Good Man - Bad Enemy

by Gary Church

  Peck hesitated, then said, “I don’t know much about Indians—they were painted and carrying bows.”

  Johnny said, “Let’s go,” and headed southwest without waiting for a reply. The group was moving fairly fast and kicking up some dust, so they were easy enough to locate. As he rode, Johnny pondered the situation. Likely Comanche. A longhorn or two would be acceptable, but not eight or ten. That could be as much as two hundred fifty dollars. They might suffer that, but the Indians might be encouraged to repeat the theft if they were unchallenged. John Christie would not be pleased.

  Johnny pulled his rifle and waved at Peck, indicating they would shoot in the air. As they reached the group, Johnny rode straight for the middle of the pack. The Indians, seeing Johnny and Peck coming and waving their rifles, veered away from the small group of trotting longhorns, splitting up and circling.

  Johnny yelled to Peck, “Cut ’em back, but leave two.”

  Peck nodded and began to turn the small herd, but cut his horse behind the two leaders, leaving them to continue to trot away. Johnny pulled his horse to a stop, holding his rifle pointed downward, watching the Indians circle. Peck had been right— there were ten longhorns in the group. Peck got eight of them turned and headed back to the main herd, while two continued to move away.

  Johnny was watching for a rifle or maybe a revolver. It was rare for the Indians to have one, but if they did, it would be a serious threat. He was also watching for signs of an attack, but the circling Indians waved spears and made sounds but showed no sign of attack. In just minutes, the Indians understood that they were being gifted two longhorns, and with whoops, rode to the two longhorns and continued westward.

  Johnny took a deep breath and turned back, but he kept an eye toward his rear until the Indians were out of sight. He would have to account for the two beeves when he next spoke to Christie, but he felt it was a good trade. The group had been Comanche—ferocious, brave warriors when they fought. Furthermore, the drive was actually crossing their territory.

  Three days later, after supper, Johnny and Christie were sitting outside Christie’s tent drinking coffee, smoking, and talking. Johnny had told Christie about the Comanches, and Christie had smiled, nodded, and said, “Well done.” Tonight, Christie said, “I gave the Choctaw one hundred and fifty dollars and three beeves today.”

  Surprised, Johnny looked over at Christie and said, “Did they just ride up and demand payment?”

  Christie nodded. “Yep. It seems that sometimes they do and other times not. I talked to some fellows who had to pay a lot more, something like ten cents a head. If the Cherokee show up, which is likely, they’ll want a lot more, but I’m told they will accept payment in beeves. No idea concerning the Arapaho.”

  Johnny nodded.

  ***

  The longhorns ate, drank, and walked. The men carried out their responsibilities, leery now, thinking of the terror of a stampede. Anyone who had spent any time as a cowboy knew how fearsome weather could be. To top it off, they were crossing the Indian Territories. Some had had experience with Indians—good and bad. Others had not, but they had heard the stories.

  Christie and Johnny had talked to a cook and two cowboys making their way south. They said two or three herds had already made it to Abilene but had started north of San Antonio. The two groups traded a bit of talk, and Christie asked about the Indians. The cook said they had given up a few beeves to some Cherokee, and he thought the trail boss might have paid some money to the Choctaw, but they hadn’t had any trouble with the Indians. However, they had experienced two stampedes, and a lot of problems crossing swollen rivers, including the death of a cowboy. They had also run off a group of rustlers.

  The Christie drive pushed on, and the days and nights ran together.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  An old house, just over the border separating the Indian Territories and Kansas, sat in the middle of a vast sea of grass. Inside the house, the six men, who had last met in Fort Worth, sat at the table. Tex pulled out a rolled-up sheet of brown paper, and with a flourish, unrolled it on the table, setting glasses on the corners to hold it. Four of the men leaned forward to look at it, studied it a moment, and sat back. The disappointment on their faces was evident.

  Wyoming said, “What the hell? That sure don’t look like anything I ever seen before. It sure ain’t no bank, no stagecoach, or no railroad. Leastwise not one I’ve come across.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement. Tex leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. He smiled, drew on his cigar, blew out the smoke.

