“You ain’t likely to,” said Hatcher the storekeeper, “until near sundown. They’ll get in late enough so’s they can layover tonight an’ maybe tomorrow night. It’ll take some time to load the wagons.”
“They’ll have more freight than they can load into six wagons,” Nathan replied. “What happens to the rest of it?”
“They’ll take the oldest first,” said Hatcher. “They’re always behind an’ the Federals is always raisin’ hell. If Bean can afford the wagons an’ teams, I ain’t doubtin’ he’ll hire you.”
Hatcher went on about his business. Nathan and Eulie left the store and returned to their camp near the spring. It was a good vantage point, offering a view of the town and the anchored ships, as well as the plains to the north, from whence Roy Bean’s freight wagons were likely to come.
“Being behind with the freight,” Eulie said, “I don’t understand why they’d lay over here any longer than it takes to load the wagons.”
“It’s the way of bullwhackers,” said Nathan. “They want some time in the saloons and the whorehouses.”
Time dragged, and as Hatcher had predicted, it was late afternoon when the trio of ox-drawn wagons loomed on the horizon. They had to wend their way to the far end of the bench, circling back to the town and the docks below.
“Come on,” Nathan said. “We’d best ride down there and talk to Bean. Bullwhackers get a few slugs of red-eye under their belts, and they get damn unsociable.”
Bean and his drivers had not backed the wagons up to the dock, a fair indication they had no intention of loading any time soon. Instead, the trio had lived up to Nathan’s prediction and had reined up near one of the saloons. By the time the three drivers had stepped down, Nathan and Eulie had dismounted and were waiting for them. All three men carried Winchesters, and Nathan had no trouble identifying Bean, for his companions were Mexican. None of them had shaved recently, and Bean was only slightly better dressed than the Mexican drivers. While the Mexicans wore tight-legged trousers and dingy white shirts beneath dark jackets, Bean was dressed in baggy homespun trousers kept in place by wide red suspenders and a blue flannel shirt. His old flop hat appeared to have lost an ongoing battle with the elements, but the Mexican drivers wore wide-brimmed sombreros. The drivers were slender, but Bean had a pot belly. And curiously, none of them carried a sidearm. Bean looked maybe five-ten, and the pair of Mexicans not even that. The Mexicans paused, allowing Bean to confront Eulie and Nathan.
“I reckon you’re Roy Bean,” Nathan said.
“I reckon I am,” Bean replied. “Just who the hell else would I be?”
His Mexican companions grinned, having been burned by similar sarcasm before, but the feisty Bean kept a straight face.
“If you’re the owner of this rawhide freight line,” Nathan said evenly, “I want to talk to you about me and my pardner hirin’ on. If you’re not, I purely don’t give a damn who you are.”
Bean laughed, slapping his dusty old hat against his leg. “By God, you got sand,” he roared. “Come on. We’ll git us a bottle an’ talk. I’m dry as ten mile of Llano Estacado.”
Nathan and Eulie followed Bean into the tent saloon. There were half a dozen tables, several benches, and assorted stools. There were a few chairs, no two of them alike. Bean chose a table that had chairs, took one for himself, and bawled an order at the bartender. Bean’s Mexican drovers took a table of their own.
“Bottle an’ glasses. None of that snakehead rotgut, damn it.”
He said nothing to Nathan and Eulie, allowing them to stand or sit, as they chose. They each took a chair and sat down. When the bartender brought the whiskey and glasses, Bean seized the bottle and removed the cork with his teeth. He ignored the custom, filling his own glass and downing the contents in a single gulp.
“Well,” said Ben, slamming down his glass, “you pilgrims too good to drink with me?”
Nathan said nothing. Taking the bottle, he poured three fingers of the stuff into his own glass and a lesser amount in Eulie’s.
“Who told you I was hirin’ whackers?” Bean demanded.
“Why would anybody have to tell us?” Nathan replied. “With the wagons you have, you’ll need three trips just to move the freight that’s piled up here. Only reason you wouldn’t be hiring is that you’re broke. Or maybe just too damn cheap.”
The Mexicans laughed, the bartender suddenly got busy, and Eulie, seeking to hide behind the glass, got strangled on the whiskey. Bean glared at her, finally turning hard eyes on Nathan. He sighed and finally spoke.
