The Breckenridge Boys

by Carlton Stowers

  * * *

  * * *

  ONE EARLY MORNING, Lonnie saw a lazy trail of white smoke rising above a distant tree line. “Might be folks living nearby,” he said, “but I ain’t seen no fences.”

  “Lot of this country is still open range,” Jonesy explained. “Settlers can’t afford fencing or just ain’t inclined, being as they’re so isolated. I’d suggest we detour in that direction and see if those folks might have some hay or grain we can purchase for our horses.”

  As they approached the adobe-and-cedar-log house, chickens scattered and a dog rushed out to greet them. His bark was friendly.

  “Hello the house,” Clay called out.

  An elderly man with a tangled beard and shoulder-length hair appeared on the front porch. He was frail, dressed in overalls, and pointing a shotgun in their direction. The dog had been far more welcoming.

  “State your cause for being on my property,” he said.

  “We’re traveling west and wondered if you might be willing to part with some feed for our horses,” Clay said. “They’re getting a tad weary of nothing but prairie grass and bush berries.”

  “Won’t be free.”

  “We’d expect to pay a fair price.”

  “Then climb on down.” He leaned his shotgun against the outside wall as his wife appeared in the doorway.

  “I’ve got leftover pear pie you boys are welcome to,” she said.

  The interior of the house was clean but spare: just two rooms and little furniture—a kitchen with a stove, a table, and two wooden chairs; the other room was filled by a rock fireplace and a bed. The only thing adorning the wall was a small mirror.

  As his wife placed a plate of pie and a glass of milk in front of Lonnie, Nester Callaway was apologizing to his guests. “We’re not normally lacking in hospitality,” he said, “but these have been hard times of late. Causes a fella to have suspicions of everybody.”

  Two nights earlier, rustlers had also visited his place. “They made off with the whole herd, even the new calves. Wasn’t but ten cows and a breeding bull, but they were all we had.” He explained that he and his wife had come to Texas from southern Missouri where he’d worked as a sharecropper. They had staked their small claim in this isolated region and used their savings to buy a few head of cattle.

  “All I got left now is two stubborn mules and a milk cow. My days of being a cattleman are past. Now either I farm us a living or we go back to planting cotton in Missouri.”

  The tired look of defeat on their host’s face distressed Breckenridge and Pate. “Your story is similar to others we’ve been hearing during our traveling,” Jonesy said.

  “How far from the river is your place?” Clay asked.

  “A shade over a mile,” Callaway said. “I wanted to be close enough for hauling water and far enough away in case of flooding.”

  “Shallow enough to drive cattle across?”

  “No more than knee-deep, bank to bank.” Callaway changed the subject. “You folks didn’t stop in to hear about my woes,” he said. “Let me go out to the barn and see about some feed for your horses.”

  The men followed him, then lagged behind. “Just how quickly is it we’re needing to get to Tascosa?” Jonesy asked Clay when Callaway was out of earshot.

  “We got no deadline. Why?”

  “There’s probably not much chance, but I’m wondering if we might be able to find this old fella’s cattle. Maybe put a stop to this thieving that’s going on along the river.”

  “You saying we ought to take on a bunch of outlaw rustlers?”

  “Don’t seem anybody else is of a mind to. We brought them rifles for a purpose other than squirrel hunting, didn’t we?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I WOULDN’T WANT you fellows harmed on my account,” Callaway said. “What would be your plan?”

  “We don’t rightly have one,” Jonesy said, “aside from seeing if we can find where they forded the river and track where they headed once they got across. If they ain’t already sold your cows, maybe we can figure a way to steal them back. We’ll be gone only a few days, so if we could leave the boy here to help you with chores and look after our packhorse, we’d be obliged. He’ll not mind sleeping in the barn.”

  “My wife and me will be right happy for his company.”

