“When I get to Kansas and these cattle are sold, I’m running down both sets of those killers. Roho or whoever, if they’re up here, and the Brady brothers.”
“They might kill you.”
“They might but I don’t aim for them to. This old ranger is tough enough to find them and bring them in or end their misery.”
“You better be sober when you try. You’ll need every edge.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She shook her head in disappointment. “I’m not your mother.”
He closed his eyes and threw his head back. “I don’t expect you to be.”
“Come sit up here,” she said and patted the cot.
He shrugged, rose, and joined her.
“Hold me tight,” she said, burying her face in his shirt.
For a moment, he hesitated. Then, when he heard and felt her sobs, he shrugged off his coat and encircled her with his arms. Resting his cheek on the top of her head, he knew she wasn’t crying for herself. The tension of their three weeks on the trail was all balled up inside of her and finally coming out.
Chapter 24
He hitched the roan outside Riley Brothers two-story brick building in Fort Worth and walked through the left-hand double door with all the glass. The large store carried odors of leathers, spices, and raw wool. Several customers were walking about the tables examining various goods.
“Mr. Wright, sir?” a young clerk asked from behind gold-framed glasses.
“Back again. What was your name?”
“Albert, Albert Goldberg, sir.”
“Good to see you again. I need some things for a cattle drive.”
“Will it be cash or carry, sir?”
“Carry, I guess.”
“That’s fine. You have good credit here.”
“I’ll need it hauled out later.”
“No problem. What do you need?”
“A half dozen girths, a dozen shirts, a dozen waist overalls, two slickers to start.”
“What sizes?”
“She wrote them down,” he said.
“Oh, you have a wife?”
Struck by his words, Ed looked hard at the youth wearing the bow tie and shook his head. “No—it’s—ah, Mrs. Nance, a widow who I’m guiding for.”
“I’m sorry—I just thought.”
“No problem. She’s outfitting the crew with a new set of clothes.”
“They probably need some by now.”
“They do. I also need some dry-cured hams, two barrels of flour, two hundred pounds of brown beans, a hundred pounds of rice.” He paused as the boy scribbled with a pencil on a pad. “Six tins of lard. Three cases of airtight peaches. Six cases of tomatoes, and a case of raisins—better make it two of them.”
“How many hams?” Albert asked, looking over his list.
“A half dozen, and a couple crocks of lick.”
“Molasses?”
“Yes.”
When Ed had finished the entire list, the boy nodded. “When do you want this hauled out?”
“Early in the morning. They’ll be bedded down on the South Fork. Get there early enough so the boys can transfer it to the chuck wagon, in case I’m not here to go with them.”
“We can do that. Will your camp be far down the South Fork of the Trinity?”
“No. Ask for Caudle; he’s the cook. You can’t miss the Bar U wagon. It’s all painted up red and yellow with flags.”
“I guess you want to see about other business in town?” The boy gave him a coy smile.
“Yes.”
“Then drop by later and sign the bill.”
“Thanks,” Ed said, and left the mercantile.
There were only swampers dumping slop buckets in the gutter in Hell’s Kitchen at midmorning, when he rode into the district and dismounted at the Lion’s Head Saloon. He pushed through the batwing doors and saw a familiar face standing at the bar. Johnny Bentson from Abilene, Kansas, was lifting a glass of whiskey when he recognized him.
“Ed Wright, you old dog. What’re you doing in Fort Worth?”
“Trailing cattle,” Ed said, and motioned to the bartender to bring him a glass.
“On your way to Newton?”
“On my way. What do you know?”
“Not much. Looking for a good card game.” Johnny poured four fingers of whiskey in Ed’s glass.
“You ever run across two brothers named Brady?”
“They’re a pair of back-stabbing no-accounts. They were in on the Frank Green robbery and murder last fall.”
“I didn’t hear about that one.”
“Frank had sold his herd. Two herds in fact, and was headed back for Texas in a buckboard with the proceeds. Didn’t trust banks. He had two tough men along. Somewhere near the Indian Territory—Kansas border they all four vanished like smoke.”
“Four of them?”
“Yeah, Frank’s wife was with them.”
Ed downed part of his glass and let the whiskey cut through the dust in his throat. “How do they know that the Bradys did it?”
“They don’t. Green had a diamond horseshoe stick pin. Must have cost a blue fortune. It was his trademark. If you ever saw it you’d not forget it.” Johnny shook his head like he was bad hurt telling it, took a sip of his liquor, and then swallowed hard. He set the glass down hard and wet his lower lip. “Last winter Marsh Brady threw that diamond pin in a pot to cover his bet during a card game.”
“What happened?”
“Some of us recognized it and demanded to know where he got it.”
“He tell you?”
“Said he got it off an Injun down in the Cherokee Nation. We all knew better than that but what the hell could we do? No bodies. What law do you go to?”
“They fed my partner to the fish on the Mississippi. Same deal. I tracked them across Arkansas last fall and lost them at Fort Smith.”
“Never found ’em?”
“I got close last winter. Hired a deputy marshal out of Parker’s court.” Ed gave a deep sigh and shook his head to dismiss the pain he felt from telling it. “We had a shootout up there with another gang where they were supposed to be staying. The deputy and his man got killed. The Bradys were already gone.”
