by John Legg
Once past the Pecos River, the land got more arid and desolate. Water was even more sparse, as were wood, and trees. Just mile after mile of absolute nothing running off to the far horizon and the bright blue sky. It rained three times on the trip, two of them real gully washers; the other just a miserable two-daylong drizzle.
He finally moved into Texas, and felt a small rush of excitement—as well as trepidation. He was looking forward to seeing his old friend again, but at the same time he wondered about what might be troubling his friend. He had the feeling that he was going to make a great, big fool of himself. That he was going to get to Kinchloe’s house and find that Kinchloe simply had no desire to go to California, and Guthrie would be left standing there with egg on his face.
Guthrie turned more southward, though still heading basically east. Less than a decade ago, he knew, this land of high plains, flat, low mesas, and cap rock cut through with shallow canyons and washes, had been the heartland of the last holdouts of the Comanches. They had made what turned out to be their last stand a few days ride northeast of where he was now.
Eleven days after he had left Apache Springs, Guthrie headed into Goat Canyon. Late the next day he sat on a barren, low knob of grass-covered sand and looked down at a rickety excuse of a ranch house. The house was made of adobe, sod, and scrawny mesquite logs. Its front door faced north. A meager stream meandered lazily to the east of the house, curling around to the south. A barn and corral lay in jumbled confusion at the back of the house. A few hogs snorted around in a small pen west of the house. Two chicken coops formed the near “wall” of the sty.
Sixty or seventy feet across the “yard” from the front door was a shed, or maybe a bunkhouse, next to which was a small vegetable garden. Even from this distance—maybe two hundred yards—Guthrie could see a woman stooped over in the garden, working.
Two children played in the yard with several yapping dogs.
Guthrie waited, trying to keep his mind blank. From the knob, it looked as if Pete Kinchloe was in dire straits. But the condition of Kinchloe’s ranch—if that’s what it could be called—could very well be misleading. Many Texas ranchers had started off in far worse shape. They often took every cent they earned and turned it into more and more cattle, living in poor hovels until they were comfortably off. It was quite likely Kinchloe was doing just that.
Still, Guthrie didn’t like the looks of the place—nor what it foreboded. So he waited, wanting to see if Kinchloe showed up. He had never been here before, and it was entirely possible that this might not even be Kinchloe’s place. He wanted to be sure.
Guthrie dismounted and unsaddled the buckskin and unloaded the sorrel. He pounded in two picket rings, hooked both horses to them and let them crop what grass they could find on the mound. Guthrie sat, leaning against his saddle. He opened a can of peaches and slurped them down. When he finished, he tossed the can away, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and dozed a while.
Dusk was starting to lengthen the shadows across the land when Guthrie roused himself. He stood, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He rolled a cigarette and smoked it down. Things looked the same down at the poor ranch, though the woman was no longer in the garden. Guthrie assumed she had gone into the house to prepare supper. He hoped Kinchloe had not shown up while he was asleep.
Guthrie crushed out the cigarette in the dirt and began loading his supplies on the sorrel. He kept glancing toward the house, hoping to see someone— preferably Kinchloe. He figured that if no one showed up by the time he finished loading the sorrel and saddling the buckskin, he’d just ride on down there and knock on the door. If it wasn’t Kinchloe’s place, they might know where Kinchloe was. And he didn’t favor approaching an unknown house after dark, so it would have to be soon.
As he was tightening the cinch on the saddle, he saw two riders approaching the house from the east. He pulled out a collapsing telescope, opened it, and looked. Even in the dusk, he could tell Pete Kinchloe. He smiled. Guthrie put the telescope away and pulled himself onto his horse. He saw Kinchloe heading into the house. The other man walked both horses toward the barn at back.
Guthrie headed down the hill, once more both excited and worried. He’d know in minutes if he was a fool or a savior, he supposed. He’d been both before, and he told himself not to worry about which one he would be this time.
It was almost dark when he stopped in front of the house after having waded through the barking, snapping dogs. The canines were snarling around his horses, making the horses nervous. From inside he heard a rifle having a round levered into the chamber, and he sat very still, except to slide his right hand down to the big Remington and loosen the small loop over the hammer.
Chapter Four
“Who’s there?” a rasping voice called from inside.