  Locating where Callaway’s cattle had been driven across the Red River wasn’t difficult. Breckenridge and Pate had followed the trail of the herd from the pasture northward to the sandy bank, then picked it up on the north side. The flat, grassy landscape on the Texas side quickly changed to rolling hills and brushy valleys in Indian Territory. Soon, the thick vegetation made tracking more difficult.

  Throughout the day, Clay and Jonesy depended on occasional broken branches or trampled patches of grass to point the way.

  “They won’t drive the stock too far north before selling them off,” Pate said, breaking a lengthy silence. “Somewhere up this way, they’ve likely got a meet-up spot where they conduct their business.”

  “I’m wondering how long they have to wait for a buyer to come and take the cattle off their hands,” Clay said.

  “My bet is they got themselves a pretty well-organized operation. Somebody driving cattle up the Chisholm has a standing deal with these thieves. Old man Callaway’s stock will get mixed in with a larger herd and later cut out when they get up north to a sale.”

  The big question—what would their plan be once they caught up with the rustlers and Callaway’s cattle?—still lacked a satisfactory answer. “All I can guess right now,” Jonesy had said, “is that there’s likely to be some shooting.”

  Midmorning of their second day out, they crested a rise and saw riders in the distance. “Without glasses,” Clay said, “it’s hard to be sure, but it looks like there’s four of them. Don’t seem to be in too big a hurry.”

  “Most likely the folks coming to get the stolen cattle. Think we can follow them without getting seen?”

  “We can sure give it a try. But if they do see us,” Jonesy said, “I got a story I can tell about us heading north to avoid the Texas law.”

  “What is it we’re supposed to have done?”

  “Got near caught trying to rob us a bank. Funny thing is, we didn’t get no money for our troubles. The local sheriff and his men, they come before we got our robbing completed. I figure if we tell it that way, nobody’s gonna think we got money they can be thinking about stealing.”

  “And what if they’re not inclined to believe that hogwash?”

  “That’ll be when the shooting starts.”

  They followed at a safe distance until late in the day when the riders disappeared into the mouth of a box canyon. “That’s got to be where the cattle are being kept,” Clay said. “It’s unlikely they’ll be moving them tonight, so once it’s dark, we can sneak up to the top side of the canyon and see what we’re up against.”

  They waited until the half-moon was high, casting long shadows across the landscape. Leaving their horses behind, Clay and Jonesy quietly made their way up to the canyon rim. From their vantage point, they could see men huddled around two small campfires. Near one were the four men they had been trailing much of the day.

  Seated around the other fire were four others. Each had a blanket across his shoulders. They talked loudly and with considerable animation, well on their way to getting drunk.

  “They seem in high spirits,” said Jonesy.

  “Probably because they’ll soon be shed of the cows they stole and headed home.”

  At the back of the canyon, behind a makeshift fence that was nothing more than ropes strung from one tree to another, the cattle had settled in for the night. So, too, had the men’s horses, tethered nearby.

  “Whatever our plan’s going to be,” Jonesy said, “we’d best come up with it pretty soon. And while we’re at it, let’s hope they
are a cowardly bunch.”

  Clay nodded in agreement as he silently backed away from the canyon’s edge. “Our presence will be a bigger surprise if we wait till they’re sleeping,” he said.

  * * *

  * * *

  THE RUSTLERS HAD posted one guard at the mouth of the canyon. As Breckenridge and Pate crept near, they could see he was leaning against a boulder. They could also hear his loud snoring. Clay placed the cool barrel of his pistol against the man’s ear while Jonesy ripped away his bandanna and forced it into his mouth.

  As they tied the wide-eyed sentry to a nearby tree, Jonesy whispered into the rustler’s ear. “If standing guard is your main job,” he said, “I’d suggest you begin looking for another line of work—in the event we decide not to come back and shoot you dead.”

  Breckenridge cocked his pistol and moved its barrel to the man’s forehead. “I got questions that need answering with just a nod or shaking of the head,” he said. “No noise.

