Sam thanked him. The longer he sat there, the stiffer he would get. Maybe he should climb on Sorely and head back for his own pea patch. He’d declined Marty’s offer of another cold beer. He was ready to get up and go when Carl returned with his things.
In a few minutes, Carl stuck his head in the doors. “It’s all tied on your saddle. You take care now.”
“Thanks.” The effort to get up hinted that his ride home would be one from hell.
“You sure you can make it?” Marty asked.
“I’ll be fine once I get in the saddle.” Sam waved away any offer of help.
Outside in the sun, he checked the cinch. Then he grimaced from the effort to tighten it and redid the latigos.
Reins in his hand, left boot in the stirrup, he swung his leg over the pony’s back. A cold chill ran down his jaw and he closed his eyes as arrows shot into his body when he settled in the seat. Trying to ignore the sharpness, he reined Sorely around.
There is a short moment when nine hundred pounds of cowpony feels like a boiling volcano. That’s in those last few seconds before he bucks. Why a seven-year-old gelding, broke to death, ever decides that he’s had enough, no one will ever know—’cause horses ain’t telling.
“Whoa—Sorr—lee!” Too late.
Cranking and kicking over Sam’s back, the show was on. The two were scattering the town’s dog population, who retaliated by falling in on his high-flying heels to bite and bark at this belligerent invader of their siesta.
Instead of slowing down, the red horse began to buck higher and wider. He crashed into a row of horses at the Silver Moon Café hitch rail, and the impact about shook Sam out of the saddle. He recovered in time to see that the other horses had all stampeded, snapping their reins before they left in a cloud of dust.
For a short while, Sorely danced his frog hop on the board walk; then he cut back across the street in high-flying fashion and sent two ladies screaming for cover inside a saddlery. But when the winged gelding sideswiped a buckboard team, Sam took flight and landed in the dust.
With pained eyes, seated on his butt, he could make out Sorely standing hip shot clear down by the pens. Damn that horse. He would have to act up on a day like this one.
Chapter 2
The last glimpse of twilight bathed the Texas hill country, when Sam sent Sorely off the ridge. The summer-night bugs sizzled and the first evening star shone in the western sky. Every step, the gelding took descending the ridge shook Sam’s too sore body. Sam wanted to climb off, lie down beside the wagon tracks and sleep for a month. Maybe he would wake up feeling well again. He owed that Harry Wagner for the beating. Maybe he’d work Wagner over with a double tree.
Somewhere down on Lost Horse Creek, a coyote yipped and another answered. Then a third, more mournful voiced one answered them. When Sorely reached the small stream, Sam allowed him to drink his fill, then booted the horse on to his outfit. The night was light enough to make out the figures and forms of his place when he rode up to the corral. A moon was coming up when he dropped heavily from the saddle.
One hand on the horse to steady himself, he fought the wet leather latigos loose and eventually dropped the saddle, pads and all, on the ground. No strength left, he pulled the bridle off Sorely’s head and let him go. Shaking his own weary head, Sam headed for the small frame house. Walking was no better than riding. He paused at the porch post, using it for support. In the morning, he’d feel better. Lots of things needed to get done—shinglers would be there in a few days to put a roof on his new horse shed.
Supper? He dismissed the notion as too much trouble and fell across the bed. In minutes, exhaustion swept him away into troubled sleep. In the middle of the night, he awoke, sat up in bed and remembered every blow Wagner had hit him with. Suddenly he realized something was out there in the night. His hand felt for the Colt still in his holster. Sore swollen fingers closed around the walnut stocks. He hefted the Colt in his fist.
A horse snorted. Pained, he stood and then made his way across the smooth wood floor to the open door. His ears strained for any sound. Then he heard someone mounting a horse.
“Get out of here,” someone said. Then riders fled in the night.
Sam tried to see them as they raced away, but they were a blur in the starlight. What the hell had they been up to? He walked on tender soles to the corral and saw a piece of white paper. Looking all around to be certain there was no one there, he lit a match and checked the note.
