Ralph Compton Texas Hills

by Ralph Compton

  Whoever was outside knocked again.

  Philomena stepped in front of Owen and opened the door to show she didn’t need a man to do it for her. She was so annoyed, she hadn’t given any thought to who their visitor might be, and was momentarily startled by the apparition that greeted her. “Mr. Troutman!”

  Ebidiah Troutman was as old as the hills, or so folks said. He certainly looked it. Troutman had more wrinkles than Methuselah, and a large scar on his left cheek that split his face so deeply it made Philomena’s skin crawl. A tomahawk had done that to him back in the early days, or so rumor had it. The old man had been in the hills for decades. He made his living trapping. Another rumor claimed he’d once been a mountain man, up north during the beaver days, and had come south after the beaver trade died out. A scrawny bundle of sinew dressed in buckskins that were almost as old as he was, Troutman held his coonskin cap in his hands. Knee-high moccasins protected his feet. “I didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am.”

  “You didn’t,” Philomena replied, embarrassed.

  “I apologize for disturbing you folks,” Troutman said, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. In the crook of his left elbow was a Sharps rifle, and an ammo pouch and possible bag crisscrossed his thin chest. On his left hip hung a bowie knife.

  “Not at all, Mr. Troutman,” Owen said, offering his hand. “It’s always a treat to see you.”

  “That’s awful kind,” the old man said, shaking. “The reason I’m here is I got me some new furs. Your missus liked that fox skin so much last time, I reckoned she might want first look at my new batch.” He motioned at his mule, Sarabell, and the bundles she bore.

  “Tell you what,” Owen said. “We’re about to eat. Why don’t you join us, and we’ll look at your furs after we’re done?”

  Philomena liked the old trapper and didn’t mind feeding him, but it would take some doing to get used to the smell he gave off. If she were to guess, he hadn’t taken a bath since he was ten. “Yes, by all means, please join us,” she said to be polite.

  Troutman shifted his weight again. “That’s awful kind. But I wouldn’t want to impose on you and your family.”

  “Don’t be silly, Ebidiah,” Owen said, and beckoned. “Come on and make yourself at home.”

  “If you say so.” Nervously coughing, Troutman entered. He stared at the door as Owen closed it as if he were thinking about bolting. Then he gazed at the ceiling and the walls and gave a little chortle. “I ain’t used to being closed in. It’s like being in a box.”

  “You’ve been in houses and cabins before, surely,” Philomena said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Troutman said, “and never much liked it. I’m the same about caves. I get a feeling like I can’t breathe.” He hesitated, then leaned his Sharps against the wall. “Will this do?”

  Owen nodded. “Follow me.”

  Philomena went last, scarcely breathing. She supposed she should be grateful. Having the old trapper there would take her mind off the longhorn predicament for a while.

  “I trust you remember everyone else?” Owen said. Pointing at each in turn, he said, “Luke, Sam, Mandy, and Estelle.”

  Philomena was pleased that her children dutifully nodded. She’d raised them to be well-mannered.

  “How do you do, young’uns?” Troutman said.

  “Sam, fetch the extra chair from the parlor,” Owen directed, “so Mr. Troutman has a place to sit.”

  “Sure thing, Pa.”

  Philomena moved to her own chair. To make small talk she asked, “What kind of furs did you bring this time, Mr. Troutman?”

  “Oh.” Troutman coughed. “I have a bearskin that would make a fine rug. Black bear, a big male. I also have bobcat and a coyote pelt and a few rabbit furs.” He scratched his rather poor beard. “And a longhorn hide.”

  “Isn’t that interesting,” Owen said.

  “I don’t care to hear any more about longhorns, thank you very much,” Philomena said.

  “How’s that again, missus?” Troutman asked.

  Owen caused Philomena’s blood to simmer by saying, “Pay her no mind. I’d like to talk to you about that hide after we’re done eating.”

  “Whatever you’d like, Mr. Burnett.”

