“I always do,” Jasper said.
Gareth smirked at Owen. “Do you suppose Mrs. Weaver would pass up an extra ten to twenty thousand?”
Jasper laughed, but Owen didn’t think it was the least bit funny.
Chapter 32
Philomena was nothing if not tenacious. Owen always said that when she set her mind to something, she wouldn’t let anything stand in her way. She’d failed to convince Wilda Weaver to side with her. But maybe, just maybe, she could persuade Ariel Kurst to have a talk with Gareth. It was a long shot. Everyone knew who ruled the Kurst roost. She decided to try, anyway; she had nothing to lose except her husband.
Rather than take the buckboard, Philomena rode. She told her girls to stay close to their farmhouse and not go anywhere without a rifle. They were old enough to take care of themselves, and were both passable shots.
Philomena took her shotgun. It was English-made, and had belonged to her grandfather. Her pa gave it to her when she announced Owen and she were leaving for the West. The gift touched her deeply since her pa had been fond of it.
The whole ride to the Kursts’, Philomena couldn’t help thinking that she was wasting her time. If she had any sense, she’d turn around. But another part of her refused to give up. Without the Kursts, Owen and Jasper would be forced to come home. They couldn’t do it themselves.
The trees thinned, and Philomena emerged from the woods into a clearing. Before her stood the Kurst cabin. She had been here once before and been both amazed and appalled. Amazed, because it looked as if the logs had been slapped together by a drunk. Appalled, because the cabin wasn’t much bigger than a chicken coop, yet eight people lived there, crammed together like so many eggs in a nest. She’d heard, but she hadn’t been able to confirm it, that the five boys slept on the floor in the main room, and that Lorette, in order to have some privacy, slept in the root cellar.
Avoiding stumps that hadn’t been removed, Philomena brought her horse to a halt and swung down. A threadbare curtain with holes in it moved in a window.
Cradling her shotgun, she stepped to the door and knocked. No one came. She rapped again, louder, and called out, “Ariel? It’s me, Philomena Burnett. I’d like to talk to you.”
From the other side of the closed door came a timid, “What do you want?”
“You just heard me say. To talk.”
“About what?”
“Open this door and I’ll tell you,” Philomena said. “It’s silly to shout back and forth.”
A bolt scraped and the door opened just wide enough for a brown eyeball to peek out. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“We’re neighbors, aren’t we?” Philomena replied. “Can’t I come calling?”
“I don’t mind, but it’s not me who wouldn’t like it.”
“You’re alone. The rest of your family is off with my man. We can talk and they will never know.” When Ariel still didn’t open the door, Philomena added, “I won’t tell anyone I was here. You won’t get into any trouble.”
The brown eye glanced about the clearing and settled on Philomena again. “I reckon it’s safe enough. But if I see any of them coming, I’m ducking back inside. Gareth says I’m not to talk to other ladies when he’s not around. He says they try to put notions in my head.” Ariel stepped out, as mousy in appearance as a person could be, with a small face and ratty gray hair that had turned that color prematurely. The corners of her eyes had more crow’s feet than a legion of the raucous black birds.
Philomena chose what she was about to say with care. “I’m not here to put any notions in your head. Only to ask a favor. I’d like for you and me to sit down with our husbands and impress on them that the cattle drive is a bad idea.”
“Gareth says it’s a good one.”
“No doubt,” Philomena said.
“Gareth says the Good Lord is being nice to us for once and has dumped a gold mine in our laps. Gareth’s very words.”
“What do you think?”
“Pardon?”
“What do you think?” Philomena asked a second time.
“I don’t,” Ariel said. “I generally let Gareth do my thinking for me.”
Don’t give up, Philomena told herself. “He doesn’t decide everything, does he? Aren’t there some things you make up your own mind about?”
Ariel’s brow sprouted furrows. “Not that I can think of, no. He’d blister my back with a switch if I was to do something without his say-so.”