“They’re somewhere over on the main cattle trail, like buzzards waiting for carrion.”
“Ever hear of a Messican named Roho?”
“Name rings a bell. What did he do?”
“I figure the Bradys hired him and a couple more to get me, and instead they hung two of my cowboys.” Ed downed the rest of his whiskey and set the glass on the bar. Close to shaking all over, he tried to turn around to hide the hurt he felt inside.
“Damn, man, you have had lots of troubles. Here, have some more whiskey.”
Ed straightened and nodded. His composure restored, he straightened up and lifted the glass. “I won’t need any law when I find them.”
“How do I send you word if I hear about them?”
“Banty, Texas is good enough. Or Schroeder Commission Company. Les does most of my selling. He’ll be in Newton by now.”
“I know him.”
Ed held the glass up and looked through the amber liquid. “I’ve worked my ass off the last five or six years, taking cattle north. Got a nice ranch paid for in the hill country. Stocked with cattle and lots of water—the things a man dreams about, and I can’t stand it.”
“Maybe if you track these bastards down you’ll feel different.”
Ed closed his eyes and threw his head back. “I damn sure hope so. I came through here last winter and there was gal named Nell working the streets. She sent me the word this Roho was coming to get me. I owe her.”
Johnny closed his eyes and shook his head, not looking at Ed. Elbows on the bar, he drew up a little and then raised his glass. “Someone killed her in the alley last week. Arkansas Nell—cute little thing. Had a helluva funeral for her.”
“Who killed her?”
“Hell, if anyone knew they’d have hung him
. Damn, bartender, bring us another bottle. Ed’s buying.”
“If we can go sit at a damn table I will—” That was her, all right. Arkansas Nell. For a long moment, Ed closed his eyes, recalling her spunk and ways.
“. . . cut her up with a knife.”
“Oh, damn, I don’t need to know. I’m going to buy you this bottle and get the hell out of here.” He dug the money out of his pocket. “You get drunk for me and—Nell. There’s some things I need to do.”
“Don’t run off in the heat of the day. Hell, I can afford the whiskey.” Johnny held out his hands to protest.
“No, I’m buying. How much?” he asked the bartender.
“Six dollars—”
“Here.” Ed put the money down and nodded to Johnny; then he left. Not a minute too soon; he’d felt the walls and mirrors moving in on him. He unhitched the roan and rode him back by the store, signed the bill, and rode west to the mouth of the South Fork. He found a hill and watched the familiar horses flowing in from the south. Blondie was there with the remuda.
Ed sat cross-legged on the ground to observe everything. Nearby, the roan, with his long black mane and tail being swept around by the wind, grazed through the bits. He raised his head to observe the herd’s arrival on the flats.
He had a pint in his lap, but he hadn’t uncorked it. All he could do was turn over and over in his mind all the dead people connected with him. Why were they all his fault that they had died?
After a while, Blondie rode up to his position and took a seat beside him. He never said a word for a long time. Finally in his broken Spanish he began to talk. “The day they came for me—I saw it in a dream. Three of them took turns raping her on a bed. They held me and made me look until I puked.”
“Bad, bad dream.” Ed nodded, thinking of a small boy being forced to watch such savagery.
“Now I wish I never remembered.”
“I know. But it is a curse we must face—somehow.”
“Does whit-key help?” Blondie indicated the bottle in his lap.
Ed shook his head. “Makes it a damn site worse.” Shaking his head, he translated that into Spanish for him. Hell, no, nothing helped.
Chapter 25
“You have any trouble getting the supplies?” Unita asked, joining him on the ground with her plate of food. The evening sun was sinking fast way out on the Illano Estacado and everyone was chucking down for the day.
“No, I signed for them. So you better pay him on the way back.”
“Oh, I will. I could have taken a letter of credit—”
“They know we’ll pay. I never mentioned it was your herd. Too much to explain.”
She nodded. “You learn anything?”
“Not really.” He considered the light brown crusted biscuit on his plate.
“Why do I feel you aren’t telling me everything?”
“Seen Johnny Bentson up there. He’s a gambler and a fairly honest one. He told me the Bradys killed a rancher named Green, his wife, and two men on the Kansas border.”
“Did you see that woman who wrote you the letter?”
“No, I was too late. Someone killed her last week.”
“Oh, Ed, I’m sorry.”
A knife stabbed him in the guts. He shook his head to dismiss it. “She was just an acquaintance, but she did write and—”
“Ed, where are you going?”
“I’ll be back—” No way he could eat. He tossed the contents of his plate out under the mesquite and then, in passing, drowned his plate and utensils in the tub of soapy water. He walked for a distance until he was by the shallow stream.
“Ed, I’m sorry. I never—”
He turned and saw her coming downhill in the twilight. With her spurs on, she was liable to topple on her face. The effort she made to hurry and still keep her balance was funny. He began to laugh at her antics, and ran over to catch her in his arms. To at last savor her closeness. He felt like all of his trials had fled on the wings of a flushed quail.