Get out of kounty! Last warning!
They’d get a warning all right: buckshot in their backsides, if they ever came back. Better find him a watchdog. Those Mexicans down on the Lee ranch had lots of dogs. One or two of theirs should be enough. Get him one mean enough that he’d bite someone. What was going on? He and his brothers, and their father before that, had been running cattle in that section of the hill country for years.
He stepped on a stick that made his foot sore and he hobbled on to the house. Next thing, he had better learn all he could about the Wagners. Never had had a cross word with any of them until the day before. He yawned and moved his sore body back inside after brushing off his soles with his hand. What were they up to anyway?
He drew himself bathwater the next morning. Couldn’t carry two full buckets from the tank to the house, so he half filled them. Heating water on the stove to raise the temperature of the rest, he was on his knees, stoking wood to the range.
“You be home, Mr. Ketchem?” a familiar voice shouted. It was Abraham, the black who worked for the colonel.
“Yeah, Abe, what can I do for you?”
“My Gawd, Mr. Ketchem, what’s done got ahold of you?” His brown eyes turned to saucers. Dressed in loose fitting pants and an oftenmended shirt, the thirty-some-year-old man held his battered straw hat in his hand.
“Harry Wagner and I had an altercation yesterday.”
“How bad him look?”
“I think he looks lots better than I do. What do you need?”
“Well, sah, the colonel, he ain’t been feeling so good lately and he asked if you’d drop by and see him.”
“Right away?”
“If’n you ain’t got lots to do.”
“I could come over in a couple of hours. What’s wrong? I saw him two weeks ago, and he looked fine.”
“He had him a spell or two after that. They done had Doc Sharp look at him. You know how the colonel hates doctors.”
“What did he say?”
“Never told me nothing. But I’s worried about him.” The look on his walnut-shaded face was one of deep concern.
“I’ll ride over in a few hours. Hope I don’t scare him.”
Abe shook his head. “You do look pretty bad. Bet you hurt a lot.”
Sam nodded. “You tell the colonel I’m coming.”
“I’s sure he be mighty pleased, sah.”
From the doorway, Sam watched the former slave ride off. He could hardly believe anything serious was wrong with the man. Colonel Ishaid T. Brant served as the leader of the ranchers up and down the Frio. His cattle drives over the years had helped make most folks landowners. A ten-dollar steer in Kansas bought ten acres of land back home in the Lone Star State. The ex-Confederate officer also had rebuilt his own fortune and holdings, but not at the sake of others. Sought after for his sound advice and strong counsel, Brant was the patriarch of the land.
What was wrong? Sam stripped off his clothes and poured the heated water. It would not be the warmest bath he ever managed to take, but haste sounded like his obligation. He soon learned the truth about the water temperature and shivers ran down the back of his arms, but he disregarded them and set to lathering.
After bathing, he found that one-eyed shaving proved to be a difficult task, but he looked at his swollen left eye and laughed. One more thing he owed that Harry Wagner for. He sloshed soap off the razor in a pan of hot water.
He brushed down his brown hair. As he put on his best collarless white shirt and canvas pants, all movements reminded him how
much he still hurt. Galluses up and vest buttoned, he slapped on his weather-beaten felt hat, then sat in a chair and pulled on his boots.
Spurs strapped on, he wondered more about the colonel’s request. The man had never summoned him to his house except in times of an emergency, like when a band of Comanche had stolen some horses. Sam, along with five others, ran them down in a running gunfight and recovered all but two head. The other incident was when he and some others caught the Cripes brothers blotching brands—justice was swift in that case.
Disregarding his pain, he went to the pen and caught the big dun horse. He decided Sorely might want to buck again and his body was in no condition to contest with him. He slipped the bridle on Rob and led him out to saddle him. The chore was not done without his wincing. Even throwing his leg over the cantle wasn’t easy. At last seated, he let the arrows in his jaw subside before he put on his thin roping gloves.
