoming. I only hope, after all the trouble we’re goin’ to, that Big Blue lets us take him there.”
“Excuse me, but the bull doesn’t have a say in the matter. I’m paying for him. He’s going. It’s that simple.”
“Some bulls won’t leave their home range,” Owen said. “They go only so far and then stop and they won’t go any farther. You can prod, you can cuss, you can rope them and pull on the rope until Armageddon, and they won’t budge.”
“That is my worry, too,” Bartholomew said.
“A healthy swat on the rump should do the job, I would think,” Pitney said. “I have dealt with stubborn horses and mules.”
Owen clucked like a disapproving hen. “Swat Big Blue on the backside and he will toss you on his horns until you look like a sieve.”
“He’s not a man-hater, though,” Bartholomew said. “A few bulls hate people on general principle. About ten years ago there was a wild one called El Rojo. He had the nasty habit of attackin’ every person he came across, whether mounted or on foot. Anyone passin’ through El Rojo’s range knew not to make a campfire at night because he was sure to come chargin’ out of the dark at them. As I recollect, he killed five or six people. His last victim was a prospector. To give you some idea of how vicious that bull was, he not only gored the prospector to death, he also gored the old man’s burro.”
“Nothing was done about it?”
“Of course. Texans will only put up with so much contrariness, whether it’s from Santa Anna or a longhorn. Punchers and hunters were always on the lookout for El Rojo. A settler named Nelson swore he put a slug into him. Four cowhands for the Slash H outfit chased El Rojo for over five miles, Winchesters blazing, but El Rojo got away.”
“He was one tough bull,” Owen said in admiration.
“It was a killer,” Pitney declared. “It deserved to be exterminated without mercy.” The next slipped out without him meaning to say it. “Or do Texans make distinctions between bulls that kill and, say, drummers who kill?”
“An eye for an eye,” Owen said.
Bartholomew finished his account. “When the end came, El Rojo didn’t go down fightin’, as everyone thought he would. There was this old woman, Iris Mitchell. She and her husband built up a small spread, then the husband went and got himself killed by Comanches. So there she was, all by her lonesome one night, when she heard a ruckus outside. A brave soul, she took her husband’s shotgun and went to check if the coyotes were tryin’ to get at her chickens again. But it wasn’t coyotes, it was El Rojo. Iris had left the barn door open and he had wandered in and was tearin’ the place apart for the hell of it. When Proctor and I talked to her later, she told us she never suspected it was El Rojo. She thought it was a mangy wild longhorn. That old gal waited by the door, and when El Rojo poked his head out, she touched both barrels of her shotgun to his ear and squeezed both triggers. About knocked her on her backside, but she blew his brains clear out of his brainpan.”
“Some of the ranchers took up a collection,” Owen said. “Gave her a reward of five hundred dollars.” Owen nodded at his employer. “Mr. Bartholomew put up the hog’s share.”
“It was only fittin’,” Bartholomew said. “Iris wasn’t well off, and she was too proud to ask for help. So in the end El Rojo did someone some good.”
Proctor was waiting for them on the porch. “I was just comin’ to fetch you. Supper is served, and I hope you have a healthy appetite.”
“I could eat a longhorn,” Pitney joked.
As it turned out, he did. The main course was beef. Specifically, thick, simmering longhorn steaks, dripping in their own juices, along with baked potatoes drowned in butter, crisp toast, and fresh-cut string beans. Prior to the main course Proctor took a page from a fine restaurant she once visited in St. Louis and offered steaming chicken soup sprinkled liberally with dumplings. Her side dishes consisted of bacon and collard greens, and corn pone, an indirect tribute to her grandmother, who hailed from Tennessee.
There were three desserts to choose from. Just out of the oven, a sweet potato pie proved popular with James and Owen. Pitney was more partial to what Proctor informed him was known as pandowdy, essentially sugar, spice, and apples mixed together, with a thick crust. A pudding with molasses as the main ingredient was also much to the Brit’s liking.