Philomena almost shuddered at the image that popped into her head. “He hits you?”
“Only when I deserve it.”
Containing her anger, Philomena said, “Are you his wife or his child?”
“A man has to keep his woman in line,” Ariel said. “I’m sure Owen does the same with you.”
“Owen has never laid a finger on me once our whole marriage.”
“I don’t know as I believe that. I’m proud my man keeps me under a tight rein, and I can’t imagine a woman who wouldn’t feel the same about her man.”
“A wife deserves to be treated with respect.”
Ariel seemed not to hear her. “Gareth made everything plain to me soon after we were wed. Women are flighty creatures. Men aren’t. We’re ruled by our feelings and they’re ruled by their brains. Men are the smart ones. Men know what to do. That’s why God gave Eve to Adam for him to lord over. We have to be kept in our place.”
“Oh, Ariel.” Philomena had a sense that Ariel was reciting what her husband had told her.
“What?”
“A lot of ladies would disagree. I do. God gave Eve to Adam to be his helper, not to think and do everything he demands. It’s all right to have minds of our own.”
“Well, we shouldn’t talk religion. We’re women. We don’t know enough about it.”
“You worry me, Ariel. No woman should be so subservient to her man. It’s not right.”
“Right has nothing to do with it,” Ariel said. “It’s how things are.”
“Not at my house. Not at Wilda Weaver’s, either. There, she tells Jasper what to do, not the other way around.”
“Gareth says the Weavers aren’t natural. That Wilda is the man and Jasper is the woman. Gareth says that happens when the husband is weak.”
“People are different, is all,” Philomena said.
“Is this all you wanted to talk about? The cows, and men and women? You’re a mite peculiar, Mrs. Burnett.”
“Call me Philomena, please.”
“Gareth says to always use the last name. To keep everything proper. So people won’t take liberties.”
“What sort of liberties?”
“Become too friendly.” Ariel gave Philomena a very pointed look. “Ask favors when they shouldn’t.”
Philomena saw that this was getting her nowhere. But she stubbornly persisted. “It’s wrong for a neighbor to ask a favor of another?”
“It’s wrong to impose,” Ariel replied. “You show up out of the blue. You ask me to side with you against my own husband. You say it’s for his own good, as if you know better than him. If that’s not imposing, I don’t know what is.”
Philomena was at a loss what to say. Nothing would break the shackles Gareth had on Ariel’s mind.
“Let me be clear, Mrs. Burnett. My husband is my life. He provides for me. He keeps me safe. He looks after our young’uns. I wouldn’t turn on him for any reason. Certainly not for a woman I hardly know and who thinks I should trust her more than the man I’ve lived with for over twenty years. I’ll thank you to go, and not grace my doorstep again.” Ariel glared coldly, backed inside, and closed the door.
“Wait,” Philomena said, too late. She knocked, saying, “Please. Can’t we talk this out some more?”
Minutes went by. No sounds issued from within. The cabin might as well have been a tomb.
Returning to her horse, Philomena slid the shotgun into the scabbard and climbed on. She could practically taste her disappointment. “That went well,” she said to the empty air, and tapped her heels.
Chapter 33
More than two weeks had gone by since Ebidiah Troutman killed the Comanche. He happened to be in the vicinity of Comanche Creek and decided to see how the settlers were doing. He climbed to the crest of the same hill where he’d spied on them before, took his spyglass from a pack on Sarabell, and sat on the same boulder.
Before he even unfolded his telescope, he saw a lot of cattle. At a guess, he would say there were close to a thousand. “My word!” he exclaimed. The cattle were grazing or drinking or lazing in the sun. The rope corral was intact, and a few small fires smoldered around the perimeter.
“It’s working the way they’d hoped,” Ebidiah marveled. He’d never seen so many longhorns in one place at one time.
On a whim, Ebidiah replaced his spyglass in the pack without using it, took hold of Sarabell’s rope, and headed down. With that many cattle, he figured they’d have someone keeping watch, and he was right.