  “I never told you what the plan was, did I? What you see here, gentlemen, is a drawing of a trail drive. Not just any trail drive, but the trail drive we’re gonna take over.”

  Everyone except Tex and Arizona leaned forward again to stare at the illustration. They saw a large oval, with some X marks at the back and on the sides, and two squares at the head of the drawing.

  “The oval represents roughly three thousand beeves, the X marks are the cowboys, waddies, cook, trail boss, and owner. The two squares are wagons. Right now, they have nineteen souls who could pull a trigger. But that includes our man, Cal, and before we intervene, Cal will cut down that number a bit.”

  “I don’t know,” said Montana, one of the brothers. “I thought we was gonna pull a quick robbery, get our money, and go on our way. This looks risky.”

  Tex sighed. “I’ll take the owner’s place, John Christie. Arizona will become Johnny Black, the trail boss, and Cal will take point on the drive. He knows the lead bull, and he’s familiar with the beeves. One of you will drive the chuckwagon, and the remaining four will drive the beeves into Abilene.”

  Montana said, “We’ll be a small band trying to drive three thousand beeves.”

  “We won’t have far to go, and if anybody asks, which I doubt, we’ll all say we had a rough go of it—lost fellows to drowning, accidents, and rustlers.” He smiled.

  “So, we’re going to ride in and what, shoot eighteen people? You know these ain’t gonna be clerks and such. They’re gonna be cowboys and handy with a gun.”

  Tex smiled. “No, we’re not going to ride in there like a bunch of wild Indians. When they get close, Cal is going to poison the coffee.”

  Silence filled the room. Finally, Tex spoke again. “Normally, it’s pretty clear somebody has been poisoned, in a case like this, and the law would be all over it. But see, it’s not going to matter to us. We’ll bury or hide the bodies, drive the beeves into Abilene, sell them, split the money, and all go our own ways.”

  The man Tex had named Virginia spoke. “Poison. I don’t know. It seems cold-blooded, somehow.”

  Tex smiled. “If you feel that way…” He shrugged, looking at the man.

  “It’s all right. I was just talking is all,” said Virginia.

  “Any other thoughts?” asked Tex, looking around the table.

  Tennessee spoke. “I think this is the best plan I’ve ever seen. Anybody thinks different is too stupid to be a part of it.”

  Tension filled the air. Arizona opened his eyes a little, surveying the men at the table.

  Wyoming was the first to speak. “You’re right. I’m in—all the way.”

  This brought a general murmur of assent and nods from the group. Virginia said, “It’s so different, it took us by surprise is all. It’s a good plan.”

  “So, will everybody just drop over when they take a sip?” asked Wyoming.

  “No,” said Tex. “They’ll likely get sick and think the cook has fed them some bad pork. We’re gonna use white arsenic. Looks like sugar, and I’m told on good authority it has no taste. Based on what I’ve been told, they should all die any time after a couple of hours, although it could take a day, but I don’t think so. Cal’s gonna dose it pretty good.”

  He paused, relit his cigar. “Cal’s got a Coston flare. When he’s sure everybody is dead, he’ll shoot it up. We’ll ride in, bury the bodies, and drive the herd into Abilene.”

  “W
hat if somebody don’t… you know… I don’t know, drink the coffee or whatever?” said Tennessee.

  “Cal will take care of it. He’s as good with a knife as he is with a gun,” said Tex.

  TWENTY-NINE

  They found a crossing point on the Arkansas River, just west of Wichita, Kansas, and as usual, the river crossing had exhausted everyone, man and beast, but they pushed on to reach the night’s resting site. Spirits were high. Word had passed—they were probably seven or eight days from the end of the line at Abilene. The chuckwagon and the hoodlum wagon had moved out as soon as the noon meal was over, and having reached the designated spot, had stopped and set up for the night.

  Cookie had gone to Wichita and picked up some supplies, but right on time, he had the biscuits and beans with salt pork cooking. Leo filled the two five-gallon coffee buckets and put on the water to boil. Cookie always added the coffee, telling Leo and Jack that coffee making was an art. Exhausted, Leo climbed into the hoodlum wagon, on top of the bedrolls, just to rest for a few minutes. He had been up most of the night. He quickly dozed off.

