Ralph Compton Big Jake's Last Drive

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Jake,” Chance said, “what the hell are you doin’ out of Texas?”

  “I’m not that far outside of Texas,” Jake said. “But I came here lookin’ for you.”

  “It’s been years,” Chance said.

  “Nearly eight.”

  “Well,” Chance said, “I hope the last eight years have been kinder to you than they’ve been to me.”

  “I’m not here to compare hardships, Chance,” Jake said, “I’m here to give us both a second chance.”

  “To do what?” Chance asked.

  “To live again,” Jake said, “Or die doin’ what we love to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “A trail drive.”

  Chance stared at his friend.

  “Trail drives are dead,” he said. “The trails are blocked, quarantines are up—”

  “We can make it,” Jake said.

  “To where?”

  “Dodge City.”

  Now Chance looked shocked.

  “Dodge is dead.”

  “There’s still a railroad there,” Jake said. “Look, I’ve got six hundred head left. I want to get them to market. It’s my last drive.”

  “And the Big M?”

  “I sold it.”

  Chance sat back in his chair.

  “Sold it?”

  “Let’s face it, Chance,” Jake said. “All these years I been a shit businessman. But I’ve always been a good cowboy. I probably shoulda spent the past twenty-five years bein’ somebody else’s top hand.”

  “Fine time to realize somethin’ like that,” Chance said. “Okay, lemme get this straight. You’re gonna drive these cows to Dodge City yourself?”

  “Right.”

  “And you want me to come with you?”

  “Right again.”

  “Who else do you have?”

  “Right now . . . nobody.”

  “No one?” Chance asked. “What happened to all your hands?”

  “I had a few that helped me get the herd into Candy Box Canyon,” he said, “but when they found out I couldn’t pay them until after the drive, they left.”

  “So you and me—two broken-down old cowpokes—and six hundred head?”

  “We’ll come up with more men.”

  “How?”

  “Well . . . I was hopin’ you’d be able to tell me that.”

  Chance drank some coffee, then poured more while he thought.

  “This is crazy to even think about,” he said, finally.

  “Would you rather swamp saloons in a Mexican town?” Jake asked. “I’ll give you a percentage. Then we just need half a dozen other cowboys.”

  “Half a dozen men who won’t mind bein’ paid after the drive,” Chance said.

  “That’s right.”

  “I ain’t been on a horse in a dog’s age, Jake,” Chance admitted.

  “Ridin’ ain’t somethin’ you forget, Chance.”

  Chance studied his friend’s face.

  “By God, you’re really serious.”

  “I am.”

  “And crazy.”

  “As a scalded cat.”

  Chance rubbed his face vigorously with both hands, then said, “We’re gonna need Taco.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Big Jake Motley had enough money on him to get Chance a bath and some new clothes. Once that was done, they went back to the little cantina that served the only cold beer in Matamoros.

  “Tequila, Señor Orejas Grandes?” Manolito the bartender asked.

  “Just a beer, Manny,” Chance said.

  “The same,” Jake said.

  “Sí, señores.”

  Jake looked around the little cantina, saw that there was still only one other customer, the man with his head down on his arms.

  “Who’s that?” he asked Manny, when he served their beers.

  “Oh, señor, that is Desiderio.”

  “Does he spend his days that way?” Jake asked.

  “Oh no, señor,” Manny said, “only when his heart, she is broken.”

  “And how often does that happen?”

  Smiling broadly, Manny said, “Señor, Desi falls in love and has his heart broken every week.”

  “And when Desi’s heart ain’t broken,” Jake asked, “what’s he do?”

  “Ah, Desi is a vaquero, señor.”

  Jake and Chance exchanged a glance. Jake noticed that his friend’s glassy eyes had cleared some with the half a beer he drank. He just had to keep Chance away from tequila for a while.

  “Is he a good cowboy?” Jake asked.

  “Oh, sí, señor,” Manny said. “Muy bien! But you must keep him from falling in love.”

  “Should be easy on a drive, right?” Jake asked Chance.

  “I would think so,” Chance said.

  The two men picked up their beers, walked over, and sat on either side of Desiderio, the vaquero.

  The sad-eyed Desiderio raised his head. Once he saw that neither of them was armed he was not alarmed at their appearance at his table.

  “Señores,” he said. “I can help you?”

  “Maybe,” Jake said, “we can help each other.”

  “Oh? How may we do that, señor?”

  “I understand you’re a vaquero?”

  “Sí, señor, I am.”

  “On what ranch are you workin’?” Jake asked.

  “Alas, señor, I am without employment,” Desiderio said, “but that does not matter, as my heart is broken. I cannot work when the woman I love does not love me back.”

  “Well,” Chance said, “wouldn’t you like to get out of this town, so you don’t see her every day?”

  “Oh, sí, señor,” Desiderio said, “that would be ideal, but alas, no one is hiring.”

  “Well now,” Jake said, “I think that’s where I can help you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Big Jake Motley felt that his ride across the Rio Grande to Matamoros had been a lucrative one. He came away with Chance McCandless as his foreman, and Desiderio as one of his cowboys.