“Jack Guthrie.” The visitor knew better than to take chances with a nervous man aiming a cocked rifle at him in the rapidly falling darkness.
“You alone?”
“Yep.”
There was a pause of some moments, then the front door opened and a long beanpole of a man stepped out onto the sagging porch of the house. He held a Burgess repeating rifle in his hands. He glanced warily left and right, then up at the rider. Suddenly he nodded. “Light and tie, Jack,” he said, easing down the hammer of the rifle.
A young black man, lean and grim-looking, stepped around the corner of the house and put his pistol away as he walked toward Guthrie while the visitor dismounted.
Guthrie grinned as he moved forward, hand outstretched. The smile plummeted from his face when it was not returned, though Kinchloe shook Guthrie’s hand with what seemed to be at least a minimum of excitement.
“Isaac, see to Mister Guthrie’s horses, please,” Kinchloe said. He looked at Guthrie, his face drawn and haggard. “Come on in, Jack.”
“Mind you tend ’em kindly,” Guthrie said in not unfriendly tones. He knew something bad must be bothering his friend, and he felt rather relieved to know that he had been right in deducing that something was wrong here at Kinchloe’s ranch. He followed a tense Pete Kinchloe into the house.
The interior of the place was as shabby as the exterior. A rickety table dominated the center of the room. Along the left wall was a sink with pump, a cupboard covered with cheap, cracked dishes, another with boxes, tins and bags of food, and a big, cast-iron stove. A woman, her chunky face pasty with worry, stood at the stove, a long-handled spoon in her hand. She watched fearfully as Guthrie entered the room.
“Have a seat, Jack,” Kinchloe said. He leaned the Burgess against the wall next to the door. He jerked his head roughly in the woman’s direction. “Jack, my wife, Florence. Flo, my old friend, Jack Guthrie.”
Kinchloe’s voice seemed to catch just a tad when he said friend, making Guthrie wonder. Guthrie said nothing. He just nodded at Florence. He pulled off his hat and tossed it on the table before gingerly settling his rear end into a chair he was not entirely sure would hold him. The chair creaked, but remained standing.
“Some coffee, Flo,” Kinchloe said. He spun a chair so the back was facing Guthrie across the table, and he sat on it, forearms resting on the top of the chair back.
Florence set a mug of coffee in front of Guthrie and then one in front of her husband. A baby cried from one of the rooms that opened off the back of the main room, and Florence hurried that way.
The two men sat silently. Kinchloe stared at Guthrie, who surveyed the room. Behind him was the stove. In front of him, beyond Kinchloe, was another, smaller table. It, too, was wobbly, and seemed to sag heavily under the weight of the equipment and junk piled atop it. Tack, supplies, books, papers, broken bits of equipment lay strewn about. But the place had real glass in the two windows and a wood floor.
Guthrie took a sip of coffee, and nodded. It would almost float a horseshoe, he thought, and so he considered it just about right. He rolled and lit a cigarette, blowing a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. Finally Guthrie turned his eyes back to his friend. “All
right, Pete, what the hell’s goin’ on?” he asked harshly.
For a moment, indecision flickered across Kinchloe’s weathered, tense face. He ran a hand through his wild, straw-colored hair. The indecision fled. “Nothin’ that concerns you, Jack,” he said quietly but forcefully.
“Bullshit,” Guthrie snapped bluntly.
“I’ve come on hard times of late,” Kinchloe said, as if admitting even that was an effort.
“I figured that. It’s why I come.”
“I’ll work it out. I don’t need no goddamn help.”
“Everybody needs help of a time, damnit. You hadn’t of come along at the right time all those years ago in Abilene, I’d be deader’n hell. You got troubles, I’m here to help. I knew somethin’ had to be botherin’ you when I saw that letter you wrote. And friends do for each other.”
Kinchloe almost grinned. “Hell, some friends. See each other maybe every dozen years or so.”
Guthrie smiled. “This is twice in a year, Pete.” He grew serious. “Now, spill it. I reckon between the two of us, we can fix whatever the hell it is that’s wrong.”
Kinchloe sighed. The uncertainty had returned— then he shrugged. “It’s that damned Tyrell,” he said simply.
