A Man Called Scar

by Jim Cox

  “That’s like Maude,” Scar said enthusiastically. “She does what I tell her.”

  “Who’s Maude?” Rowdy asked with a puzzled expression.

  Scar whistled and up trotted his long-eared mule. “Meet Maude, Rowdy,” Scar said with a wide grin.“You ain’t taking that animal on the drive are you?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  Rowdy started mumbling as he turned and climbed into the wagon seat. The yokes tightened, and the wagon started. It was a sight to see. Six oxen keeping stride as they pulled the massive wagon toward the glare of the rising sun.

  Time passed, and the temperature rose. The snow-capped mountains would soon disappear as the drive moved eastward through the Colorado prairie. Puffs of powder rose as each ox hoof hit the ground, causing the wagon to be engulfed in a cloud of dust. The bonnet’s opening was tied closed to keep the dust out of the cargo, but the outside of the wagon and the men in the drivers’ seat were being covered with a layer of fine grime. Scar and Rowdy tied a bandana over their nostrils and mouths.

  An hour passed before Rowdy called the team to a stop. “It’s time to clean noses, Scar. I’ll take the right side, and you take the left. Ever wipe out noses before?”

  “Yes, sir, I have. I wiped out the noses of the Douglas’ horses on our trip out here.” Scar and Rowdy moistened a rag with water from their canteens and carefully wiped out the dust that packed the oxen nostrils. The team was given a short rest, and the wagon was soon under way again.

  Only this time, both men were on horses, riding several yards in front of the oxen and out of the dust. “We’ll be stopping to get ready for the nooner at ten o’clock or a little after. It’ll be midday by the time the herd gets to us. That’ll give us plenty of time to get the meal around and coffee made.”

  “What’s my job, Rowdy?”

  “You’ll need to gather several tarps of chips—there’ll be plenty close by when we stop. The tarp is in one of the wagon’s side boxes. After you’ve collected the chips, you can set up the cooking rods and get the fire going, then make coffee. Put on both pots and add a full cup of grounds to each pot when it boils.”

  “Shouldn’t we be seeing the herd in the distance by now, Rowdy?”

  “Not yet. It takes time to get the herd bunched up and movin’, but they’ll be coming soon. You’ll see a dust cloud on the horizon before long.”

  The cooks had traveled for some time before Scar asked, “Rowdy, I know why men wear chaps on roundups, but why do they wear spurs and carry guns? Are we traveling with a bunch of outlaws?” They both smiled.

  “I suppose a few men wear spurs for show. But sometimes it’s important to make your horse move in a hurry when you’re around a bunch of cows, and spurs help prod things along. As far as handguns are concerned, they’re for emergencies. You never know what might occur on the drive. I’ve seen men shoot rattlesnakes, and I’ve seen men shoot cows that were about to swing a horn through their horse. There are all sorts of times when a gun comes in handy, but to tell the truth, most of the time guns are fired to scare something off or when a man needs help—he fires to get someone’s attention.”

  “Can’t shooting a gun scare the cattle into a stampede?”

  “There’s a chance, but it’s not likely with a single shot.”

  The cooks rode ahead of the dust as the oxen continued their slow but steady pace eastward. It was boring, but time passed. After countless looks behind him, Scar finally saw a small cloud rising on the horizon that looked like a sandstorm.

  Rowdy’s timing was perfect. It was ten o’clock sharp when the team pulled up to a tree-lined stream, flowing with water high on its banks. After the team crossed the stream, the cooks went to work. Rowdy unhooked the team and led them to water while Scar started gathering chips. A short time later a large kettle of pre-cooked beans was steaming, biscuits were turning golden, and the bacon was fried. Both men drank coffee as they watched the dust cloud move closer. When the first cows came into sight, the cooks rose and did their last-minute chores.

  The trail drivers came in shifts, eating without talking and then sitting or squatting for a few minutes, drinking their coffee before mounting fresh horses and riding out to relieve the next group of men.

  Thirty minutes after the last group had eaten, the wagon pulled out. However, the cows were allowed to graze for another thirty minutes before starting across the hot, dry Kansas prairie.

