Ralph Compton Big Jake's Last Drive

by Robert J. Randisi

  Seaforth thought that over for a moment.

  “And where’s this herd supposed to be?” he demanded.

  “I-I heard ’em talkin’ that they was gonna meet up with the herd somewhere n-north of town.”

  “Headin’ north, huh?” Seaforth said, releasing Edgar’s shirt so that the man’s feet hit the floor. Then he looked at Edgar again. “Did you say bought?”

  Edgar reached for the money in the till to hand it over . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  One man had been riding with Seaforth since the Civil War. His name was Teddy Garfield, but everybody called him Gar.

  As Seaforth came out of the store Gar asked, “What was all the yellin’?”

  “A couple of cowpokes came in and bought some supplies,” Seaforth said.

  “Did they pay?” Gar asked.

  “They did, but that don’t matter,” Seaforth said. “These supplies are ours.”

  “So whadaya wanna do? Get ’em back?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Seaforth said, “but I think there’s somethin’ else we can get from ’em, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a herd of cattle.”

  Seaforth told Gar what Edgar had told him, and Gar reacted the same way.

  “There ain’t no more trail drives.”

  “Well, it looks like there is,” Seaforth said, “and they can’t be movin’ that fast. Makes it easy for us to catch up with ’em.”

  “So now we’re gonna be rustlers?” Gar asked. At fifty years old he had never rustled cattle in his life. Worked them, yes; rustled, no.

  “It ain’t rustlin’,” Seaforth said. “It’s payback for what they took.”

  Gar shrugged.

  “You’re the boss.”

  He had been saying that to Seaforth for over twenty years, so why stop now over a bunch of cows?

  Seaforth looked at the horses tied to the hitching rail, and some others over in front of the saloon.

  “The boys quenchin’ their thirst?” he asked.

  “You said they could, once we reached town,” Gar reminded him.

  “Okay, well,” Seaforth said, “a herd can’t move fast, so let’s get a beer and plan.”

  “I’ll get a beer,” Gar said, “but you plan, because you’re—”

  “—yeah,” Seaforth said, “I know, the boss.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Jake and Dundee caught up to the herd by midday. They could see the dust in the distance. As they approached, the cows seemed to be moving well and then as they rode past they waved at Desi, who was eating the drag dust.

  “Any trouble?” Jake called.

  “Everything is fine, jefe,” he called back.

  When they got to the front of the herd Jake saw Chance riding there, sitting straight in the saddle. Once again he hoped his friend had gotten past whatever crisis he had been facing the night before.

  “Looks like everythin’s movin’ along just fine,” Jake said, coming up alongside his friend.

  “You didn’t have to rush back,” Chance said.

  “We didn’t,” Jake said. “In fact, we had a little problem.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Not trouble, just a slight problem with a store clerk. I’ll tell you about it later. We’re gonna take these supplies up to Carlito.”

  “Go ahead,” Chance said. “We’re fine here.”

  * * *

  * * *

  After they off-loaded their supplies Jake and Dundee rode back to the herd, freeing Curly to return to the remuda. The rest of the afternoon went by uneventfully, and by the time they camped and unsaddled their mounts, they were all pretty satisfied with the way the day had gone.

  Carlito got supper going on the fire, and everybody had coffee while they waited. Jake told the story of the reluctant store clerk, which the others found odd.

  “What else is a clerk in a mercantile store supposed to do but sell supplies?” Curly asked.

  “Apparently,” Dundee said, “they were all already sold, if you believed what he was sayin’.”

  “How does a whole store full of supplies sell?” Curly asked.

  “And, accordin’ to him, to the same buyer,” Dundee added.

  “Sounds like somebody puttin’ their claim in on a town,” Chance commented.

  “That’s what I was thinkin’,” Jake said.

  “So no trouble gettin’ out of town with the supplies?” Chance asked.

  “There wasn’t nobody on the street,” Dundee said. “Seems like all the folks were stayin’ inside.”

  “Yep,” Chance said, “that sounds like a town under the thumb of a buncha gunslicks.”

  “Well,” Dundee said, “they weren’t there when we was, so I guess we got lucky.”

  “Let’s just hope we stay lucky,” Chance said.

  “Whadaya mean?” Dundee asked.

  “Did you tell the clerk who you were, or what we’re doin’?” Chance asked.

  “Well . . . I didn’t,” Dundee said.

  “Jake?” Chance said, looking at his friend.

  “I, uh, mighta told him my name,” Jake admitted, “but I didn’t tell ’im what we’re doin’.”

  “I hope not,” Chance said. “We don’t need some cheap gunnies gettin’ in our way.”

  “To be on the safe side,” Jake said, “we’ll post an extra watch.”

  “Why don’t we make that you and me?” Chance suggested. “While Desi and Taco go out to watch the herd, I’ll stay awake here in camp. Then when Dundee and Curly go out to relieve them, I’ll wake you up.”

