Pinto Lowery (7 page)

“Ain't that one fer sale,” Pinto replied. “It's de seven there on de end.”

“I see. Well, the roan's a stumblefoot, I'd guess, and that mare with the white tail's a hair young. Far stallion, too. I'll take the other four if the price is right.”

“Forty for de three mares. Fifty for de stallion. He's a runner.”

“I won't even dicker,” the man said, nodding. “It's close to what I'd ask myself. I'm out a dollar or two gettin' 'em shod, but they look used to a hard life. That'll get up the trail to Kansas.”

“Should,” Pinto agreed. “You headin' out soon?”

“Once my neighbor gets his herd formed. We travel paired these days. Renegades and all, you know.”

“Sure,” Pinto said, scrawling his name across a bill of sale while the rancher counted out two hundred and ten dollars.

“Lowery, eh?” the man said as they made the exchange. “You sold a pony or two to Bob Toney.”

“Sure did,” Pinto admitted. “Bob and me soldiered some.”

“Well, I was with the Second Texas till they took us prisoner at Vicksburg. J. B. Dotham's the name.”

“George Lowery,” Pinto said, grinning. “'Course mos' call me Pinto. For my way with mustangs.”

“Name's apt enough, Pinto. Why don't you come along into the Lucky Seven here with me and cool off. You look to've had a fair ride. Don't play cards, do you?”

“Not with nobody calls himself Kansas Jack,” Pinto said, flashing a smile at little Johnny Cole. “Would like to ged thad boy somethin' do eat, though.”

“Ramon, is it too late to buy a platter of tamales?” Dotham asked a pleasant-looking young Mexican.

“No, I fix 'em,” Ramon answered. “Johnny Cole, you come on to the kitchen. Mama will feed you.”

“Thanks,” Pinto said, tossing Ramon a silver dollar. Ramon waved to the boy, and the two of them trotted around the bar and found the kitchen. Pinto, meanwhile, sat at a table alongside J.B. Dotham. The rancher poured out two glasses of smoky-looking liquid and passed one to Pinto.

“It passes for whiskey,” Dotham explained. “Does settle the dust.”

“I thank you, sir,” Pinto replied as he raised his glass and drank to the health of his new acquaintance.

“It's me's been done the service,” Dotham countered. “I'll at least have four men well-mounted on the trail.”

Before Pinto could reply, a young cowboy rose from the gaming table and slammed a pistol barrel across the forehead of the dandy to his right.

“Won't Kansas Jack cheat another cowboy this day!” the young drover announced as he held up a handful of banknotes.

Two other players carried the Kansan over to a bench and set him there to recover. The game then resumed.

“Bunch o' fools,” Dotham grumbled. “Cowboys! Children! Drink too much and talk too much and ain't worth half the wages I pay 'em. Still, they get my cows to the railhead.”

“Yeah, and if dey lissen some, dey live to learn better,” Pinto declared. The two went on talking another hour. Pinto tried to bring the conversation around to the upcoming trail drive, but Dotham had his mind on horses and wouldn't be distracted.

That was when Ramon swept Johnny Cole out of the kitchen. The ragged youngster hopped out past the bar and fell against the gaming table, upsetting a near-empty whiskey bottle and bringing the cowboys to their feet.

“Fool boy,” the nearest one shouted, lifting young Cole off the ground by the chin and flinging him hard against the wall. The little boy bounded off the hard oak planks and fell in a whimpering heap. As if that wasn't enough, the cowboy drove the toe of his boot into the small of the youngster's back.

“That's about enough o' that!” Pinto exclaimed as he rose to his feet and slid over to block the next kick.

“I don't see this's any o' yer business, pop!” the cowboy said, backing a step and throwing open his jacket. A polished leather holster holding a Colt revolver hugged his right hip.

“I didn't come here do shoot anybody,” Pinto said as he helped a shaken Johnny Cole off the floor. “Boy, bes' run along and find a place to hide a time.”

“Yessir,” Johnny said, darting out the door.

“Now, it's settled, eh?” Pinto asked.

“Not by half,” the cowboy answered. “You done butted into my business. You got to pay for that.”

“How much?” Pinto asked, souring. “Fifty cends cover it?”

That made the red-faced cowboy madder. He tapped fingers on his hip and stared coldly at Pinto's face.

“You ever shot anybody, Danny?” Dotham suddenly asked.

