The Ogallala Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Maybe for you, not for me.”

  Sam drew up before the school. Kids came running to greet them and look hard at Sam.

  “Can I go up the trail with you, Mr. Ketchem?” a young redheaded boy asked.

  “No, you can’t, Nealie. You’re like me: too damn young,” Hiram announced.

  “Watch your tongue, Hiram McCarty,” Rowann said with Sloan in her tow. “Mother hears you’ve been swearing, you’ll get your mouth washed.”

  “And who’s going to tell her?”

  Hat in hand, Sam walked up the hillside, and Etta Faye came out on the porch in a starched dress. Her hair was different. It was down and cut shoulder length, instead of pinned up with flowing curls. Strange how she even looked the role of a schoolteacher.

  “Samuel, how are you today?”

  “Fine. Had a great night’s sleep. Looks like you’ve settled in and they haven’t treed you yet.”

  She found a small smile for him. “The session is not over yet.”

  “Oh, I think they like you well enough they won’t burn you at the stake.”

  “That is a precious relief to know I will be spared burning.”

  He looked hard at her willowy figure standing above him and regretted stopping. Something about seeing her always made his stomach roil for a long time afterward. It struck him like that since his school days, she had bothered him.

  “I better get to town. Anything you need from there?”

  “I have some letters. Would you post them for me?”

  “Sure.” He waited while she went to get them.

  “Here,” she said, handing them to him and then giving him the money for postage.

  “I could have paid that.” He looked at the nickels and pennies in his palm.

  “No, I am a workingwoman now. I can afford my own postage.”

  “I’m coming back this afternoon, so I’ll bring your mail with me.”

  “Oh, yes, that would be so nice. Have a good day, Samuel.” She began to ring the bell. “Time to start classes, children!”

  He put on his hat and headed for the wagon, feeling not unlike a schoolboy who had been dismissed for the day.

  Frio sat in the sleepy splendor of the yellowing cot tonwood leaves. Driving up the main street, Sam decided there would be no glorious fall colors. The last dry spell had ruled that out. Frost, when it came, would paint a picture on the hill country. Driven about like lost souls, the leaves tumbled across the road, caught in pockets along the boardwalk and against buildings and on the porches of the various businesses.

  Sam carried Kathy’s list in his vest pocket and the letters Etta Faye had sent in the inside one. When he stopped at the post office, he drew out her letters and looked at them. One was addressed to Sears and Roebuck, Chicago, Illinois. That was a mail order, no doubt, from the catalogue. Another was going to the Texas State Education Department in Austin. One for Lucille Vandergrift, Mason, Texas. He didn’t know her. The last one was addressed to Whit Stuart, Frio Springs, Texas. Hell, he damn sure wasn’t delivering any of her love letters.

  Still upset, he stormed into the small post office and saw Clem Sparks under his green celluloid visor behind the grilled window. “Howdy, Sam. Guess you want your mail.”

  “Yes, and I have a few letters to post.”

  “Hmm,” Sparks said, looking them over after Sam handed them to him and also put the change for postage on the counter. “You could save yourself three cents carrying this one across the street.”

  “Mail them.”

  “Yes, siree, that’s my job. Just the same, I wanted to save you some money. My daddy said a penny saved was soon a dollar earned.”

  “That’s fine. I also need any mail for Kathy McCarty, Billy Ford, and Etta Faye Ralston?”

  “How is that girl doing up there anyway? I never figured she’d take the job way up there. Could have taught here in town,” he rambled on, going through letters in search of theirs. “Did that make sense to you?”

  “Never thought about it.”

  “I always kinda figured you and her—well, guess it never worked out, huh?”

  “What’s that?”

  Sparks glared over the top of his reading glasses at him. “Why everyone in town expected you and her to get hitched. Guess you bolted the notion, huh?”

  “I never asked and she never did either.”

  “I see. Here’s one for Mrs. McCarty. Got a card for Billy Ford. And two letters for Miss Ralston, one’s from Troy Blackstone. Remember him?”

  “No.”

  “He lived around here a few years back. Big lawyer in Austin now. They say he’s rich.”