  A couple of hours before sunset, the cows were pulled into a valley with water and plenty of grass. After an hour or so, the hands ambled in, two or three at a time, for a repeat of the noon meal and several cups of coffee. Most of the men enjoyed a cigarette while drinking their coffee. At twilight, Boss assigned nightly guard duties. Five men rose for the first three-hour shift.

  After their watch was over, the watchmen rode in and found a place around the fire where coffee was being poured. It wasn’t long after they drank their coffee when they ambled away from the fire to get a few hours of sleep. Blankets were pulled high up around the sleepers’ heads to prevent mosquito bites. It seemed the pesky mosquitoes always came out at twilight, causing a great deal of discomfort to the men and animals. Sleep was fitful, but man and beast alike were tired enough to sleep regardless.

  Scar was returning from the creek with a pot of coffee water when he noticed Rowdy bedded down beneath the wagon with his head on his saddle and his hat over his face. It was the first time Scar had seen Rowdy’s bald head with its fringe of hair. “You better hit the sack, Scar, four o’clock comes before you know it,” Rowdy said from under his hat.

  The next morning, Rowdy had the fire blazing and both pots of coffee brewing when he shook Scar awake. “It’s time to get up. We’ll need to start feeding the first group before long. I need you to peel and fry potatoes while I make the biscuits.” Scar jumped from his roll, shook out his boots, and was soon peeling potatoes. After the biscuits were on, the bacon skillet was pushed over a little to make room for the potato skillet.

  Rowdy had his routine down pat. When the last man was fed and the eating utensils were cleaned and stored, the cooks were on their way, looking into the rising sun while the herd remained behind, still chewing their cud.

  The following days were much like the first. The herd fell into a set pattern, traveling about fifteen miles daily, depending on the location of water for the evening stops. The terrain became flatter and the soil darker. The hovering dust cloud above the moving herd grew larger and much darker. Buffalo herds and antelope were often seen in the distance. Time passed.

  It rained all day the fifth day out. It wasn’t a blowing rain, but nevertheless, it was a cold, damp rain, making jobs miserable. Somehow, the raindrops found their way inside the men’s raincoats, soaking their clothing through and through. Their hat brims collected water that regularly overflowed and ran down their necks, causing men to use strong language. The cows tried to hang back, reluctant to slosh through the mud that was sometimes halfway up to their knees. Men worked extra hard, constantly pushing the herd forward with swinging lassos and colorful threats.

  Standing around the fire in the rain was nearly as unpleasant as the drive itself, so the cooks erected a shelter at meal times. They set up six eight-foot poles stored under the wagon and connected a tarp to the poles’ tops. The shelter was placed over the fire, and coffee brewed. The cattle were dead tired from plodding through mud. And because the lousy weather was void of thunder and lightning, Boss told all fourteen men to gather under the tarp for the evening meal. Everyone was cold, wet, and in a miserable mood; no one was talking. That is until a man in his early twenties called to Scar. “Hey, ugly, bring me some coffee.” All eyes went to the young cook, who didn’t acknowledge the request but continued on with the job Rowdy had assigned. The other men sat drinking coffee without speaking but observing everything.

  The man who had yelled for the coffee was now in a fix. He either had to force the issue or become known as a man without the backbone to follow up on h
is demands. The loudmouth put on a sideways smile and figured to bully the boy into his way of thinking. The young cook was puny compared to this six foot, two hundred twenty pound cowboy, who had a reputation throughout the territory for his toughness and ability to fight. His harsh tongue had started many fights, and he’d always been the one left standing. “I told you to bring me some coffee. Don’t make me come over there,” he said in a sarcastic voice. Boss watched the situation closely and knew the man should get his own coffee and leave the young cook alone, but he said nothing. In the West, men fought their own battles, unless the fight was unfair, and then others would step in. Boss had an inkling this fight would be fair enough, even though Scar was considerably smaller.

  The man rose and walked up to the young cook. “Are you going to pour my coffee? Or do I have to skin you?”

