This fellow had me pegged right. He figured I was i n from the hills; had bought some fancy clothes, and wa s carrying a stake in my pocket. Only the last was a wron g guess.
"Don't really play cards," I said cautiously, "but i f you're going to play, I'd enjoy watching."
"Come along, then."
We started off, and, glancing back, I saw Hickok an d Jim Hanrahan and some others looking after us wit h amused smiles. They were thinking that I would learn a lesson, and every man has some lessons to learn for himself.
There were five men in the game and one of the m looked like a buffalo hunter. The others . . . well I didn't know about them. But after a while, I sat in.
They let me win three out of four times. Each time th e win was small, but it was enough to double what I had t o begin with.
I played a blundering, careless game, sizing up the others. The way I saw it, all but two were cardsharps. Th e buffalo hunter was named Billy Ogg, and there was a ma n who had been a stage driver in Texas. A mighty fine fellow.
On the fifth hand they built the pot pretty strong an d I stayed with them, and lost.
It was my deal then, and clumsily I gathered in th e cards, having a hard time getting them arranged, but i n the process I got two aces on the bottom. Shuffling th e cards, I managed to get another ace to the bottom, an d then I dealt the cards, taking my three aces off the bottom as I needed them. That is, I dealt myself two of the m to begin; then when I drew three cards, one of them wa s the third ace.
Woods, the man who had roped me into the game , raised five dollars. I saw him and raised again. Wood s raised and I went along, and at the showdown my thre e aces took the pot.
Woods didn't say anything, but he looked angry, an d one of the others, a fat, dirty man, growled something under his breath. It was a good pot, more than seventy dollars, as I recall.
We played for two hours, and I was careful. When a hand looked too good to be true, I wouldn't go along o r played it so badly that I lost little, and when I dealt o r could hold out a card or two, I won. At the end of tha t time I was four hundred dollars ahead, and Woods wa s getting mighty ugly.
Right about that time I decided enough was enough.
There had to be a break, and I wanted to make it whe n I was ready, not have Woods or one of the others mak e it and catch me off balance. Pushing back my chair, I s aid, "Got to get some sleep. I'm quitting."
"You can't quit now!" Woods protested. "You've go t our money."
My smile didn't make him any happier. Nor did what I s aid. "And that wasn't the way you planned it, was it?"
Woods's face went red and the fat man's hand droppe d to his lap. Only I'd seen the gun under the napkin almos t an hour before. My old Shawk & McLanahan was out an d covering them and I sort of stepped back a little.
"You," I said to Ogg. "You've been taken. So's he."
I indicated the stage driver. "You two pick up the pot."
"Like hell!" Woods started to get up.
My gun muzzle swung to him. "I'd as soon kill you," I s aid pleasantly. "Don't make it necessary."
Ogg and the stage driver scooped up the money. Bot h of them had been in twice as deep as I could have gone , and most of the money was theirs. They gathered it u p and went to the door, but at the door Billy Ogg shucke d his own gun. "Come on, Tyler. I'd as soon kill one of the m my own self."
The three of us walked out together. The stage drive r was Johnny Keeler, and they split a thousand betwee n them and insisted I take the two hundred that remained.
I refused.
Ogg glanced skeptically at the old Shawk & McLanahan. "Does that thing shoot? I didn't think they mad e them any more."
"It shoots."
"I'm beginning to get this now," Keeler said suddenly.
"You're Rye Tyler, the Colorado gun fighter."
"I'm from Colorado," I mid.
"You killed Rice Wheeler?"
"He stole horses from my boss."
Billy Ogg looked me over thoughtfully. "Now, that's mighty interestin'. T'other day down to Tom Speers' p lace, Hickok said you were a gun fighter. Said he coul d read it in you."
"You'll have to come around and meet the boys," Keeler said. "Wyatt Earp's in town, too."
"I'm going to New Orleans," I mid.
Next morning early I woke up, bathed, shaved, an d got slicked up. Just as I was starting to pack there was a knock on the door. When I opened it there was a ma n standing there with a box in his hands, and a rifle.
The rifle was a new .44 Henry repeater, the finest made.
