By noon, he had stocked his saddlebags with provisions and was off on another scouting trip.
Bootsy stood beside Darby, watching as Wilson disappeared up the canyon trail. “Seen you riding away yesterday,” he said.
“Yep,” Will replied, “I decided on attending Sunday singing.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IN THE MOONLIGHT, the ramshackle ranch house looked just as Top Wilson had described it. Built of sod and timbers, it listed to one side and rocks had begun to fall away from the chimney. The outbuildings had seen better days. What little fencing there was hadn’t had proper upkeep in some time. It was easy to count the number of cattle lying in a group at one end of the pasture. There were only eighteen.
From their hillside vantage point, Darby stared silently at the scene. These are dirt-poor folks, barely getting by, he thought, and we’re here to rob them of all hope for any kind of future.
“Don’t hardly seem worth the trip,” one of the rustlers said. “Won’t be long before Top has us riding plumb down to the Rio Grande or back over into East Texas. Guess we’ve about cleaned out all the close-by places. At least this’ll be easy.”
And it was, until two loud shotgun blasts erupted from the front porch of the house. The owner and his son had been roused by the noise of their herd being driven away.
Though already a safe distance away, well out of range of any buckshot aimed in their direction, one of the rustlers reined his horse to a stop and pulled his Winchester from its sheath. Turning toward the house, he fired a series of rapid shots.
There was a distant yell, and one of the men dropped his shotgun and slumped against the porch railing.
“Teach them to go shooting at me,” the rustler said as he joined the others moving the cattle.
Will felt a knot swell in his stomach, then thought he was going to be sick. “There was no cause for that,” he shouted as the proud gunman rode past.
“Somebody shoots at me,” he replied, “he’s going to get shooting in return.”
It was that moment, like a vision, that Will Darby knew he needed to get out of the cattle-rustling business. Stealing was one thing. Bloodthirst for no good reason was another. It troubled him that no one had even seemed curious whether the rancher had been killed or just wounded. It was just part of doing business.
Darby suddenly felt hopelessly trapped. He’d left everything behind for his independence, and all it had provided was a growing feeling of regret and guilt. When, after writing that one letter home almost two years earlier, he’d received a response from his brother urging him to return and visit his ailing father while there was still time, he’d stubbornly chosen to ignore Clay’s plea. It now weighed on him. He missed his pa and the company of his brother and found himself thinking about them often.
It was not only people he’d left behind, he’d come to realize. It was a place, a peaceful little East Texas farm that had been replaced by a canyon filled with outlaws and no-accounts.
He tried to talk with Bootsy about his feelings after they’d returned but got no comfort. “Thing you gotta realize,” his friend said, “is that everybody here has shot and killed his fair share of men, be it in the war or in other less justified times. Me included. That’s the way this going-to-Hades life is. I got one word of warning you’ll do well to think on. The true fact of the matter is this life’s far easier to get into than to escape from.”
The only rays of brightness Will found himself clinging to were his thoughts of Jennie Broder. He’d seen her several times since escorting her home, visiting the farm on a couple of occasions to sit on the front porch and talk, and saying hello in her grandpa’s store.
He had no idea how she felt about him, but he had no doubt that she’d found her way into his heart. His spirits had soared when she invited him to Sunday dinner. When he briefly hesitated, she laughed. “Not to worry,” she said. “Papa has promised he’ll not shoot you so long as you display proper table manners and use no foul language.”
* * *
* * *
CYRUS BRODER SAID little during the meal, content to listen as his daughter and her gentleman caller enjoyed each other’s company. It was when Jennie was in the kitchen, doing dishes, that he and Will spoke.
Broder had obviously given careful thought to what he wished to say. “I’ve got great admiration for my girl’s good judgment,” he said. “That’s to the credit of her mama, God rest her soul. I don’t know if Jennie’s said so, but it’s clear to me she has feelings for you. You know, you’re the first man ever invited to sit at our dinner table.”
He chuckled and added, “Fact is, you’re the first I ain’t considered taking my shotgun to.”
He quickly turned serious again. “From what I’ve observed, you seem a good man. What you done to protect my daughter a while back set well with me. My concern is the manner in which you earn your living. I’ll be honest and say I’ve got no use for Ben Baggett, though I’ve never had occasion to meet him. But you hear things—about his lacking good character and his unlawful doings. That you’re on his payroll is highly troubling to me, and I can’t shed that worry.”
Will was at a loss for a response. Finally, he said, “I ain’t proud of what I got into when I signed on with him. And I’m planning to soon remedy that mistake.” He paused, then added, “Much of that decision is on account of your daughter.”
* * *
* * *
THE DAY HAD begun to cool as they walked along a pathway leading to a hillside on the edge of Jennie’s daddy’s farm. Will praised her cooking and the affection her father obviously felt for her.
“He’s proud of this place, you know,” she said, looking out on the greening landscape. “Loves it with all his heart and soul.”
