Texas Trails 1

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “I’ll draw it for you,” Tim offered.

  “Oh, no!” Nancy snapped. “I wouldn’t want anybody as important as you to have to stoop to going to the well.”

  “Suit yourself!” Tim growled. “I’m going to town anyhow.”

  Nancy stopped. “To town? Something might happen out there on the range. I think it’d be better, if you didn’t stay at the cattle camp, to at least stick to the ranch until after the drive north.”

  “You do, huh?” Tim said with a laugh.

  “I wish you showed as much respect arid consideration toward the cowboys as you do that damned Big Ed MacWilliams,” Nancy said. “They’re more important to the ranch than that saloon keeper.”

  Tim, ignoring her, went up to his room to change. It didn’t take him long to get out of the rough trail clothes into some clean duds. He even traded in his sweat-stained sombrero for a stylish Montana peak that he only wore on special occasions. He avoided seeing Nancy again when he went downstairs to leave.

  The ride into town was exhilarating for the young man in spite of having spent the entire day in the saddle. He’d done a good job of hiding the crushing despair he felt at his father’s death. Now the prospect of a good poker game, then taking Rosalie or Hannah upstairs, put him in a better mood. He spurred his horse into a canter, traveling down the road that led into Duncan, Texas.

  When Tim finally reined up in front of the Deep River Saloon, he found Big Ed MacWilliams in his usual place. The kid unforked the horse and stepped down, walking up to the porch. “Howdy, Big Ed. Y’all got a game going inside?”

  Big Ed smiled. “We sure do, Tim. I reckon you’re gonna want to make a withdrawal from the bank, ain’t you?”

  “That’s my ammunition,” Tim said.

  Big Ed got up and beckoned to him. “Well, foller me. You might as well put the boys outta their misery as quick as possible. You do feel lucky, don’t you?”

  “I reckon,” Tim said enthusiastically. A good win at poker would do wonders in wiping away some of the sadness he felt.

  They went into the office and Big Ed pulled the money from his safe. He handed it over. “You got over a thousand dollars there now. That’s a hell of a grubstake for just about anything a young feller like you might want to do.”

  “Well,” Tim said thoughtfully. “No matter what I end up using it for, I ain’t gonna be keeping it in the bank no more. With Pa gone, I’m running things on the Circle H Bar. So I don’t have to worry about him finding out about my card playing and winnings no more.”

  “You want to sell the place?” Big Ed asked. “I can get you a good price just like I told the other ranchers. As a matter of fact, through an old business partner of mine back East by the name o’ Witherspoon, I bet I can get the best price possible for you outta them Eastern fellers.”

  Tim shook his head. “Nope. Now that I’m in charge, I plan on making the cattle drive to Kansas and coming back with even more dollars to add to this poker money. I’m gonna be the biggest, most powerful rancher on the Diablos.”

  “Good for you, Tim!” Big Ed said enthusiastically. “Well,” he said leading him to the door. “Just jump in that game and wipe ’em out like you always do.”

  Tim walked over to the table and waited for the hand that was being played to come to an end. Then he bought into the next pot and settled in for some serious card playing. The hard-eyed saloon girl Hannah O’Dell came around with a bottle of whiskey as always. After pouring everyone a stiff drink, she stood back to watch the action.

  The cards were dealt, played, redealt, and replayed. All the familiar games were called out by the dealers: seven-toed Pete, draw, show low, show high, and others. The pasteboards were studied, discarded, and drawn as the players called out bets that were matched or raised. Tim played his usual game, going all out and bluffing like crazy. He didn’t give a damn what showed in stud. He stayed with the others to the end of each pot. And he’d call for cards in draw when it looked like he didn’t have snowball in hell’s chance to pull off a win.

  And he lost heavily.

  “At last!” Shorty Clemens crowed. “A night that don’t belong to Tim Hawkins!”

  “The only luck that’s shining on me is the bad variety,” Tim admitted, the sweat showing on his' forehead.

  A half hour later, Big Ed MacWilliams came in from the porch. “I hear you’re having a rough time.”