  For their supper, Philomena—with Mandy’s and Estelle’s help—had made stew and biscuits. Stew was a favorite of hers because it was so easy to make. All she had to do was take some meat—rabbit or venison or beef or what-have-you—carve it up, chop some carrots and potatoes and maybe green beans, throw it all together in their big pot, add water and salt and pepper, and she had enough for everybody without going to that much effort.

  Ebidiah Troutman stared at the china bowl and wooden spoon Estelle placed in front of him as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

  “Here. Let me fill that for you,” Mandy offered. She ladled stew into his bowl, careful not to spill any on the tablecloth.

  “I’m obliged, young miss,” Troutman said, sitting back until she was done. “Your family is nice as can be.”

  “My folks taught us to always show respect for our elders,” Mandy said.

  “Your ma and pa are good people,” Troutman said. “There’s some hereabouts who aren’t.”

  “Who do you mean?” Mandy asked, but the trapper didn’t answer.

  The family ate mostly in silence. Normally, the children would chat up a storm. Philomena always encouraged them to talk about anything they wanted during meals.

  Owen kept glancing at Troutman. Clearly, he was eager to have their talk.

  Unfortunately, Philomena couldn’t think of a way to discourage him without coming across as a harpy. Which was something she’d never do. She wasn’t Wilda Weaver.

  Finally Troutman spooned the last morsel into his mouth and sat back and patted his belly in contentment.

  Owen cleared his throat. “Now, then, I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “About furs and skinning and such?” Troutman said.

  “About longhorns.”

  Chapter 9

  It had occurred to Owen that if anyone knew anything about longhorns, it was Ebidiah Troutman. The old trapper had lived in the hill country longer than any white man, and was familiar with all the wildlife, with their habits and their dispositions.

  “What do you want to know, Mr. Burnett?”

  “Everything,” Owen said, and went on to explain about the rising price for meat in the markets back east, and about the new cattle trails for taking them to market.

  Troutman cocked his head quizzically. “And you aim to do that with longhorns?”

  “We’re considering it,” Owen said. “But I’ll be honest with you. I know next to nothing about them. Oh, I see them from time to time, but they nearly always run off.”

  “Be thankful they do. There’s no more fierce critter in God’s whole Creation than a longhorn when it’s riled.”

  “You see?” Philomena said.

  “My wife is somewhat against the idea,” Owen said. “So I’d like to hear your take. Is it feasible, Ebidiah? Will longhorns be hard to corral?”

  The old trapper chuckled. “It won’t be any harder than corralling a passel of grizzlies.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” Troutman pursed his thin lips. “Let me tell you what you’re up against, Mr. Burnett. Longhorns are . . . what’s the word I want? I heard it a few times when I was younger.” He gnawed his bottom lip, then brightened. “Now I remember. Formidable. That’s longhorns, right there. They’re as strong as buffalo and can knock a horse over if they get up enough steam.”

  “You hear that?” Philomena said.

  “Longhorns aren’t cows,” Troutman went on. “They have minds of their own.”

  “Worse and worse,” Philomena said.

  “But they can be tamed with a h
eap of doing.”

  “What?” Philomena said.

  “I don’t want to tame them,” Owen said, “just get them to market.”

  Troutman crossed his legs and folded his arms. “It can be done, I reckon. The Spanish used to round up wild ones for their herds. The Mexicans, too. Those vaqueros are right fine cowboys.”

  “What tricks did the Spanish use?” Owen was curious to learn.

  “Sweat and brains, mostly,” Troutman said. “I never saw it, myself, but an old Mex friend of mine claimed he’d heard all about it from his grandpa.”

  “I’d like to hear the particulars.”

  “Well, as best I can recall, the Spanish would cut down a lot of trees for rails and build a big corral, then drive the longhorns in.”

  “That was all it took?”

  “Of course not. Rails won’t keep a longhorn somewhere it doesn’t want to be. But fire will. The Spanish would get a lot of small fires going, all around the herd. And after a few days or a week—I can’t remember exactly how long—the longhorns would get used to the vaqueros, and quiet down.”