“You’re half right,” he said. “I ain’t exactly flush. You ever done any gov’ment haulin’, you’d know the damn money don’t never come on time. For the loads we’re haulin’ now, we git paid month after next. That is, if we git lucky. I got no idee what Delmano and Renato finds so damn funny. The ugly varmints ain’t been paid in near two months.”
“You can’t afford to hire us, then,” Nathan said.
“I’m sayin’ I can’t afford to pay you till I get paid,” Bean replied. “If you ain’t hurtin’ fer money, likely I kin figger a way to take you on.”
“You’ll need more wagons and teams,” said Nathan. “If you’re up to that, I reckon me and my pard can get in line behind Delmano and Renato for our pay.”
“Times is hard,” Bean said, “an’ I’ll have to take second-hand on the wagons, but I can get the oxen from the livery in San Antone. You get thirty a month an’ two hunnert rounds of ammunition.”
“My pardner’s Eli Prater,” said Nathan, “and I’m Nathan Stone.”
“One thing I ain’t told you,” Bean said. “Them damn Comanches has been givin’ us hell. We’ll be haulin’ to Austin an’ sometimes Houston, an’ them varmints likes to lay out along the Colorado an’ snipe at us. So I’m tellin’ you honest, there’s considerable more to this than just handlin’ a team. You got to shoot quick an’ straight. You’ll be needin’ long guns.”
“We have them,” Nathan said. “A Henry and a Winchester.”
“Get yer shells at the mercantile,” said Bean, “an’ tell Hatcher I said put it on my tab. We’ll load tomorrow an’ move out the day after. Less’n you be in a hurry to git to San Antone, wait an’ ride back with us.”
“We’ll do that” Nathan said, kicking back his chair.
“Whoa,” said Bean. “You ain’t finished your drinks. Never let whiskey go to waste. That’s the code of the West.”
As a rule, Nathan Stone shied clear of anything more potent than a beer, but this time he made the best of it, swallowing the stuff. He wondered what Eulie would do, and to his surprise, she emptied the glass in a single motion, without a tremor.
Nathan and Eulie left the saloon and not until they reached their horses did Nathan speak.
“You put down that whiskey mighty slick. The stuff near gagged me.”
“Just a little thing I learned at my dear old daddy’s knee,” Eulie said. “That was before he discovered I’d never become the son he’d always wanted, and then you heard him ranting at me because I was so unladylike. Well, hell, I didn’t know how. I was taught to do everything like a man except to stand when I go to the bushes.”
“You make a right convincin’ hombre,” said Nathan. “Just one thing that we haven’t counted on. Sooner or later, you’ll have to talk.”
“I can talk slow,” Eulie replied, “and lower my voice. Like this.”
She lowered her voice, speaking with an exaggerated Texas drawl. Nathan laughed, and she raised her voice to its normal pitch.
“You could fool me if I didn’t know better,” said Nathan. “I just hope you don’t forget to lower your voice.”
“I won’t,” Eulie replied. “I used to talk like that all the time, just to please Daddy, until people started laughing at me.”
Nathan and Eulie were up at first light. Below them, one of the wagons had been backed up to the dock. Bean and his companions were already loading the freight.
“When the mercantile
opens,” Nathan said, “we might as well go after the shells Bean promised us.”
“We have plenty,” said Eulie. “We don’t really need them.”
“The hell we don’t,” Nathan said. “If we’re goin’ to fight Comanches for thirty dollars a month, the least he can do is pay for the shells.”
It was early and Hatcher was alone in the mercantile. He brought two tins of shells for the Henry and two for the Winchester.
“There you are,” Hatcher grinned. “Courtesy of Roy Bean. I ain’t sure if I should congratulate you or pray for you.”
August 11, 1866. North to San Antonio.
Bean led out, the other wagons lumbering along behind. To escape the swirling dust, Nathan and Eulie rode beside the lead wagon. They followed a river that emptied into Corpus Christi Bay, and when they stopped at noon to refresh themselves and rest the teams, Nathan asked about it.
“The Nueces,” Bean said. “We’ll be follerin’ in about sixty mile, near halfway to San Antone. It’s maybe 130 mile from Corpus Christi.”
Eulie tested her low-pitched voice by asking Bean a question.
“Do you expect the Comanches to attack us on the way to San Antonio?”