Of all the differences between England and America, the most glaring, to Pitney, was their respective diets. The British loved their tea, while in America, ever since the Civil War, coffee had become the rage. Americans also had a fondness for butter that Pitney on occasion regarded as downright disgusting. Butter was lavishly used in pastries and puddings, lavishly applied to potatoes, lavishly added to every meat sauce, and layered thick on bread and biscuits.
Pitney was a firm believer in the adage that a little of anything went a long way, and that included butter. He also did not share the American passion for sweets. “The sweeter, the better” summed up that passion, as evinced not only by Proctor’s three desserts, but by the many and sundry pies, pastries, and cakes offered at every eating establishment he had visited since crossing the pond, as he liked to think of the Atlantic Ocean.
Still, the pandowdy was delicious, and so unlike any of his customary fare back in Merry Olde that he treated himself to a second helping.
Proctor had heard the British were fond of tea, so she had prepared a pot specifically for Pitney. Her husband would not touch tea with a ten-foot pole and she was not all that fond of it herself. Both the Bartholomews were addicted to washing their meals down with coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
Afterward, James Bartholomew led the men into the sitting room and handed out cigars. Pitney preferred a pipe but to be polite he cut his cigar, lit it, and leaned back in his chair. “I could not have eaten another morsel,” he commented, patting his stomach. “Please convey my highest esteem for your wife’s culinary skills.”
“Her food does make the mouth water,” the rancher agreed. “I have to be careful or I’ll pile on the pounds like a hog.” He puffed on his cigar. “I don’t suppose there is any chance you will reconsider goin’ along?”
“We have been all through that.”
“True, but folks have been known to change their minds.” Bartholomew motioned at his foreman. “I’ve tried. Do the best you can. I won’t hold it against you if he doesn’t make it.”
Alfred Pitney laughed. “Stop trying to scare me. It won’t work. I didn’t step off the boat yesterday.” He inhaled too deeply on his cigar, and coughed. “I have lived in Wyoming Territory, off and on, for several years.”
“Wyoming isn’t Texas,” Owen said.
“Oh, please. Texas has trouble with the Comanches, Wyoming has trouble with the Sioux and the Bannocks. Texas has longhorns and a jaguar or two, Wyoming has grizzlies and mountain lions. Texas has countless miles of wilderness, of plains and river country, Wyoming has countless miles of mountains and forest and prairie.” Pitney smirked. “So you see, gentlemen, when you get down right to it, to quote you Yanks, there really is not that much difference between Wyoming Territory and Texas.”
Owen erased the smirk by asking, “Have you ever shot anyone?”
“What a ridiculous question. I never have, I never will. What possible importance can that have?”
“I was just wonderin’ how fond you are of livin’.”
“There you go again.” Pitney sighed in exasperation. “I thought you were a cowboy, not a gunsman. Your job is cows, not killing. Or would you have me believe the nonsense spouted by the penny dreadfuls? That all cowhands are deadly pistoleros? That is the right word, is it not? ‘Pistoleros’?”
“You are entitled to believe what you want,” James Bartholomew said. “We’ve done our part. We’ve warned you what’s in store. Now whether you and the others make it to Wyoming Territory alive is in the hands of the Almighty.”
“It can’t be as ba
d as all that,” Pitney said.
“It can be worse,” Owen told him.
8
As Right As Right Can Be
The village of Carro seemed to be deserted. Nothing stirred except for a pair of pigs that were squabbling over a snake. One pig had the snake’s head in its mouth, the other had the snake’s tail, as, grunting and squealing, they engaged in a tug-of-war over which ate the spoils.
Four riders neared the adobe buildings. Peons were seated in the shade, backs to the walls, sombreros pulled low.
“It’s siesta,” James Bartholomew explained. “An hour each day when Mexicans take it easy.”
“Odd habit,” Alfred Pitney said. “But then, many say the same about us British and our teatime.” He tilted his head to squint at the fiercely burning yellow disk in the center of the sky. “Can’t say as I blame them for wanting to get out of this heat.”