“About to,” the cowboy answered.

“Well this fellow's kilt a dozen Yankees in his time up in Virginia. Look to that left hand there. See where the bullet's sawed a finger down to size. Now look him in the eye. No sweat on his forehead. He'll shoot back, boy.”

“I'm fast, Mr. Dotham.”

“He'll kill you just the same,” Dotham argued. “And won't be happy doin' it, either, I'm guessin'. Son, there's those here who'd judge you not the wronged man here. That boy was clumsy, but he's just a snip of a child and didn't merit yer boot. You'll find later on dyin' ought to follow a better grievance. Drink a little less and apologize a trifle more. That'd be my advice. I can't afford to lose a man before even settin' out for Kansas.”

“But he—”

“Get yerself back to the ranch, Danny Elton, before I lose
my
temper. Hear?”

“Yes, sir,” the cowboy reluctantly agreed.

“You others, too,” the rancher commanded, and the remaining drovers stumbled toward the door.

“You did that jus' fine,” Pinto observed.

“Ain't bad boys,” Dotham said by way of apology. “Just young. All I got, though.”

“Shorthanded?” Pinto asked.

“Not as you'd know it. Twenty-eight men, and that's just my half of the outfit.”

“I thought maybe you might need another man.”

“You? I could, Lowery, but I signed on a full crew,” Dotham explained. “I wouldn't be able to pay you, and I never hire a job done I can't pay for. Breeds ill feelings.”

“Sure,” Pinto said, dropping his gaze.

“Still, there's my partner. And neighbor. Ryan Richardson. He runs the Double R. Might buy them other horses, too. Just head north from town. Toward Decatur. Three miles up and on yer right. Can't miss it. House is a big one with a gabled roof.”

“Might ride out and have a talk with him.”

“Tell him I suggested it. And that you know Bob Toney.”

“Sure,” Pinto said, turning toward the door. “Thanks fer de conversation, Mr. Dotham. Good luck to you, too.”

“Might be I'll need it,” Dotham muttered. “Good luck to you as well.”

“Might need some my own self,” Pinto answered as he stepped out the door. Might indeed!

The Double R Ranch wasn't at all what Pinto had expected. On the short ride out from Defiance he'd seen only the same windswept plain and spotted hills that spread north of Fort Worth toward the Red River. But now, east of the dusty market road, a tall gabled house rose from a grove of peach trees. It was as if Pinto Lowery had suddenly been swept through time and space to one of the Virginia manor houses encountered during his soldier days.

“It's a place to remember,” Pinto remarked. And he judged Ryan Richardson to be that sort of man, too. Not many who had lived through the dark days of the war and the hard times that followed had kept dreams kindled. Pinto Lowery hadn't. This Richardson, though, was even now adding rooms off the west side of his house. Moreover, the walls were built of flat gray stone. Yes, here was a place to last.

Pinto couldn't help staring at the wide veranda and the tall, symmetrical windows that flanked two heavy wooden front doors. Even when he dismounted, his eyes remained on the grand house. So it was that when a gangly boy of fifteen or so suddenly called out, Pinto responded with a start.

“Talkin' at me?” Pinto cried.

“Nobody else's come ridin' up to my house with half a dozen horses,” the sandy-haired youngster barked. “Got business here?”

“Thought to have,” Pinto answered, giving the big black a stroke across his white nose and nodding at the other animals. “Name's Lowery. I raise horses.”

“These look to've raised 'emselves,” the boy pointed out. “Range ponies. 'Cept for that chestnut there. She's no accident.”

“No, sir,” Pinto agreed. “Half a year's labor paid for her. But that's not what brung me here. I come through Defiance town and sold some animals to a fellow name o' Dotham. Plans to take the trail north to Kansas, as he tells it. Said de Double R's goin' with him, and I might sell dese three saddle ponies to a fellow name o' Richardson.”

“That'd be my pa,” the boy answered. He paused a moment to study Pinto's face. Then he glanced over the horses. “He ain't here just now,” the boy finally explained.

“Yeah?” Pinto asked.

“Out with the range crew. I guess I could take you to him. In a bit.”

“You'd be de only man about, wouldn't you?” Pinto asked, reading the wariness in the fifteen-year-old's eyes. “You jus' point de way. I got a nose fer findin' people.”