  “I’ll get it back,” Tim said doggedly. The bad luck reminded him of the loss of his father. He glared at Hank Delong, whose turn it was to deal. “Let’s go, goddamn it!”

  “Ease off, boy,” Big Ed said. “You can’t win ever’ night.”

  “The hell I can’t!” Tim exclaimed.

  On the next hand he won on three of a kind and raked in a modest pot. It put Tim in a better mood. “Now I’m getting it back,” he said. He snapped his fingers at Hannah. “Gimme another drink!”

  “Sure,” she said with a hard smile.

  Shorty caught Big Ed’s eye and winked. “If this boy gets too mad, we’ll all lose big tonight.”

  “You sure as hell will!” Tim said after downing the liquor. He shoved the glass forward. “Gimme another!”

  The other players picked up Tim’s sullen mood, and the game settled into a silent affair that was marked only by the clink of coins and the shuffling and dealing of cards. Tim kept losing, and the more he lost, the more he drank.

  Finally Big Ed stepped in. “That’s enough, boys.” Tim, bleary-eyed, looked up. “I need a chance to get even, that’s all.”

  “Sure, Tim,” Big Ed said. “But tonight ain’t your night, that’s all.”

  “One more hand, goddamn it!” Tim yelled. “It’s my deal.”

  Big Ed sighed. “Have it your way.”

  “Ante up for draw poker,” Tim said. “One pot, all the same.” He shoved all his money in. “No betting after this. I deal the cards and we draw one time only.”

  Everyone matched him. Shorty Clemens shook his head. “You’re loco, Tim.”

  “Could be,” Tim said. He made the deal. “Cards?”

  “Gimme two,” Shorty said.

  “I’ll take three,” Curly Brandon said. Hank Delong wanted three, and Joe Black decided to take two.

  Now Tim studied his own hand. He had a pair of aces, a jack, ten, and a six. He discarded the last three and slapped down their replacements. He had drawn another ace and a pair of threes.

  “Nobody calls in this game,” Curly said. “So dealer shows first.”

  Tim grinned. “A full house, boys, aces over threes.”

  Everyone groaned but Shorty. “Four deuces beats that,” he announced.

  Tim angrily threw the cards down. He got to his feet and lurched drunkenly toward the door. “I’m going back to the ranch.”

  Big Ed followed him. “Calm down, Tim,” he said when they reached the porch. “There’ll be other nights.”

  “I lost all my other winnings,” Tim said. “I’m back where I started.”

  “Aw, hell, Tim!” Big Ed scoffed. “You’re a hell of a poker player. I’ll loan you enough to get started again. You’ll come back winners again.”

  Tim felt better. “Damn right I will. And don’t you worry one damn bit about any money you loan me.”

  “O’ course I won’t. Now come on over to the bar with me and let’s have a last drink together before you go back out to the Circle H Bar,” Big Ed said.

  “Sure!” Tim said happily. As they went back inside, he threw his arm over Big Ed’s meaty shoulders. “You know something? You’re one o’ the best pals I ever had, Big Ed!”

  Ten

  Out at the cattle camp at Rattlesnake Arroyo, dawn was cool and damp with a heavy dew that clung to the blades of grass in large drops. The sun, coming up slowly over the eastern horizon of the Diablos was sluggish and red, making deep, long shadows in the gullies and among the stands of sagebrush.

  The cattle’s breath vaporized as the animals waited for the new day to begin. The night bef
ore, as planned, they’d been driven into the arroyo so no night raiders could cause a stampede. Packed in tight inside the big gully, the herd took the confinement with numb acceptance.

  Rawley Pierson had a Mexican serape over his shoulders as he sat in the saddle looking down at the animals from the rim of the arroyo. It was nearing the end of his turn at the night’s final watch. He could smell the smoke from the chuck wagon, and the wafting breeze brought the smell of beans simmering in an iron pot beside the vehicle. At least he could look forward to a brief nap after filling his belly. The last men on guard duty always got an hour’s rest before joining the others to begin the day’s work.

  Chaw Stevens, also sporting a serape, rode toward him, slouching in the saddle from a combination of sleepiness and boredom. He and Rawley had arranged it so they could always share the same stint of sentry duty. The old man worked the plug in his jaw, enjoying the taste of the tobacco. “Looks like biscuits and beans this morning.”