  “Deal,” Jake agreed. “Then tomorrow we’ll be on the lookout, too, just till we put some distance between us and Three Rivers.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  While Jake was on watch that night he went over the time he and Dundee had spent in Three Rivers. He knew he had lost his temper and told the clerk his name, but he also knew he had not told him about the drive. But the man might have overheard something that was said between him and Dundee. If that was the case, then whoever was running Three Rivers might come looking for them. On the other hand, why? To get back a few cans of peaches and beans, and some bacon?

  But there was no harm being on the alert.

  * * *

  * * *

  We want whoever’s ridin’ drag to keep an eye behind us,” Jake said at breakfast. “Carlito and Curly, keep alert for anyone comin’ at us from ahead. Whoever’s ridin’ flank, same thing.”

  “You really think somebody’s gonna come lookin’ for those supplies you and Dundee bought?” Curly asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jake said, “but there’s no harm in bein’ ready.”

  “What about Indians?” Dundee asked, “We ain’t talked about that. Do we have to worry about them, this trip?”

  “We shouldn’t,” Jake said. “There might be some who don’t want to stay on the reservations, but we won’t have to worry about that until we get to Indian Territory.”

  “What about rustlers?” Taco asked. “We used to worry about them all the time.”

  “With trail drives dryin’ up, rustlers have had to look for other ways to make their money,” Chance said. “They’re still rustlin’ horses, but not so much cattle anymore.”

  “Let’s just concentrate on gettin’ through Texas,” Jake said. “It’s still gonna take weeks. When we cross into Indian Territory, we can worry about other things. Right now we just need everybody to have the same goal.”

  They all agreed they did, and began to break camp.

  * * *

  * * *

  Seaforth Bailey had decided to let his men relax for a day and get a good night’s sleep before they went looking for this Big Jake Motley and his herd.

&
nbsp; Teddy Garfield still wasn’t sure about this rustling business, but he had sworn his allegiance to Seaforth Bailey years ago, and he was a loyal man.

  Over breakfast in a small café that was serving only him and his men—no other customers were allowed in at the time—two of the men were sitting with Garfield. They were Dennis Finch and Al Keenan, the two most recent recruits to Seaforth’s Raiders.

  “What’s the Major got in store for us now, Mr. Garfield?” they asked.

  Though Garfield was the Major’s second in command, he craved no rank, hence the men simply called him Mr.

  “That’ll be up to the Major to say, boys,” he replied. “Don’t ask me. You know how he likes to tell us himself.”

  “Yeah, but you know everythin’ he knows, don’t ya, sir?” Keenan asked.

  “That may be,” Garfield said, “but nevertheless, I’m not saying. So just eat your flapjacks and be patient.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Garfield rarely spoke of the things he knew. He kept them to himself. For one thing, the Major didn’t like being outdone. That was the reason Garfield had not told Seaforth what he knew of Big Jake Motley.

  He had heard of Motley and the Big M, both of which had some years of success before falling on lean times. Garfield had also heard rumors of the sale of the Big M. If Big Jake Motley was taking a herd north to sell, it was probably his last.

  A man faced with that would not give up his herd easily. He only hoped that Major Seaforth Bailey would take that into account. He could tell him and see, but the Major might not appreciate being advised in such a way.

  The alternative would be to wait until he was asked for his opinion—which was the way he usually went.

  The front door of the café slammed open and Major Seaforth Bailey entered. Garfield knew he had spent the night in the local whorehouse and would have eaten breakfast there.

  “Have you men had enough rest?”

  “Yessir!” they all shouted.

  “And your fill of breakfast?”

  “Yessir.”

  They all shouted but for Garfield, who simply sat and watched.

  “Then get out there and saddle your horses,” Seaforth ordered. “We pull out in one hour.”

  Ten men leaped to their feet and ran from the café to follow orders.

  Garfield speared the last of his steak on his fork and ate it.

  Seaforth walked over and sat across from him.

  “Coffee?” Garfield asked.

  “Why not?” Seaforth said. “We’ve got an hour.”

  Garfield poured coffee into a white mug for Major Seaforth.

  “Have you gotten over your dislike of the thought of rustlin’?” Seaforth asked.

  “Like you said, Major,” Garfield answered. “It’s not rustling.”

  “Yes, I know what I said,” Seaforth replied. “What do you say?”

  “Frankly?”

  “Don’t I always want you to talk frankly, Gar?”

  “No,” Garfield said, “sometimes you’d like to kill me when I speak frankly.”

  “Well, this time I have a feeling you’re not telling me everything,” Seaforth said. “So let’s both be very frank . . . this time.”

  Garfield put his fork down.

  “I think it’s a long way to go for some licorice.”

  Seaforth took a piece from his pocket, popped it into his mouth, and said, “It’s my licorice.”

  “Okay,” Garfield said, “let me tell you what I think I know . . .”

  * * *

  * * *

  Seaforth surprised Garfield by listening to him in silence, and never interrupting. That wasn’t like him.

  “So it’s this Motley’s final trail drive, then,” Seaforth said.

  “That’s the way it seems.”

  “And you think that’ll make him fight harder.”