“And rightfully so. It brings to mind my own homeplace. I wanted to tell you we had ourselves a conversation while you were cleaning up in the kitchen.”
“I take it he didn’t order you to get on your horse and be gone,” she said.
“He was expressing concern about me working for Ben Baggett,” Darby said. Though she had never broached the subject, he knew it troubled her as well.
Will took her hand. “He’s right, you know. I’ve done things in my life that I’ve got no cause to feel proud about. I’ve done a lot of acting before thinking, things I’d prefer we not discuss. But, like I told your daddy, I’m of a mind to mend my ways as best I can, starting with parting ways with Baggett and his sorry bunch.”
Jennie rose to her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “And what is it you plan on doing thereafter?”
“I reckon I’ll go home and help my brother tend the farm, if he’ll have me. I’d lost sight of the beauty there. Come spring, it gets so green it’ll hurt your eye. There’s clear streams for fishing and woods for hunting. Folks back home do their Sunday singing in a real church.”
They began walking again, now hand in hand, as he continued to describe the little town of Aberdene, its quiet ways and good people quick to extend a helping hand to their neighbors. He talked of Clay—“the good brother”—and their happy times together as young boys. “I’m of a mind there’s much I can still learn from him.”
“It sounds like a place I’d like to see one day,” she said as they turned toward the house.
As they approached the house, Jennie waved to her daddy sitting on the front porch, sipping a glass of sweet tea.
“You know,” Will said, “there’s good sometimes come outta bad. Had I not been hired by Baggett and come to these parts, I’d never have seen you—or got me a taste of your fine cooking.”
“In that case,” Jennie said, “I’d say good for your Mr. Baggett.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A COCKFIGHT HAD just ended, and the cook was removing gaffs from the loser’s spurs. “He’ll be the chicken with my dumplings tonight,” he said as he picked up the dead rooster. As
betting money exchanged hands, Ben Baggett was walking from his cabin toward the pavilion.
He’d called a meeting, and all hands were gathering. Walking at his side was Top Wilson.
“As you know, Top’s been on the trail for a good spell, riding both sides of the Red River. And he’s returned with news of a number of new herds and an agreement with trail drivers who say they’ll gladly purchase every head we can gather.
“This’ll be our biggest operation and will require more planning. There’ll be more miles of traveling, a need for more provisions, and more men. We’ll be sending out three groups of four this time. The payday’s gonna make you think Christmas done come early.”
A buzz rolled through the gathering. A few even applauded.
The men were unaware that Wilson, now smiling broadly, had been harshly scolded by the boss after the last raid when only eighteen underfed cattle had been stolen. His recent scouting trip had been motivated by the urgent need to return to Ben’s good graces.
Baggett pulled a paper from his shirt pocket and read the list of those picked for the three groups. Will Darby’s name was on it.
“I hope the wages are what he’s promising,” he said as he and Bootsy walked from the meeting.
Disappointed that his name hadn’t been called, Bootsy kicked at the dirt. “Whatever it’ll be, none will find its way into my pockets. I’d give my left eye—if I still had it—to be making that ride.”
“It’ll be my last one,” Will said.
“Why’s that?”
“I’m just weary of not feeling right about what it is we do. This payday and what I’ve got saved will be my moving-on money.”
Bootsy shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t be expecting no parade when you take your leave,” he said. “I ain’t aware of many folks who quit on the old man without regret and a sizable amount of grief.”
Again, Will knew his friend was issuing a warning. “I’ll be so far gone once he knows it, he’ll not be able to do anything about it,” he said. “I’ve thought hard on it of late, and it’s the right thing for me to be doing.”
Bootsy finally smiled. “A woman figure into your thinking?”
Darby chose to ignore the question, but asked that their conversation be kept a secret.
* * *
* * *
THE MORNING THEY were to leave, the men rose before dawn for breakfast, then filled their saddlebags with still-warm biscuits, muffins, and cold-water corn bread. A packhorse had been loaded with canned goods, coffee, chewing tobacco, and surprise sacks of stick candy.
Baggett stood, watching as the men assembled. From the corral, Top Wilson came riding toward the gathering. “There’ll be no need for a map this trip,” the boss said. “He’ll be leading your way.”
They rode for three days, mostly along the northern bank of the river. There had been little conversation, even when they bedded down in the evenings. Will made a conscious effort to avoid Wilson.
After breaking camp on the fourth morning, Top led the men farther north into Indian Territory. Shortly before noon they approached a shallow valley where tepees were lined in carefully plotted rows. From a distance, they could see women tending small cooking fires while children played. The men sat in groups, watching youngsters run footraces.
Nearby, cattle roamed freely, grazing.
“Wasn’t ever no mention made of dealing with Injuns,” one of the cowboys said as he rode next to Wilson.
Top returned his spyglass to its case. “They’re Comanches who’ve fled the reservation,” he said. “Their herd has grown since I was last here, so I suspect they’re stealing on a regular basis. All we’ll be doing is taking back what don’t belong to them in the first place.”