Owen Burnett and one of the Kurst boys were hunkered by a campfire, drinking coffee.
Ebidiah hesitated before showing himself. He couldn’t stand those Kursts, but he squared his shoulders and ambled out into the open, Sarabell plodding behind. Plastering a smile on his face, he called out, “Got any of that you can share?”
The Kurst boy jumped to his feet, his hand dropping to his revolver. “Hell,” he said. “It’s only you, old man.”
“Be civil, Wylie,” Owen said as he rose. He smiled and offered his hand. “It’s good to see you again, Ebidiah. How have you been?”
Ebidiah nodded at the longhorns. “Not as busy as you. It’s going well, I take it?”
“Better than we dreamed,” Owen said, giving the herd an appreciative glance. “We’ve got so many, we take turns as herd guards. Reuben Weaver is making a round right now, seeing that the other fires stay lit.”
“Have the critters given you any trouble?”
“Once we get them down here, hardly a lick,” Owen said. “It surprised me considerably, all the tales I’ve heard.”
“My pa wouldn’t like this old goat being here,” Wylie Kurst remarked.
“Ebidiah is my friend,” Owen said. “What difference does it make, anyhow?”
“They don’t get along.”
“No, we don’t,” Ebidiah said. “Not through any fault of mine. It’s your pa who acts so high and mighty.”
“Watch what you say about him, old man,” Wylie warned.
“Enough,” Owen said. “Ebidiah, have a seat and I’ll pour some coffee for you. It’s Arbuckles’. Have you ever had any?”
“Mrs. Weaver gave me some once.” Ebidiah had liked the taste. Arbuckles’ was relatively new on the frontier, and was already popular. The way he heard tell, a couple of brothers from back east had invented a new way of roasting the beans, and sold them by the pound.
Ignoring the hard stare of Wylie Kurst, Ebidiah got his tin cup out, held it while Owen filled it, and squatted. Taking his first sip, he smiled in contentment. “It’s as good as I recollect.”
“We’re about out,” Owen said. “Of coffee and other things. My son Luke went into town with Gareth and Silsby this morning for more supplies.”
Ebidiah grunted. That was good news. He’d be long gone before Gareth got back. “I was by your house about a week ago. Your missus and your girls are doing fine.”
“Thank God. I worry about them all the time.”
“You shouldn’t. That wife of yours has a good head on her shoulders. When I showed up, she came out toting a shotgun.”
Owen chuckled. “That’s my Philomena.”
Gazing out over the hills, Ebidiah casually asked, “Had any trouble of any kind?”
“The creek hasn’t flooded,” Owen joked.
“I was thinking of the Comanches,” Ebidiah said. “Word is, one has been seen in these parts.” He didn’t mention that he’d done the seeing—and killed him.
“We haven’t spotted any,” Owen said. “If they’re around, they’ve left us alone.”
“Good,” Ebidiah said, relieved to hear it.
“They’d better leave us be,” Wylie said. “We have enough guns, we’ll blow those stinking redskins to hell and back.”
“The Comanches were here long before us white folks,” Ebidiah mentioned.
“So?”
“So they have a right to live here, too.”
“Are you addlepated, old man? Those red devils kill every white they come across. They want to drive us out and keep this country for themselves.”
“You can’t hardly blame them.”
Wylie snorted. “You are addlepated. There’s no getting along with the Comanches. They’re not friendly, not even a little bit. It’s them or us, and as my pa says, it damn well won’t be us.”
“You two are at it again,” Owen said.
“He started it,” Wylie said. “Or are you an Injun lover, too?”
“Simmer down,” Owen said. “I’d rather we were at peace, but since we’re not, I’ll shoot any Comanche who’s a threat to me or mine.”
“You’d better,” Wylie said. “Or they’ll kill you.”
“All this talk of killing,” Owen said. “So long as we mind our own business and don’t give them cause to attack, we should be fine.”