  “No, sir, I’m not,” Scar said. “I suggest you get your own coffee and let me finish the job Rowdy asked me to do. I answer to him. He’s my boss.” The man immediately raised a large calloused fist and swung at Scar’s jaw. But before the punch could land, Scar caught his opponent’s fist in his left hand and twisted it, causing the man to fall to the muddy ground. “I don’t want to fight you, but I will if you insist.” Scar reached down to help the man up.

  Boss eyed the expressions on the faces of the men around the fire. There were looks of surprise at what had taken place. The men seemed to be asking themselves, how did he do that? Rowdy was leaning against a wagon wheel grinning from ear to ear.

  “You’ve earned some respect today, young man,” Boss said to himself. “Every man here will remember the name of Scar. No, sir, they’ll not be forgetting you.”

  As the days passed, the temperature warmed up, causing the men to sweat profusely. Thick dust clung to their sticky clothing. Whenever possible, evening stops were made at rivers or creeks, but when water couldn’t be found, the men were forced to contend with the grime. By now they were in Kansas, nearly halfway to their destination, unless they had to go on to Chicago. Rowdy’s meals were very tasty, but there was little variety, so to give the men a change, he made over a hundred bear claws—donuts, as they were known in the East—about once a week.

  The cooks had stopped by a small watering hole one evening and had started unloading the cooking utensils when they heard a shot. It was a faint sound, but nevertheless an unmistakable gunshot. “Let’s go!” shouted Rowdy as he ran to the wagon for a black medicine bag and then to his horse. Scar was amazed at the man’s quickness. Rowdy was mounted and at a full gallop before he and Maude left.

  There were six men standing over a fallen man when Rowdy and Scar arrived. Boss could be seen in the distance coming at full speed. “Stand back,” ordered Rowdy. The men parted but remained close enough to hear the diagnosis about their friend, Joe.

  The picture was clear. The cowboy’s horse had stepped in a gopher hole, breaking its leg, and then fell on top of its rider. The torn-up ground around them indicated the horse had thrashed about on top of Joe before he had a chance to shoot it through the ears.

  “When we got here, the only thing showing was Joe’s head,” said one of the riders. “We pulled the horse off of him as soon as we could.”

  “Shouldn’t we take him to the wagon, Rowdy? He might rest better there,” asked a man hovering over his friend.

  “We’ll let him lay here for a while. He needs rest before we move him,” Rowdy said. Boss had arrived by this time and knew Rowdy’s words were only said for the benefit of Joe and his friends standing around. In reality, Joe would only be moved for his burial. Both of his legs were broken, and his right side was caved in, causing red bubbles to come from his nose as he exhaled short breaths. Rowdy knew these raspy breaths would not last long and they didn’t. Joe’s body was buried not far from where he fell. His grave was dug extra deep to prevent wild animals from digging him up. After he was laid on his blanket and lowered into the grave, the men refilled the hole. After Boss had said a few words, the men stood around for several minutes with heads down and eyes closed. Many were crying.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The mid-August temperature remained in the nineties as the cows plodded day after day across the Nebraska prairie. By now, the cows were fatigued and had lost a considerable amount of weight. The cowhands were dragging, drained of their energy. After all, prodding cows for ten weeks in hot, dusty conditions would exhaust most any man. Time seemed to be at a standstill. Few words were spoken until a glimmer of excitement stirred among the men because a rumor was circling that Omaha was only a few days’ ride away.

  Whether the herd was sold or they continued on to Chicago, it was likely the boss would stop the drive for several days at Omaha so the cows could put on lost weight. If they did hang around Omaha, the men knew they could spend the nights in town catching up on the pleasures of life.

  “How much longer will it take to get to Omaha?” Scar asked.

  “I’d say about three days,” answered the cook. “You’ll know when we’re two days out if the wind blows right.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because of the manure smell and the flies. Over thirty thousand cows have passed through Omaha in the last month. My guess is there’ll be ten to twenty thousand in the pens when we get there. The streets and pens are always knee deep in manure. It’s a perfect place for flies to multiply—it’s fly heaven.”

