“Is that any way to talk to a good friend?” Harland said, and wrapped his arm around the smaller man’s shoulders.
“We are anything but,” Pattimore said. “Get it over with. Knock my hat off. Call me a dandy. Have your brother make me dance with his six-shooter. I won’t raise a hand against you. I learned my lesson the last two times.”
“Well, listen to you,” Harland said. “You’re no fun.”
An older man at the table said, “Leave him be, you Kursts. You’re always stirring up trouble.”
“Who asked you, you old goat?” Thaxter said.
Another player chimed in with, “You hill folk. Always riding in here like you own the place. This town has grown up. Your sort of antics aren’t welcome anymore.”
“I should pistol-whip you,” Thaxter said.
Harland saw that others were giving them looks of disapproval. He was used to that. The weak always resented the strong.
“There’s something you should know, though,” Timothy Pattimore said. “The marshal is right across the street, having a smoke. You start a ruckus and he’ll be in here before you can blink.”
“Have a look,” Harland said to his brother.
Thaxter stepped to the batwings and peered out. “There’s someone over by the general store smoking, all right. I can see the glow. Can’t tell who it is because of the dark.”
“It’s the marshal,” Pattimore insisted.
“I believe you,” Harland said. “You’re too much of a chicken to lie to us.” His mood suddenly evaporated. Removing his arm, he said, “To hell with all of you. This place has gone to the dogs.”
“We’re civilized now,” Pattimore said. “We have law and order. You Kursts should get used to it.”
“Your law only goes as far as the town limits,” Harland reminded him. Beyond lay hundreds of square miles of mostly uninhabited hill country, of wilderness as wild as anywhere. He strode toward the batwings. “Come on,” he said to Thaxter. “The air in here has gotten too righteous for my liking.” He pushed on out into the cool of the night and heard someone make a remark that simmered his blood.
“Those Kurst boys. Mark my words. They’re going to come to a bad end. Every last one of them.”
Chapter 3
Owen Burnett didn’t give much more thought to the cowboy and his news about the cattle drives. Sure, the notion held some appeal. So did prospecting for gold. But as anyone with any common sense was aware, few gold hounds ever struck it rich.
Owen didn’t deem it worth mentioning to his wife when he got home. He had land to clear, ground to till, daily chores to do. A farm didn’t run itself.
Owen liked being a farmer. He’d liked it in Kentucky, where they were from. He’d helped to work his pa’s farm in Caldwell County growing up, and when he struck out on his own, he continued doing what he liked best. He’d still be there if it hadn’t been for his wife.
Philomena shocked him one day by sitting him down in the parlor and informing him that she’d like to move. It came out of the blue. They’d been happy where they were, or so he thought. Granted, their farm was small, and with their two sons and two daughters, more land and a larger house would be nice.
Recovering from his surprise, Owen had suggested looking for a bigger farm right there in Kentucky. Philomena, though, had been studying up on the homestead law, and she’d taken it into her head that having the government give them one hundred and sixty acres would be just about the greatest thing in the world.
“It’s an opportunity we can’t pass up,” she’d said in that tone she used when she wouldn’t brook an argument.
Then she’d stunned Owen even more by saying that she had thought about it and thought about it, and she’d like for them to move to Texas.
In the past, Owen had been willing to go along with her notions. But Texas? It might as well be the moon. At least the moon didn’t have Comanches and other hostiles. And outlaws. Texas had a reputation for being wild and woolly that put other states to shame. He brought all that up, but Philomena refused to be swayed. Texas was a land of opportunity—there was that word again—where a hardworking family could prosper like nowhere else.
“If it was good enough for Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie, it’s good enough for us,” Philomena had concluded her pitch.
Owen hadn’t seen what that had to do with anything. Neither Crockett nor Bowie were farmers. And Philomena seemed to have forgotten that those men went off to Texas and had gotten themselves killed. Still, in her mind only Texas would do.
Now here they were nearly three years later at their new homestead, the work harder than it had ever been in Kentucky. They had a bigger, if plainer, house, built with their own hands, and had cleared about fifty of their one hundred and sixty acres.
Philomena picked the spot. She liked the hill country. It reminded her of Kentucky, what with the rolling hills, woods, and grass. And the soil was good for growing crops.
When they first settled there, they’d had their part of Creation all to themselves. Jasper Weaver and his family showed up about six months later. Jasper, his wife, Wilda, and their son, Reuben, lived farther back in the hills, practically hidden from the world.
Gareth Kurst and his large clan had only been there a year or so. Gareth chose a site on Wolf Creek, about ten miles from Owen. With his five grown sons to help, Gareth could easily have cleared his land and had a fine farm by now. But the Kursts weren’t farmers. They were hunters. They’d built a cabin barely big enough to contain them, and that was it.
Which was why what came next surprised Owen so much.
On a sunny spring morning, Owen was downing trees. He’d stripped to the waist and was wielding his axe with relish. He liked the exercise, liked the feel of working his muscles, liked the sweat it brought to his brow. With each stroke, the axe bit deep into the oak he was cutting down and sent chips flying. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t realize riders had come up until a horse nickered.