  However, he wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

  “We need Taco,” he said.

  “Manolito will make you tacos,” Desiderio said.

  “No,” Chance clarified, “we’re lookin’ for a man named Taco.”

  “Ah, Taco,” Desiderio said. “Sí.”

  “Do you know him?” Jake asked.

  “Sí, señor,” Desiderio said, “he is my cousin.” Then his eyes widened and he smiled. “Ah, you are that Señor Jake!”

  “He spoke of me?”

  “Oh sí, señor, many times,” Desi said. “And you are Señor Chance!”

  “I am.”

  “Sí, sí,” Desi said, “he told me of many adventures you had together. Oh, this is wonderful.” He seemed to be very animated for the first time since they had awakened him. “Now I, too, will have wondrous adventures with Señores Jake and Chance.”

  “That may be true,” Jake said, “but we also need your cousin Taco.”

  “Oh, sí, sí, señor,” Desi said. “I know where my cousin is. I will take you to him.”

  “Is he here, in Matamoros?” Jake asked.

  “No, señor, but he is nearby. I will take you!” Desi said, happily.

  “Do we need horses?” Jake asked.

  “Sí, señor, but I have my own.”

  Jake looked at Chance.

  “No extra shirt, no horse,” he said, with a shrug.

  “That figures,” Jake responded.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jake Motley’s funds were earmarked for all his trail drive expenses. That included three horses per man and the chuckwagon. He expected each man to supply his own bedroll, r
ifle, and rope. So buying Chance McCandless a horse in Matamoros just went on the list. But the bath and clothes for his friend came from his own pocket.

  Once he had bought Chance a horse—a decent five-year-old bay mare who looked solid enough for a trail drive—they followed Desi to the place where he said they would find his cousin Taco.

  Taco’s real name was much too long for Jake to ever pronounce, so years ago the Mexican just told Jake he could call him Taco, as many of his own family members did.

  “Is that your favorite thing to eat?” Jake had asked him.

  “No, señor,” Taco said, “but I did not want my family to start calling me Enchilada.”

  Desi took them about twenty miles outside of Matamoros, deeper into Mexico, which made Jake a bit uncomfortable. If he was going to be this far from the Rio Grande, he preferred it be on a trail drive.

  They reined in their horses in front of a large, two-story structure with boarded-up windows. There was a front porch, but nothing on it, no furniture, and certainly no people. The front door was weather-beaten and faded.

  “Do you know what this place is?” Jake asked Chance.

  “Yeah,” he said, “it’s Lady Conchita’s Whorehouse.”

  “I ain’t goin’ in there,” Jake said, appalled.

  “We’ll send Desi in to get him to come out,” Chance said.

  “Conchita’s,” Desi said, spreading his arms and smiling.

  “Damn,” Jake said, “according to what Manny said, if we send Desi in there he’s gonna fall in love and be useless to us.”

  “Okay, and you’re not goin’ in there because then you’ll go to hell.”

  “If Abby knew I even stepped foot in a whorehouse—” Jake started.

  “Relax, Jake,” Chance said. He’d forgotten what a prude his old friend was about some things, especially whores. Not that he had never been with one. In his youth, Jake Motley had probably patronized every whorehouse in South Texas. But marrying Abby Cummings, a devout churchgoing woman, had changed him drastically.

  Chance dismounted and handed Jake the reins of his horse.

  “I will come with you, señor,” Desi said enthusiastically.

  “No!” Jake snapped. “Stay out here with me, Desi. Chance will get Taco and bring him out.”

  “Does he have a favorite girl?” Chance asked.

  “Oh, you do not understand, señor,” Desi said. “Taco is not a customer, he is employed here. He keeps the girls safe.”

  “That sounds more like the Taco I remember,” Jake said. He had been harboring some disappointment that they had to go to a whorehouse to find his old friend. But hearing that the Mexican was there safeguarding the girls, and not sampling them, made him feel better.

  “Well,” Chance said in a self-deprecating manner, “let’s hope when these whores get a gander at this old cowpoke, they let me leave.”

  “Just go in and bring Taco out here,” Jake said. “He belongs on a horse on a drive with us, not in there.”

  “Well, he better join us for the love of it,” Chance pointed out, “because he ain’t gonna do it for what you’ll be payin’ him.”

  Chance went up onto the porch and knocked on the faded, peeling door. He expected it to be opened by a scantily clad girl, but it was Taco himself who opened it.

  “Señor Chance!” the little Mexican said in surprise.

  The two men had formed a bond of friendship long ago, one that could not be circumvented by the disparity in their size. Next to Chance, Taco looked like a twelve-year-old boy, but smiled broadly and the two old friends shared an awkward hug.

  “What brings you here, mi amigo?” Taco asked. As usual, the silver buttons were gleaming on his vest, and the gold from his teeth shining. He did not look like he had aged a day, wearing his years much better than Chance and Jake were. He also had a pistol tucked into his belt, which was something Chance was not used to seeing. Usually the three of them carried only rifles. None of them had any illusions about being a pistolero.

  “I’m here with our old friend Big Jake,” Chance said, pointing.