“Won’t be a damn bit surprised,” said Bean. “They know we’re loaded with grub, fancy goods, guns an’ shells fer the soldiers’ an’ all manner of stuff. They may be heathens, but they ain’t stupid. They know we got long guns an’ they ain’t about to risk bein’ shot dead just fer scalps.”
“Loaded,” Nathan said, “you’re lookin’ at fourteen days from Corpus Christi to San Antone.”
“That’s if nothin’ goes wrong,” said Bean. “Empty, rollin’ south, we sometimes make the run in ten days.”
“Comanches will attack at night,” Eulie said. “With so few drivers, how do you ever get any sleep?”
“We don’t take off nothin’ but our hats,” said Bean. “Two of us sleeps while t’other keeps his eyes open an’ his hands on his gun.”
The day passed without incident and Bean reined up an hour before the sun would sink below the western horizon.
“We eat an’ put out the fire before dark,” Bean said. “After that, with the river handy, I aim to wash off some dust an’ sweat.”
Supper was prepared and hurriedly eaten, and the portly Bean began peeling off his dusty clothes. He looked questioningly at Nathan and Eulie.
“I don’t think so,” said Nathan. “We like to keep our britches on when there may be Comanches around. We’ll keep our rifles handy.”
Bean, Delmano, and Renato stripped and piled into the river, while Nathan and Eulie remained near the wagons. For the first time since early morning, Cotton Blossom joined them.
“I thought he had left us,” Eulie said.
“He’s been somewhere ahead of us,” said Nathan. “Something about this he doesn’t like. Delmano and Renato, maybe.”
“I’m a little unsure of them myself,” Eulie replied. “Fact is, I’m a mite nervous with all of them, Roy Bean included.”
Nathan laughed. “Not near as nervous as they’d be if they knew they’d stripped before a woman. Is that what’s making you nervous with them?”
“Oh, hell,” she said in disgust, “it’s not that kind of nervous. What I mean is that I doubt we can trust them.”
“Why not?” Nathan insisted. “What are you seeing that I’m not?”
“I’m not seeing anything, damn it. It’s ... just a bad feeling.”
The sun had said goodnight to the prairie and purple shadows had crept in before the trio quit the river, shook some of the dust from their clothes and got dressed.
“Time we was splittin’ up the watches fer the night,” said Bean.
“I don’t trust my hair to the eyes and ears of one man,” Nathan said. “I have a better idea. The three of you take the first watch, and we’ll take the second. We’ll change at midnight.”
“That ain’t fair,” Bean objected. “There’s two of you an’ three of us. If the varmints is comin’ after us in the dark, they’re most likely to show up in the stillest hours of the mornin’.”
“That’s why we want the second watch,” said Nathan, “because there’s also three of us. Cotton Blossom, my dog, will warn us if anybody tries to come close.”
Delmano looked at Cotton Blossom and laughed. “Feo perro,” he said.4
Cotton Blossom growled low in his throat, his hackles rose, and he took a step toward the Mexican.
“Easy, Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, his eyes on Delmano.
“Damn you, Delmano,” said Bean, “keep your mouth shut. You got no right to call anything or anybody ugly. Stone, that’s a good idee. That dog knows a heathen when he sees one, an’ I’ll sleep better, him havin’ his ears perked durin’ them hours betwixt midnight an’ dawn. You an’ Eli git some shuteye. Me an’ these ugly varmints will keep our eyes an’ ears open.”
Nathan and Eulie spread their bedrolls near where the horses grazed, for the animals would be quick to sense the approach of man or beast. Without a command, Cotton Blossom lay down at Nathan’s feet.
“I’m glad he’s there,” Eulie said softly.
“So am I,” said Nathan. “I’d miss him if he weren’t.”
“More than me?”
Nathan said nothing.
“Well?” she inquired.
“Don’t rush me,” Nathan said. “I’m thinking.”
She laughed. “Damn you, Nathan Stone.”
Five days north of Corpus Christi, the Comanches struck. Ten of them swept in from the east, offering no targets. Each clung to the offside of his pony, a leg hooked over its back, loosing arrows beneath the animal’s neck. But their adversaries had an edge the Comanches hadn’t counted on.