Stopping, Owen turned. He thought it might be one of his sons come to help, but it was Gareth Kurst and two of his own boys, Harland and Thaxter.
“Neighbor,” Owen said, nodding. “Don’t see you over this way much.” He mopped his forehead with his forearm.
“We need to talk,” Gareth announced. “I’ve been to Jasper’s and he agrees, so now I’m paying you a visit.”
“You make it sound serious,” Owen said.
“It’s life or death,” Gareth said.
Alarmed, Owen said, “Are the Comanches on the warpath?”
“No,” Gareth said. “I’m here to talk about that cow business.”
“Oh.” Owen smothered a snort of amusement. “That’s hardly life or death.”
“In a manner of speaking, it is.”
“How so?” Owen asked. He’d never cottoned to Gareth all that much. The man could be surly, and ruled his roost with an iron fist. When he told his brood to do something they jumped, or else. Philomena once confided in him that Gareth’s wife, Ariel, had confided in her that Gareth slapped her on occasion. Owen never could abide men who abused their womenfolk.
“Moneywise,” Gareth said.
Owen rested the handle of his axe across his shoulder. “The ninety thousand dollars got to you, did it?”
“Hell, twenty thousand is a fortune as far as I’m concerned,” Gareth said. “However much, it’s more than any of us would make in our entire lives.”
“What are you saying?”
“It should be as plain as the nose on your face,” Gareth said. “I’m proposing that you and me and Jasper go into the cattle business together and fill our pokes with more money than we ever imagined having.”
“God in heaven,” Owen blurted. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“God,” Gareth Kurst said, “has nothing to do with this.”
Chap
ter 4
Philomena Burnett didn’t like some of the Kurst clan. Not from the moment she met them. Gareth Kurst was one of those men who looked down their noses at everyone female. Gareth’s boys—most of them, anyway—were ill-mannered. Gareth’s daughter was a flirt. And Gareth’s poor wife worked herself to death to please her man and keep her brood happy. Ariel, her name was, and she wasn’t much more than their servant.
Philomena could never live like that. She had too much pride. Too much gumption. And she wasn’t shy about giving someone sass if they imposed on her in ways they shouldn’t. Fortunately, her Owen was as considerate a man as was ever born. She loved him dearly, and the feeling was mutual.
When Owen showed up with Gareth and the two oldest Kurst boys, she picked up right away that this was more than a social visit. The men had something serious to talk about. They roosted at the table while she put coffee on the stove. They didn’t ask her to sit in but she could hear every word. And she didn’t like what she heard.
“Something like this doesn’t come along very often, if at all,” Gareth was saying. “It’s a godsend, dropped right into our laps.”
“I thought you said God doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Owen remarked.
“We’re in the right place at the right time,” Gareth said. “There are more longhorns in these hills than you can shake a stick at. Hell, in a month, I bet we could round up a couple of thousand.”
“I’ll thank you to watch your language around my wife,” Owen said.
Philomena grew warm inside, and not from the stove. She liked how he always insisted she be treated like a lady. It showed Owen respected her. Which was more than could be said about Gareth’s feelings for Ariel.
“And that seems a mite high,” Owen had gone on.
“Maybe, if only one family went about it. But not if all three of our families work together,” Gareth said. “We do it right, each of us stands to make twenty to thirty thousand dollars.”
Philomena couldn’t understand why they were talking about such large sums of money. Make thirty thousand dollars? Why, they should walk on air while they were at it. She wanted to take the coffee over and stand next to Owen, but when she touched the pot, it wasn’t hot enough.
“A third for each of us,” Gareth said.
“And all we have to do is round up two thousand longhorns and drive them, what, almost a thousand miles?”
“Only about seven hundred,” Gareth said. “I did some asking around in town and that’s how far a gent who has been there told me it was.”
“Still a long way,” Owen said, “and we’re not cattlemen.”
“How hard can it be? There’ll be more than enough of us. There’s me and my five boys and you and your two and Jasper and his son. That makes eleven. Plus Lorette wants to help, too, and she can ride as good as anyone.”
“It sounds too much like wishful thinking,” Owen said.
Gareth placed his elbows on the table. “Look. Let’s say we only round up a thousand head. That still comes to forty thousand dollars. Which is pretty near fourteen thousand for you, me, and Jasper. I don’t know about you, but to me, even fourteen thousand is a lot of money.”
Philomena was unable to contain her curiosity any longer. She left the stove and went over and stood beside Owen. Forcing a light laugh, she said, “The sums you’re throwing around. What’s this business about, anyhow?”
“If you’ve been listening, you should know,” Gareth said archly. “I’d like your man to join me and Jasper Weaver in a cattle drive to Kansas.”
“Word is,” Owen said when Philomena looked at him, “up there they’ll pay forty dollars a head.”
“For a longhorn?” Philomena found the notion amusing. Longhorns were big but they were spindly critters. All horns and legs, was how she thought of them. And they didn’t fetch more than four dollars a head in Texas.
“Cattle is cattle,” Gareth said. “And the brush is crawling with the critters, just waiting to be rounded up.”
