The Ogallala Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Tillman stalked off.

  “You better watch him,” Matty said as she started to leave.

  “I will.” Sam wanted to say he was more concerned about the absence of Harry than anything else.

  Sam left the funeral to ride home after they’d laid the colonel to rest. He’d promised Thelma to be by her place in a day or so, and he’d spoken to Matty and the other women about the workday and dance. With everything set, he went and drew the cinch up and stepped aboard Sorely. The horse acted humpy, but Sam scolded him and checked him with the bit. Setting out at long trot, he headed for home.

  He came off Whitson Ridge, standing in the stirrups. Then he kicked the red horse into a lope and seated in the saddle again. Three rifle shots cracked the air. Sorely couldn’t take them. He bogged his head down and began to buck out through the cedars. After crashing into one, Sam fell through the sticky boughs. On the ground, his hand reached for his pistol, but the holster was empty.

  Had he lost it when the horse began to buck out on the road? He didn’t need to become a target. Still, those shots were intended for him; one must have burned the gelding. He’d left bucking like a bee had stung him.

  Sam would damn sure need that pistol for his own defense. Where was the shooter? That plagued him the most about being left on foot and with no gun five miles from home.

  Chapter 8

  It was an hour to sundown. Sam stuck close to the cedar boughs and worked his way toward the road. No more shots. He had heard a distant horse snort; he thought the sound came from further south. The rest of the noises were crow calls and the wind. If only he could find the six-gun he’d lost, he might be able to save his life.

  Who was behind that rifle? Harry Wagner, no doubt. All set up and waiting for a man riding a horse to come down the road. If Sam lived through this day, he would never take the road again until the feud was settled. Backwoods trails and rangering around—no set patterns. Nothing any gunman could bank on about him or his travels.

  He saw no sign of the six-gun. He had adjusted it only a moment before he set the pony into a lope. Maybe if he got close enough, he could spot it lying in the open near the road. But he did not know exactly where the gunman was situated, so such exposure made an effort like that hazardous to his life. No doubt, that was exactly what the would-be killer wanted: a clear shot at Sam.

  Someone was coming on horseback. Sam could hear a man’s grunts, his voice as he talked to the horse, and hoofbeats. Sam dropped to all fours and went under the nearest boughs. On the ground, he discovered a thick branch. Being the hunted was not his idea of a good thing.

  Soon he could see out from under the boughs the horse’s legs and hooves coming closer. The rider was out of his line of sight.

  “I must’ve got you, Ketchem, you bastard. Where are you? Better yet where did you crawl off to die?” Wagner laughed aloud.

  He was past where Sam crouched. When Sam moved, he scrambled out from under the tree and threw the stick as hard as he could at the back of Wagner’s head. The glancing blow knocked Wagner from his horse. The pistol in his hand went off and wounded Wagner, who rose like a jackknife being closed and then went flat.

  “I’m shot,” he cried out.

  “Better you than me.” Sam went after Wagner’s horse. When he caught the dun, he swung in the saddle and rode in the direction Sorely had taken, hoping against hope that his pony was acting ground-tied somewhere ahead and he could swap mounts.

  When Sam found Sorely in an open spot, he smiled. Sorely raised his head in the fiery sundown. Sam dismounted from the dun, tied the reins over his neck and hit him on the butt.

  “Go home, pony. Your boss might not make it.” Like he even gave a damn whether Harry Wagner lived or died.

  At the ranch, after Sam put up his horse, he went inside the house in the darkness. He lit a lamp and worried how he could get word to Tom that it wasn’t safe to come back. Maybe with Harry shot up, the Wagners might quit. After stoking the range with kindling, he struck a match and stood back, then watched the fire catch in the shavings. He added some more small sticks and put the lid on the range. He planned to fry some bacon to eat, and he’d put on a pot of beans to cook all night. He placed the skillet over the heat. Then he set his hat on the back of his head and straddled a chair to sit on while he sorted the dry frijoles from the rocks. Deeply involved in bean cleaning, he heard the drum of a horse coming.