“They’ll not likely give the cattle up without a fight.”
The leader ignored the observation.
Later, there was no campfire for brewing coffee or warming beans. The only plan Wilson had provided was that they would wait until deep night, then approach the herd from the back side and drive them toward the river. It was, he explained, his reason for keeping the three groups intact. “Once we’re done here,” he said, “we’ll split up and go our separate ways. But this one’s gonna require all hands.”
Darby approached the leader when he was alone. “You right sure you’ve thought this out?” he said. “You know there’s a good chance for bloodshed if we don’t get away quickly.”
“So be it,” Top said. “That’s what we’re carrying firearms for.”
“Was Mr. Baggett told of this plan?”
“All the boss wants is cattle rustled and money made. The details don’t worry him,” Top said. “Why, you feeling scared?”
Will slowly shook his head. “Stealing is one thing,” he said. “Risking more than makes good sense is something else altogether.”
“Feel free to turn tail and be on your way if it’s your choice,” Top said. “Wouldn’t surprise me none.”
For a fleeting moment, Darby considered doing just that. But a strange sense of loyalty to a group of men he hardly knew overruled the idea. If fighting did break out, every man would be needed.
He was through deserting.
* * *
* * *
LED BY WILSON, they made a wide single-file loop around the Comanche village. Across Top’s lap lay his Winchester. There was no moon, and clouds covered the stars, so the going was slow. Only when they were finally in place was the signal given to light the torches and begin moving the cattle.
In a matter of seconds, young braves were pouring from the tepees, rifles pointed in the direction of the rustlers. A shot whistled past Darby’s head as he slapped his rope against his thigh and yelled in an effort to get the cattle moving. Nearby, he heard a loud thud followed by a pained scream. A riderless horse ran past.
The herd began to move swiftly away from the camp. The Comanches hurried to their ponies and gave chase as the rustlers began returning fire. One of the pursuing ponies stopped and reared on its hind legs, then fell to the ground after being struck by a bullet. Its rider lay nearby, writhing in pain.
The chase finally ended when the cattle were herded across a shallow spot in the river. Top then ordered his men to form a line, take a knee, and begin firing on the approaching Comanches. “If you kill them every one, it won’t bother me,” he shouted.
The gunfight lasted only a few minutes before the Indians, short of ammunition, turned away.
When things quieted, the tired herd returned to the shallows to drink as Wilson raised his arms in celebration. Then he surveyed the damage. Two of the men had not made it across the river, likely shot dead or badly injured and now at the mercy of their captors. Another, a man named Rooster Glover, sat nearby, blood oozing from a hole in his shoulder. One horse limped badly from a bullet wound to his stomach and would have to be put down.
“Might near like being on the battlefield,” Wilson said. “There’s no use attempting to rescue those left behind on the other side of the river. We’ll just continue on shorthanded. It’s only a half day’s ride to where we’re to meet up with the buyers.”
He looked out on the resting cattle and started counting aloud. “The bossman will be pleased,” he said. “Mighty pleased.”
One of the others had bandaged Glover’s shoulder and was giving him water when Top approached. “I fear your involvement on this trip is done,” he said. “I’m sorry for your suffering. Reckon you can make it back to Palo Duro on your own?”
Rooster, feeling faint, nodded.
“Somebody help load up his saddlebag for him,” Wilson said. “Then we’ll be on our way before our savage friends decide to return.” He walked away and resumed counting the cattle.
Darby glared at him and whispered to no one in particular, “He’s gone crazier than an outhouse rat.”
* * *
* * *<
br />
BEN BAGGETT WAS returning from his cave hideaway, where he’d been checking on the strongbox that contained his fortune, when he saw the horse and rider slowly making their way into the compound. Moving closer, he saw that it was Glover, badly hurt and delirious, and called out to the cook for help.
They carried the wounded rider inside the nearest cabin and bathed his feverish face with cool towels. After peeling away the bloody bandage, the cook immediately began boiling water and disinfecting one of his kitchen knives. “We need to get the bullet out before more infection sets in,” he said. “He’s also badly in need of water.”
Rooster rolled his head and mumbled incoherently as the surgery was performed, whiskey was poured onto the wound, and a fresh bandage was taped in place.
It was hours before he regained consciousness and was able to speak.
“What was it caused this?” Baggett asked several times before getting a faint, rambling answer.
Glover described the raid on the Comanche village and the violence that had erupted. Two men and one good horse had died.
Baggett picked up a canteen and gave him another sip of water. “Was this foolheartedness Top Wilson’s doing? Is he responsible for gettin’ my men killed and you lying here shot?”
Rooster weakly nodded.
Baggett threw the canteen against the wall and cursed. When he finally calmed down, he leaned close to Rooster again. “Were they able to get the cattle?”
Glover was in and out of consciousness through the night as the cook remained by his side. His fever continued to rise, having soaked his clothes in sweat by the time Baggett returned to check on him.
The Breckenridge Boys Page 10