  Good, maybe he could afford her.

  “Letter here for Tom—from his wife.”

  “She can tell him herself. He’s on his way up there.”

  “Don’t see nothing for you. Check back later. The stage comes at noon and there may be mail on it.”

  Sam put the mail in his vest and left the post office. Ten minutes with Clem was ten minutes too long for Sam. The postmaster knew everything about everybody, and what he didn’t know he would ask until he found out.

  Hazelgood’s Store smelled of harness oil and spices. A bell rang over head when Sam went through the front door and closed it. He touched his hat for an older lady coming down the main aisle to go outside.

  “Hmm,” she snuffed. “I would think that Marshal Stuart would bar ruffians like you from the city.”

  Unsure what he’d done to the older woman, Sam removed his hat and turned sideways to see her better. “He would, ma’am, if he was worth his salt.”

  “Oh, when will civilization ever come to Texas?” she said with disapproval. She lifted her skirts and fled the store.

  “Can’t come soon enough for me,” Gus said and laughed. “Mrs. Shoemacker thinks we should be like New York City out here.”

  “Being the ruffian I am, I need a list of things.” Sam had to stop and laugh. “First Sparks got on me at the post office and now Mrs. Shoemacker. It ain’t my day.”

  “We’ll try not to aggravate you.” Gus called to an assistant to fetch some supplies on the list. “Four cases peaches, four cases of canned tomatoes. You must be hiring.”

  “I am. Put the word out.”

  “Oh, yes, but why so early?”

  “Taking Tom’s cow herd to his new ranch next month, I hope.”

  “Where’s that? Can you read this?” Gus handed the list to Sam.

  “You know that red hat that’s faded from the sun in the front window?”

  “I’ll make you a deal on that.”

  “Good. I’ll take it. Got any high-heel button-up shoes?”

  “What size?”

  “Don’t matter.”

  Gus looked around. “I have a pair that is two different sizes in the same box. Can’t send them back either.”

  “Good. You have a fancy dress you’ve had in stock a long time?”

  “Yeah.

  “These are little girl things?”

  “Yes, they will be. Sam, if you want to spend another dollar, I have a china tea set for a little girl I forgot all about.”

  “Put it in. Rowann will love it all. And I’ll need three jackknives, too.”

  All Kathy had ordered—raisins, dried apples, a barrel of flour, lard, sugar, baking powder, canned peaches and tomatoes, potatoes, lemons, frijoles, chili, vanilla, cinnamon and salt—was secure in the wagon with the other things, when a Mexican youth came running as Sam took the seat.

  “Senor. Senor.”

  “Yes?”

  “I am a vaquero and out of work, senor.” Hatless, in his road-soiled shirt and pants, he hardly looked the role.

  ’What is your name?”

  “Pacho Morayes.”

  “Where is your sombrero, hombre?”

  A pained look crossed his swarthy face. “I sold my horse to feed my brothers and sisters. I traded my sombrero this morning for some burritos.”

  Sam considered his words. “Does your
family live near here?”

  Pacho broke into Spanish and motioned with his arm that the casa was on the river.

  “Stay here,” Sam said and went back inside the store. He stopped by the pile of beans in hundred-pound sacks. “Put one more on my bill,” he said to Gus.

  “Sure, but my boys can pack that.”

  “I’ve got it,” Sam said, shouldering his load. Outside, he put it in over the tailgate and told the boy to get on the seat.

  “Do I have the job, senor?”

  Sam nodded. “First, we’ll need to give this sack of beans to your family so they don’t starve while you’re gone.”

  “Really? Oh, thank you, senor.”

  “You can pay me out of your wages.”

  “Thank you, senor.”

  Sam shook his head. One more lost soul to take with him up the road. He bet the boy was good horse man.

  Hours later, Sam drove up to the Lone Deer schoolhouse and dismounted, stiff from the drive.

  “I’ll go get the kids,” he said to Pacho.

  Sam walked uphill to the front door, hearing voices reciting inside. He checked the sun and knew it was close to four. The picture of Pacho’s short mother holding her hands out as if praying still upset him. They had no food, and all of them talking in Spanish at once was more than he could translate. So he had set out a case of tomatoes and peaches, too.