“Ain’t he the owner of the Lazy Y?” It was the ranch where Guthrie had gone to work after he was mustered out of the Army. It was where he had met Pete Kinchloe—and the Taggarts, who had caused him so much trouble.
“Yep.”
“I thought you got on well with the old fart.”
“I did.” Kinchloe grinned wanly. He pulled a thin cigar out of a shirt pocket and lit it. As he puffed out noxious fumes, he said, “But the old man died last winter. The trouble’s with Lem, Jonah’s son.”
“He the bastard sided with the Taggarts all those years ago?” Guthrie asked, annoyed at the thought.
“The same. Been out after my ass ever since, too.” He laughed tightly. “Old Jonah kept him on a tight leash all this time. But then he kicked off.” The words were bitter.
“What’s he been up to?”
“What ain’t he?” Kinchloe paused, marshaling his thoughts. While he was doing so, two boys, one about six, the other maybe three, came tearing out of the back room, followed by Florence, who was holding a baby in her arms. The two children, wearing nightshirts, charged up and onto Kinchloe, howling like banshees.
“Quiet down, boys,” Kinchloe said harshly, but the affection and warmth in his voice could not be disguised by his natural rasp nor the affected gruffness. “There’s company here, now, and this ain’t the time for roughhousin’.”
They settled down, and Kinchloe grinned. “Jack,” he said with undisguised pride, “these’re my two boys.” He ruffled the hair of the older one. “Pete Jr. and Moses.” He rubbed a big hand across the younger’s head, too, for a moment. “Sons, this here’s an old friend, Mister Guthrie.”
Both came around the table, their innocent faces solemn. Each held out a small hand to be shaken. “How do, Mister Guthrie,” each said.
“A pleasure, boys,” Guthrie said. He was thrilled, knowing that he would soon be a father, too.
“To bed, boys,” Kinchloe said. “Dawn comes early, as y’all well know.”
The two kissed him quickly and roughhoused their way to the room at back.
Florence sat, nursing the baby. Kinchloe looked fondly at his wife and the infant. His troubles seemed to melt away, at least for a moment. “This here’s my youngest, Jack. Flora May.”
Guthrie looked at the child and felt something in his heart and stomach he had never experienced. The infant was so helpless; just a little bundle of tiny squiggling flesh. He gulped. “You were tellin’ me about Tyrell, Pete,” Guthrie said.
“Yeah,” Kinchloe said sourly. “He’s had it in for me since that trouble with the Taggarts. Now that old Jonah’s dead, he’s puttin’ the squeeze on me. It ain’t so much that he wants my land, or anything else I own. He just wants me broken and beaten. He’s always felt his old man gave me too much power when I was foreman of the Lazy Y.
“He controls the water in the Double Mountain Fork of the Brazos, which cuts Goat Canyon a couple miles east of here. He’s cut me off from that, so I’ve had to rely on rain—which is mighty damned…”
“Watch your language, Pete Kinchloe,” Florence warned, though pleasantly.
“Yes’m. Anyway, rain’s mighty scarce in these parts. But I’ve dug a couple catch holes. Between that and the stream, we’ve been gettin’ by.”
“That can’t be too big a problem,” Guthrie said cautiously.
“That ain’t the half of it. You know the old man was letting me take a few dozen head every year, so I’ve built up a fair-size herd by now. But Lem keeps accusin’ me of stealin’ his cattle. He’s had the county sheriff out here a dozen times on it. But Sheriff McLemore knows me well enough—and knows how me and Jonah got along. So he ain’t done nothin’. Still, Lem’s got the cash around here, and sooner or later, McLemore’s gonna have to do his biddin’—or get kicked out of office. That happens, Lem’ll make damned...”
“Pete…” Florence warned.
Kinchloe ignored her. “Lem’ll make damned sure he gets someone in that office who’ll do what he wants. That happens, and I’ll really be up the creek.”
“Tell him about the riders,” Florence ordered in her soft voice. Guthrie glanced at her. She must’ve been a real pretty woman once, he thought. But time, age, three children, and a hard life had aged her. Her face was chubby, as was her body. The skin of her hands was cracked and broken and seemed permanently dirty. Her hair had no luster and hung limply. It seemed a pity that life should treat such a kindly woman so harshly. Guthrie vowed to try to make it so Addie never faced the same fate.