Snarling and yipping, Cotton Blossom pursued the attacking Indians. When he nipped at the hind legs of an Indian pony, the spooked animal broke stride and reared, dropping it rider to the dusty ground. The fallen warrior rose to meet a Winchester slug and sank down to move no more. Cotton Blossom went after a second pony and then a third, watching the horses pile their riders. Lethal Winchester fire cut down the two unhorsed Comanches and the others fled, vanishing as suddenly as they had appeared. Cotton Blossom trotted back to the wagons.
“By God,” Bean shouted, piling off the wagon box, “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. That hound’s worth his weight in gold coin.”
Nathan and Eulie had dropped back behind the third wagon, using it for cover. They rode forward.
“Anybody hit?” Nathan asked.
“Couple oxen got nicked,” said Bean. “Some sulfur salve to keep the blow flies away, an’ they’ll heal good as new.”
August 25, 1866. San Antonio.
Roy Bean had no freight office, but operated out of a rundown house to the south of town. There was an enormous barn whose roof had begun to sag, and beyond that, a corral with a three-rail-high fence. The rest of the town seemed to have shied away from Bean’s place, and he had used all the property to the fullest. There was a wagon box without wheels, extra bows leaning drunkenly against the barn, and a conglomeration of old wagon wheels with missing spokes or tires. Bean reined up his teams before the barn and stepped down.
“We’ll unload this freight in the mornin’,” said Bean. “We’ll be layin’ over here for a couple of days, givin’ me time to round up some wagons an’ ox teams. Stone, you an’ yer pard are welcome to stall yer hosses in the barn an’ there’s room in the house fer yer saddles an’ bedrolls. I’m a mite short of bunks, but there’s plenty of floor.”
“We’re obliged,” Nathan said. “We’ll leave our saddles and rolls in the house and our horses in the barn, but I reckon we’ll have us a couple of nights in a hotel bed and some town grub. This is Thursday. When are you aimin’ to start for Corpus Christi?”
“Sunday at first light,” said Bean. “Tomorrow to unload the wagons, an’ Saturday fer me to dicker fer more wagons an’ teams.”
The business district was within ea
sy walking distance of Bean’s “office.” Nathan and Eulie set out afoot with Cotton Blossom.
“I don’t feel right about leaving everything we own back there,” said Eulie.
“Not everything,” said Nathan. “The horses are in the barn.”
“Same difference,” Eulie said. “We should have brought them with us and found a livery for them.”
“You don’t trust anybody, do you?”
“Why should I?” she replied. “I’m always disappointed.”
“Have I disappointed you?”
“Not yet,” she said.
“You expect me to, then.”
“I don’t know. I’ve only my father to compare you to. I’d take a crib in a whorehouse before I’d go back to Waco.”
Nathan offered no response.
“Were you serious about taking a hotel room in town?” Eulie asked.
“Why not?” Nathan said. “We’ll spend enough nights on the ground.”
Cotton Blossom proved unwelcome at the fancier hotels, and they ended up with a room in a boardinghouse.
“Now,” said Nathan, “we’ll have to find an eatin’ place where we can all get fed.”
They found a dingy little cafe next to the Bull’s Horn Saloon. There was a poorly lettered sign above the eatery that simply said “Grub.” It was still early, not quite suppertime. The cook, wearing a dirty white apron, leaned across the counter and eyed Cotton Blossom with disapproval.
“There’s nobody in here but us,” Nathan said, “and he’s a paying customer.”
“Take that table in the back,” the cook said, “and I’ll set him a plate back there.”
There would have been no trouble had not some of the patrons of the Bull’s Horn Saloon decided it was time to eat. There were eight men, all in various stages of drunkenness, and with all the empty tables, they chose the one against the wall, behind that occupied by Nathan and Eulie. One of the drunkest of the party managed to tromp on Cotton Blossom’s tail. The hound took his vengeance by sinking his teeth in the man’s leg, just above the top of his boot. There was a curse, a cry of pain, and all hell broke loose. The table was upended, throwing Nathan and Eulie to the floor. There was a howl of pain and more cursing, as Cotton Blossom sank his teeth into yet another victim. Nathan struggled to his feet, only to be struck down with the muzzle of a Colt. Eulie lay face down, unmoving. Nathan blacked out when somebody kicked him in the head. Dimly he could hear shouting.
The Dawn of Fury Page 10