“Let them try something,” Wylie said, and patted his six-gun. “My pa and my brothers and me will make them regret it.”
“The important thing is to not give them cause,” Owen stressed.
Ebidiah sipped, and swallowed, and didn’t say anything.
Chapter 34
They had been in the brush, searching for longhorns, for half the day, and their horses needed to rest.
Sam Burnett could use a break, himself. The long hours he spent in the saddle, the work, the heat, the dust, were wearying. Sitting on a log, he opened his canteen and tipped it to his mouth to slake his thirst.
Overall, the roundup was going better than his pa had imagined. The longhorns weren’t giving them nearly as much trouble as everyone feared. Not that there hadn’t been incidents.
Several days ago, Sam came on three young bulls. From what he gathered, young bulls sometimes congregated together. These three had stood tail to tail, brandishing a ring of horns at Sam, Lorette, and Harland.
“We’ll each take one,” Harland had proposed.
His rope in hand, Sam had singled out one and moved in, waving the rope to provoke the bull to move. Harland and Lorette were doing the same when suddenly the bulls exploded into motion. For a few harrowing moments, Sam thought the one he had picked was charging right at him. But no, it swerved at the last instant and bolted into the scrub. He had to chase the thing for half a mile but eventually he overtook it and drove it down to the herd.
“Mind if I join you?”
The sweetly posed question was followed by Lorette Kurst plopping herself down next to him, so close that their bodies brushed against each other. In doing so, she jarred Sam’s elbow, and he almost spilled water from his canteen.
“Watch it, will you?”
Lorette flashed her teeth and took off her hat to fuss with her hair. “Feeling grumpy today, are we?”
Sam shifted so they weren’t touching. For over two weeks now he’d had to put up with her constant shenanigans, and it was annoying. “I just want to relax a bit.”
Lorette glanced over at where Harland was scanning the hills to the west. “In case you haven’t heard,” she said so only Sam would hear, “a woman can relax a man better than anything.”
“There you go again.”
“What?”
“The things you say.” Sam capped his canteen. “Don’t you have any
shame? A lady wouldn’t say the things you do.”
“Ladies can’t have fun?”
Another thing that aggravated Sam was how she turned his own words against him. “Is that what you call it? He was trying to stay mad but it was hard. She looked awful pretty sitting there with the sun in her hair and her green eyes sparkling.
“You’re a trial, Sam Burnett,” Lorette said, and puckered her lips as if she were upset.
Sam had been thinking of her lips a lot the past few days, and it bothered him. They were just lips. They shouldn’t keep creeping into his head. “What did I do?”
“Nothing. And that’s the problem. I’ve made it as plain as plain can be that I’m interested, and you act like I have fleas or something.”
Sam’s throat seemed to tighten. “Interested how?”
“Oh, please. You’re not a dunce. You know darned well.”
“Maybe I’m not as smart as you think.”
“You were raised on a farm. You must know about mares and stallions and such.”
“Lordy, Lorette,” Sam said. “How can you be so brazen? And why me? Why not Reuben Weaver?”
“You brought him up before. I’d sooner become a nun and live in a convent than take him for my man.”
“What’s wrong with Reuben?” Personally, Sam liked him. They got along fine. At night they’d sit around the fire and talk about everything under the son.
“Nothing is wrong with him that a different body and a different brain wouldn’t fix,” Lorette said. “I’m not Wilda Weaver. I won’t settle for less when I can have more.”
“And I am more?”
“You surely are, but you’re too dumb to see it.”
“So which am I?” Sam countered. “Smart or dumb? I can’t be both.”
“Sure you can. You’re male.”
“There you go. Poking fun again.” Sam had half a notion to ask his pa to be partnered up with someone else. Maybe he could switch with Reuben. That would show her.
Lorette placed her hands on the log and half-turned to look him in the eyes. “How long before you stop dancing around it? I’m patient but I have my limit.”
Ralph Compton Texas Hills Page 13
