Lonnie grinned. “I ain’t never rode with a saddle anyway.”
CHAPTER FOUR
EVEN FOR THE travel weary, Eagle Flat offered little to get excited about. A week into their trip, it suddenly appeared on the treeless high-grass plains. Just a mile south of the river, it gave the impression of having been constructed hurriedly and with scant forethought. It was little more than a way-stop for cattle herders headed north.
At one end of town were the livery and a corral. Out front, the tools of the local blacksmith were displayed. Down its single street were a saloon, a general store, and a tent with a sign in front that promised groceries were sold inside. Next to it was a smaller sign pointing to another tent where barbering, baths, and laundry were available.
For Clay, Jonesy, and Lonnie, the most welcome sight was Sally’s Café, located opposite the grocery.
“I’ll eat anything they got that don’t have the taste of woodsmoke to it,” Jonesy said.
It was early in the afternoon when the three entered the small clapboard building and saw that all four of its tables were empty. “All’s left is the venison stew, boiled cabbage, some beans, and a half pan of corn bread,” the cook said, “and I might scare up some blackberry cobbler and coffee to go with it. You fellas are welcome to take a seat. Don’t recollect seeing you in here before. Name’s Sally. I’m owner, cook, and dishwasher. Occasionally, I sweep the floor if it needs it.”
The response was a momentary silence. Jonesy removed his hat and dusted it against his leg. Clay did the same while young Lonnie stood motionless, hands buried in the pockets of his britches.
Clearly, none were expecting Sally to be a man. He stood six feet, was broad shouldered, had a flaming-red beard, and a booming laugh he burst into at the surprised looks on the faces of his customers.
“Real name’s Salvador Santos, only Meskin living in Eagle Flat,” he said. “Picked up the nickname when I was doing cooking during the war and it just stuck.” He pointed at Clay’s Confederate holster. “I see we fought on the same side.”
* * *
* * *
AFTER SERVING LONNIE a second helping of the cobbler and refilling everyone’s coffee cup, Sally removed his apron and pulled up a chair. “Don’t look like you’re herding cattle,” he said, “and you folks don’t seem crazy enough to be thinking about settling here.”
“We’re looking for somebody,” Clay said.
“Who might that be?”
“Truthfully, we ain’t sure since we got no name. All we know is it’s a rancher and his wife. The wife might be a relation of the boy here.”
Sally shook his head. “That ain’t much to go on, is it? Most everyone who lives here permanent owns a small cattle ranch—everybody trying to improve his lot on the stake he claimed. I reckon there’s a couple of dozen folks around here fitting your description.”
“Looks like we’ll be visiting a good many strangers, then,” Jonesy said, shaking his head.
Sally promised to see if any of his customers could be of help.
* * *
* * *
BACK IN THE muddy street, Jonesy rubbed his stomach. “Now that we’ve got our bellies full,” he said, “I’m thinking our mounts might enjoy a visit to the livery for some oats and a bed of clean straw to rest on for the night. They might even allow us to bed down with them.”
“I’d like that,” Lonnie said.
From inside the semidark of the stable, owner Sam Dunham called out as they approached. “Thank the Lord Almighty,” he said. “My prayer’s done been answered. Please tell me you’re the handsome, rich strangers who have come to buy this woebegone place and take it off my hands.”
Clay and Jonesy laughed. “Afraid not,” Breckenridge said. “Best we can do is payment for a night’s lodging for us and our animals.”
“Aw, I figured as much,” Durham said. “Just so you know, I also do blacksmithing and doctor animals. In my spare time, I’d probably consider robbing the bank if we had us one.” From an oversized chaw that caused one side of his mouth to bulge, he spit an amber-colored stream of tobacco.
Jonesy leaned toward Clay and whispered, “Is it just me, or don’t it seem folks here ain’t quite got their wagons fully loaded?”
“I gotta say they’ve been right interesting so far.”
The livery owner, despite being on a first-name basis with every rancher in the area, was no more help than Sally after they described the nameless people they were hoping to find. Maybe, he suggested, someone visiting the saloon later might be able to provide them some information.
“Aside from when there’s a cattle drive coming through, most everybody who comes in for a drink or two is either a local rancher or somebody who works for one,” he said. “Wouldn’t even surprise me if the man you’re looking for is there.”
Sally was sitting at the makeshift bar when they arrived and waved them over. “I see you fellas are taking in all the sights of our fair town,” he said. “Based on the limited information you passed along, I asked a few folks about it but learned nothing useful.”
“How many ranchers you say are in these parts?”
Sally had been giving it more thought. “Since we spoke earlier,” he said, “I’ve been attempting to count up in my head. My best guess is twelve or fourteen. There’s some that come and go. See, what we’ve had here since folks started settling this country are those with small claims and small herds. Of course, everybody’s hoping to get bigger in time, but it ain’t happened yet.”
The community of Eagle Flat, in fact, had enjoyed more prosperity than most of the outlying ranches. A city council had recently been formed, and there were plans to soon start building a hotel. There was even talk of a school and a church and the need for a town marshal.