Lon Chalmers was in the lead, riding a claybank. His clothes, like theirs, were caked with dust from their three-day ride from the Bar 40. He rode with his right hand on his hip, close to his Colt, and alertly flicked his gaze from doorways to windows as they entered the narrow street. “Let’s hope our comin’ is the secret we hope it is.”
Owen pushed his hat brim back and arched his spine to relieve a kink. “The bandidos mostly stick to the hills.” He repeated for emphasis, “Mostly.”
Pitney took his handkerchief out and wiped his face and throat. “I still don’t understand what this is all about, beyond the fact it has something to do with your cook’s brother, the one you hired to go to Wyoming with me.”
“You will understand soon enough,” Bartholomew said, and did not elaborate. “I just wish you had stayed at the Bar 40 like I wanted. My wife was lookin’ forward to showin’ you off to her friends.”
“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see Mexico. I have never been here before.”
“It’s a great place for lizards to rear a family,” Lon said.
They came to the plaza. In the center stood a fountain as dry as the surrounding desert. Across the square stood one of the few two-story buildings Carro boasted. Owen reined toward it and angled slightly to the right. Lon angled to the left. Their employer moved up between them and all three came to a halt just as a hatless man emerged.
Unlike the majority of the villagers, who wore plain white cotton shirts and pants, this man wore a baggy suit. He was balding. His moon of a face betrayed a worried expression, as did a nervous tic to his mouth.
“You are the alcalde?” James Bartholomew asked.
“Sí, señor.”
“You know why we are here?”
The alcalde nodded. “Benedito told me you were coming.” His English was flavored with a heavy accent. “I have been expecting you.”
“And you have no objections? You did not notify the federales?”
“No, señor. Some of them are yours, and a man must protect his own, no?” The alcalde offered a timid smile. “As for the soldados, we are a very small and very poor village, far from Mexico City. We do not want soldados to come. They always make us house and feed them, and some of them are very fat.” Again he offered his timid smile.
“It is important no one interferes,” Bartholomew said.
“Not to worry, señor,” the alcalde said. “We do not—” He stopped. “How is it you Americanos say? Ah, yes. We do not stick our noses where they should not be. That is right?”
“I am obliged.” Bartholomew lifted his reins. “About a mile past your village, and then a quarter of a mile to the hills?”
“Sí, señor. Be very careful. They are poison. They have killed many. They will not let you leave alive.”
“That works both ways.” Bartholomew touched his hat brim, then nodded at Owen and Lon Chalmers, who headed down a street that would take them out of Carro to the south. A few sombreros rose and dark eyes studied them without hostility.
Pitney goaded his sweaty sorrel up next to the rancher’s bay. He thoughtfully regarded the bleak, arid landscape that stretched before them. “I see what Mr. Chalmers means about the lizards. He’s quite the wit at times.”
“Don’t judge the whole country by one sleepy village. When I was younger I made it clear down to Chiapas once. Mexico is not all dry and dusty. There are spots as pretty as any you’ll find north of the border.”
“Isn’t this the village where your cook, Pedro Chavez, is from? And his brother Benedito, who was supposed to be at your ranch a week ago?”
“It is,” Bartholomew confirmed.
“Where is he? I want to give him a piece of my mind. He has unnecessarily delayed our departure.”
“He has a good reason for not comin’ sooner.”
“What might that be?”
“He got word to us about an important matter that requires my immediate attention,” the rancher said.
“I have a ranch in Wyoming to run. I can’t spend the rest of the summer twiddling my thumbs in Texas.”
“Well, if it’s any comfort, your twiddlin’ is about done. Benedito will ride back with us, and you can leave the next mornin’.”
“I can hardly wait.”
To the west, shimmering in the heat haze, rose a series of brown hills. Other than a lizard that skittered across the dirt track they were following, there wasn’t a sign of life anywhere.
Owen and Lon drew their six-shooters. Each inserted a cartridge into an empty chamber under the hammer, then slid the revolver back into the holster.