“Yesterday it was me,” she said. “Today it’s you.”
“Forget it. I guess hearing the Green story, which was like Dave’s death, and then learning she had been murdered too—it was more than I could stand.”
“But you didn’t get drunk.”
He looked down at the top of her head; her hat rested on her shoulders on a string. “No, I didn’t do that.”
She squeezed him. “Six weeks and you can go find them.”
“If we can sell the herd.”
Her cheek nestled on his chest, she shrugged as if that was matter-of-fact. “We will.”
Four days later, the snag-filled Red River faced him in the morning light. It was not any higher than usual, but the Red was one of the tougher rivers to cross. Ed knew the warning sign from the federal judge, prohibiting the importation of spirits, was posted right beside the passage where the cattle went up the bank. Caudle had gone across with Unita on the ferry, and two cowboys on horseback as well.
Blondie was driving the horses down the bank. Ed frowned. The leader was a long-legged mare he’d never seen before, and she took to the water like she knew the way.
Ich reined up and chuckled. “That Comanche don’t need no help getting them ponies over there. He could drive a thousand of them damn horses across here by hisself.”
“Where did he get that mare?” Ed asked, shaking his head.
“Hell, how should I know? Probably stole her. He ain’t ever going to be a white man. Lived too long with them redskins. But he damn sure can wrangle horses.”
“He can, all right. We’ll be ready to go in fifteen minutes.”
“No problem.” Ich turned his pony back toward the herd. “Oh, I got word back there at the store. Crabtree’s bunch lost a lot of cattle in high water at the Brazos. Word is they’re five days behind us now.”
“I knew she could get up this time of year. Just so we don’t lose any here,” Ed said, and looked at the buttermilk sky for some help from his Maker.
Sam Houston struck the river and, like a veteran, struck out dog-paddling across the current and headed for the far bank. The cattle looked orderly enough going into the muddy water to Ed, seated on horseback with his boots tied around his neck.
J. T. was one of the first riders to come down the bank to help push them after Ich and Shorty went in. His horse acted the part of the fool, leaping out into the river and busting his belly in a great splash. His crash unseated J. T. and Ed saw that the young cowboy was off in the water, and that he was no swimmer.
He put heels to the roan, trying to keep his eye on the wet head bobbing in the dingy water. He and the pony slid off the steep bank into the Red’s murky water. The cold was a shock to both. Ed aimed the roan for where he last saw the boy. He undid the boots and slung them over the horn.
Where was he? Then he spotted J. T.’s shirt under the surface and drove the roan beside him. He managed to catch the boy’s collar and pulled the limp body across his saddle. Then he slipped off the roan’s back into the river and urged him for the north bank with shouts, knowing they’d never climb back up the steep one he had come from. Swimming to help the horse, the fact that the boy had not moved upset him as he took in a mouthful of fishy-tasting water himself.
They were at last on the bank, the roan shaking off enough water to drown someone. Ed had J. T. in his arms and was searching for a place to lay him down. Finally he sprawled him out in the new grass and weeds, facedown, and went to pushing hard with both hands on his lower back to try to expel the water if he could.
“He alive?” Unita asked, arriving out of breath beside him.
Half rising, J. T. upchucked a mouthful of water and began to cough. Ed nodded. “I think so.”
He looked back across the river. The stream of cattle was coming over in an orderly fashion for the most part. Maybe, just maybe, they’d make this crossing without any loss of life.
She had the boy, who was on all fours, by the shoulder, shaking and reassuring him. “Cough
it up. You’re going to be all right, J. T.”
Yes, cough it up. The whole damn Red River.
Chapter 26
Two days later a band of blanket-ass Indians rode over the hill with feathers sticking up like half-molted roosters, looking for passage fees. Even at a distance, when Ed first saw them he instantly knew their purpose. They wanted to be paid for the “wa-hoos” grazing their land.
“What do they want?” Unita asked, indicating the party and sliding her horse up hard beside him.
“Money, marbles, and meat.”
She frowned and shook her head. “How much?”
“All they can get.”
“I have little money and no marbles. What do we do?”
“We negotiate a deal.”
A tough look of skepticism swept over her face. “Can you handle it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Sure you don’t want to talk to them?” Ed asked with a grin.
“No.”
“I’ll palaver with them awhile then.”
“You need any backup?”
“All I need are them two quarts of whiskey I’ve got hid in the chuck wagon.”
“Where at?”
“In your other carpetbag.”
She laughed. “Why there?”
“No one would ever look in there for them. Trust me, they’ve all looked for those bottles.”
“I’ll send Jocko up to wherever you set up to talk to them.”
“That hill looks good enough,” he said, pointing to the rise where they sat their ponies.
“And be careful.”
“These ain’t bloodthirsty Comanches. They’re just some starving bucks that the government forgot to feed this month.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Send along the whiskey as soon as you can. I’ll be out of my short supply in no time.”
“What’ll you do without any to drink?”
“I don’t imagine I’ll need it.”
“I’m not so sure of that.” She reined her horse aside and set out for the chuck wagon, no doubt several miles ahead of the herd.
Trail to Cottonwood Falls Page 20
