by Lyle Brandt
Say two thousand, give or take a few. Figure most of them would be two or three years old, bringing four or five dollars per hundredweight in Independence. Round it off somewhere between $150,000 to $190,000 on the hoof, while beef in stores back east would sell between ten cents and thirty cents per pound, depending on the cut.
But none of that meant much to Findlay or his paymasters. The men he worked for didn’t deal in fencing stolen cattle as they might have done with jewels, for instance, if a stash of them had ever come to hand. No, they preferred to ransom stolen livestock for a fraction of its going rate, without incurring any costs for care, feeding, or transportation to the nearest slaughterhouse.
A wise trail boss, confronted with the loss of half a herd or more, would pay the ransom in lieu of going home with light pockets that wouldn’t get him through next winter to another spring. And Jed’s fee was static, 5 percent of what his bosses made from any scheme he organized—in this case, possibly as much as fifteen hundred bucks.
And if he had to get his hands dirty while earning that much, well, Findlay was used to it.
For now, he’d seen enough. Later, he’d make another run to reconnoiter their nighttime security, and that would tell him all he had to know about their strengths and weaknesses.
From there on in, the men who’d hired him would be carrying the weight themselves.
* * *
* * *
Supper was pork and beans with rice, to make a change from the potatoes they were used to eating cubed and fried. Art Catlin found the food a bit monotonous, but tasty overall, and filling, which would get him through his night watch once he’d washed it down with strong black coffee.
Sitting next to him, Julius Pryor had been picking at his food, clearly preoccupied with something far behind them now. Catlin had seen some gunfight virgins in his time—had once been one of them himself, if he could dredge up dusty memories—and now he recognized the signs.
Four weeks and change had passed since they rode out of Devil’s Crossing, but Catlin still recognized the signs.
“You know there’s no point feeling guilty, right?” he said.
Pryor looked over at him, not quite startled. Said, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“The Comancheros we put down,” Art said. “We both know what they’d done, and you can guess about what all the hurt they caused before the Bjorlins came along. Nobody’s missing them we shot—or, if they are, it’s no one I’m inclined to give a damn about.”
Pryor nodded without conviction, answered back, “I know all that. But I keep seeing ’em, you know?”
“That’s not uncommon, on your first time out,” Catlin replied.
“Don’t tell me it gets easier, okay? Fact is, I don’t think I could stand it getting any easier.”
“Just means you’re human,” Art said. “Chances are, you could live out your life and never have to make that call again in thirty, forty years.”
“But you have, right?” Julius seemed to have forgotten that he had a plate of food in front of him, his eyes locked onto Catlin’s now. “How do you deal with it?”
Art made believe that he was delving for deep thoughts, then said, “It really does get easier—for some, at least. I couldn’t tell you how the Comancheros make their peace with killing. Maybe there was something left out of the mix when they were growing up. But if you’re in a fight for something that resembles justice, it’s no different than soldiers in a war.”
“Except we choose the war,” said Pryor, in a hopeless tone of voice.
Art took a long shot. Asked, “Are you a praying man?”
“Not much. My folks took me to church on Sunday as a kid, o’ course, but I grew out of it.”
“Same here,” said Catlin. “When I started hunting fugitives—not saying you should try that, mind you—I decided that the people I was after made their choices as they went along. They robbed, raped, killed, whatever, and it suited them. They didn’t let it get under their skins or keep them up at night, except to celebrate their latest crime, so why should I be agonizing over it on their behalf?”
“Like mad dogs, I suppose,” Julius said.
“I’d say they’re worse. A dog with rabies is infected from outside. It can’t control what happens next, no more than fire can stop itself from burning things. But people make a choice—to drink or gamble, rob or kill, whatever. No one else has forced it on ’em, and they all know where the road ends—prison or a graveyard—when they take that first small step.”
“I guess that’s right.”
Art frowned. Told Julius, “I won’t pretend that I can tell you how to feel, what you should think, much less how to shake loose of dreams. I will say that for most of us, time helps. Not saying that the memories will ever go away, unless you lose your mind, but they do fade and lose most of their sting.”
“I hope so,” Pryor said. He didn’t sound convinced.
“You’re on first watch tonight?” Art asked.
“I am.”
“Same here. You feel like talking any more, just flag me down. Or you can tell the steers,” Art said, half-joking. “One thing that I’ll say for cattle; they’re good listeners.”
“And so are you. Appreciated it, Art.”
Pryor was rising when Catlin reached out and caught him by the sleeve.
“You plan on eating that?”
* * *
* * *
Julius Pryor wasn’t lying when he’d told Catlin that talking to him helped a bit.
It simply hadn’t helped enough, and now he was convinced that nothing would.
At least, not while he kept on riding for the Bar X, seeing the same faces morning, noon, and night, imagining what they were thinking of him when his back was turned.
There goes a killer. Stay the hell out of his way.
Of course, nobody said that to his face, and other drovers would deny the thought had even crossed their minds. But still . . .