“What was that all about?” Alfred Pitney inquired.
“As a precaution most gents only keep five pills in the wheel so if they drop their six-gun or it slips out of its holster, it won’t go off by accident,” Bartholomew explained. “A sixth pill is added only when it will be needed.”
“Then my suspicion is correct. There is more to our being here than the cook,” Pitney said. “You are up to something. You wanted me to stay behind because you are either afraid I will be a liability, or you are afraid I might be harmed.”
“You’ve never shot anyone, remember? ‘Never have, never will.’ Weren’t those your exact words?”
“Well, yes, but—” Pitney began.
“There is no law in these parts. No tin star to make arrests. The nearest garrison is over a hundred miles away. A man has to stand on his own two feet, which includes takin’ the law into his hands if he has to, or the coyotes and the buzzards will pick him clean.”
“Which is your quaint way of saying there might be violence?”
“No might about it,” Bartholomew said. “You heard the mayor. The people we’re after are the kind who would as soon slit your throat as look at you. That’s why we soon part company for a spell.”
“Like hell,” Pitney declared. “You are not leaving me alone in this godforsaken wilderness.”
The two cowboys reined up and leaned on their saddle horns. Bartholomew and the Brit followed suit. They were at a junction with another dirt track. This one, rutted by wagon wheels and pockmarked by hoofprints, led due west into the brown hills.
“This is it,” Bartholomew said. “If we’re not back in two hours, head for the border and don’t stop until you’re in Texas.”
“Are you hard of hearing? I am going with you.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Bartholomew insisted. “Be listenin’, and when you hear shots, be on the lookout. If you spot riders wearin’ sombreros instead of us, ride like the wind.” He nodded at his foreman and Chalmers, and gigged his mount.
The Brit flicked his reins and within moments was once again at the rancher’s side. “You are not losing me that easily.”
“Please, Mr. Pitney. I ask you as a friend.”
“I don’t have the right to do as I want? I thought you Yanks were all about freedom. Isn’t that why you fought to throw off Britain’s yoke? Isn’t that why the North fought the South? To free the slaves?”
James Bartholomew was quiet a while, his eyes hidden by his hat brim. Finally h
e said, with no enthusiasm, “All right. It’s on your shoulders. I don’t want any gripes after, if it wasn’t to your liking.”
“Gripes in what regard?” Pitney asked, but he did not receive an answer. The rare discourtesy rankled.
Save for the dull clop of hooves and the creak of saddle leather, the four of them rode in silence. Gradually the hills grew until they were as high as any along the front range of the Rockies. But where the foothills of Wyoming were often lushly timbered, on these vegetation was sparse. A few scrubs, a few dry blades of grass, and that was it.
As they came closer, Lon Chalmers moved ahead of Owen. Lon’s hand was always on his Colt and he rode with the wary posture of a man who expected at any moment that a mountain lion would spring out at him.
The trail wound like a serpent in among the hills. A slash of green midway up the next slope was a remarkable exception to the general aridity. Not surprisingly, the track pointed directly toward it.
“That’s where they’ll be, boss,” Lon said without turning his head. “A spring, most likely, to water the stock.”
“Remember my instructions. Owen, are you sure about this?” Bartholomew stared at his foreman’s broad back. “It’s not why I hired you on.”
“If Lon can do it, I can.” Owen sounded offended.
“Maybe there will only be a few,” Lon said. “Maybe I can take care of all of them, if it comes to that.”
“It will,” Owen predicted.
The oasis covered several acres. Grass grew thick, sprinkled with trees. A fence enclosed two of the acres, the workmanship shoddy, consisting of broken limbs lashed together with rawhide. Over thirty head of cattle were at ease near a large spring. Some were longhorns, some were not.
To the left were buildings, half a dozen, all as shabby as the fence, the largest a shack that looked fit to be blown away by the next strong wind. A barn stood halfway completed, and from the look of things, never would be. Scattered about were old saddles, rusted tools, and general litter.
“What a hovel,” Pitney muttered.
By the Horns Page 9
