Ralph Compton Big Jake's Last Drive

by Robert J. Randisi

  “I understand,” Caplock said. “No home, no family, and . . .”

  “. . . no friends, I know,” Jake said.

  “You had friends here, Jake,” Caplock said, “once.”

  “Abby had friends,” Jake said. “I was . . . tolerated.”

  “Now, Jake—”

  Jake held the bank draft out to Caplock.

  “Take what I owe and I’ll have the rest back in cash,” Jake said. “I’ve got some purchases to make.”

  “Well then,” Caplock said, “I better get to it.” He stood up. “Wait here.”

  * * *

  * * *

  When Caplock returned he was carrying a canvas bag with the bank’s logo on it. He set it down on the desk in front of Jake, and then sat back down.

  “There’s your cash,” he said. “Still quite a bit of money. Why don’t you just . . . live on it?”

  “I’m not livin’, Ben,” Jake said. “I’m just existin’. I need this trail drive to . . . wake me up. Then, if I live through it, I can decide what I’m gonna do with the rest of my life.”

  “With the money you get from selling your cattle.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which may not be as much as you have right here,” the bank manager pointed out.

  “I know that.”

  Caplock sat back in his chair, ran one hand through his shock of white hair.

  “All right,” he said. “I suppose you’ve made up your mind.”

  “I have.” Jake picked up the bag of cash and stood.

  “Aren’t you going to count it?”

  “I trust you, Ben,” Jake said. “After all, you trusted me every time I came to you for a loan.”

  Caplock stood up and extended his hand. Jake shook it.

  “Good luck, Jake,” he said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “So do I, Ben,” Jake said, “so do I.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Chance was waiting when Jake stepped outside the bank.

  “All done?” he asked.

  “Done.”

  “That the money?”

  “What’s left of it.”

  “Well, I got the horses picked out,” Chance said. “You wanna go over and settle up?”

  “I do.” What Jake really wanted was a drink. But he didn’t want Chance to have one. “Let’s go.”

  They walked to the livery, where the hostler was waiting for them.

  “All the horses are in the corral,” he said. “Four colts, four geldings.”

  “I just feel better with all male—” Chance started to explain to Jake, but his friend cut him off.

  “You don’t have to explain. I told you to pick them out.” He looked at the hostler. “How much?”

  “A hundred a head,” the man said.

  “We’re takin’ eight of ’em off your hands,” Chance said. “How about eighty?”

  The hostler looked at Chance and said, “Ninety.”

  “Ninety it is,” Jake said. He took the money out of the bag and handed it to the man. “We’ll come for them at the end of the day.”

  “They’ll be ready,” the hostler said, “with bridles.”

  “Come on,” Jake said to Chance, “let’s find those other two hands.”

  “Your friend told me what you’re lookin’ for,” the hostler said. “Try the Oakwood Saloon. There’s some young fellas there who came into town a couple of days ago. They’re lookin’ for work. I don’t know if a trail drive is what they had in mind, but . . .” He shrugged.

  “Thanks,” Jake said. “We’ll try it.”

  They left the livery, stopped just outside.

  “Did you see the way he was lookin’ at that bag?” Chance said, indicating the money.

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “I guess we better get rid of it. It’s too damn obvious.”

  “And let’s do it before we talk to anybody else,” Chance suggested.

  * * *

  * * *

  They went back to where they had left their horses, in front of the bank, and quickly transferred the money to their saddlebags. Jake put equal portions on his horse and Chance’s.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s try that saloon.”

  “You think we can trust him not to set us up?” Chance asked.

  “Well, he didn’t know about the bag until we got there. He hasn’t had time.”

  “Just in case,” Chance said, “I guess we better start carryin’ our rifles.”

  They mounted up and rode to the Oakwood Saloon, which was on the other side of town. When they dismounted in front they saw five horses standing there. Two looked fit, three looked done in. They took their rifles and saddlebags into the saloon with them.

  They went directly to the bar and ordered two beers. The bartender was a stranger to them, which they preferred. No need to exchange any kind of false pleasantries. There were other men at the bar, and some at tables, but they assumed that the table of five in the rear should be their concern. The men were young, white, and playing poker for matchsticks.

  When they had their beers they both walked over to the poker table and watched a few hands. Finally, one of the young men looked up at them.

  “You old-timers are interested in watchin’ a poker game for matchstick stakes?” He laughed. “Not much to do in this town, is there?”

  “Actually,” Jake said, “we’re not as interested in watchin’ as we are in the stakes.”

  “Matchsticks?” the young man said, again.

  “That kinda shows me that you boys might be needin’ some money,” Jake said.

  One of the others asked, “You wanna put money up against matchsticks?”

  “We were thinkin’ more about jobs,” Chance said. “You fellas lookin’ for a job?”

  “That depends,” the first one said. “What kinda job?”

  “A trail drive,” Jake said.

  “A what?” a third man asked. “We didn’t think there was any more of them.”

  “Just one. Mine,” Jake said.