Reins in his hand, he nudged Rob out into a trot and headed for the colonel’s. On the way, he swung by his brother Tom’s. Karen, Tom’s wife, came out, drying her hands on a sack towel and blinked in shock at him.
“Who—what?”
“I guess Tom’s. Oh, don’t fuss. Harry Wagner had his tail over his shoulder yesterday about someone cutting a pinto bull of his. I wanted Tom to know and have him tell Earl. I got a gut feeling them Wagners are stirred up about something.”
“None of you have done anything.” The willowy-figured woman in her early thirties had always been the beauty of the county—the one whom boys saved every dime they could get their hands on for months to buy her box supper at a charity auction.
The night Tom bought her basket, it took all the money the three brothers could scrape up. But sitting his horse and looking at the blue-eyed woman with their two fine children on her skirt in the doorway, he felt Tom’d sure not wasted their money that night.
“I don’t know. It may be isolated, but tell him to keep his eyes open. They’re bullies and like to jump you alone.”
“They want a feud?”
He chewed on his lower lip, then shook his head. “Dumber things have happened. Christy and Mark, you help your mother today. I forgot to get any candy yesterday, but I will next time.”
“We will. Thanks anyway, Uncle Sam.”
“I need to ride over and see what the colonel’s got on his mind. Abe rode over this morning and said he wanted to see me.”
“Hmm, about the drive next spring?”
“Maybe. I’ll let you know when I get back. Tell Tom to watch out.”
“He’ll get word to Earl. You get well. You look a mess.”
“I’ll be fine.” He touched his hat and rode on.
Two hours later, Sam rode up the bottoms toward the Brant place. The colonel’s herd of seed stock was behind the rail fences in the grassy field. The big Hereford herd sire, King Arthur, raised his head and bawled at the whole world. He had been imported from England by ship, and they’d brought him and four heifers by cart from the Gulf Coast. Other female herd additions had come down the Mississippi from Illinois and Ohio and up the Red River to Shreveport.
Sam always enjoyed seeing the white-and-red calves bucking and playing. The cattle business was in his blood. King Arthur’s progeny and the other breeders’ Durham/Shorthorn infusion of seed stock was fast changing the scene of hill country cattle from the black-brown marked longhorns to cattle with lots of meat under their hides. Getting them by the tick fever had been the hardest part to establishing any other breeds besides Coronado’s strays in south central Texas. The colonel managed—but not without losses.
Sam dismounted at the rack, removed his spurs and hung them on his saddle horn. Then he decided to do the same with his gun belt. He sure didn’t want to appear impolite to Thelma Brant. She’d have him stuffed with lemon cookies in no time. Gloves off, he started up the walk to the two-story house. Freshly whitewashed, it shone in the midday sun.
“Abe told me you’d be here before lunch,” Thelma said, coming out on the porch. The white-haired lady stood erect and proper as always with a mild look on her still smooth face—the picture of a colonel’s wife in a fine dress despite the time of day. She’d gotten herself ready for company, and hat in hand, he hugged her.
“You do look as bad as Abraham said you would.” She shook her head, guiding him toward the door. “Whatever came over that boy to do that to you?”
“I have no idea.”
She stopped and paused; then, her brown eyes looking troubled, she spoke. “Doc Sharp says it’s his heart. Of course, he’ll act like it’s nothing.”
“Anything they can do for him?”
“Give him a new one, but that’s impossible.”
“I see.”
“Ishaid trusts you. That’s why he asked you over on such short notice.”
How long did he have to live with this condition? A million questions flew through Sam’s brain, until he saw the colonel seated in his high-backed leather chair, wrapped in a light quilt despite the day’s heat.
“Morning, Sam.”
Absently, Sam handed Thelma his hat and started across the polished floor toward the man.
“By jove, he did pound you to a pulp. How is one-eyed vision?” A cough cut the colonel off short and he shook his head in disgust. “We both are in bad shape. Have a chair.”
“Sure. How are you feeling?” Sam pulled up the high-backed kitchen chair sitting by him.
“Let’s not be like two old maids and talk about our aches and pains. I need some help.”