  “Oh, Mr. Ketchem, you are back,” Etta Faye said.

  He stood in the doorway until she waved him inside. “We are through with this lesson. So you may take the McCarty children home with you.”

  “Thanks. I figured you’d had such a good day today and all these children were so nice to you. Well, in this poke is some candy for everyone. You dole it out please.” He gave her the sack, then fumbled for the letters he carried inside his vest.

  “Candy?” the children cried.

  “Oh, how very nice of you, Samuel.” Etta Faye’s face brightened. He swore if there had not been two dozen children there, she would have hugged him. “What should we say, class?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ketchem.”

  He nodded and followed the four McCarty children out.

  “We ain’t missing any candy, are we?” Hiram asked.

  “No, sir. I have some for you, too.”

  “Good or I was going back.”

  “Who’s with you?” Rowann asked, looking suspiciously at the Mexican boy on the seat.

  “Pacho, another cowboy.”

  “He don’t look like a cowboy to me,” Hiram said.

  “He is, trust me,” Sam said, loading them in the wagon.

  Kids with hard candy rushed out of the schoolhouse, shouting and waving.

  “Rowann, give everyone, including Pacho, a piece of candy from that poke.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Sam.”

  He climbed on the seat, undid the reins, released the brake and looked at Etta Faye standing with her back to the door. With a nod of approval at him, she waved, then delicately put a piece of hard candy into her mouth.

  She still made his guts roil.

  Chapter 19

  Corn, corn and more corn. To reach down, twist the shuck loose and then toss it with accuracy against the back board on the wagon so it didn’t miss the bed took practice, and his crew had lots of that from sunup to sundown. The stack in the barn grew higher after backbreaking shoveling and hurrying back to the field so the crew never ran out of something to load.

  Sam had hired Mike Quarry, the preacher’s son—a round-bottomed boy who looked stout enough for the job. The first day, Sam kept Mike with him, and they broke a single tree pulling a load up the grade out of the second field. Sam held the horses from bolting and quickly he locked the brakes. Knowing the boy had been brought up in a strict Christian home, he asked him for a good cuss word to use.

  “Oh, Mr. Ketchem, I never use them,” Mike said.

  “Good,” Sam said, about to spout some of his own, fighting the left-side horse to get the broken single tree off his hind legs.

  “Whoa. Whoa.”

  Billy drove up. “Hard on equipment, aren’t you?”

  “Hard enough, thanks. Hey, take Mike along with you. He can pick corn now he knows all the things we do.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Ketchem.” Mike climbed down and went over to Billy’s rig.

  “You need help?” Billy asked when Sam had an argument with one of the horses, clapping him hard on the rump with his hand to make him stand still for the recoupling process.

  “I got her.” Sam straightened. Getting in and out of wagons was not as easy as it had been when he was a young boy. He was grateful he had a good size crew to help. In their youth, it would have taken him, Tom and Earl two months to gather in the patches of corn on his place alone. They’d be done if the weather held before Thanksgiving.

  After the noon meal, Sam could see the Quarry boy straightening and holding his hip, instead of firing shucks at the wagon. Sam figured the boy would be sore for a day or two. Finally, when Sam came back from the barn, Mike walked over.

  “Mr. Ketchem, I think I’m going to quit,” Mike said.

  “Something wrong, Mike? First day or two in the field is always the hardest.”

  “Naw, I’m quitting.”

  “Well, if you’ll wait till I go back to the house, I’ll get you some money.”

  “Mr. Kechem, you don’t owe me one damn dime.” He then stepped over downed stalks and found his way across the field. Never looking back, he was headed for home.

  At supper, Billy, still amused by the tale, went over it for the boys. “So he said he never cussed?”

  “That’s what he said,” Sam said.

  “What did he tell you when you offered to pay him for his work?”

  “ ‘You don’t owe me one damn thin dime.’ ”

  “Guess he found that bad word, huh?” Tommy Jacks asked.