  Rowdy was right. Two days later, when Scar rolled from bed, a slow eastern breeze carried the smell of Omaha and brought flies by the thousands. After breakfast, the cowhands gathered the stragglers, tightened up the herd and began another sweltering August day. The morning was half over and the cooks were planning their noon stop when Boss rode up. “We’ll continue on past Omaha and stop the herd three or four miles north of town where the grass is better. Why don’t you make a wide detour west of town, Rowdy? I’ll go tell the men to follow.” Rowdy nodded in agreement.

  “When do you plan on riding to town to see if we sell or keep goin’?” Rowdy asked.

  “That’s where I’m headed now. I need to determine our options.”

  “Why don’t you take Scar along? I can handle my end.”

  When Omaha came into sight, Boss and Scar saw cattle pens spread over the entire east side of town, and every pen was full. In addition to the penned cattle, the nearby fields were covered with several thousand head. As the two rode into town, Boss said, “It doesn’t look good, Scar. The place is flooded with cows. It’ll be a buyer’s market, and they won’t be paying much, but let’s scout around and see what’s being offered. We’ll start at the Omaha Tavern. Most buyers hang out there. But first, we’ll find a bathhouse and barber. We want to look respectable when we’re negotiating.”

  Folks along the boardwalks eyed the two men as they rode through town, but their stares were mainly on the young man with a terrible facial scar riding a knob-headed mule. Boss and Scar stopped in front of the barber shop and bath house and entered the establishment carrying their saddlebags and clean clothes. Boss was shaved, and both men got haircuts before they entered the bathing area where they undressed and stood waiting for a tub. When it was his turn, Scar felt fortunate only three people had used the tub’s water before him. When he climbed from the tub and toweled off, he felt rejuvenated but was surprised to find his new Levis so short he had to stuff them into his boot tops.

  Boss pushed the batwings open, and the two entered. It was the first time Scar had ever been in a saloon. As he looked around, he saw three tables of men playing cards and two other tables with red-faced men sitting around drinking beer. Along the back wall were men leaning against a long bar, nursing their glasses. Fancy dressed women with low necklines were milling around.

  A man hollered from across the room, “Howdy, Boss, come over and sit with us.”

  “That’s a table of buyers, Scar. We might as well join them.”

  After the introductions, Scar scooted his chair away from the table, hoping to be left out of the conversation
s, but Boss motioned him forward. One subject after another was brought up before a buyer asked, “What brings you boys to town?”

  “I’ve got a herd of billy goats for sale. What’ll you give me?” They all laughed.

  “How many head do you have?” asked a buyer who was wearing a fancy suit and smoking an oversized cigar, trying to act important.

  “We have over three thousand head of good stock carrying plenty of fat. What can you offer?” Boss asked.

  “I can offer ten dollars a head; maybe eleven after I’ve looked and find them to be in good shape.”

  “How about you other gentlemen, what can you offer?” Boss inquired. As it turned out, the others already had their quotas filled, so the fancy suit man was the only buyer willing to make an offer.

  “On second thought, I believe my top price is nine dollars. Take it, or leave it,” the man in the suit said with a sarcastic smile.

  Scar leaned closer to the table and interrupted the conversation. “Mister, you misunderstood. We’re not really selling goats. Boss was only funning with you, but you thought he was serious. I apologize for the joke. But come to think of it, nine dollars is not a fair price even for a goat.” The men around the table nearly fell off their chairs from laughing. After settling themselves, they all gave Scar a hearty handshake or back slap while the buyer in the suit who had made the lowball offer left in a huff.

  One of the buyers, who had done business with Boss many times in the past, pulled him aside and told him that prices in Chicago were twenty dollars.

  “Won’t the Chicago market be flooded as soon as these Omaha cattle are shipped in?” Boss asked. “The train is a lot faster than a cattle drive.”

  “Maybe not, Boss. I understand all the cattle cars are booked for Texas and won’t be available to come here for at least three months. If you leave soon, you can beat the rush.”

  “Thanks, I owe you one,” Boss said as he shook the man’s hand.