  “Fires, huh?” Owen said.

  “What you need for the trail is a leader,” Troutman said. “A big old bull to go out in front for the rest to follow. But the big bulls are the hardest to catch and as likely to gore you as to let you tame them.”

  “Do you hear that?” Philomena said.

  “Always keep a gun handy,” Troutman said. “You never know when one will turn on you.”

  “Oh, Owen,” Philomena said.

  Apparently to mollify her, Troutman said, “Your husband just has to be careful.”

  “No amount of money is worth losing him over,” Philomena said. “I am more than ever dead set against it.”

  “I’m still interested,” Owen said. If vaqueros could do it, so could they.

  He was going to ask if there was anything more the old trapper could remember, when Mandy spoke up.

  “Mr. Troutman, what did you mean when you said there are some folks hereabouts who aren’t good people?”

  “I’d rather not say, young miss,” Troutman said.

  “Besides us, there’s only the Weavers and the Kursts,” Mandy said.

  “I know.”

  “And the Weavers aren’t bad people.”

  “I know that, too. Jasper is a little too fond of coffin varnish, but that’s not a sin. His missus has a tart tongue, but that’s not a sin, neither.”

  “That leaves one family.”

  “I’d still rather not say.”

  Mandy looked at Owen. “Did my pa happen to mention that he’d be partners with the Kursts in the longhorn venture?”

  “Thank you, daughter,” Philomena said.

  “I don’t believe he did, no,” Troutman said.

  “I couldn’t do it with just my sons,” Owen said, “and Jasper only has Reuben. We need more hands.”

  Ebidiah Troutman frowned. “Something tells me you’ve already made up your mind, Mr. Burnett. And far be it from me to say you’re making a mistake. If I had a family, I’d want to provide for them the best I could, the same as you. But you be mighty careful, you hear? The longhorns are worrisome enough. Those Kursts, they’re not to be trusted.”

  “What can possibly make you say that?” Owen said. “Granted, they’re rough around the edges, but it’s not as if they’re snake-mean.”

  “I learned a long time ago to trust my instincts, Mr. Burnett. And I’d no more trust a Kurst than I would a rabid wolf.”

  Chapter 10

  The next morning Owen went for a ride. He often did that when he needed to think. He would go off into the cedar scrub to clear his head and sort things out.

  Not that Owen expected to change his mind about the longhorns. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Even if that meant partnering up with Gareth Kurst. He appreciated the old trapper’s advice, but he believed Gareth was sincere about wanting to work together. As for Gareth’s hotheaded and sometimes ill-mannered sons, Owen was sure Gareth wouldn’t let things get out of hand. Not with so much money at stake.

  The money. Owen never thought of himself as a greedy man, but Lordy, it was tempting. To have more than he ever dreamed. Enough to last him and his family the rest of their lives.

  Philomena was still dead set against the notion. Her “womanly instincts,” as she called her intuition, warned her to have nothing to do with it.

  Owen could recall other instances of Philomena’s instincts. Like the time she’d persuaded him to buy a pony for Mandy when Mandy was eight because her instincts told her the pony had the sweetest disposition this side of heaven. Owen gave in because it would be good for Mandy to learn to ride and to have the experience of taking care of the pony. But not a week later it threw her and tried to kick her head in. Turned out, the pony had a mean streak, which was why the buyer sold it.

  Then there was the time Philomena’s instincts told her an approaching thunderstorm would spawn a tornado. She’d insisted they all go down into the root cellar and stay there until the tornado passed. So they’d huddled with the potatoes and carrots for almost two hours, only to have the thunderstorm fade harmlessly away.

  Philomena’s instincts weren’t always reliable. And as much as Owen cared for her, this time he decided to stand firm and do what his own instincts told him to do.