“Fine. That suits me. What do you need?”
“You know I’ve carried lots of debt through the years to establish this place. Well, I’d have it all cleared out next year if cattle prices will hold. But I didn’t need Doc to tell me, I’ll never make the drive.”
“That sounds serious.”
“That’s why I sent for you. I want you to take all our cattle to Nebraska next spring. Everyone up and down the river needs to sell.”
“Aw, surely you’ll be up and around and over this spell by then.”
The colonel shook his head with a serious stare in his eyes. They weren’t the usual sparkling blue—the fiery-deep denim color like the day when they had hanged the cattle rustlers or the times he was shouting orders to the crew when Red River crossings went from bad to worse. There was a dullness in them that stabbed Sam in the heart. Colonel Brant would never swim his horse over at Doane’s Store again.
“I know you still blame yourself for the death of those three Langham boys. A storm stampeded those cattle—you didn’t. Could have been you or I on any other drive.”
“I would have taken their place.” Sam clasped his fingers together in his lap and squeezed them.
“I would have taken the place of my soldiers killed in Mississippi, too. But I couldn’t. You are the best man for the job.” Then Brant threw his fist up to his mouth to cut off a debilitating coughing fit.
“I’ve swore off ever going up there again.”
Brant nodded and cleared his throat. “I’ve sworn off lots of things, but this one is sure important to everyone.”
“If you knew how many nights I stared at the ceiling, you won’t ask me to do this.”
“We’ve all got our own hell. But we have to put them behind us.”
Thelma arrived with two tall glasses of yellow lemonade and a platter of her famous cookies. She set the tray on the stand. “Be good for that cough,” she said softly to her husband and then nodded to Sam. “Cookies are for you.”
“Well?” Brant asked when she left the room.
“Colonel, I’ve never turned you down before, but I couldn’t stomach asking young boys to ride off to their deaths. To face mothers who know about the incident and say that I’d look after their sons for the next six months.”
“Rivers got Pete and who else?”
“Howard Pike.”
“But that shootout could have happened in Frio Springs.”
“Nelson and Biars weren’
t gunfighters. Hell, they weren’t even dry behind the ears.” Sam felt trapped by his own conscience being divided in half by the request: on one side, what he owed the colonel and his deep-rooted regrets; on the other, his own feelings of inadequacy. “I left San Anton that spring with over a dozen boys and came back with half of them.” Sam didn’t ever want to recall the clothes whipping on the line like runaway horses in the wind and him telling Ty Nelson’s fifteen-year-old wife, with his baby son in her arms, that their child’s daddy wouldn’t be coming home.
“Sam, you can find the strength inside yourself to go on after that. That’s why I’m asking this favor of you.”
“Colonel, there’re demons out there on that trail that I can’t whip.”
Brant’s reply was broken up by his cough again. Sam waited and noticed how the once robust man had overnight shrunken away.
“We’ve got some time to think on it. Think hard on it. What this drive means to folks around us. Your leadership is a lot greater than you give yourself credit for. Now watch out for those dumb Wagners.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“Think on my request and drop back by. I’m kinda tired now. I might take a nap.”
“What about your lemonade?”
Brant wrinkled his nose. “Whiskey would be a lot better. Get some of those cookies or she’ll be hurt.”
“I’ll think on this drive business. Maybe I can find you a good man.”
“The man good enough for me is right here drinking her pee juice.” The colonel chuckled until his coughing cut him off. “Dang stuff will have you up all night. Runs right through me.”
After a short chat with Thelma, Sam tightened up the girth and rode Rob back toward the house. His mind and conscience held a tug of war over what he should do next. Neither side winning, he remained in confusion.
Donner’s Branch was a spring-fed course that except in dry seasons maintained a stream of water from the big springs at its source under Hales’ Bluffs. When Sam dropped off on the Lone Deer Schoolhouse Road above where it crossed the creek, he could see a buggy and someone under an umbrella on the spring seat stopped in the ford.
The Ogallala Trail Page 2