Before he’d signed on for the drive, Pryor had never shot a man and had no reason to believe he ever would. His last fight had been sometime in the fifth or sixth grade, and he’d lost that one when Tommy Guthrie gave him a fat lip.
Then came the renegade Apaches, and Julius hadn’t begged off when he was selected for the group pursuing them. He’d shot one of the raiders he was certain of, but that felt different somehow, the dead man being both a rustler and a “redskin,” as his father always called the native tribes, suggesting they were somehow less than human.
Even so, Julius had suffered through some uneasiness that time, but thought the killing was behind him, something filed away like old tax records or forgotten correspondence with a distant relative, fading away with time.
But no.
The Comancheros changed all that.
First, Pryor was a witness to the carnage they had wreaked upon a helpless family of immigrants, then he was tasked once more to run the killers down and punish them. Could he have passed that duty off to someone else, without wearing a coward’s brand of shame to show for it?
Doubtful. At least, Julius hadn’t dared to take that chance.
Now, more than two weeks later, and he couldn’t close his eyes at night without imagining grim scenes inside the Red Dog. Red with blood, that was—not only from the guilty Comancheros but from the saloon’s proprietor, its barkeep, and two of its working girls. Call it a massacre, and no mistake—a massacre that never would have happened if four drovers with no stake in what had happened to the Swedes had simply kept on driving longhorns to the auction house in Independence.
If they’d only let it go.
And how would Julius have felt in that case? How would he have lived with doing nothing after all?
Too many goddamned questions.
Pryor only knew he couldn’t stand it any longer and remaining wit
h the drive—surrounded by his fellow killers—was a surefire way to make things worse. He had to get away, was taking off tonight, in fact.
He’d planned ahead, leaving his bedroll by the campfire with a terse note tucked inside it. When he disappeared while riding herd tonight, someone would check sooner or later and report his parting comments to the rest. They would revile him, naturally, as a coward and a quitter. There would be no payout for the weeks he’d worked since riding out from Santa Fe in April. That was understood and Julius wouldn’t complain.
Where would he go from there?
He didn’t have a clue, and for the first time since the shooting stopped at Devil’s Crossing, that felt good.
* * *
* * *
Jed Findlay moved in closer to the herd once night had fallen, taking full advantage of a dim third-quarter moon with scudding clouds.
He’d counted three drovers on watch for the first shift and charted their lazy circuits around the longhorns, talking softly to the grazing, dozing steers. Monotony like that dulled human senses, even during wartime at a post that witnessed little action. Men let down their guard and made mistakes.
Which made them vulnerable to surprise attacks.
The men his bosses sent to raid the herd, based on Findlay’s reconnaissance, had all committed murders in their time, but killing cowboys would not be their goal this time. Sure, they would fire if fired upon, but their intent would be to get the longhorns running, headed for a destination that their owner hadn’t planned, and pen them up securely there until a ransom was negotiated and procured.
How much?
The rub was striking at the herd before it got to Independence and was sold. Trail bosses carried cash to help out with emergencies, but nothing like the sum Findlay’s employers would be hoping for.
And that was where the law came into play.
Findlay’s employers had a justice of the peace and an attorney on their payroll, contracts more or less complete, with only certain numbers, dates, and signatures to be applied and notarized. When that was done, the trail boss—call him Mr. X—would be obliged on paper to remit a predetermined sum for services rendered, and he would be accompanied by two sworn lawmen to ensure that he paid up at point of sale.
Would Mr. X complain to anybody in Missouri?
Probably, but few would care to act in contravention of a contract certified in Kansas by lawful authorities. Whining that he had been robbed, his arm twisted around behind his back, likely would not accomplish much for Mr. X—whereas if he clammed up and kept the deal he had agreed to, he’d go home with money in his pocket.
Less than he’d expected, granted, but money, nonetheless.
And gold beat hot lead any day.
Jed was watching when one of the drovers on the first watch started riding off into the night, not rushing, but not looking back to see if anyone had seen him, either.
And he had to ask himself, Now, what the hell is this about?
* * *
* * *
Art Catlin raised a hand as Danny Underwood approached, preparing to relieve him for the second shift. Job Hooper had already met Bryce Zimmerman and sent him back to camp. Now only Nehemiah Wolford still remained, trotting his grulla mare over to ask Catlin, “Where’s Julius got off to?”
Catlin swiveled in his saddle, scanned the herd, but couldn’t catch a glimpse of Pryor anywhere. “Damned if I know,” he said. “You want me to, I’ll help you look around for him.”
“Already looked,” Wolford replied. “No sign of ’im.”
“Did you try calling him?” Art asked.
“Loud as I could without spooking the herd.”
“Okay. I’ll pass the word to Tippit.”
“Fair enough,” said Wolford, and moved on.
Most of the drovers not on watch were tucked up in their bedrolls by that time, dawn coming early on the trail, but Catlin found the Bar X foreman sipping coffee with their boss. Approaching them on foot, Art tried to keep his voice low-key, saying, “Sorry to interrupt, but we might have a problem on our hands.”