  It was almost dark when Leo woke up, and he quickly sat up. He listened. Cookie wasn’t yelling for him, so he was okay. Leo thought he had probably gone to help Jack with the horses. He peeked out to make sure the coast was clear and saw one man at the fire, helping himself to some coffee. It was Cal. Leo liked everyone, with the exception of Cal. The man treated him like he was stupid, cursing him if he spoke to him at all. Leo could hear the shouts and sounds of the cattle and horses and knew the cowboys were settling the herd and would soon be in for supper.

  Leo decided to wait until Cal got his coffee and walked away before getting out of the wagon. No use subjecting himself to abuse when he didn’t have to. After waiting a minute, he peeked out again. What the devil was Cal doing? He was squatted close to the big coffee tins. Dang! Was the man relieving himself in the coffee? Surely not. No, he had a tin. He was adding something. Maybe molasses. Leo smiled to himself. The cowboys were always pulling pranks on each other. Then he saw the white powder— had to be sugar—as it fell into the coffee. First one pot and then the other.

  His leg was cramping, and he stretched it, causing something to shift and make a small sound. Cal whirled around to look, and Leo ducked. He held his breath. Finally, he heard Cal moving away.

  Well, he sure wasn’t going to get involved, but he needed a cup of coffee to get himself going. Even Cal knew better than to buck Cookie, so he wouldn’t own up to being the one who sweetened the coffee. Leo decided he’d have a cup and see. It would be hard to make it taste any worse than it normally did. Of course, Leo would never admit he could hardly stand the taste. He’d never hear the end of it. It would be fun when Cookie found out somebody had improved on his coffee making.

  After Cal walked away, Leo climbed out and helped himself to a cup of coffee. Truth be told, he couldn’t tell a bit of difference. He drank some more. Nope. He was no expert, but this wasn’t sweet, not even close. He knew sweet—his grandma had given him coffee with sugar. Then he looked down at the cup. If it wasn’t sugar, he thought, it must be a joke—something to make the fellows run for the bushes, maybe. He poured the remainder of the coffee on the ground.

  Leo hesitated. He couldn’t tell Cookie. Maybe he should let it go. Honestly, if it had been anybody else, he would have, but he didn’t like Cal, didn’t like him at all, and he did like some of the other hands, especially Jace and B.R. They were kind to him and helped him with the horses sometimes. Leo didn’t know what to do. The cowboys would be coming in any minute, and the first thing they would do is grab some coffee. If Cal found out he had told on him… oh, he couldn’t even think about that. He’d just have to keep his mouth shut and be done with it.

  THIRTY

  Leo looked around. Mr. Christie was headed toward the campfire. Oh, no, he couldn’t let Mr. Christie drink the coffee. Taking a deep breath, he stepped toward Mr. Christie and said, “Sir, could I tell you something?”

  Mr. Christie stopped, turned, and said, “What is it, young man?”

  Leo explained quietly, and Mr. Christie listened, his face revealing nothing. When Leo had finished, Mr. Christie said, “You did the right thing, young man. Jokes and pranks help the men get through the tough times, but a sick cowboy isn’t a joke. Now, I think it’s best nobody but you and me know about this. You hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What I mean is, if it comes out, I am the one who saw Cal, not you. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Christie looked around and said, “Go find Johnny Black and tell him I’m here, having coffee, and I want to talk to him.”

  Leo took off and Christie walked to the coffee pots. A few cowboys were ready to call it a day but saw Mr. Christie at the campfire and decided to wait until he left. Nobody wanted to be the first man in when the boss was looking.

  Meanwhile, Cal had ridden out as though he was looking for a stray. He planned to be the very last man in this evening.

  Johnny rode up to the campfire and dismounted, dropping the reins so Loco could find some grass. “Wanted to see me, boss?” he asked, his face tired.

