The Chuckwagon Trail

by William W. Johnstone

  “Wanted to see . . . what kind of man you are.”

  “I didn’t do it. I was framed.” Mac swallowed hard. “But I have killed men. Weed and his henchmen. The—”

  “Don’t. Don’t dwell on the ones who . . . needed killing. I never did.”

  Mac started to ask if Flagg had a price on his head, then decided he didn’t care to know. He held Flagg’s hand and felt the life ebbing away. He held it even after it had gone limp.

  He finally stood, crossed Flagg’s hands on his chest, then tucked the wanted poster into his own pocket. That made another of them he had to burn.

  “Good-bye, friend,” he said softly. Then he left with only a nod to the doctor.

  * * *

  He stood outside the bank, a thick envelope filled with greenbacks in his hand. Mac squeezed it a couple times. He’d never seen this much money before, much less held it. All he had to do was climb on a horse and ride like the demons of hell chased him, and he would be richer than at any time in his life.

  Had Evie figured out Leclerc wasn’t what he claimed? That he had a mistress and only wanted her pa’s money and influence? If he took this money back to New Orleans, he could offer her the life she deserved.

  The only problem he saw was that she had chosen Leclerc over him. She hadn’t had enough trust in him—in them—to ignore Leclerc.

  And there was one more problem with that idea, he realized, an even bigger one. But he didn’t really consider it a problem at all. He wasn’t a thief. The men he had worked with for close to two months had earned this money.

  He remembered Billy Duke and Huey Matthis. Whether Billy lied about having a family beaten down by hard times didn’t matter. His share would be sent to Waco. The same with Huey Matthis’s pay. Because Northrup and his gang had quit before collecting any money for their dubious work, everyone’s share increased. That wasn’t something Mr. Jefferson had authorized, but Mac didn’t care.

  He was trail boss. He made the decisions.

  As he started toward the stock pens near the rail yard, he stopped by the doctor’s office and paid him for his work.

  “What about the body?” the doctor asked.

  “Give him the best funeral you can with this.” Mac counted out the balance of Flagg’s pay. Keeping even a penny of it would make him feel he was stealing from a dead man. Flagg never expected a decent funeral. A shallow grave on the prairie stamped flat by a herd and marked with a crude wooden cross had been the most likely end to his life.

  “You can get a good headstone with this. Marble.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “You’re not staying around for the funeral?”

  “I have to be somewhere real soon.”

  “Where’s that? I thought your job was done when you brought in the herd and sold it?”

  Mac didn’t answer the question. He just said, “Thanks, Doc,” and left, thinking about his future.

  He got to the stock pens filled with Rolling J cattle that had been fattened up for a couple days. Reedy’s men were already moving the first of the longhorns to the corral at the rail yard, intending to load them and immediately send them to their fate in Chicago slaughterhouses.

  As he climbed onto a crate, a cheer went up from the gathered Rolling J cowboys.

  “It was a hard drive,” Mac said. “We lost good men along the way. Too many good men.”

  Rattler crowded close. “What about Flagg? How’s he doin’?”

  “I’m a greenhorn when it comes to trail drives,” Mac went on. “How many drives lose two trail bosses is a mystery to me.” He took a deep breath. “Patrick Flagg’s funeral will be in a day or two, if you want to pay your respects.”

  He saw the uneasiness this caused. Men who lived with death seldom celebrated it at funerals.

  “I’ve got your pay, along with a generous bonus.”

  “The money owed all them who never finished the drive?” Rattler pressed even closer.

  “Pay’s been sent to families. The herd went for top dollar, and Mr. Jefferson is sharing his bounty with you and invites you all back for next year’s drive. Thanks!”

  He began paying out the money until only Rattler remained to receive his. The rest of the men went off, vowing to drink themselves blind and find other ways to celebrate. Mac knew better than to suggest they not get into trouble. They no longer worked for the Rolling J, and he wasn’t trail boss anymore . . . as if he had ever been anything more than a secondhand replacement for Patrick Flagg.