  “Yeah,” Rawley said. “We have that ever’ morning but you act surprised each time.”

  “I am,” Chaw said. “I figger one o’ these days that damn cook is gonna serve up something differ’nt.”

  “Yeah? What do you think it might be?” Rawley asked. “Beans and biscuits ’stead o’ biscuits and beans?” He pulled his pocket watch and looked at it. “It’ll be time to get the rest o’ the boys up in another fifteen minutes.”

  Chaw took a deep breath. “This is the life, ain’t it, Rawley? Away out here in all this clean, fresh air far from some damn stifling town and all the unagreeable folks that live in it.” He pointed outward. “Just take a look at this beautiful range country.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Rawley said. “I’d rather we was in the town o’ Benton so’s I could go down to the Blue Bird Cafe for a good breakfast. It’d taste a hell of a lot better’n them damn beans.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Chaw said. “Food outside is always better ’cause the fresh air gives you an appetite. Anyhow, I reckon you’d prefer to be tasting Miss Nancy’s cooking than eat in the best restaurant in Dallas.”

  “Miss Nancy does a good job on a meal,” Rawley said. “Even a damn fool would appreciate that.”

  “Well, you’re a damn fool so you sure as hell oughta know,” Chaw said.

  “Now what do you mean by that?”

  “You had a chance to leave here and you didn’t take it. We was all ready to quit yesterday morning, but you talked us into staying on.”

  “We owe it to Zeb Hawkins,” Rawley insisted.

  Chaw laughed aloud. “You wanted to stay on at the Circle H Bar on account o’ Miss Nancy. And I don’t mean just her cooking neither! Now why don’t you own up to it?”

  Rawley grinned in spite of himself. “Now I’ll admit she might’ve had a little to do with it.”

  “A little?” Chaw asked laughing again.

  “Just shut up,” Rawley said. “C’mon. Let’s ride on over to the camp and get ever’body up. If it’s beans I got to eat, then I want to get it over with as quick as possible.”

  They rode down to where the other cowboys were wrapped in their blankets. The drovers slept deeply and soundly, as all men do after going to bed following a long, hard day of physical labor.

  The cook, stirring his pot by the wagon, looked over at Rawley and Chaw. “Hey,” he said. “Hold up waking them fellers. These beans need a little more cooking.”

  “I doubt if that’d help ’em any,” Rawley said.

  “Beans is special!” the cook said. “You got to be damn sure ever’ time—”

  The bullet hit him in the chest, spinning him around and flinging him against the chuck wagon. He bounced off the vehicle, staggering forward, then pitched over dead, hitting the tripod of limbs that held his precious beans over the fire. The cook and his food hit the dirt together.

  Rawley and Chaw, still in the saddle, leaped to the ground dragging their carbines with them. More shots splattered into the area. Now working on naked instinct and fear, the rest of the crew had rolled out of their covers. Grabbing their shooting irons, the cowboys fired back in the direction of the incoming bullets.

  A group of masked men showed up on the rise to the west of the camp. They turned toward the cowboys and charged down. The drovers turned their guns on them, but more shooting sounded from the north. Another group of the hooded plunderers now came in from that direction.

  The camp was caught in a deadly crossfire.

  “Get to cover!” Rawley shouted.

  The men dove behind anything handy—saddles, bushes, even the chuck wagon—and wasted no time in returning the fire. But the attackers quickly turned off and galloped away.

  Others charged in from the south.

  One of the Double Box drovers, squatting in the open, was knocked over by a bullet as if a horse had kicked him in the chest. Dying but game, he managed to roll over and get to his knees before falling on his face.

  Rawley sized up the situation fast. As an experienced gunfighter, he’d done it all with shooting irons, from an individual showdown to pitched battles on streets and in wide-open country. The raiders were using Indian tactics, hitting at various spots from different angles until they found a weak point to exploit. Rawley damn well knew the best way to handle a situation like that. Don’t have any weak points to exploit.