  Who in the hell would that be at this hour? Before that Wagner bunch was through, they’d have Sam sleeping with the coyotes. He took the shotgun off the wall, broke it open and inserted two brass cartridges. The gun locked and ready, he blew out the lamp and stepped to the doorway.

  “Don’t shoot. It’s me, Mr. Ketchem.”

  “Billy Ford?” Sam blinked in the starlight at a young man in his early twenties sitting in the saddle.

  “Yes, sir. I got a late start, but I was coming by to see if’n you could use some help on the drive?”

  “What drive?” Who in the hell told him Sam was taking another drive?

  “Word’s out you’re going up the trail next spring.”

  “Words out—” He shook his head in dismay. “Put your horse in the pen and wash up. It’s too late for you to ride back home. We’ll have some supper and then we can talk.”

  “Thanks. Be a long ride back home in the dark.” The cowboy ran off leading his pony.

  The boy’s presence meant Sam needed to fix taters and some biscuits, too. The lamp relit, he unloaded the Greener and put it on the rack. Company might be what he needed anyway. An hour later, they were eating fried potatoes, bacon and Sam’s soda biscuits.

  “Jammer McCoy told me about the drive,” Billy said. “I was sorry to hear about your brother. Do they know who shot him?”

  “You referring to the law?” Sam asked, running half a biscuit through some molasses on his plate.

  “I guess.”

  Sam shook his head. “They won’t do nothing less you file a warrant.”

  “Huh? I thought the law was supposed to—”

  “Not in this county.”

  “You mean the killer’s going to get off scot-free?”

  “Looks like that.”

  “You know who did it?” Billy asked.

  Sam sat back, licked the tangy sweetness from the edges of his lips, then wiped his mouth on a handkerchief. He blew his nose and considered how to tell Billy about his encounter earlier that evening with Harry.

  “Let’s say this. Earl’s killer ain’t going to no more dances.”

  “Good, and I savvy how that ain’t for letting out.”

  Sam smiled at the youth’s quickness. “Guess you’re needing some work?”

  “Got the corn laid by at home, so I could use a job.”

  “I could use some help around here. But you sure need your wits about you. They think you’re some kin or even helping me, you might get on their death list.”

  “I savvy that, too.”

  “Good. Reckon we can get some sleep now and let them beans cook till morning.”

  He pointed out a bunk for Billy and toed off his boots. It would be good to sleep in a real bed for one night anyway. In his stockings, he went outside to listen to the night insects’ concert and empty his bladder. He wondered about Lupe and how the girl was making it back at home. Seemed like only yesterday his cocky younger brother drove up at the home place with his olive-faced beauty on the spring seat next to him. Their old man sitting on a rocker on the porch about swallowed his tobacco at the sight of her. Cyrus Ketchem thought Catholics were part of an evil empire. But despite Lupe’s religion, before Cyrus died later the next year, he had built a rapport with the girl that was deeper than many father-daughter relationships. Lupe made his last days ones of peace and smiles, despite his suffering from the things out of the past that added up to him dying at sixty-two.

  Sam was asleep when his head hit the pillow. He woke before dawn, with the night’s coolness penetrating the open house. Dressed, he resto
ked the stove, checked on the beans and put water on for coffee. Then he ground some beans in the grinder to use when the water boiled. His man was up stretching and yawning like a big tomcat.

  “What have you got for me to do today?”

  “Ride around my cornfield and be certain the rail fences are all up.”

  “I can do that easy.”

  “I’ve got a mare fixing to foal. I’ll bring her in, since you’re going to be here. I intended to take her over to the old home place and let Lupe’s hands watch her.”

  “Who’s over there?”

  “Some Mexican boys. Anyway, she left them in charge, and I made her go to San Anton until things quieted down here.”

  “I’ve heard about feuds. What started this one?”