  “Ah, I see . . . and is that my cousin Desi?”

  “Yes, he’s joinin’ us,” Chance said.

  “Joining you to do what, amigo?”

  “Drive a herd to Dodge City, Taco,” Chance said. “It’s Big Jake’s last drive. He’s sold his ranch.”

  “Ah, well,” Taco said, pounding his chest, “Desi is a very good vaquero, but he is not Taco. You will need me, señor.”

  “That’s exactly what we were thinkin’,” Chance said. “Do you have a horse?”

  “Sí, in the back.” Taco stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind him, thus also closing out his life in a whorehouse.

  “Don’t you need to tell them you’re leavin’?” Chance asked.

  “Oh, señor,” Taco said, waving a hand, “when they see I am gone they will know I have left.”

  “And don’t you want to know what you’re to be paid?”

  “Señor,” he said, taken aback by the question, “you and Señor Jake are my amigos. Whatever you pay me will be fair. It will take me but a moment to get my horse.”

  While Taco hurried to the rear of the house, Chance joined Jake and Desi. He accepted his reins back and mounted up.

  “Where’s he goin’?” Jake asked.

  “To get his horse.”

  Taco appeared moments later, riding a rangy paint, as usual. If Jake and Chance didn’t know better they would have thought it was the same horse the Mexican always rode.

  “Desi, primo,” he cried out, “cómo estás?”

  “Bien, Taco, muy bien.”

  “Señor Jake,” Taco said, riding up to the man and shaking his hand, “el ultimo viaje, eh?”

  “Taco,” Jake said, “you know I don’t talk Mex.”

  “The last drive, señor,” Taco translated. “It is sad, no?”

  “It could be sad, Taco,” Jake said, “or it could be a new beginning.”

  “At our age, señor?” Taco said, smiling. “Surely you are joking.”

  “Did Chance tell you what I’m payin’?” Jake asked. “And when?”

  “Ah, señor, that does not matter,” Taco said. “How could I not go on my good friend’s last drive, eh?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever you pay me will be fine.”

  “Well,” Jake said, “we need at least four more men, and they’re not gonna feel the same.”

  “Do you wish me to suggest some vaqueros, señor?” Taco asked.

  “No,” Jake said, “I want to go back to Texas and find them. I’m gonna be hearin’ enough Mex talk between you and your cousin.”

  “Ah, but señor,” Desi said, “Spanish is the language of God.”

  Chance watched Jake closely. His friend had come to a parting of ways with God when his wife died. At that point he stopped going to church, observing Catholic holidays, and even started eating meat on Fridays.

  “You talk to God, Desi,” Jake said. “I’d rather talk to my cows.”

  Big Jake turned his horse and started riding back to Matamoros, and the Rio Grande.

  Desi looked at his cousin and asked, “Que dijo?”

  “It is not what you said, mi primo,” Taco replied, “but who you said it to. Come,” he said as Chance followed Jake, “I will explain on the way.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Chance McCandless and Taco were saddened by the state they found the Big M in. They both remembered it as a huge, sprawling empire. The two-story house itself was in need of paint and repairs, as were the barn and the corral.

  Desi, who had never seen the ranch before, was impressed, but Taco waved away any approving comments from his cousin before he could utter them.

  “Chance, you can stay in the house,” Jake said as they dismounted, “Taco, you can show y
our cousin to the bunkhouse, where the two of you will stay. Hopefully, it’ll only take a matter of days for us to find our additional hands.”

  “And the herd, it is safe?” Taco asked.

  “It’s in Candy Box Canyon, and I blocked the mouth with a gate of sorts. They should be fine there until we go and collect them.”

  “Señores,” Taco said, “we will take your horses to the barn.”

  “Thanks, Taco.”

  Jake and Chance handed over the reins of their animals. On the walk to the corral Taco explained to Desi why he should not rave about the ranch.

  “But, cousin,” Desi said, puzzled, “I have never seen such a place . . .”

  * * *

  * * *

  After Chance dropped his rifle and new saddlebags off in his room, he came back downstairs and found Jake sitting at a desk in front of a window. The inside of the house was not in the same state of disrepair that the outside was. It looked the way it had the day Abby died. She had done all the decorating, had directed the building of some of the furniture, bought some of the other pieces, and it looked as if Jake had not changed a thing. Chance had to admit that he felt right at home being back in that house.

  “Paperwork was never your strong point,” he observed, sitting across from his friend.

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” Jake said. “That was why I had Abby do the numbers. When she died the paper just took over.”

  “And now?” Chance asked.

  “Now I’ve got to make it work,” Jake said. “I need to buy the horses we’re gonna need for the remuda, outfit the chuckwagon—”

  “You buyin’ a chuckwagon and an equipment wagon?”

  “No, we’re just gonna have a chuckwagon, and I’m hopin’ to find a cook who has his own. We can load it with food and supplies rather than using two wagons. We’re only gonna have six men and the cook.”

  “Six? You said we needed four more.”

  “I was thinkin’ about that on the ride back from Mexico. I think two more waddies is all we need, and I’d like them to be young and white.” “Waddy” was cowboy slang for a hired hand.