  “I’ve heard worse,” Sam said.

  “Who wants some apple pie?” Kathy asked, holding one up for them to see and smell.

  “All of us,” Billy said.

  “Oh, Sam,” Kathy called later, as he started out after the crew. “Jason Burns wants two wagon loads of corn. He stopped by today and said the Phillipses want some, too.”

  “They can have Tom’s corn. I need to sell it for him. Start a list so we don’t sell more than we have.”

  “I will. Sam”—she crossed the kitchen—“I’ve wanted to thank you for what you did for Rowann. She tries so hard to help Sloan and mind him, and she hardly has a life of her own.”

  “Oh yeah, I’ve been to two tea parties already. You’ve done a wonderful job getting meals and everything for these boys.”

  “They’re a nice crew.”

  “Get this corn in, we’ll see.”

  “You found a chuck wagon yet?”

  “May have to go to San Antone to find a good one.”

  She rubbed her hands together and wet her lips. “I know one thing. I’m sure proud you needed a cook.”

  “So am I, Kathy. So am I.”

  The barn was full of corn and most of Tom’s sold. Sam hired a quiet, bowlegged boy from Jackson named Thirston Cones. Riding a mule and carrying a guitar slung over his back, Jammer McCoy arrived at his front door.

  “You hiring, mister?”

  “I was yesterday,” Sam said.

  He slumped down in the saddle. “Lordy, mister, I was born a day late and been ten dollars behind all my life.”

  “You play that string box?” Sam asked, indicating the instrument.

  “I sure do. Thought you’d never ask me.” He swung the guitar around, tested the tune and broke into playing.

  “ ‘Down in Tennessee where the cotton grows—’ ” Jammer plunked away, singing four verses to his song.

  “Charles Goodnight, who was one of the early ones in this cattle-trail business, hired a boy one time who could hardly ride a horse, but he played a mean fiddle. Jammer, you’re on.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He whipped off his hat
and bowed to Sam. “You won’t regret it, sir.”

  “I pray not.” Sam looked at the high clouds. There might be frost over night—nothing like a frigid daybreak to saddle up a spooked horse and go to round up.

  Chapter 20

  Bawling cows and calves rang in his ears. Sam set a dun horse called Soapy off the ridge toward the bottoms. He could see the yellow canvas top of the chuck wagon, which to his relief had made it. Joaquin Sanchos, the cook he’d hired in New Braunfels, was a hard-faced whiskey drinker who claimed he’d been on six drives, including one for Major Strom, whom Sam knew. But Sanchos said he never drank on the trail.

  Without time for much more searching, Sam had hired Joaquin at fifty a month and sent him, a used wagon and four spooked mules westward to meet him in three days at Lost Horse Creek. The supplies Sanchos needed to pick up would be waiting at Hazelgood’s.

  The smoke from the trail branding was sharp in the air. An acrid smell of scorched hair filled every worker’s nose. A large oak fire ring in between the two squeeze chutes had branding irons heating. Cows and calves were being stamped with a sideways S for the drive. Animals bawled as the red-hot iron was applied to them. Then they struggled to be released before others ran in for the same treatment.

  Billy pulled off his heavy gloves and shouted above the loud noises of cattle and men, “We’ll be through branding by evening. That Mexican going to cook tonight?”

  “I’ll tell Sanchos to get something ready.”

  “You know, boss man, we’re pretty spoiled by Mrs. McCarty’s cooking.”

  “She can’t go with us. Kids in school. All that livestock at home. Besides, it’s no place for a lady out there.”

  Billy never said a word. He just stared at Sam. He fished in his pocket and then handed Sam an envelope. “Rowann sent this along for you. It’s from the teacher.”

  “Thanks. Go over and meet the cook. Tell him I said—tell him yourself to have supper ready. You’re foreman.”

  Billy stepped in the stirrups of his saddle. “I met him once today and wasn’t impressed.”

  Sam, busy opening the envelope, never looked up. “Next time you can hire the sumbitch. Damn hard to find one. I looked for four days.” He shook open the paper and could see Etta Faye’s fine handwriting.