And in the box were two of the hard-to-get Smith & Wesson Russians, the pistol that was breaking all the targe t records.
Behind the man came Billy Ogg and Johnny Keeler. "A p resent from us," Ogg said, grinning at my surprise. "Yo u saved our money. This is a present."
Long after I was on the river boat, headed downrive r for New Orleans, I handled those guns. Yet it was wit h something like regret that I packed away the old Shaw k & McLanahan. It had been with me a long time.
For two weeks I loafed in New Orleans, seeing th e sights, eating the best meals, sometimes playing cards a little. But this was honest playing, for I played with honest men, and I lost a little, won a little, and at the en d of two weeks had won back half what I'd spent aroun d town.
New Orleans was a lively place, and I liked it, but I w as getting restless to leave. The West was my country , and I had to be doing something. Nowhere in the worl d was there anything that belonged to me, nor did I hav e any place to call home. Also, I kept thinking about Liza.
She would be sixteen now, and girls married at sixteen.
The thought of her marrying somebody made me feel kin d of panicky and scared, as if I was losing something I n eeded.
Finally I packed to go, and then while I was waiting fo r time to leave, I went to a gambling hell called the Wol f Trap. As soon as I was inside the door I saw Woods, an d with him a local tough known as Chris Lillie. Wanting n o trouble, I turned at once and went out.
The streets were dark and silent. It was very late an d few people were about. Walking swiftly, I was almost t o the end of the street when I heard someone running behind me. Quickly I ducked into a doorway.
Nobody passed, and nobody came near. Yet I had hear d those feet. Suddenly I remembered that at this point another street, a very narrow one, intersected the one o n which I had been walking. It would be on that othe r street that I'd heard the running.
Deliberately I crossed the street away from the corner.
Cities were new to me, but the hunting of men is muc h the same anywhere. In the blackness of a doorway I waited, watching the point where the two streets came together.
Several minutes passed and then I saw Chris Lilli e come out of the alley and peer down the street up whic h I had come. The street was, of course, empty.
All was dark and still except under the few misty stree t lights. Fog was beginning to drift in from the bottoms, an d the night was ghostly in its silence.
Then a second man emerged, and this was Woods.
They stood there together, whispering and peering around.
My disappearance worried them. And then I stepped ou t into the street. "Looking for me?" I asked.
Woods had a pistol in his hand. He whipped it u p and fired, but he shot too quickly, and missed. I felt th e bullet whip past me as I steadied my aim and fired. Wood s turned back, starting in the direction from which he ha d come, and then fell dead.
Lillie sprinted for the alley, and I let him go. Waitin g only a minute longer, I turned away and walked bac k to my hotel. By daybreak I was riding a rented home wes t of the river. And I had killed my third white man.
But this time with the Smith & Wesson .44, not the ol d Shawk & McLanahan.
Chapter 8
IN 1872 much of Texas was still wild. In easter n Texas there were vast thickets of chaparral, and some goo d forests. It was lonely country, dangerous for a stranger. I t was feuding
country, too. The Lee-Peacock and SuttonTaylor feuds had left the country split wide open. Neithe r of them was really setttled, and much of the bloodies t fighting was still to come.
Every ranch in some sections of eastern Texas was a n armed camp, and few men rode alone. There were ol d enmities that had survived the fights of the Regulator s and the Moderators, and the fighting and general lawlessness had brought into the country some bad men from th e Indian Territory and elsewhere. But Texas had enough o f her own.
In Marshall I bought a horse. He was a fine dapple d gray, the fastest walking horse I ever saw. He was seventeen hands high and could really step out and move, idea l for such a trip as this.
Some nights I camped out, and at times stayed in wayside inns or at ranches. It was good riding, and new country for me. In the back of my mind all the while was th e thought that I was heading for Colorado, where I'd sta y a while before riding on to California to visit Logan an d Mary. Meanwhile I was young and restless, and the country looked good.
For a month I rode, drifting south and a little west, an d one day I came on a man with a herd of cows.
He had six hundred head and he was short-handed.
He was a big man with a blunt, good-natured face. He looked me over as I came along the road, then called out , "Hunting a job?"