  “And who are you?” the first one asked.

  “My name’s Jake Motley. I own the Big M, outside of town.”

  “Big Jake Motley,” Chance added.

  “Big Jake, huh?” the second one said. “I was thinkin’ maybe you was Charlie Goodnight hisself, plannin’ one last drive.”

  “We don’t know you,” the first man said.

  “That’s fine,” Jake said. “At least you know who Charlie Goodnight was.”

  Goodnight had not only blazed the Goodnight trail for future trail drives, he was also the inventor of the chuckwagon.

  “Any of you boys ever work cows?” Chance asked.

  “I have,” the first one said. “Ain’t you, Curly?”

  “Yeah, I have,” Curly, the second man, said, “but I was fourteen at the time.”

  “How old would you boys be now?” Chance asked.

  “Twenty,” the first one said.

  “Nineteen,” Curly said.

  The other three were frowning at their cards, showing no interest in the conversation.

  “Are all you boys together?” Jake asked.

  “Naw,” Curly said, “me an’ Dundee, here, we rode in here together. We met these three just outside of town.”

  Dundee, the first man, looked up at Jake and Chance.

  “How much you payin’?” he asked.

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Jake said. “Twenty-five dollars a week, but I can’t pay until we get where we’re goin’ and I sell the herd.”

  “Aw, geez—” Curly said, but Dundee cut him off.

  “And where are you goin’?” he asked.

  “Dodge City.”

  “Dodge, huh?” Dundee
said. “I ain’t never been to Dodge, and there ain’t much to do around here.”

  “Are you thinkin’ about this?” Curly asked his friend.

  “Sure, why not?” Dundee asked. He looked at Jake again. “Sweeten your pitch, Big Jake, and let’s see if we can make a deal.”

  “We’re only drivin’ six hundred head,” Jake said. “There’ll be six of us, and a good cook. You’ll eat well . . .” Jake thought a moment, then added, “. . . and I’ll give you each your first twenty-five dollars up front.”

  Dundee looked across the table at his friend.

  “Which of those horses out front are yours?” Chance asked.

  “The dun and the mustang.”

  Jake and Chance exchanged a glance. Those were the two that looked fit.

  “I’m supplying two more horses each,” Jake said.

  “You gonna trust we can do the job without seein’ what we can do first?” Dundee asked.

  “You’re young,” Jake said. “If you can’t do the job, we’ll teach ya. By the time you get to Dodge, you’ll be honest-to-God cowpunchers.”

  Dundee looked at Curly.

  “I say yeah, Curly. What about you?”

  Curly thought a moment, then looked down at the matchsticks on the table and said, “Yeah, why not.” He turned toward Jake. “But we get our twenty-five now.”

  “Wait a second,” Chance said. Then, to Jake, “Lemme talk to ya, a minute.”

  They walked back to the bar.

  “If you give these young yahoos twenty-five dollars each now, you’ll never see ’em again.”

  “Naw,” Jake said. “I think they’re in. They’re both young and fit, and that’s what we need.”

  He dug into his saddlebag, came out with fifty dollars. At least the five youngsters didn’t see him do that, didn’t know they had two saddlebags full of money.

  They walked back to the poker table and Jake dropped the money on the table.

  “There’s your twenty-five each,” he said. “Be out at the Big M tomorrow morning at eight. Anybody in town can tell you how to get there. You wearin’ sidearms?”

  “Yeah, we are.”

  “Well, put ’em in your saddlebags. I don’t want pistols around the herd. Too much of a chance one will go off and cause a stampede.”

  “What about rifles?” Curly asked.

  “We’ll all have rifles, but keep it in your scabbard. Bring your own ammunition, canteen, and bedroll. Everything else will be in our supply wagon.”

  Dundee picked up his twenty-five dollars.

  “We’ll be there,” he said.

  “We got Mexicans on our crew,” Chance said. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Not if they do their jobs,” Curly said.

  “Everybody’s gonna do their job,” Jake said. “You wanna know anythin’ about me, ask around. But if you decide not to ride with us, I’d appreciate it if you come out and tell me why.”

  “We’ll be there,” Curly said, repeating Dundee’s words.

  “And if you got it,” Chance said, “bring a second shirt.”

  Jake put his hand out and shook with each young man.

  “See you in the mornin’,” he said.

  As he and Chance left he heard Curly say, “I bet five matchsticks.”

  Outside Chance said, “I hope we didn’t just waste fifty dollars.”

  “Let’s go over to the mercantile,” Jake said. “We still got some supplies to pick up.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  They picked up a variety of supplies at the mercantile, whatever they thought Taco and Desi’s cousin would not already have in his wagon. Then they went back to the livery to get their eight horses. While there, they also rented a buckboard to take their supplies back to the ranch. When they left town they had seven of their remuda tied to the back—with one pulling the buckboard—along with Chance’s mount, since he was driving the buckboard.

  Chance had muttered all afternoon about paying the two young cowboys twenty-five dollars in advance. He was convinced they would never see them again.