  “Are the men you were sitting with earlier the ones who stole the cattle?” The man nodded. “Ones who just arrived, are they here to buy the stock and take them away?” Another nod. “These folks friendly with each other?” The man indicated they weren’t just before Breckenridge slammed his pistol against the side of his head, knocking him unconscious.

  After sneaking to the campsite, Breckenridge shoved the barrel of his rifle against the bottom of a sleeping man’s foot.

  “What the . . . ?”

  “Just stay put where you are,” Clay said as he cocked his sidearm. Around him, the others were stirring. Pate was less subtle with his method of waking the others. He stood among them and fired several shots into the air.

  Dazed and drunk, two tried to get to their feet but quickly fell to their knees. One, suddenly sick to his stomach, began retching as Jonesy collected their weapons.

  “The way nobody gets himself shot,” Clay shouted, “is to do as you’re told so we can finish our business here as quickly as possible.” Turning toward the bewildered wranglers, he said, “Though we got no reservations about shooting you boys or knocking you in the head, it ain’t you we’ve got our problem with. If I was you, I’d get my horses saddled and take my leave fast as possible. Head back to where you come from and make up whatever story necessary to satisfy your boss.”

  As the men staggered in the direction of their nearby horses, Jonesy gave Clay an approving nod. “That nicely evens up the odds,” he said.

  Clay stuck the barrel of his pistol into the stomach of one of the rustlers. “I’ll need you to fetch a rope and tightly hog-tie your partners,” he said. “Then I’ll do the same to you. I want everybody layin’ facedown, breathing dirt.”

  The rustler gritted his teeth. “Not doin’ it,” he said.

  “Your choice,” Clay said, then shot him in the leg.

  With that, the hostility of the rustlers disappeared. They were all now sober, awake, and scared. “You boys are crazy,” one shouted.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Jonesy said.

  After everyone was tied up, he rebuilt one of the dying campfires, adding dried logs until a roaring blaze lit the canyon. That done, he made the rounds of where everyone had been sleeping, collecting their boots. Soon the ripe odor of burning leather filtered through the night.

  As the bewildered wranglers rode away, he gathered their firearms in a duffel bag, removed the hobbles from their horses, and slapped their hindquarters. “They won’t likely stray too far,” Pate said, “but rounding them up in sock feet and with a shot leg won’t be real easy.”

  “How long you think they’ll stay tied up?”

  “Long enough for us to get the cattle close to the river,” Pate said. He smiled at Clay. “Not bad work, considering we never had us a plan,” he said.

  * * *

  * * *

  EXCEPT FOR A few calves that occasionally strayed, driving the small herd was easy. It was near dusk by the time they had crossed the river and were nearing Callaway’s property.

  “Might not be a bad idea for you to ride on ahead and tell him we’re coming,” Jonesy said. “That way he’ll be less likely to start shooting at us.”

  Lonnie was the first to be aware of Breckenridge’s approach. Each evening after dinner he’d sat on the front porch, waiting for his friends to return. As soon as he recognized the approaching rider, he ran in his direction.

  “Alert Mr. Callaway we’re bringing his livestock,” Clay told the smiling youngster.

  While they were gone, Lonnie and Callaway had enlarged the corral to accommodate whatever cattle were returned. “From now on, I’ll drive them from the pasture up this way of an evening for feeding and safekeeping,” Callaway said. “Maybe having them closer to the house after dark will discourage someone from trying to steal them again.”

  Mrs. Callaway stepped onto the front porch to welcome Clay and Jonesy back and announce that she’d just put on a fresh pot of coffee. “Is there cause to worry that the rustlers might return?” she asked.

  “I reckon not,” said Pate. “At least not until they can find themselves proper new footwear and figure where at the bottom of the Red River their firearms might be.”

  When Breckenridge described Pate’s burning of the rustlers’ boots, Lonnie laughed for the first time since they had known him.

  * * *

  * * *

  LONG AFTER THE men had the cattle down for the night and the horses tended, they sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and eating biscuits as Jonesy provided details of the trip north.