"Use one," I said, and swung my gray alongside him.
"Thirty a month," he said. "I'm driving to Uvalde.
Selling this herd to Bill Bennett. He's going up the trai l to Kansas."
"All right."
"Can't promise you Kansas, but the job is good t o Uvalde. My name is Wilson."
The gray was quick, intelligent and, active. He becam e a good cow horse, and learned fast. Mostly, though, I r ode one of Wilson's horses.
Nobody asked questions in those days. Every man wa s judged by what he did. Lots of men had pasts they di d not want examined, and if you minded your own business and did your work, nobody bothered about anythin g else.
Riding jobs always suited me. I liked to think, and a man could follow along with a herd of cattle and do a powerful lot of thinking. In my jeans I had over a thousand dollars. Here and there along the trail I'd gamble d some, and I'd won and lost, but I had a stake. And I w anted more.
The beef Wilson had was mostly young stuff, and i t looked good. In Kansas City I'd heard a lot of talk abou t the rich grass of the northern prairies and how cattle coul d actually fatten while on the trail. This stuff Wilson wa s driving was young, rawboned, and would fill out.
The third day I made up my mind. Wilson was ridin g point and I drifted alongside the herd until I pulle d abreast of him. After we'd passed the time of day an d talked about the weather and how dusty it was, I starte d in. "Got a little money," I said. "Mind if I buy a few cow s and drift them with yours? I'd be a partner in the her d then, and you'd have a free cow hand."
"Go ahead!" Wilson waved a hand. "Glad to hav e you!"
Leaving the herd that night, I rode on ahead and bega n to check the ranches. And right away I began to wish I h ad more money.
Cash was a scarce thing in Texas in those days. Me n had cattle, horses, and hay, but real cash money was might y hard to come by for the average rancher. Moreover, h e had to gamble on riding anywhere from thirty to a hundred miles to market with maybe no sale when he go t there, or a niggardly price.
I rode into a. ranch yard and drifted my horse up t o the trough. Looking around at the cattle, I saw they wer e mostly good stock, with a few culls here and there suc h as you'll find in any cow outfit. But this stock was big, lik e your longhorns are apt to be, and rangy. Given a chance , a longhorn could fill out to quite a lot of beef.
Grass was not good and most of the range was overstocked. Most of the ranchers had not begun to realiz e that there was a limit to the amount of stock the rang e could carry. Their great argument was a buffalo. The y had themselves seen the range black with their millions.
I had seen it, too, but what I remembered that some o f them seemed to forget was that the buffalo never stoppe d moving. They gave the grass a chance to grow back. I t was a different thing with cattle. They were confined t o one range, once men began to herd them, and they at e the grass to nothing.
My horse walked up to the trough and started to drink , and a long-geared man in boots with run-down heel s walked over from the corral.
"Light an' set," he invited me. "Don't get many visitor s hereabouts."
"Riding through," I told him as I swung down. "I'm going to Uvalde."
"What I ought to do," he said, biting off a chew, "I s hould drift me a herd up to San Antone. But that take s hands, and I ain't got 'em. I'd like to drift a herd t o Kansas."
"Risky," I said. "Indians, herd cutters, an' such-like."
His wife came out to look at me, and two wide-eye d children in homemade dresses.
"Might buy a few myself," I said thoughtfully. "I'm ridin' through. Shame to make the trip for nothin'."
He glanced at me. My rig was new and looked goo d and prosperous. "You could do worse," he said. "Fact is , if a man had him a little cash money he could buy cow s mighty cheap."
"Don't know," I said doubtfully. "A man could lose a sight of money thataway. Stampedes . . . Men have mad e money goin' over the trail, but they've lost it, too. Los t their shirts, some of 'em."
"Young fellow like you," the rancher said, "he shoul d take a chance if anybody should. Got your life ahead o f you. I reckon you could double your money."
"Well," I hesitated, "I have got a little money, but gol d is scarce in this country and I hate to get shut of it." I l et that settle down through his thinking for a few minutes, and then added, "Why, a man can buy most anything for gold in this country!"