  “Hey!” he yelled at the drovers under the chuck wagon. “You want to die there? Get over to the remuda and get saddled up. Me and Chaw can cover these little attacks. And make it pronto!” He knew the small probes were bound to grow larger soon as the attack progressed.

  The next assault came from the east on the other side of the arroyo. It would have been impossible for the attackers to cross the gully and charge into the camp, but they peppered the area with several heavy fusillades.

  Rawley, picking out one depredator in a large Mexican sombrero, dropped to his knee and took a careful aim. The pull on his carbine trigger was smooth and steady. The weapon kicked back into his shoulder, and the bullet streaked across the open space and smacked straight into the man’s face. He was lifted from the saddle and dumped into a heap on the ground. Rawley quickly picked another target, and sent the unfortunate freebooter tumbling into the dust. Now Chaw was firing as quickly and methodically. The bushwhackers wisely pulled back and galloped out of range.

  More masked attackers, yelling and firing, came from the west once again. They galloped in closer than before, their ill-aimed but numerous volleys slapping through the area of the cowboy camp.

  By then the drovers had saddles across their horses. Sensing that Rawley was in charge, they waited to hear his voice. “Mount up!” Rawley ordered. He pointed to two cowboys near him. “Watch the cattle and keep ’em in the arroyo!” Then he leaped onto his horse and quickly spurred it into a run.

  Chaw followed his example, and he was the closest to the impromptu leader as the whole crowd pounded from the camp limits and headed straight at the spoilers.

  The gunfire built up into a continuous roar. Two more of the invaders pitched off their mounts and one cowboy went to the ground as the embattled groups closed in. The bushwhackers wisely pulled away as the cowboys came closer. As hired guns, they had no desire to die unnecessarily. The drovers, on the other hand, had a proud, traditional loyalty to their outfits that drove them on into the attack. The code under which they lived and worked demanded loyalty to the ranch straight to the point of death itself if necessary.

  When Rawley was convinced, they’d driven that particular bunch off, he wheeled his horse to look for another group. It took only a moment before the northern band of outlaws came over the horizon in that direction.

  “Hee-yah!” Rawley Pierson bellowed as he led the next attack.

  The drovers, wild with excitement now and beginning to feel invincible, quickly galloped after Rawley and Chaw, following the two ex-star-packers’ example. The heavier barks of carbine fire intermingled with pistol shots as the charge continued.

 
This group of attacking outlaws was more stubborn than their other pals. They continued on into the violent onslaught, their own firing doubling as the battlers drew closer across the wide expanse of the Diablos Range. Soon the thundering hooves of all the fighters intermingled to compete with the sound of gunplay.

  Duane Wheeler went down as his horse was hit. Flung outward, he flailed in the air until he crashed heavily onto the Texas earth, rolling and bouncing. But he came up on his feet shouting in anger.

  His pard Jim Pauley pulled up alongside him. “You hurt, Duane?”

  “Just my damn pride!” Duane yelled back. “Wait there a minute.” He searched around until he found his carbine. Then, holding onto the Winchester, he scrambled up behind Jim. “Let’s go on now!”

  The pair, now going slower than the others, nevertheless pushed on to get back into the fight.

  The determined cowboys finally broke the spirit of the masked men, who quickly broke away, their formation disintegrating into individuals fleeing for safety. Rawley looked back and saw Chaw close by. He pointed to a pair of the bushwhackers. “Let’s get ’em!”

  “I’m coming!” Chaw shouted back.

  The rest of the drovers also took up individual pursuits. The exceptions were Duane Wheeler and Jim Pauley, riding double, who wisely left the fray to return to the relative safety of the camp. Two men on a horse not only moved slower than hell, but they made a real good target for even a careless shooter.

  The two outlaws being chased by Rawley and Chaw rode like hell for a mile before they eased up a bit. But when they noted they were being chased, they spurred their horses to once again begin a mad dash across the wide expanse of Diablos.

  Rawley and Chaw, displaying a tenacity built up from their careers as lawmen, pressed on in pursuit. With pistols holstered and carbines in the saddle boots, the pair concentrated only on closing in on their quarry. Now and them however, they glanced around to make sure no nasty surprises would be sprung on them from other masked outlaws.