  “And you,” he added to Jake as they rode back to the ranch, “you crotchety old cuss, you believe ’em when they say they’ll be there.”

  “I think they were interested in goin’ to Dodge City,” Jake said.

  “Well, that Dundee was, but the other one? Curly? I don’t know about him.”

  “He’ll go where Dundee goes,” Jake said. “You know what your problem is?”

  “What?”

  “They reminded you of us.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right,” Jake said. “You’re seein’ you and me at that age all over again.”

  “Aw, Jesus, you’re crazy,” Chance said. “For one thing, I ain’t never played poker for matchsticks.”

  “That’s about the only difference,” Jake said. “That Curly, he follows Dundee around like you used to follow me.”

  “I used to follow you?” Chance exploded. “Now I know you’re crazy. Hey, where you goin’?”

  Jake rode up ahead of the buckboard, which was dragging a lot of horse weight behind it. Chance was still shouting at him . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  They pulled to a stop in front of the barn and, as they climbed down, untied the horses and walked them into the corral. Chance was still muttering. Jake was starting to think his friend needed a drink, but he didn’t want to give it to him. He had hoped that the one beer they had in the saloon would hold him over.

  “Me follow you, that’s a laugh,” Chance grumbled as they closed the gate of the corral.

  “I think you need some coffee,” Jake said.

  “I think you’re right,” Chance said. “And you got anythin’ to eat?”

  “I don’t know,” Jake said. “Desi mighta cleaned out my cellar last night.”

  “Guess we shoulda eaten somethin’ in town before we left,” Chance complained.

  “Well,” Jake said as they walked the horse and buckboard into the barn and started to unhitch the animal, “maybe our new cook’ll have somethin’ in his wagon.”

  “That’s a thought,” Chance said. “We’ll get to sample his cookin’ before we hit the trail with ’im.”

  They walked the unhitched horse into the corral with the others, then unsaddled their mounts and put them into their stalls. After rubbing them down and making sure they had feed, they also put some food out for the corralled horses before finally walking to the house.

  Instead of going inside, they each sat down in a chair on the porch.

  “How come you ain’t got a rockin’ chair out here?” Chance asked. “I always saw you in my head sittin’ in a rockin’ chair.”

  “Now who’s crazy?” Jake asked. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a rockin’ chair.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, during which Chance rolled a cigarette and lit it.

  “Want me to roll you one?” he asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  More silence, and then Jake spoke.

  “Abby bought me one.”

  “One what?”

  “Rockin’ chair!”

  “She did? When?”

  “The year before . . . when I turned forty-five.”

  “I was still here,” Chance said. “How come I didn’t know that?”

  “Because I sent it back,” Jake said. “She had it delivered from Denver, but what was she thinkin’? I wasn’t ready for no rockin’ chair. I returned it and got the money back.”

  “How did she react?”

  “How did she react to everythin’?” Jake asked. “She laughed.”

  Chance knew what he meant. Abby Motley went through life with that smile on her face, and he knew that she died with that smile there, because Jake had been sitting nex
t to the bed, holding her hand when she went.

  “Well,” Chance said, “if you had a rockin’ chair I think I’d be sittin’ in it right now.”

  “What time is it?” Jake asked.

  Chance took a pocket watch out of his vest and peered at it.

  “Almost suppertime,” he said, putting it back.

  “You hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Chance asked.

  “Listen.”

  They both listened, and heard the sound of metal on metal.

  “Wow, I ain’t heard that sound in a long time,” Chance said, “Pots and pans in the back of a chuckwagon.”

  As they listened the sound came closer and closer, then they recognized Taco, riding in ahead of his cousin’s wagon.

  “Hola, jefe,” he called out. “We are here!”

  “I can hear it,” Jake said, standing up. “Where’s Desi?”

  “Ridin’ with the wagon,” Taco said. “Do you want it to stop right here?”

  “No,” Jake said. “Put it in the barn and we’ll have a look, there.”

  “And meet your cousin,” Chance said, also standing.

  “Sí, señores.”

  Taco turned and rode back to catch the wagon before it approached the house. As they watched, it came into view, with Desi alongside. Taco pointed, and the wagon changed direction and went right into the barn, its pots-and-pans serenade coming to an end.

  Jake and Chance walked to the barn, entered as Desi was dismounting and another man was jumping down from the wagon. The three men began to chatter in Spanish.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Chance said. “Stop all the Mex talk. We can’t understand a word yer sayin’.”

  “Oh, excuse us, Señor Chance,” Taco said. “We are excited to be here.”

  The wagon looked loaded, pots and pans actually hanging off the outside.

  “Señores,” Desi said, “this is our cousin, Carlito.”

  Carlito smiled broadly and shook their hands. He was even smaller in stature than Taco, but with the same large smile. He appeared to be between the age of Desi (twenties) and Taco (forties).

  “Con mucho gusto, señores,” Carlito said, also shaking Chance’s hand. “I am very much lookin’ forward to this venture.”