“I can’t farm and go after longhorns, both,” Owen said. “I couldn’t grow the crops I need. My family would suffer.”
“Not much,” Gareth said. “Your root cellar is well stocked, you once told me. And it’ll be worth it once you have more money than you’ll know what to do with.”
“I don’t know,” Owen said.
Philomena was startled. She knew that tone. Her husband was considering the idea. “Owen?”
“It’s tempting, is all,” Owen said.
“It’s what anyone with half a brain would do,” Gareth said, and then gestured. “Not that I’m saying you don’t have one, Burnett. But a chance like this doesn’t come along but once in a man’s life, if then.”
“You’ve made your point,” Owen said.
“And?”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
“Jasper didn’t hesitate. He jumped right on it. Or, rather, his wife did and he jumped on right behind her.”
“I’m not Jasper. I have to talk it over with Philomena and ponder on it some.”
Gareth gave Philomena a glance that hinted he would be happy if she made herself scarce. She wasn’t about to. “Maybe I should sit in,” she suggested, “and we’ll hash this over right here and now.” She tactfully added, “So Mr. Kurst won’t have to wait days for our answer.”
“A good idea, woman,” Gareth said. “Beats me why he has to consult you, anyhow. A female needs to know her place. My Ariel, I tell her how things will be and she goes along.”
“Isn’t she lucky to have you for her husband?” Philomena said.
Chapter 5
Luke Burnett had snuck off to practice. His ma would have a fit if she knew. She was always on him about it. “Stop playing with that thing,” she’d say, and warn him, yet again, that no good would come of it.
The “thing” was a revolver. A Remington Navy given to him by an uncle before the family headed West so he could deal with “snakes and Injuns and such.” The gift had almost brought Luke to tears. No one had ever given him anything so grand.
On their long trek to the Mississippi River, Luke kept it bundled in an old blanket and only took it out at night to admire it and practice drawing and twirling it. Once they crossed into the frontier, where law was rare and the lawless ran rampant, Luke strapped the Remington on and never took it off except to sleep and when doing work that would get it dirty.
His ma didn’t like that. She said he didn’t need to “traipse around with that thing strapped on all the time.”
His pa, though, sided with him. His pa told his ma that in the West, a man had to be able to protect himself and his loved ones. His pa also secretly confided in Luke that he was glad one of them was going around armed. When Luke asked why his pa didn’t wear a pistol, too, his pa had shrugged and said he’d never worn one back east and just couldn’t get used to the idea. Luke suspected there was more to it. Luke suspected his ma was against it. His pa nearly always did whatever his ma wanted.
Luke loved his ma dearly, but he wasn’t about to let her dissuade him. Which was why, every chance he got, he snuck off to practice drawing and twirling and flipping.
Unfortunately, Luke rarely got to practice shooting. Percussion caps, lead, and black powder cost money. And he seldom had any to spare.
In all the months Luke had owned the revolver, he reckoned he’d fired it less than twenty times. He could draw and cock it “like lightning,” as his brother, Samuel, was always saying. But he wished he got to shoot it more.
Now, in a grove of trees not far from the barn, Luke spun the Remington forward and backward, flipped it and caught it by the handle, and twirled it into its holster.
Behind him, someone clapped and chuckled. “That was slick as can be,” his brother said.
Luke and Samuel were born three years apart. At eighteen, Luke had taken on t
he aspect of the man he’d become, but Samuel was still boyish. Luke more resembled their pa; Samuel had their ma’s hair and cheeks. Both wore homespun and boots, and Samuel was fond of a floppy-brimmed hat that Luke thought looked silly but Samuel liked because it kept the sun and the rain out of his eyes.
“Shouldn’t you be hoeing Ma’s garden, little brother?” Luke playfully scolded.
Sam had leaned the hoe against his side to clap. Gripping it, he grinned. “I’ve done for the weeds.”
“So you snuck over to watch me.” Luke didn’t mind. He sort of liked how his brother looked up to him.
“And to let you know we have company,” Sam said. “I take it you didn’t hear them ride up.”
About to practice his draw again, Luke said, “Who?”
“Some of those Kursts,” Sam said. “The pa and the oldest two.”
Luke frowned. He didn’t like the Kurst family much. Especially that Harland, and Thaxter.
“Their pa is inside talking to our pa,” Sam mentioned. “The other two are over at the pump with Amanda and Estelle.”
A flush of resentment deepened Luke’s frown. His sister Amanda was seventeen, Estelle sixteen. He adored them both, and disliked the way the Kurst boys sometimes looked at them. “Let’s go see.”
“You’re not too fond of them Kursts, are you?”
“I surely am not,” Luke admitted.
“How come?”
“They’re ill-bred,” Luke said. It was a word he’d picked up from his grandmother, bless her soul. She had been big on manners, and on showing respect for others.
“They sure think they’re God’s gift to the world,” Sam said.
“Even you’ve noticed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I notice things.”
They came around the barn and Luke felt a flush of anger. Harland Kurst had his hand on Amanda’s shoulder and was bent close to her ear, saying something that made her cheeks grow pink. “What’s this?” he demanded loudly to get their attention.
Ralph Compton Texas Hills Page 2