  “And there wasn’t a single person got killed?” Callaway said, shaking his head in amazement.

  “Truth of the matter is,” said Jonesy, “as outlaws go, these boys weren’t much, really. I ain’t suggesting we convinced them to come to Jesus, but I expect they’ll not be bothering cattlemen in this neck of the woods for a spell.”

  “I just want you fellows to know how much I appreciate what you’ve done,” Nester said. “When is it you plan to be on your way west?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Breckenridge said.

  “Not before my wife cooks breakfast. She’s planning on it.”

  Lonnie rose and started clearing the table. “I’ve got us blankets laid out in the barn,” he told Clay and Jonesy.

  With Clay carrying a lantern, the three men made their way toward a welcome night’s sleep. “Boy, we missed you being around,” Jonesy said as he laid an arm across Lonnie’s shoulders. “But it sounds like you made Mr. Callaway a right good hand in our absence.”

  They were at the doorway to the barn when Lonnie responded, “I know you’re tired and wishing to sleep,” he said, “but I was wondering if we might have a brief conversation.”

  Clay nodded. “What’s on your mind?”

  “As you’re no doubt aware, having been in his presence, Mr. Callaway is not in good health. He tires easily and has trouble with his breathing at times. I’ve been trying to help where I could, though he’s not ever asked for it.

  “What I’ve been thinking is this: Unless there’s something I can contribute to your business up on the high plains, maybe it would be a better idea for me to stay here and help Mr. Callaway while you’re gone. I’ve done suggested it to Mrs. Callaway, and she says I’d be welcome. I think he’d be warm to the idea as well. Then, when you’re done with your business and headed back this way, maybe we can do some talking and you can give me some ideas as to what I’ll be needing to do with myself.”

  “Sounds like you’ve thought out a fine plan,” Jonesy said. “Let’s discuss it with Nester in the morning.”

  * * *

  * * *

  MRS. CALLAWAY WAS up before dawn, laying in a fire and cooking. By the time her husband and Lonnie had turned the cattle out of the corral and headed them toward the pasture, Breckenridge and Pate were ready to leave. From the cabin ca
me the mixed smells of eggs, fresh bread, and redeye gravy. She had prepared so much food that there wasn’t room enough for all of it on the table. Bowls and platters covered the top of her stove.

  As they ate, they discussed the idea of Lonnie remaining to lend a hand for a while. “He’ll be welcome and well cared for,” Nester said.

  “And fed properly,” Mrs. Callaway added.

  She and her husband stood on the porch to allow the visitors to say their goodbyes to Lonnie.

  “Can’t promise how quickly we’ll be back,” Clay said, “so don’t fret if you don’t see us for a bit. Just keep us in your thoughts, and we’ll do the same for you folks.”

  Jonesy reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a pistol. “When I was drowning all them outlaws’ sidearms in the river,” he said, “I decided I’d keep this Colt dry. Thought maybe it was time you had one to call your own.”

  Lonnie’s eyes danced as he took the pistol, turning it over and over in his hands before placing it in the waistband of his britches.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AFTER TWO DAYS’ hard riding, Breckenridge and Pate reached the Texas High Plains. On the third day, Tascosa came into view. They had left the basin of the Red River and traveled west across the flat and windswept countryside. They passed a few sheep ranches, and their horses occasionally shied as tumbleweeds blew across their path. The late-day sky as far as the riders could see was filled with red dust.

  “Don’t look like the Good Lord wasted much time creating this part of the world,” Jonesy observed.

  The scenery didn’t improve much as they reached the outskirts of town. There were a half dozen adobe structures crowded together, all facing the lone street that ran through the makeshift community. The only wooden structure was a stable with several rows of tents behind it. Like Eagle Flat, Tascosa seemed to have a single purpose. Cattle drivers, looking for a less congested route north to Dodge City, had begun coming this way. The need for a resting place where chuck wagons could be restocked, tired horses could be fed and shod, and cowboys could find whiskey, hot baths, and poker games had given birth to the village.