The growth came from the decision on the part of more and more cattle drivers to bypass the larger northward trails like the Chisholm and bring their smaller herds through the less congested grasslands. Eagle Flat was an ideal place to stop for food, drink, and supplies before heading across the Red River.
Two men who had been seated at one of the tables in back of the saloon approached just as Sally was completing his description of the community’s promising future. Both walked unsteadily, attempting to focus glares on Clay and Jonesy.
Before Sally could make introductions, the elder of the two spoke. “We were wondering what your business might be here,” he said. “Ain’t no cattle being moved through at present. That kind of visitor aside, we don’t get too many strangers passing through.”
Sally again tried to introduce Clay and Jonesy but was cut short. “Don’t reckon you boys got any knowledge about the rustling that occurred last night,” the owner said.
Jonesy stood. “If you’re suggesting we’re here to steal cattle,” he said, “you cannot only rest assured that ain’t the case, but be aware I strongly resent your thinking. Seems to me you’ve had way too much whiskey.”
The accuser swung wildly at Jonesy before Clay quickly grabbed him and pinned him, facedown, against the bar. Clay was surprised at the swiftness with which he’d removed his pistol from its holster. “Don’t know where your homes might be,” he said, “but I think it’s time you go looking for ’em. Go on. Git.”
As the two drunken ranchers were escorted from the saloon, a group of card players left their table to approach. “It ain’t our nature to be unfriendly to folks,” one said. “We’re hoping you’ll overlook the disrespect showed and allow us to buy you a drink. The fella who confronted you is going through a rough spell. I’ve known him ever since he settled in these parts, and tonight’s the first time I’ve ever seen him drunk. He was the one whose cattle got stolen last night. And that come only days after his wife passed. He was in town today to arrange her burying.”
Clay and Jonesy looked at each other. “This fellow, he come out this way from back in East Texas?” said
Clay.
“That’s my best recollection.”
“And his name?”
“Abraham Silverton.”
“And the name of his deceased wife?”
“Her name was Charlene. A mighty nice lady.”
Clay nodded. “You think there’s any chance of our going out to speak with him sober without us getting our heads shot off?”
Sally stepped forward. “I’m acquainted with Abe,” he said. “Let me get my breakfast folks fed in the morning. Then I’ll take you out to his place. I assure you, there’ll be no shooting.”
* * *
* * *
THEY HAD SOME reservation as they made the morning ride to see Abe Silverton, but all tension vanished immediately when he appeared in the doorway to his barn.
“You boys step down and let me try apologizing for my drunken behavior,” he said. He was rubbing the bruise on his forehead. “Guess I rightfully deserve this knot on my head.”
Clay and Jonesy smiled while Sally nodded approvingly. Lonnie wasn’t sure what the rancher was talking about and sat silently on his horse. It was Clay who brought him into the conversation. Pointing in the boy’s direction, he said, “This youngster is our reason for being here.”
Abe nodded toward Lonnie. “Welcome to Silverton Ranch,” he said. “What’s left of it.”
The visitors dismounted and shook hands with Silverton. “We’ve been told of the misfortune you’ve recently experienced,” Clay said. “We’re particularly sorry about the passing of your wife. It was her we were hoping to speak with.”
When Silverton gave them a puzzled look, they explained about the recent flood and Lonnie’s recollection that his mother had mentioned a cousin living out this way.
“And your ma’s name?”
Lonnie spoke for the first time. “She was called Loretta.”
Silverton nodded. “Name Loretta’s familiar,” he said. “I recollect my wife speaking of knowing her when they were young girls playing with dolls and such. Even after my wife’s folks moved away from . . . I can’t recollect the name of the little town. . . .”
“Lawrence,” Lonnie suggested.
“That’s it, Lawrence. Strange name for a town if you ask me. Anyway, as I understand it, they continued to see one another from time to time, at family get-togethers, funerals, weddings, things of that nature. After we settled out this way, I recollect my Charlene saying she was going to mail your ma a letter to advise her where she was.”
“Ma was wanting to come for a visit,” Lonnie explained.
“I’m right sorry she wasn’t able to make it,” Silverton said.
“What we were hoping to discuss with her was the possibility of there being any more kin she might be aware of,” Jonesy said.
Abe shook his head. “None I ever heard of. I reckon that puts you folks in something of a fix.”
As he spoke, one of his hands emerged from the barn, leading a horse pulling a wagon loaded with tools, cedar posts, and a roll of barbed wire.
“Got to do some repairing down in the back pasture where my cows was taken. Thieves made off with twenty or thirty head.”
Aware there were no answers to their problem on the Silverton ranch, Breckenridge and Pate said their farewells and prepared to leave.
“You folks still got a lot of traveling ahead?” Silverton said.
“Headed up onto the high plains,” Breckenridge replied.
Silverton looked at Lonnie. “Give us a minute before you head back to town.” He waved Lonnie to follow him to the barn. Shortly, the youngster emerged, smiling, as he sat in a saddle atop Maizy.