  Sam fetched the pan of leftover biscuits out of the oven. They were warm. Wearing a pot holder, he gripped the pan, then set it on the table. “Near as I can tell, someone castrated a longhorn bull that belonged to Harry Wagner. He thought I’d done it.”

  “That’s what your brother died for?”

  Sam looked Billy in the eye. “That’s it.”

  “Aw, damn. And Tom’s took his wife and kids to Fort Worth over it.”

  “Couldn’t take any chances after they backshot Earl.”

  Billy nodded his tanned face. “Don’t make sense.”

  “Feuds never do. I’m just caught up in it.”

  “Yeah, I see that. When I get the fence checked, what then?”

  “I’ve got three windmills need greasing.”

  “That should keep me occupied. What’s that mare look like?”

  “She’s a stout gray. Wearing my brand. The Bar K.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

  Sam nodded and went to fill their plates with beans. They had better chow down. It would be a long time before they ate again. “I ain’t here by suppertime, make yourself at home. You need to send word to your folks?”

  Billy shook his head, his spoon poised and ready to dive into his frijoles. “I told maw I was going to try to find work and might be gone awhile.”

  “You need to go back home for anything, just let me know. The bucket of grease for the mills is in the shed, so are the tools. Just be careful and don’t fall off.”

  Billy waved his spoon between bites. “I gotcha.”

  After Sam cleaned up the dishes, he set a new pot of beans on the stove and built a fire under them. They should cook before the fire went out, and the frijoles would be ready for Sam to reheat that evening. Maybe he needed a cook worse than a ranch hand.

  Sam saddled Rob, and he and Billy parted company at the corral. Billy rode off to check the fence. Last time Sam saw her, the mare had been up in the Crow Springs country, so he set out in a long trot northeast.

  The cured grass was in good shape to winter the cattle. Sam wanted to drill some oats for winter graze when the shortened days grew cooler. He spooked up a few cows and calves. Mother cows and white-faced calves—the improved breeding was making a mark. They watched him with suspicion riding past them. But they were not as booger minded as the longhorns Sam’s father originally stocked the country with. He could recall the wild ones from his youth. The British crosses were much easier to handle.

  Stopping in a branch, he watered Rob and then rode up the draw, seeing signs of loose horses. With his lariat shook loose, he kept an eye out for them in the live oaks. The mare might act a little foxy and have to be roped. Then he spotted the mare and three geldings grazing in a bunch. She threw her head up and eyed him like a hawk. The horses started up the draw and she went north, picking up her gait.

  He pushed Rob hard and captured the mare with a long rope tossed over her head. She braked once the noose went tight. While she blew rollers out her nose, she let him get in to make a halter on her head. He and his horses were soon headed for home at an easy lope.

  There was no sign of Billy when Sam put the mare in the trap. As he led Rob toward the hitch rack, he heard riders coming. He could see the deputy sheriff leading the pack. What did they want? The others he recognized as neighbors.

  “Harry Wagner’s dead. You know anything about it?” Stuart announced without even a hello.

  “Why’re you asking me?” Sam squinted out of his left eye against the bright sun.

  “You two had an altercation a while back.”

  “You got a warrant for my arrest?”

  Stuart shook his head. “I was just asking.”

  “Where did he die at?”

  “Between here and Frio.”

  “Reckon he was drunk and he fell off his horse and broke his neck.”

  “No, he was shot at close range.”

  “I’m asking again. Other than the fight I didn’t start, why ask me?” Sam folded his ams over his chest.

  “Well, he’s dead. It’s my job to ask questions.”

  “Maybe you’ll find out who killed Earl while you’re asking.”

  “That’s under investigation, too. Harry’s horse came home last night with the reins tied up. His brother found him this morning south of here.”

  “So?”

  “Just asking and telling you what happened.”

  “Sure. Maybe you should ask in the bars around Frio who else had a fracas with him. I’m sure as even-tempered as Harry was he had other grudges going.”

  “Harry never rode over here?” Tim Youngman asked from his horse.

  “No, why?”

  “He told them in Gotham’s Saloon he was coming out here and kill you.”