"Gold?" He looked at me again. "Mister, if you wan t to buy cows with gold, you don't have to go any farther.
They pay ten dollars a head in San Antone. No w "More'n I'd pay. A man's got risks, driving to Kansas.
He has to hire riders, get a chuck wagon, grub, a strin g of horses. Takes a sight of money."
The rancher chewed slowly, looking thoughtful. "Migh t sell a few," he said. "Could use some cash money."
Cattle bred like rabbits and his range was overstocked.
He would have been a fool not to sell, if only to sav e grass for the other cows.
"Give you five dollars a head?"
He was astonished. "Five? You're crazy."
I gathered my reins and moved to mount. "Maybe I'd better forget it, anyway. As it is, I'm drawing cow hand's pay. If I own cows, I stand to lose. I'll just forget it."
"Might let a few go for eight dollars?" he suggeste d hopefully.
"No," I said, "I've got to ride on. Enjoyed the talk."
He put a hand on my saddle. "Now, look "
A half hour later we compromised at seven dollars a head, his men to round them up, and no culls. I bough t a hundred head. And when Wilson came along, I swun g them into the herd. A neighbor boy who wanted to se e San Antonio came along for the ten dollars I promise d him to make the drive.
It was a good feeling, seeing those cattle, knowin g they were mine. They were good stock, and would brin g a good price whether I sold them in San Antonio or a t the end of the trail in Kansas.
William J. Bennett was waiting in the plaza at Uvald e when I rode my horse into the square with Wilson. Wilso n gestured to me. "Ryan Tyler," he said, "a good hand."
"Glad to know you," Bennett cut the end from his cigar.
"Got any cows?"
"A hundred head."
"I'll buy 'em."
As easy as that I could turn a profit, maybe double m y money, and in only a few days of work. I might go ou t again and buy more cattle and sell them, too. If I worke d hard and used my head, I could build a business for myself. But the trail to Kansas was north, and it was close r to Colorado.
"Ten dollars a head," Bennett said. "Take it or leav e it."
"No," I said, taking my time. "I don't want to sell. I w ant to
make the drive with you." I leaned on the pommel. "Mr. Bennett, I want an outfit of my own. I kno w a little valley out in Colorado that's just what I want, bu t I need money. If I can sell those cattle in Kansas, I'll b e well along toward having my stake."
He rolled his cigar in his teeth and looked around th e plaza. Finally he took the cigar from his mouth. "Have yo u any more money?"
"Just a few hundred dollars."
"You want to buy more cattle?"
"Yes, sir."
He looked at the end of his cigar. "All right, Tyler."
He reached in his pocket and took out a small sack.
"There's a thousand dollars in that. Buy cattle for me , too. We want to leave here by the fifth."
As I started to swing my horse, he spoke again, onl y just loud enough for me to hear. "You the man wh o killed Rice Wheeler?"
For a moment I sat very still in the saddle. Then lookin g around at him, I nodded.
"Knew him," Bennett spoke abruptly. "He killed m y saddle partner at Red River Crossing four years ago."
Riding out of town, I felt the weight of that sack o f gold. It was the first time anyone had ever trusted me wit h money, and he had merely turned and tossed it to me. Ye t it was more than trust of money. He was trusting m y judgment to buy well. It gave me a good feeling.
A week later I had bought few cattle. The areas clos e to San Antonio had been swept clean, and all I had bee n able to send in were thirty head, all good stock but nothin g like what we wanted for the drive. So I pushed on, hopin g for better luck.
The country was wild and lonely, occasional chaparral , but mostly open country, broken and rugged. Ranche s were scattered, and some of the small ones were merel y rawhide outfits without enough cows to bother with.
The air changed and it began to look like rain.
By nightfall the clouds were hanging low and they wer e spitting a little rain, so I started the gray to moving alon g and dug my slicker out of my bedroll. I'd taken to wearin g both guns, but only one in its holster. The other I tucke d behind my waistband, the butt out of sight under the edg e of my coat. It was added insurance, because I was carrying another man's money and was never one for trustin g to luck. I'd helped bury a few men who did.
to Tame a Land (1955) Page 6
