“They’re wondering if they should gore you.”
Gareth had heard stories about men who had been run through. The tale he recollected best was told to him in a saloon by a Mexican freighter who drank tequila like it was water. According to the Mex, he’d been with a freight outfit that stopped at a spring to water their oxen. It was late in the day, and the seven drivers were more than a little spooked when a longhorn bull stepped out of the shadows. They’d stood still, thinking that it wouldn’t attack if they stayed quiet. Instead, the bull bellowed and barreled at them like a grizzly gone amok. Before they could collect their wits, the man closest to the bull was impaled through the chest and flung aside. A second man screamed and turned to run, and a horn sheared completely through his body to burst out the other side. He died thrashing and gurgling blood. In a panic, the rest fled. The bull came after them. A third driver was knocked down and had his head stove in by an iron-hard hoof. A fourth man was butted low in the back. The Mex who told Gareth the story shivered as he related how he’d heard the man’s spine snap with a loud crack. Only three drivers made it into the brush. The Mex said he flung himself flat and hugged the ground, sure the bull would find him and do him in as it had done in the others. After a long while another man called out to him that the bull was gone. So scared he had to pee, the Mex ventured to the spring, and never forgot the sight that greeted him.
“It was horrible, señor. The most terrible thing I have ever seen, and I have seen the work of Apaches.”
Gareth had heard another account, about a rancher who kept a longhorn as a pet. This was back in the days before anyone had any use for them. The rancher liked to show his pet off to his friends, and treated it no different than he did his dog. One morning he went out to the corral to feed it, and the moment he stepped inside, the longhorn was on him like a bear on honey. The longhorn gored him not once but half a dozen times, then tossed the lifeless body on its horns as if the rancher were a plaything. The rancher’s wife saw it all, and was never quite right in her head afterward. Every time she saw a longhorn, she’d scream.
Gareth put all of that from his mind and concentrated on the count. By the middle of the day he was upwards of a hundred. And he’d only had to go about four miles.
Even Iden saw the possibilities. “There’s an awful lot of those critters out here,” he commented when they drew rein on a hill to survey the tract ahead.
“Is there ever,” Gareth said excitedly. “We’ll be rolling in money.”
Iden hesitated, then said, “Are we fixing to play fair with them, Pa?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Burnett and Mr. Weaver.”
“What makes you think I wouldn’t?”
“The night before last, Harland told me that we might wind up with more than our share.”
“Your brother said that? Flat-out?”
“He sort of hinted it. His exact words were, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if we ended up with their shares, too?’”
“I’ll have a talk with him,” Gareth said.
“It’s not true, then?”
“I gave them my word, didn’t I? All that need concern you, boy, is doing the work I give you and not getting gored. Leave the rest to me. And don’t pay any attention to your big brother. He says things he shouldn’t all the time.”
“It wouldn’t bother me any if it was true,” Iden informed him. “I’m your son and I’ll do whatever you say.”
Gareth smiled in relief. “Good to know,” he said.
Chapter 17
For Samuel Burnett, the day didn’t seem real. It was more like a dream come true. He even pinched himself to be sure he was awake, and since the pinch hurt, he must be.
Sam had never told anyone, but he thought Lorette Kurst was about the most beautiful female he’d ever laid eyes on. Not that Sam had laid eyes on a lot. Except for the family’s infrequent visits to town, his ma and his sisters were the only females he was around.
Sam would be the first to admit he didn’t have much experience with women. Until the last year or so, he’d hardly paid them any mind. Girls were girls, and women were just bigger girls. But something changed. Something inside of him. He began to notice the ladies in town more than he ever had. And then there was Lorette.
Lordy, she was gorgeous, Sam couldn’t help thinking as he rode behind her in their search for longhorns. He couldn’t believe his incredible luck in being paired up with her. When Gareth Kurst said it, he’d half-feared his pa would say he shouldn’t. But his pa didn’t say a thing, and now here Sam was, alone with the girl of his daydreams and nighttime imaginings.
“What the blazes is the matter with you?”
Sam glanced up and drew rein, startled to find Lorette had stopped and was staring at him in puzzlement. “Ma’am?” he said.
“Let’s get some things clear, handsome,” Lorette said. “Don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ Call my ma ‘ma’am’ if you want. That’s what you call older ladies. But I’m the same age as you, or pretty near. So no ‘ma’am’s for me.”
Sam’s ears began to burn. He’d distinctly heard her call him “handsome.” She must be joshing, because as far as he knew, he was as plain as anything. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Are you a man or a mouse?”
“What?” Sam said in confusion.
“Never mind. Now answer my question. Why did you have that peculiar look on your face?”
“What was peculiar about it?”
“You looked like my little brother Iden used to when he ate pie or cake or candy. A sort of dreamy, stupid look.”
“I don’t want to look stupid,” Sam assured her in all earnestness.
Lorette had a fine laugh. “Just so you’re paying attention. I’ve counted twenty-three longhorns so far. How many have you counted?”
Sam wanted to die, he was so ashamed. He’d barely paid attention to the cows and bulls. All he was interested in was Lorette. “The same,” he fibbed.