  His kids were the real issue. A good father liked to provide for his children. It was as natural as breathing. He’d always done the best he could raising Luke, Sam, Mandy, and Estelle, and he was as close to them as a father could be. They respected him. Looked up to him. Counted on him to be there for them should they need him.

  Here was a chance to give them something his own folks could never give him. Not that they wouldn’t have if they could—but for his parents, the opportunity never arose.

  Owen could give each of his children “financial security,” as the bankers called it. How could he not say yes to the idea? The answer was obvious. He had to go through with it, and Philomena would have to live with his decision. Eventually, she’d come around to his way of thinking, just as he’d always come around to hers when the situation was reversed.

  Now, rounding yet another thicket, he drew sharp rein.

  Not twenty feet away stood a longhorn. A cow of average size, red with white spots. She didn’t snort or tear at the ground with her hoof or show any alarm whatsoever. She just stood and stared at him and chewed whatever she was chewing on.

  To amuse himself, Owen said, “How do you do, ma’am?”

  The longhorn swished her tail.

  “I wonder,” Owen said and gigged his chestnut forward. Slowly, to test what the cow would do. She looked at the horse and then at him and went on chewing.

  Owen was careful of her horns; cows could be just as dangerous as bulls when they were riled. He came up next to her, halted, and waited for her to react. “Well?”

  The cow gave a slight toss of her head. Not because she was angry, but to shoo a fly.

  “That’s all?” Owen said. “You’re not going to try and gore me?”

  Owen had seen a lot of longhorns around his place, but he’d never once tried to get close to them. He always went his own way and left them free to do as they pleased.

  On an impulse, Owen cautiously reached over and touched a finger to the longhorn’s back. She didn’t do anything. Elated, he straightened and chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t this beat all.”

  Without warning, the longhorn took a step.

  Thinking she might be about to attack, Owen stiffened. But no, she went walking off as calmly as you please.

  “I’ll be,” Owen said, and laughed.

  He knew an omen when he saw one. This cow was as much as telling him that their brainstorm could work. That some longhorns were docile enough that they could gather up a herd
and make the long drive to Abilene and come home with more money in their pokes than he’d ever dreamed.

  Gazing skyward, Owen said, “Thank you.”

  Making no more noise than if she were a ghost, the cow melted into the brush. A feat Owen had observed before. How they could be so stealthy, given their size, was a mystery.

  Turning around, he flicked his reins.

  Owen would inform Philomena that he was sorry to disappoint her, that he was going to go into the cattle business with Gareth Kurst and Jasper Weaver. She’d no doubt put up an argument, and he’d remind her that no one could predict the future. Maybe it would work out. Maybe it wouldn’t. The important thing was that he had to try. For their children’s sake, if nothing else.

  “For our children’s sake,” Owen repeated out loud.

  He’d do as he’d so often done and leave everything in God’s hands.

  Come what may.

  Chapter 11

  Gareth Kurst called a meeting of his clan. In the hills of Tennessee where they were from, “clan” was what most folks called their families. Gareth’s wasn’t as large as he’d have liked; he’d wanted four or five more young’uns. It hadn’t worked out.

  Gareth blamed his wife. Something had gone askew inside of her. That was the only explanation. His body worked fine. Proof of that was in their five sons and one daughter. So it had to be her body that was at fault. Something had gone wrong in her womanly parts.

  Gareth had told Ariel so, more than once. She always cried and said she was sorry, and how he shouldn’t ought to blame her because she didn’t have any control over whether she got pregnant.

  Gareth thought that was a poor excuse.

  Harland, Thaxter, Wylie, Silsby and Iden were their boys. Lorette, the lone girl, could ride as well as any of them, and hold her own and then some in a scrap.

  Because he’d always been fond of hound dogs, Gareth tended to think of his offspring as a litter. And as with any litter where no two pups were ever the same, his own brood had distinct traits.

  Harland was the pup that lorded it over the rest. That he was the oldest had something to do with it. So did the fact he was the biggest. He just naturally liked to tell his siblings what to do.