  “He never made it.”

  Tim nodded. “Yes, obviously he never made it this far.”

  “You had lots of reasons to kill him,” Stuart said.

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “You said that before.” Stuart reined his horse around and spoke to his four-man posse. “Let’s go back and see what else we can find.”

  “See you.” Sam waved to them.

  “Yeah, take care of yourself,” Tim shouted as they galloped away.

  Sam stood watching their dust and wondering if Harry’s death was the end of the feud or if the other brothers would continue it. Family blood was always thick even over the loss of a worthless one. So Sam would still have to be careful.

  Billy rode in. “Who was here? I saw the dust and wondered.”

  “Harry got shot last night. Stuart acted like he thought I did it.”

  “You tell them I was here all night with you?”

  Sam chewed on his lower lip and shook his head. “No, I never thought about that.”

  “Well, I’d sure tell them that.”

  “I may need your alibi. Thanks.”

  Chapter 9

  The schoolhouse workday rolled around. The evening before, Billy drove over with a wagonload of tools, boards left over from the barn construction they might need, and the whitewash Sam bought in Frio. When he’d gone to Frio, Sam had dropped by and seen the judge to leave word that the plans were on track. Etta Faye was not home that afternoon and he did not inquire about her absence.

  Many others had camped at the schoolhouse that Friday night to be ready for the next day’s work. Ralph Schrowder brought his fiddle and sawed a tune that made Matty Brooks come over and fetch Sam to dance with her on the edge of the campfire light. Despite her ample size, she was light on her feet and could dance well even on the dirt.

  She curtsied to him at the end of the song and then laughed aloud. “If I didn’t have Kell, I’d set my cap for you, Sam Ketchem. You’re still the best dancer in the county.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said, feeling a little embarrassed by her loud words, but Matty never was one to hold back what she thought. He was grateful when she went off to see about the meat they were cooking.

  Jason Burns came by and spoke to Sam. “I heard about Harry being shot.”

  Sam nodded. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Oh, I never figured you did. He made so many folks mad with his bullying ways he got what he deserved.”


  “How’s Thelma doing?” Sam figured Jason would know because he lived close by the colonel’s place.

  “Not real good. I saw her Monday just sitting on the porch. Her eyes don’t twinkle anymore. You should go by and see her. She thinks the world of you.”

  “She also wants my word on the cattle drive.”

  “She thinks like he did. Figures you’re the only one can do it.”

  Sam shook his head. After the last drive and all that went wrong, he had no urge to start a bell steer toward that old North Star. He shook his head at his friend over the matter and watched Billy go by holding hands with the Fisher girl. No wonder Billy had been so excited about the workday and dance.

  “I think it’s done,” Matty said and delivered Sam a large hunk of meat with a bone sticking out of it.

  “Not got one for me?” Jason asked, winking at Sam.

  “Hell, yes, I’ve got one for you. Come on over.” She waved over her shoulder as she headed back for the fire.

  “But she ain’t going to spoil me like she does you.” Jason chuckled privately and set out for his share of the meal.

  Sam sat on a bench and gnawed on his fire-flavored hunk of beef. Saliva flooded his mouth, and the tangy mesquite flavor pleased his taste buds.

  “Don’t stand up, Samuel,” Etta Faye said and drew her full skirt under herself to join him on the bench.

  “Didn’t see you drive in,” he said between bites.

  “I came with the Fanchers. I’m staying at their place. Father said you were by last week. I can’t believe all these people are already here.” She shook her head, looking at all of them in amazement.

  “They’ve come to work, even though some of them live half a day’s drive away.”

  “How will their children ever get here for school then?”

  “Most are serious enough about their kids’ educa tions to send them, but they’ll do lots of riding to get over here and home again. So go easy on the tardy ones.”

  “Oh, I will, but I am glad that you told me about the distance they must travel.”

  “That’s why some never went to Frio to school. Too far.”

  “I see. Perhaps I should get a plate of food. You will be here for a while with all that meat on your plate.”