  “Where’re you headin’, Mac? You got somethin’ in mind?” Rattler began rolling himself a cigarette as Mac hopped down from the crate. After Rattler had lit the smoke, Mac reached out and took the burning lucifer from the cowboy.

  Before the flame reached his fingers, he held it to the wanted posters and waited for them to catch. As they flared up, he dropped them on the ground and watched them turn into a pile of ash.

  “What were those?” Rattler puffed away. Then he said, “I don’t want to know, do I?”

  “You go on and join the boys. They were heading for the Son of a Gun Saloon.”

  “You be along, too?”

  “I’m selling the chuckwagon and the horses in the remuda that weren’t given to the men. Then I’ll be along.”

  “It’s been good knowin’ you, Mac.” Rattler shook hands, took a last deep puff, ground out the smoke, and walked away. He never looked back.

  Mac thought Rattler might make a good trail boss. He understood things without having to think real hard about them. Mac knew instinctively that their trails wouldn’t cross again.

  Mac sold the chuckwagon to Compass Jack Bennett, dickered a while and got a fair price for the Rolling J horses that had survived the drive, and then stood with more greenbacks clutched in his hand. Hurrying, he got to the bank and deposited the money in the Rolling J account.

  His last chore done, he went to the livery, saddled, and rode away from Abilene. The bustle of the town as more herds arrived called to him. He knew he ought to turn his back on this life. It was hard, brutish, deadly. But he had found companionship and a sense of accomplishment cooking for drovers that amazed him.

  “I can do better than just biscuits and custard pie,” he said to himself as he left Abilene, heading west toward no particular destination. “There’s apple and peach and chess pie. Definitely chess pie. And . . .”

  He was still thinking about it as he rode out of sight.

  Many thanks to cousin Agnes Jean of Sweet Home, Texas. Agnes Jean found these recipes in an old coffee tin in her attic. She’s pretty sure they were written down by her great-grandfather, Cyrus Kendall Pippen, who was a real chuckwagon cook and was, in part, the inspiration for Dewey “Mac” MacKenzie. We took the liberty of updating them for today’s technology, but other than that, they are exactly as Cyrus wrote them—minus some cusswords.

  —J. A. Johnstone

  MAC’S GOLDEN BISCUITS

  Here’s what y’all are gonna need:

  2 cups of flower

  1 teaspoon baking powder—if you ain’t got none,

  them biscuits’ll be flatter than a cow patty.

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon sugar

  ½ cup butter, softened

  ⅔ cup buttermilk

  1. Preheat your over oven to 450 degrees F.

  2. Grease down your flat pan (or a baking sheet).

  3. Add baking powder and sugar to the flower. Cut in the softened butter. Stir in your buttermilk. Divide them little babies into balls and place on baking sheet or your flat pan.

  4. Melt two tablespoons of butter and gently brush onto the top of biscuits (that’s what makes ’em nice and golden brown).

  5. Place in oven for 15 minutes, checking often. (Burnt biscuits can get a chuckwagon cook strung up faster than a horse or a wife thief.) Remove from oven when top is golden brown and sides are good and firm.

  CUSTARD PIE

  2½ cups milk

  3 chicken eggs—if you got some layi
ng hens handy,

  that is; if not, no need to read any more.

  Pinch of salt (¼ teaspoon)

  ¾ cup white sugar

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  ¼ teaspoon cinnamon or to taste

  ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg or to taste

  1 9-inch unbaked piecrust

  1 teaspoon powdered or confectioner’s sugar, for

  garnish

  1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

  2. Gently heat milk in saucepan until nearly boiling, then allow to cool. (Optional: Cooks in the Old West would scald the milk to be sure all the germs got killed; that is, if the germs hadn’t died from overpopulation.)

  3. Beat them eggs in a large bowl. Gently stir in the salt, sugar, and spices. Careful not to overbeat.

  4. Add milk to the egg and spices mixture.

  5. Pour mixture into piecrust and place in oven. Cook for approximately 30 minutes, checking often to make sure the pie ain’t burning. Bake until top is golden brown and liquid is stiff. You can check ’er by sticking a knife in.