“I’m gettin’ to it,” Kinchloe said mildly. He stubbed out the cigar on the table. “We’ve been seein’ riders—strangers—about the place the past couple of months. They just seem to be watchin’. Or moseyin’ on through of a time. If we head toward them, they take off. Not fast, just enough to keep ahead of us. They never do anything. Or I don’t reckon they do. We’ve had guns fired at the house and the bunkhouse a couple nights, but we can’t prove any of them did it.” He was growing angry.
Florence stood and went into the back room, the infant asleep in her arms. She came back out a few moments later, without the baby. She poured herself a cup of coffee and refilled the men’s mugs. After replacing the coffeepot, she returned to the table and set a bottle of homemade whiskey between the men.
Kinchloe nodded and poured some into Guthrie’s coffee and then his own. He raised his mug in a salute. When it was returned by Guthrie, the men drank.
“There ain’t ever anything we can have somebody arrested for,” Kinchloe snapped. “Just enough to keep us all on edge. I’m afraid for the family and such, but I can’t be everywhere at once.” He paused, hoping the anger would bum down to a low simmer. “Hell, I can’t even hire any hands really. Any of the hands around the area are afraid of Tyrell. Once in a while I manage to hire one who ain’t, but Tyrell comes along and hires ’em on for ten bucks a month more than the goin’ rate—which, I might add, I can’t even afford. Damn, the only boys I’ve been able to keep on are the nigra and two Greasers.” There was no insult meant in the words. Kinchloe slugged down a healthy dose of the snakebite medicine.
“Goddammit,” he snapped, anger rising up in him again like heat waves off the cracked desert floor, “I can’t even sell my cattle. It’s why I can’t hire anyone. I’m damn near flat busted because I can’t sell none of the beeves.”
“Why not?” Guthrie slugged back some coffee.
“Tyrell’s got everyone in these parts—includin’ the Army—cowed enough that they won’t deal with me. I could take ’em to Sweetwater, where Flo’s got kin who’ll buy ’em, but that’s near a week’s ride, maybe more. I ain’t got enough hands workin’ for me to make it—either to handle the cattle or to fend off an attack, should Tyrell decide to do th
at. Which he damn well might. Besides, then I’d have to leave Flo and the kids here alone and unprotected. I ain’t about to do that.” He stopped, out of steam, a feeling of being trapped welling up inside him. He polished off the last of his coffee.
Guthrie followed suit, then said, “Why not just chuck all this here nonsense and head on to California with me and Addie?”
“Who?” Kinchloe asked, surprised. It shook him from his gloom.
“That’s right,” Guthrie said with a laugh. “You don’t know, do you? You’ve done so much gum- flappin’ that you ain’t had time for me to get a word in sideways. I’m married now. Been so a few months. Got me a young’un on the way, too.” He gloated at the shocked surprise on Kinchloe’s face. When Kinchloe had managed to close his mouth, Guthrie explained how he had gotten to Apache Springs, and what had happened since his arrival there. While Guthrie talked, Kinchloe rose and refilled their cups.
“Well, I’ll be damned and sent to hell in a handbasket,” Kinchloe said with a grin when Guthrie had finished. He held up his cup. “Well, congratulations to you, boy. It’s high time you were makin’ some poor woman miserable.”
“Bah,” Guthrie said good-naturedly as he drank to Kinchloe’s toast. Setting the cup down, he grew serious and repeated, “So why not come to California with me and Addie?”
“That’s what I said to him when we got your letter, Mister Guthrie,” Florence said. She was, apparently, a woman not afraid to speak her mind. Guthrie smiled. That made Mrs. Kinchloe much like Mrs. Guthrie.
“Can’t do that,” Kinchloe said unequivocally. “I ain’t ever run from anything in my life, and I’ll be damned if I’ll start at this late age.”
Guthrie knew exactly how his friend felt and what he meant. Guthrie had, against all his instincts, let Addie talk him into leaving Apache Springs in the middle of winter. He knew it was running, even if no one else would know it, and it had made his skin crawl. He had felt emasculated. Not only that, but it had almost cost them their lives, too. He was glad when they finally turned back to Apache Springs. He didn’t mind dying, if he could face the danger— whatever that danger was. But the thought of dying while running away from something sickened him.