  “Seems to make sense.”

  Seaforth nodded, digesting the information while chewing yet another piece of licorice.

  “That doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “The only thing that does is how many men he has.”

  “Yes,” Garfield said, “I thought you’d say something like that.”

  “We said we were being frank,” Seaforth pointed out. “I’m taking that herd, Gar. Will you be with me?”

  “Aren’t I always with you, Sea?” Garfield asked.

  “Yes,” Seaforth said, “yes, you are.” He stood. “We better get mounted.”

  “Right.”

  They left the café together.

  * * *

  * * *

  When the last of the men rode up to them in front of the café, they were at their full force of twelve.

  “Okay, we’re ridin’ north,” Seaforth announced. “When we reach this herd we’ll scout it, see how many men they have, and then I’ll form a plan. Until then, nobody fires a shot without a word from me. Got it?”

  Some of the men said, “Yes, sir,” and others just nodded.

  Seaforth looked at Garfield, who said, “Got it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  As Seaforth’s Raiders rode out of Three Rivers, the townspeople drifted out of their homes and stores and into the street. As always, they exchanged fervent hopes that this time the raiders would meet their match and not return. In the past, citizens would pack their things and leave while the raiders were gone, but this lot had stayed, and continued to hope against hope that they would get their town back, someday.

  Maybe one day soon.

  * * *

  * * *

  With all seven of them keeping alert, their eyes flicking in all directions, by the second night outside of Three Rivers they had not spotted any riders. Once they had seen a buckboard with a man and a woman on it, but the couple had simply waved at them in passing.

  On that second night they sat around the fire, consuming another Carlito meal with relish after a hard day driving the herd up a hill, across a deep gully, and retrieving fifteen head that seemed to have suddenly decided they wanted to go east.

  Jake sent Curley and Desi after those fifteen, since they were still the men—along with Carlito—he knew the least about. Both men had performed very admirably and driven those cows back into the herd with relative ease.

  Taco had seemingly regained his youthful vigor; Desi proved he was a good vaquero; Curly showed that he had been truthful, at least once in his past, about working cows and horses; and Dundee was a quick learner.

  But it was Chance who brought Jake the most pleasure. His friend seemed to be winning his battle against the lust for whiskey, had lost some of the belly that had flopped over his belt weeks ago, and had finally—after much complaining—managed to regain his seat.

  As for Jake Motley himself, he felt good being back in the saddle and at the helm of a trail drive. But he knew they still had many days and miles ahead, during which his age and condition could betray him.

  He just hoped they weren’t going to have to deal with some petty gunslicks along the way.

  “We still keepin’ watch tonight?” Curly asked.

  “Yeah,” Jake said, “Chance and me, we’ll take turns stayin’ awake. The rest of you can pick your shifts to watch the herd.”

  Since the four of them had been getting along so well, they decided that Dundee would take the first watch with Desi, followed by Curly and Taco.

  Carlito cleaned his equipment, left a pot of coffee on the fire, and turned in.

  “These boys are doin’ okay,” Chance commented to Jake.

  “These two old men are doin’ okay, too,” Jake countered.

  Chance grinned and patted his stomach.

  “At least I lost some of this flab.”

  “And I can breathe,” Jake said. “First week or so I never though
t I’d be able to take a deep breath again.”

  “You hid it well,” Chance said. “I thought I was the only one suffocatin’ on account of my age.”

  “Now we just gotta get through the next five weeks or so without givin’ in to the years.”

  “Well,” Chance said, “at least I don’t feel like one of us is gonna die in the saddle anymore.”

  “No,” Jake said, “I think we’ll make it. I just don’t know what condition we’ll be in when we get there.”

  “Why don’t we put some money on it?” Chance suggested. “That might keep us goin’.”

  “You mean, like the old days?”

  “A friendly wager,” Chance said. “I say before we get to Dodge City, you’ll fall out of the saddle before I do.”

  “A bottle of whiskey?” Jake said.

  “Done!”

  The two men shook hands across the fire.

  * * *

  * * *

  Seaforth Bailey had one man in his pack whom he valued almost as much as Teddy Garfield. His name was Sequoia, a half-breed. The breed was his tracker, and while a herd was not hard to track, it was Sequoia’s abilities that convinced Seaforth he was making the right call.

  They found one of the trail drive’s cold camps, and Sequoia needed only moments to walk it, study the ground, and make his pronouncement.

  “Six men,” he said, “maybe seven.”

  “That’s all?” Seaforth asked.

  “They do not need more,” Sequoia said. “They cannot have more than five or six hundred head in the herd.”

  Later, when they made their own camp, the men sat around the fire and questioned Sequoia.

  “You can tell that from lookin’ at the ground?” Dennis Finch said.

  “It is very clear,” Sequoia said.

  Al Keenan asked, “The number of men, or cows, is clear?”

  Sequoia looked at him with his cold, flint-gray eyes and said, “All.”

  Finch and Keenan looked at Garfield across the fire.

  “He’s been at this a long time,” Gar said. “He should know.”