“Such as?” Bliss Mossman asked.
“Julius Pryor, boss. His shift relief can’t find him anywhere.”
Both men were frowning at him now. “Say that again,” Tippit instructed.
“Seems like he’s just gone,” Art said.
“‘Just gone,’” Mossman echoed his words. “What does that even mean?”
Catlin restrained himself from shrugging. “Beats me, boss. Wolford’s been looking for him but he’s not around.”
“You were on watch with him and Zimmerman,” said Tippit.
“Yes, sir. Zimmerman came in on time, but Pryor . . . well . . .”
Both men were on their feet now, their coffee dregs dumped on the ground. Mossman called out across the campfire, “Bryce? Bryce Zimmerman! We need you over here, pronto!”
“Right with you, boss,” the answer came.
The third drover on watch appeared but had no more to add as to Pryor’s whereabouts. He couldn’t say exactly when he’d last seen Julius, but guessed it was a half hour or more before he was relieved.
“Thought nothing of it, boss,” Zimmerman said. “I thought he might have answered nature’s call, you know?”
Catlin spoke up, suggesting, “If he left his bedroll, maybe someone ought to take a look at it.”
That set a couple of the other hands to muttering, but Mr. Mossman hushed them. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard so far,” he said. “Beats standing here and jawboning, at least.”
Five minutes later, Tippit had the missing man’s blanket unrolled surrounded by a growing crowd of nervous-looking hands. The first thing anybody noticed was a sheet of paper, folded over into quarters. Mossman picked it up, scanned it, then read the note aloud.
“‘Sorry to everyone for leaving in the lurk’—he must mean ‘lurch’—‘but I can’t take it anymore. Don’t mean to leave you short but I’m just in the way, no good to anybody. Sorry.’ And he’s signed it with initials.”
Focusing on Catlin, Tippit said, “I recollect you eating supper with him, Art. Did he say anything that helps explain this?”
“Told me that the shooting back at Devil’s Crossing had been preying on his mind. Made out like it was interfering with his sleep, and from the little that he ate, it seemed like he was off his feed.”
“Enough to harm himself?” Mossman inquired.
Catlin could only shrug. “He didn’t mention anything like that, or else I would’ve told you straightaway, boss. Asked me how he was supposed to live with killing men. I told him getting over it takes time.”
“Well, shit.” Mossman balled up the note and let it drop into the campfire, curling into ash a moment later. “Now we’re two men down since leaving Santa Fe, with better than a week to go before we cross into Missouri. Anybody else feel like they can’t go on, or does a contract still mean something to the rest of you?”
The others mostly shook their heads, a few responding verbally, “No, sir.”
Shaking his head, Mossman told, them, “All right. The schedule for tonight’s watch stands. We’ll change it up tomorrow. Thank Julius, if you ever see ’im, for the extra work you’ll have to shoulder now.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tuesday, May 27
Longwood, Kansas
It’s clear we have our work cut out for us.” Cyrus Harding, the elected mayor of Longwood in Wabaunsee County, eyed the other four men seated in his smallish office as he spoke. “But if we pull it off, we’ll be set for the winter, anyway, and might have cash enough to relocate before we start over.”
Harding was a portly fellow who believed in living well and sometimes took advantage of his size to literally throw his weight around. The others, occupying chairs set up around his desk, included Justice of the P
eace Odell Butler; Bert Whitesell, the town’s marshal; the Honorable Tilman Crull, attorney; and their scout, Jed Findlay.
In Crull’s case, “Honorable” was a title that accompanied his law degree by custom rather than a testimony to his character.
In fact, the game they played was Crull’s idea, facilitated and refined by Harding, Butler, Whitesell, and the other residents of Longwood—one hundred and four at last count—who had signed off on the scheme once promised their small slices of the pie.
“We owe another vote of thanks to Jed, here,” Harding pressed on, “for scouting our next target. Jed, as you-all know, is our front-line soldier, and his compensation, as per usual, will be commensurate.”
Unless, thought Harding, we can come up with a way to cut him out and split his share among ourselves.
Gunmen and scouts were plentiful in Kansas, welcomed to the Union on the eve of Civil War, after seven grim years of bloodshed between Free Soilers and advocates of slavery. Some twenty thousand Kansas men wore blue during the war, against one thousand who had signed up with Confederate units, and loyal Kansas units lost more men per thousand under arms than any other state, in combat and from virulent disease.
For many who’d survived, there was no coming home per se, no turning back the calendar to placid times of yesteryear. For many veterans—and even those who had not served—life was revealed as fragile, fleeting, and a time for doing anything a man might please.
Whatever he could get away with in the end.
Odell Butler cleared his throat, then said, “We all appreciate the hard work Jed’s done so far, of course. I might point out, however, that he counted eighteen men with guns minding the herd.”
“I’d call it seventeen, Your Honor. One is just a kid who helps around the chuck wagon.”
“Perhaps a marksman in his own right,” Butler answered him, “but for the sake of argument, let’s call it seventeen. Considering the population of Longwood—”