  6. Cool pie on rack. Top with powdered sugar for decoration, using sifter or fingers. (Keep that pie hid from the boys till suppertime. Something about a custard pie that drives men crazy enough to eat the devil with horns on.)

  CHUCKWAGON BEANS

  5 strips of bacon, cut into small pieces

  A pound or two of dry beans—depending on how

  many folks you gotta feed

  1 large onion, diced

  Pinch of salt

  Pinch of black pepper

  1 23-ounce can of tomatoes

  ¼ cup brown sugar

  1. Cook bacon first, then add all the rest to the pot.

  2. Let simmer over a low fire for a good long while, stirring often, and tasting until all flavors are blended. Add more sugar for more sweet, if that’s your pleasure. Or else some red chili, if it isn’t. (And when you all bed down for the night, you’d be a mite smart to sleep way upwind of the others.)

  A FINE COWBOY BREAKFAST

  5 strips of bacon

  1 large potato, cut into bite-size pieces—cowboy-

  size bites, not them fussy little cubes

  1 medium onion, diced

  1 green bell pepper, cut into bite-size pieces

  1 clove garlic, peeled, smashed, and cut fine—if

  you can find one; if not, might be for the best. Garlic

  gives some folks the trowser burps.

  7 eggs

  Dash of milk (1 or 2 tablespoons)

  1. First, fry the bacon in your skillet. When the pig strips are done, remove and put them aside to cool. Add the potatoes to the bacon fat. Cook until tender and golden brown, stirring often. Add in the onion, pepper, and garlic.

  2. Beat eggs in separate bowl. Add milk, but not too much. What they call a “dash.” Add mixture to the taters and such, then toss in the bacon, and scramble. Salt and pepper, if that’s your pleasure. Serve with Mac’s biscuits and you’ve got yourself one happy cowboy.

  Keep reading for a special preview of the next book in

  the bestselling Jensen Boys series!

  THOSE JENSEN BOYS!

  RIDE THE SAVAGE LAND

  William W. Johnstone. Keeping the West Wild.

  Those Jensen boys, Ace and Chance, know how to ride the savage land. But when they agree to lead a wagon full of women across Texas, they’re just asking for trouble—times five . . .

  FIVE MAIL-ORDER BRIDES

  A prostitute. A virgin. A tomboy. A woman on the run. And a bank robber’s girlfriend. These five brides-to-be are ready to get hitched in San Angelo, Texas—and it’s Ace and Chance’s job to get them to the church on time. But this is no easy walk down the aisle. It’s one hard journey that could get them all killed . . .

  ONE WILD RIDE

  One of the brides has a crazy ex-husband gunning for her. Another has a secret stash of $50,000, stolen by her outlaw boyfriend. He’s not letting go—of her or the money. Then there’s a creepy, woman-hungry clan of backwoodsmen who want the brides for themselves, not to mention a fierce, deadly band of Comanche kidnappers. But Ace and Chance swear they’ll protect these ladies—till death do they part . . .

  On sale now!

  Live Free. Read Hard.

  www.williamjohnstone.net

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  CHAPTER 1

  It began with a rattlesnake in a glass jar and Chance Jensen’s inability to pass up a bet he believed he could win.

  A balding, beefy-faced bartender with curlicue mustaches reached under the bar, came up with the big glass jar, and set it on the hardwood with a solid thump.

  The top of the jar had a board sitting across it. Somebody had drilled airholes in the board so the fat diamondback rattler coiled inside the jar wouldn’t suffocate.

  “Five bucks says no man can tap on the glass and hold his finger there when Chauncey here strikes at it,” the bartender announced.

  A cowboy standing a few feet down the bar with a beer in front of him looked at the jar and its deadly occupant and said, “Step aside, boys! This here is gonna be the easiest five dollars I ever earned!”