“I'd have to know a man better to send him Pa's way,” the boy said.

Pinto glanced around the buildings. A pair of smaller boys had started over from a chicken coop. A winsome girl in her late teens now appeared in the doorway.

“Who's that come visitin', Jared?” she called.

“Mustanger named Lowery,” Jared answered. “I was thinkin' to take him to see Pa.”

“Not 'fore supper, you won't,” she answered. “Your friend there looks like he could stand a good feedin', too.”

“Could be you'd feel easier if I was on my way,” Pinto said, recognizing the concern etched in Jared Richardson's brow.

“No, if Mr. Dotham sent you along, I don't figure you to do us harm,” Jared responded. “You might leave that pistol off your hip, though. Elsewise Jim and Job'll talk off your ear on it.”

“Sure,” Pinto agreed. “Got a Parker County friend with boys like to jabber.”

“Who'd that be?” Jared asked as he helped Pinto secure the horses.

“Bob Toney. Lazy T.”

“I've rid some miles with him,” Jared declared, grinning. “He and his boys both. Should've said that right off. Lowery, huh? I recall him speakin' of you. Judged you to have the devil's own way with horses, though you could be mule-stubborn and chicken-brained besides.”

“Guess he has spoke o' me,” Pinto said, laughing. “That's ole Bob. You ask him sometime who drug him off de field at Spotsylvania Court House? Was dis chicken-brained fool here!”

Jared echoed Pinto's cackle. The youngster went on to introduce his brothers Jim and Job before turning to the pleasant-faced young woman in the doorway.

“Now this's Arabella,” Jared explained. “Our sister. She sort o' runs the house, what with Ma bein' dead.”

“Sort o'?” ten-year-old Job asked. Jim, who was a hair younger, couldn't resist a chance to laugh.

“I heard o' kings easier o' manner,” Jared whispered. “Don't you get the wrong side o' Arabella. Not if you figure to see tomorrow.”

“Works us near to death,” Job added.

“Work?” Arabella exclaimed. “What would you useless batch o' fool boys know o' work! Now get washed and come to supper. It's sure grown cold.”

“More likely burnt black,” little Job said, hopping out of his sister's reach. Jim chuckled again, and Arabella gave him a solid swat. She then marched down a long hall to the kitchen. Pinto followed Jared in that same direction while the younger Richardsons set off to find a wash basin.

Supper with the Richardson youngsters took Pinto back to his own younger years. His sisters had been a considerable vexation, and though he hadn't had brothers to provide like torment, there'd been cousins aplenty to stand in their place.

“You'll find no escape from troubles in the army, Georgie,” his mother had warned when he joined the Marshall Guards. But being young, Pinto hadn't believed that. There never was a hint of smarts an older person could pass along to a young one. No, things had to be learned all over again ... and again ... and again.

After stuffing himself with three helpings of Arabella Richardson's meat loaf, four potatoes, and a fair assortment of greens, Pinto finally accompanied Jared back outside.

“The crew's sure to be havin' its supper, too,” the boy announced. “Pa'll be tired, but I don't figure he'll be past hagglin' over horses. He's a fair hand at tradin', folks say.”

“Well, that ought to make fer a well-passed evenin',” Pinto declared as he collected his horses. As he climbed atop the big black, Jared ran his hand along the flank of the chestnut mare.

“Don't suppose I might have a ride on her, do you?” Jared asked. “Just the three miles or so to the range camp.”

“Get her saddled,” Pinto answered. “But don't hurry her along. She's not used to carryin' anybody.”

“I'll be easy on her,” the boy promised. “You see I don't wear spurs. Don't even dig my toes in like some I know. Truth is I never needed to. Horses sort o' take to me.”

“That's 'cause you smell like one,” Job hollered from a nearby corral. “Can we come along, Jared?” Jim said, glancing up hopefully.

“Be late comin' home,” Jared told them. “We'll have ourselves a ride tomorrow.”

The smaller boys nodded soberly, then dashed off to find some other mischief. Jared soon had the mare saddled. Then he climbed atop the spry chestnut and led the way northward. Pinto followed.

It took but a quarter hour, even riding slow, to reach the range camp. Along the way Pinto eyed the two thousand grazing long-horns that would make up the Double R trail herd. Some of the animals bore other brands, Pinto noted. Richardson was probably taking on other than J. B. Dotham 's steers.