“Good.” Lorette gestured. “Why don’t you ride up here next to me so we can talk?”
“You sure?”
“Why not? Don’t tell me you’re like my brother Wylie and hardly ever say a word unless you’re spoken to.”
“Oh, I can talk plenty when I have a reason to.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Or don’t you like female company?”
Sam clucked to his roan and brought it beside her. “I like female company just fine. Who wouldn’t?”
“Some of my brothers, for starters,” Lorette said, “and men in general.”
“I’m not sure how that works,” Sam said. “My pa likes women. And Luke has never said he doesn’t.”
“My family is different. My pa and my brothers think females are a nuisance more than anything. They’ve said so to my face.”
Before Sam could stop himself, he blurted, “I’d never say such a terrible thing to a face as pretty as yours.”
A slow smile spread across Lorette’s. “Well, listen to you. Are you fond of me, Samuel Burnett?”
Now it felt like Sam’s whole body was on fire. “‘Fond’ is a strong word,” he replied, his voice sounding strange.
“Oh, my,” Lorette said, and laughed again. “This hunt might be more fun than I thought it would be.”
“Ma’am?” Sam said, then coughed and said, “Sorry. It’s a habit. My ma says I’m to always call ladies that.”
“I’m not no lady. I’m sitting here in men’s clothes, in case you ain’t noticed.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed,” Sam said.
“Have you, now?” Lorette grinned and continued with, “So what would you like to talk about?”
“You’re the one who wanted to talk. You tell me.”
Around them, the hills were lush with the colors of spring, with greens and browns, and here and there splashes of yellow and bl
ue wildflowers. Songbirds warbled, butterflies flitted about, a red hawk screeched. Occasionally, deer bounded off. Once, there was a rabbit. Then there were all the longhorns.
“Tell me about yourself, Sam Burnett.”
Sam shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. I came west with my family and we’ve lived here ever since. I haven’t seen much or done much. The states we passed through, I hardly remember them.”
“Sounds kind of dull,” Lorette said.
“How about you?”
“I try to make my life as exciting as I can. I hate to be bored. I hate it more than anything.”
“How do you excite yourself?”
Lorette snorted, then stared at him for so long, he grew uncomfortable.
“What?”
“You were serious.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t. I’ve never had much excitement. Mainly, I just go about doing my chores and whatnot.”
An impish gleam lit Lorette’s green eyes. “You’re downright adorable. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Sam was sure he blushed from his head to his toes. “You shouldn’t call a man that. It’s not fitting.”
“So you’re a man, are you?”
“Well, I’m not no boy anymore.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” Lorette said. She flicked her eyes over him, and grinned. “Yes, sir. The possibilities are commencing to occur to me.”
“The which?”
Instead of answering, Lorette asked, “Where’d you get that hand cannon, anyhow?”
Sam placed his hand on his saddle holster. “My Walker Colt? It was my grandpa’s. My pa gave it to me for my twelfth birthday.”
“Can you hit anything with it?”
“If I hold it real steady.”
“I heard Harland say once that you can judge a man by his gun. Can I judge you by your gun?”
“I don’t see how,” Sam said. “My Colt is old and I’m not.”
“That wasn’t what I meant,” Lorette said, and laughed anew.
Sam grew flustered. Some of the things she was saying confused him. To get back on firm footing, he brought up something he had been wondering about. “Is there a fella in your life, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Curious, is all.”
“No, there’s not. I haven’t hitched myself to a man yet. My ma says I shouldn’t rush it, like she did. She says I should enjoy myself while I can, that once I say ‘I do,’ I’m stuck. And I don’t want that. I don’t want my life to be a repeat of hers.” Lorette had grown unusually somber but now she gave her head a toss, and chortled. “Listen to me.”
Her voice was so musical to Sam’s ears, he could listen to her all day. Without thinking, he blurted, “I like hearing you say things.”
“You better be careful,” Lorette teased. “The next thing you know, you’ll be falling in love with me.”
“I’d never . . .” Sam began, and stopped.
“Why not? Aren’t I good enough for you?”
Sam felt as if his tongue were tied in knots. Clearing his throat, he got out, “You’re plenty good.”
Suddenly serious again, Lorette reached out and touched his arm. “That’s all right. For your sake, we’ll take it slow.”
“Take what slow?”
“Yes, sir,” Lorette said, nodding. “There’s a lot I can teach you.”
“About what?”
“About everything,” Lorette said.
Chapter 18
“We can do it, son. We can by God do it.”
Luke Burnett had seldom seen his pa so excited. An excitement he didn’t share. Not when they had to work with the Kurst clan. “If you say so, Pa,” he replied without much enthusiasm.
“We’ve seen over three hundred longhorns alone,” Owen said. “If the others have counted as many or more, it won’t take us half the time I thought it would to round up enough for our herd.”
“Counting them and rounding them up are two different things,” Luke pointed out. In his estimation, his pa was putting the cart before the horse.
“Think of it! We could end up with twenty to thirty thousand dollars.”