“It was my wife’s,” Silverton said. “I expect she’d be pleased knowing it’s being put to good use.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THOUGH THE SUN was not yet up, the aroma of brewing coffee and frying pork already wafted from Sally’s Café. Having settled their account at the livery, Clay, Jonesy, and Lonnie tied their horses to the hitching posts out front. They were planning on breakfast and an early getaway.
While Lonnie had been inside the livery the previous evening, cleaning his saddle with an oil rag Sam Dunham loaned him, Clay and Jonesy sat outside, enjoying the warmth of the spring night and discussing what they should do about their young friend.
“Ain’t like we’re eaten up with good options,” Pate said.
Breckenridge agreed. They couldn’t simply ride away, leaving Lonnie to fend for himself. On the other hand, there was no way to assure his safety if they allowed him to accompany them on the potentially dangerous mission they had in mind.
“He’s got a good head on his shoulders and will do as he’s told,” Clay said. “We’ll just have to do all we can to see the boy’s protected from harm.”
“All things considered,” Jonesy said, “I enjoy the youngster’s company.”
“Me, too.”
* * *
* * *
SALLY WAITED UNTIL they had almost completed their meal before he took a seat at their table. He placed a bandanna wrapped around a dozen still-warm biscuits in front of Pate. “Don’t want you folks getting hungry on the trail,” he said. “I hope once you’re done with your traveling and headed back home you’ll remember to stop here at Eagle Flat for a visit.”
He then reached over and ruffled Lonnie’s unruly red hair. “Boy, you be sure and watch out for bad men and rattlesnakes,” he said.
* * *
* * *
THE DAY WARMED quickly once the sun was up, and they rode in single file along the bank of the river. Clay, bringing up the rear, watched Lonnie thoughtfully, trying with little success to put himself in the boy’s situation.
His thoughts drifted to the time when he was Lonnie’s age. Life growing up on the farm had been good for him and his younger brother. Their parents had expected them to do their part of the work but also realized the importance of boyhood fun. On summer days, Clay and Cal fished and swam in the creek that wound through the Breckenridge place. They hunted squirrel and rabbit and turkeys and felt a special pride when their mother would prepare a meal from what they brought home.
It seemed there was always a pie or cobbler cooling on the windowsill above the kitchen sink.
Even when Cal became increasingly rebellious, getting into fights at school, arguing with their father, and talking of running away from home, the good times outweighed the bad. At Lonnie’s age, Clay had felt safe, loved, and happy.
His reflection was interrupted when he heard Jonesy call out, “Whoa. What do we have here?”
The answer to his question was easy. At the mouth of a ravine was what had obviously been a campsite. There were several cold firepits, and debris was scattered about. The ground beneath a nearby stand of trees where horses had been tethered was stomped bare and hard. There were burned-out torches and a stench of rotted food.
Pate and Breckenridge dismounted and slowly walked the abandoned encampment. “Had to been at least a half dozen of them,” Pate said, “and they weren’t Indians.”
“A gang of night rustlers be my guess,” Clay said. “If I was a betting man, I’d wager the folks who was camping here are the same ones who stole Abe Silverton’s cows the other night.”
Jonesy nodded in agreement.
“You know,” said Clay, “that morning I went into town to speak with Marshal Rankin about Cal, he’d just got back from looking into a cattle rustling. Reckon it could be the same folks?”
He had heard tales of such thievery while in the service. Not all men fighting for the pride and honor of the South were upstanding, law-abiding citizens. Around late-night campfires, some would brag of stealing cattle. To hear them talk, it was a simple, low-risk crime.
“Most ranchers, particularly the small ones, don’t bother having hands ride fences of a night,” one slightly drunk private had explained. “So you pick yourselves a mo
onless evening, bust a hole in the fence, and drive twenty or thirty head out. Long before first light, you’re across the Red River into Indian Territory. There, you meet up with some trail driver who ain’t particular whose cattle he’s moving. Before he gets to where the herd’s gonna be sold, he cuts out those that was stole and sells them separate, earning himself a nice profit. Sometimes, Indians living on reservations in the Territory will meet you just as you cross the river and buy every cow with government money they’ve been given. They’ll take them back to the tribes and sell them off for food. Everybody’s happy as a pig in slop—except for the rancher whose stock got stolen in the first place.”
After Clay shared his story, Jonesy felt good about having his own hands patrol the fence line of his place. “You figure that’s what happened with Silverton’s cattle?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
Clay didn’t mention his concern that his brother had always seemed unusually interested in the campfire rustling stories before his decision to desert.
* * *
* * *
AS THE DAYS and miles passed, Lonnie was increasingly inclined to join into conversations, even occasionally instigating them. He continued to avoid talking of his parents but expressed great interest in his new surroundings and the purpose of the trip they were taking. Clay and Jonesy were glad to explain the geography, the animal and plant life, but remained elusive about where they were headed and why.
The youngster also had a knack for cooking. When they stopped to rest the horses at midday, he would take one of the rifles and hunt squirrels or rabbits to fry in lard for the evening meal. In the mornings, he had coffee brewing and biscuits warming even before the others were awake. He also saw to it that the horses were well cared for.
The Breckenridge Boys Page 3