  Christie told him what Leo had seen. Johnny poured Christie and himself a cup of coffee, but neither took a drink. Johnny squatted down and studied the ground. When Cal had turned, he had spilled some of the white arsenic on the ground. Seeing it, Johnny wet his finger, touched it to the powder, and then his tongue. Looking at Christie, he shook his head.

  “It’s not sugar or flour,” said Johnny. “Rat poison, maybe.”

  Using his booted foot, Christie pushed over the big coffee pots, one at a time, and watched as the coffee spilled out and the fire hissed and smoked.

  When Johnny told Herbert that Mr. Christie had accidentally tipped over both coffee pots, Cookie looked at him, his face impassive. “Should I make some more?”

  “Well,” said Johnny, “I reckon if you don’t want to be skinned alive by a passel of cowboys, it might be a good idea, and hurry.”

  Cookie nodded and headed for the pots.

  The first cowboys in found the coffee wasn’t ready. There was some grumbling, but no one was brave or dumb enough to say anything to Cookie. So the coffee was a little late, but at least there was coffee, and as soon as everybody had a cup, all was forgotten. However, Leo was sick. Johnny and Christie asked him if he drank any of the coffee, and he admitted to sipping a little, just to see if it was sweet. Then Leo turned away suddenly and threw up.

  Christie went over and talked to Cookie, who was stricken when he was told about the poison and Leo having drunk some. “If he only sipped a little, like he said, he might live,” Cookie said quietly.

  Cookie cleared a space for Leo in the chuckwagon, made him a bed, and set a bucket and a canteen alongside. He was very sick, and Cookie told him plain. “You likely drank poison. You’re young and didn’t drink much, so drink as much water as you can, and pray. Hold to the thought you’ve likely saved us all.”

  Johnny was eating when Cal walked into the campsite. He hadn’t been sure the man was coming back, but he had an idea what the man’s game was.

  Helping himself to a plate of beans and a handful of biscuits, Cal poured himself a cup of coffee and walked off to sit by himself, as he always did. From the corner of his eye, Johnny watched him. Sure enough, the man’s coffee was growing cold. In a bit, Johnny saw him discreetly pour out his coffee, walk to the hoodlum wagon, and fill his cup with water.

  Everybody else, as far as Johnny could see, had been drinking coffee. Christie walked over to where Johnny was sitting and looked at him with a questioning expression. Johnny shook his head. “Same here,” said Christie. “Looks like he was acting alone.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Johnny took a deep breath, set aside his plate, drank the last of his coffee, and got to his feet. Cal was at the hoodlum wagon, looking in, then reaching in for his bedroll. Johnny walked up behind him, flipped off the loop from the hammer
on Cal’s revolver with one finger, and before Cal knew what was happening, Johnny had lifted Cal’s revolver from its holster and stepped back.

  Cal whirled around. “Black, what the hell you doing?” he exclaimed.

  “Cal,” said Johnny, “I’m a man of my word, and if you so much as twitch, I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  Cal stared at him. “What’s this about? You got a beef with me?”

  “You could say that,” said Johnny. “B.R., fetch a piece of hobbling rope and come on over here.”

  Cal and Johnny stood facing each other as still as two statues. When B.R. appeared two minutes later, Johnny said, “Tie his hands behind his back, and be sure you do it well. Then check him for a knife.”

  B.R. did as he was told, taking a large Bowie knife from Cal’s belt and a smaller knife, in a leather sheath, from his boot.

  Every single cowboy was standing. No one spoke. Several needed to be heading out on their assigned night watch, but nobody moved.

  Still holding the revolver pointed at Cal, Johnny said, “Who can fashion a hangman’s noose right well?”

  Cal was beginning to sweat. “I don’t know what’s going on. Is this some kind of funning? Well, it ain’t funny.”

  John Christie walked forward, and very loudly, so all the hands could hear, he said, “Cal, I saw you poison the coffee. We’ll find the empty cans tomorrow, but I’m guessing you used arsenic.”

  Excited, low talking broke out among the cowboys. Christie continued, “As boss of this outfit, I plan to hang you for attempted murder. We’ll do it at first light.”