  The men along the bar shifted so the cowboy could stand in front of the jar. Chance and his brother Ace had to move a little to their left, but they could still see the show.

  The cowboy leaned closer and peered through the glass at the snake, which hadn’t moved when the bartender set him down. “He’s alive, ain’t he?”

  “Tap on the glass and find out,” the bartender said.

  The cowboy lifted a hand covered with rope calluses. He held up his index finger and thumped it three times against the glass, lightly.

  Inside the jar, the snake’s head raised slightly. Its tail began to vibrate, moving so fast that it was just a blur.

  The saloon was quiet now as everyone looked on, and even through the glass, the men closest to the bar could hear the distinctive buzzing. That sound could strike fear into the stoutest-hearted man in Texas.

  “Yeah, uh, he’s alive, all right,” the cowboy said. “What do I do now?”

  “Show me that you actually have five bucks,” the bartender said.

  The cowboy reached in his pocket, pulled out a five-dollar gold piece, and slapped it down on the hardwood. Grinning, the bartender took an identical coin from the till and set it next to the cowboy’s stake.

  “All right. Tap on the glass a few more times to get Chauncey stirred up good and proper, and then hold your finger there. Then we wait. Shouldn’t be too long.”

  Another man said, “Chauncey’s a boy’s name, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” the bartender said with a frown. “What’s your point?”

  “I was just wonderin’ how you know for sure that there snake is a male. Did you check?”

  That brought a few hoots of laughter from the crowd. The bartender glared and said, “Never you mind about that. If I say he’s a boy, then he’s a boy. If you want to prove different, you reach in there and show me the evidence.”

  “No, no,” the bystander said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m fine with whatever you say, Dugan.”

  The bartender looked at the cowboy and said, “Well? You gonna give it a try or not? You were mighty quick to brag about how you could do it. You decide you don’t want to back that up with cold, hard cash after all?”

  “I’m gonna, I’m gonna,” the cowboy said. “Just hang on a minute.”

  He swallowed, then tapped three more times on the glass, harder this time.

  “Hold your finger there,” Dugan said.

  From a few feet away, Chance watched with all his attention focused on the jar and the cowboy who was daring the snake to strike at him. Ace watched Chance and felt a stirring of concern at the expression he saw on his brother’s face.

  The cowboy rested his fingertip against the glass. Inside the jar, the snake’s head was still up, its tiny forked tongue flickering as it darted in and out of
his mouth. The buzzing from the rattles on the tip of its tail steadily grew louder.

  Then, faster than the eye could follow, the snake uncoiled and struck at the glass where the cowboy’s finger was pressed.

  “Yeeeowww!” the cowboy yelled as he jumped back. The rattler’s sudden movement startled half a dozen other people in the Lucky Panther Saloon into shouting, too.

  For a couple of seconds, the cowboy stared wide-eyed at the jar, where the snake had coiled up again, and then looked down at his hand. The index finger still stuck straight out, but it was nowhere near the glass anymore. Obviously disgusted, the cowboy said, “Well, hell.”

  Grinning, Dugan scooped up both five-dollar gold pieces and dropped them in the till.

  “Told you,” he said. “Nobody can do it. It just ain’t natural for a man to be able to hold still when a rattler’s fangs are comin’ at him, whether there’s glass in between or not.”

  Ace tried to catch Chance’s eye and shake his head, but it was too late. Chance stepped closer to the spot on the bar where the jar rested and said, “I can do it.”

  People started to look around to see who had made that bold declaration. If not for what happened next, they would have seen a handsome, sandy-haired man in his early twenties, well dressed in a brown tweed suit, white shirt, and a dark brown cravat and hat.

  But all their attention turned to the man who shouldered Chance aside, said, “Outta my way, kid,” and stepped up to the bar. “I’ve never been afraid of a rattler in my life, and sure as hell not one penned up in a jar.”

  This man was tall and lean, dressed in black from head to foot, probably ten years older than Chance and Ace, who were fraternal twins. His smile had a cocky arrogance to it.