“You’re starting to sound like Mr. Kurst,” Luke said. Which was the last thing his pa should do.
“I’m not as money hungry as he is,” Owen said. “But money is nothing to be sneezed at, neither. It lets a family do things they’ve only ever dreamed about doing.”
“We’re getting along right fine, Pa. You’ve never heard any of us complain, have you?” Luke glanced to the west. The sun had slipped low, painting the sky with streaks of pink and yellow. “We should be heading back soon.”
“A few more minutes.”
Luke had half-hoped his pa would change his mind about taking part in the drive, but now, with the longhorns so plentiful, there was no turning back. It put him in a funk. To be around the Kursts for that long would grate on his nerves. Frowning, he stretched to relieve a cramp in his back, and happened to gaze at a tangle of brush about forty feet off to their left. For a few moments what he was seeing didn’t sink in; a swarthy face, with crow-black hair parted in the middle, and dark eyes that seemed to glitter. “Pa!” he cried.
The instant he did, the face disappeared. It was there, and it was gone.
“What is it?” Owen asked, drawing rein and turning.
Luke had his six-shooter out but didn’t remember drawing. “A Comanche!”
His pa shucked his Spencer and raised it to his shoulder. “Where?” he anxiously asked, looking all about.
Luke pointed. “Yonder. He was watching us but he’s gone now.”
Owen swung the Spencer from side to side. “Where there’s one there are always more. We’re getting out of here. You go first and I’ll cover you.”
“We go together.” Luke wasn’t about to leave his pa to be slain and mutilated. Tales of Comanche atrocities were legion. Whether they were true, Luke couldn’t say.
Lowering his rifle, Owen brought his horse around and they started down the hill side by side. Thick vegetation hemmed them uncomfortably close.
“If they jump us,” Owen said, “shoot and light a shuck. We’re no match for a war party.”
“I won’t die easy,” Luke vowed. He concentrated on the brush, looking for movement, for anything that might give the Comanches away. He’d never fought Indians but had heard they could be like ghosts and slit a man’s throat before he realized they were there.
At the bottom the growth thinned, and they moved into the open. Behind them a twig crunched, and Luke whipped around, his Colt up and cocked.
“I heard that, too,” his pa said.
Luke glimpsed buckskins but when he focused on the spot, nothing was there.
“If they’re on foot we have a chance,” Owen said. “I’ll count to three and we use our spurs.”
Luke nodded.
“One.”
Luke thought some scrub moved, but there was nothing to shoot at.
“Two.”
Gripping his reins tighter, Luke tensed. At “Three!” he jabbed his spurs and his mount exploded into a gallop. His skin prickling at the expectation of taking an arrow, he bent over the saddle horn. Without meaning to, he pulled ahead of his father, then realized his pa had let him pull ahead so his pa could protect his back. He went slower so his pa could catch up.
For half a mile or more they raced pell-mell over and around hill after hill. Finally his pa called out to halt and they brought their mounts to a stop, both of them turning in their saddles with their guns ready.
“I don’t see any sign of them,” Luke said.
“Maybe they were on foot.”
Luke doubted that. From what he’d heard, Comanches practically lived on horseback. Centaurs, Texans c
alled them, not as an insult, but as a compliment to their riding ability. Comanches were taught to ride almost as soon as they were old enough to sit a horse, and by the time a warrior was full grown, could ride like the wind.
“We’re safe, thank heaven,” Owen said, and let his rifle drop to his side.
Luke kept his Colt in his hand. Comanches were notoriously tricky. The war party, if such it was, might be holding back, waiting for them to make a mistake so the Comanches could take them by surprise.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Owen asked, shoving the Spencer into its scabbard. “We can stop worrying.”
“You, maybe,” Luke said.
They rode on. The birds and the insects had gone quiet, and they didn’t see a single longhorn. It was as if the wild creatures were holding their collective breath, waiting for something to happen.
In a low voice, Luke remarked, “It’s too still. I don’t like it.”
“Nerves, is all,” Owen said.
Luke cared for his father dearly and considered him to be as fine a farmer as ever used a plow, but when it came to Indians, his pa was as green as grass. So was he, but at least he knew enough not to let down his guard. “It’s a good thing you’re not a scout. You wouldn’t have lasted long.”
“What a thing to say.”
“You didn’t see that Comanche. He’d have killed us if he could have.”
“We don’t know that. Comanches don’t kill every white man they come across.”
“Enough,” Luke said.
The silence became oppressive. Luke almost let out a bark of joy when a robin burst into song and a longhorn appeared and watched them go by with no more concern than if they were wild turkeys.
“Things are back to normal,” Owen said in relief.
Not for Luke. Things wouldn’t be normal again until after the drive. Until then, he’d have a host of dangers to deal with.
“We’ll tell Gareth what you saw,” Owen said. “But I doubt he’ll call off the roundup.”
“We should go home.”
“Because of one Comanche?” Owen shook his head. “No. I agree with Gareth. The Comanches will leave us alone, as many guns as we have. I want to see this through to the end, son.”
Ralph Compton Texas Hills Page 7
