Sunday's Colt & Other Stories (5 page)

“And now I'm waiting for your eight,” Arky said grimly.

Dil counted the pool's resources into a neat pile on the table next to Blue's wager.

“One ride for the wager until he's throwed or she quits,” Arky said loudly.

Dil nodded. “Until he's throwed or she quits.”

Arky grinned and took his time studying the anxious faces that surrounded him. “Let's get to it.”

A cheer rang out that rattled the windows and shook the rafters of the place as Arky led the procession through the swinging doors of the Bale-O-Cotton. Arky gathered up the mare and took his directions to the local livery corral where the spectacle could be witnessed by one and all.

No one noticed a pair of threadbare, saddle scarecrows that had just ridden into town and were meagerly watching the procession. Lord knows that if they had it might have put a damper on the whole shebang. These boys looked like two cats that had been accidentally nailed in a barrel for a week. Their ponies were so thin, knock-kneed, and rough-haired that it was a certainty the only load they could carry were the almost-as-bad starved riders on their backs. Without knowing anyone they dismounted and straddled up to the corral fence with the rest to see the goings on. They happened to position themselves right next to old Dil Townsen.

As the boys were saddling the Black Queen, Dil took a sniff of the air and decided that something musta died nearby in the last week before he realized the half-starved wretched condition of the pair standing beside him.

“You boys all right?” Dil asked as he gave them a gander.

A big-nosed, pocked-faced imbecile with a six-inch handlebar moustache answered. “Yes, sir. We could use a little work on one of the outfits if anyone's looking. We just came home from the war and need to build a stake.”

Dil nodded. “I don't know about work but I'll sure as hell stand you boys to a steak dinner when this is over. You look as though you need it.”

The imbecile nodded a thank you. “We been living on leftover army issue Johnny cake and shot rabbit for the last two months just trying to get back to Texas.”

Dil nodded again. “Didn't see too many rabbits I take it.”

“That's a fact.”

“Well, who are you boys, anyway?”

The imbecile smiled and removed his hat. “Red River Sam Bonnet, thank you kindly. This is my partner, Ty Lee Driscoll.”

Dil looked past Bonnet and gazed upon Driscoll. He was about the sorriest lot of raggedy-ass bones, hair, and hide a man could imagine without waking up in the middle of the night with the screaming fever fits. Dil shook his head in sad consternation. “And they allowed you boys to fight in this condition?”

“We fought them Yankees till they told us it was over and we should go home. So here we are ready to start a new life.”

“We get this ride done and I'll feed you boys. That's the least I can do. Right now, we want to see old Rattlesnake Jack here ride down the Black Queen.”

Driscoll mumbled softly, producing an immediate chuckle and a nod from Bonnet.

“What's that he said?” Dil asked.

“Ty Lee says that feller won't last more than four jumps. Says that mare will pile him square and sharpen her teeth on his ass before he can be rescued.”

Dil was immediately concerned. “What makes you say that?”

Driscoll looked a little sick. “You don't have no money on this ride, do you?”

Dil shook his head. “Come on, hombre. What makes you say that?”

Driscoll turned back to the fence and leaned on the rail, pointing as he spoke. “He's got his saddle too far back and his stirrups too long. He's going to wedge into the saddle and try to muscle her down when he needs to use a light touch. He's too wide-shouldered and top-heavy to stay on that mare the way he's going to try to ride her. He'll try to strong-arm her and that's what she's a-wanting. She'll make three or four stiff legged jumps to jar his nuts loose, then do a wheel about on her back feet and send him a-flying. Just about the time he thinks he caught up with her, they'll be a-going in different directions.”

“And you could do better?” Dil asked.

Driscoll didn't answer so Red River Sam took the reins. “Damn right he can do better. There ain't a man living that can stay a bronco or shave a steer better than this man. I've seen him make horses go into battle that were too poor to eat and then nurse them thirty more miles to the next fight with nothing more than an encouraging word and an ear rub. I've seen him ride the worst green broncos the Confederate cavalry had to offer and in less than an hour turn them over to a private, house broke and eating out of his hand. This is the best horseman that ever threw a leg over the cantle of a saddle. Even old General Forrest hisself said that Driscoll was the finest natural born cavalry rider and horse breaker in the entire Confederacy. God strike me dead if I didn't hear the words myself.”

Dil went wide-eyed. “Is that a fact?”

“It is.”

Dil turned to Driscoll. “Is that the truth of it?”

Driscoll looked to his feet. “I ride a little.”

Dil turned to watch Rattlesnake Jack gather the reins and put his foot in the stirrup. “We'll see, by God. We'll see.”

Old Jack swung into the saddle, drew up his reins, and dug those sharpened spurs hilt deep into her flanks.

“Why'd he want to do that for?” Ty Lee mumbled.

The Black Queen hunkered down as Jack set his weight into the saddle, but when them spurs found their mark, she fare-thee-well exploded into a stiff-legged, bone-jarring, detonation of full-blown, head-down, broncobusting, gut-wrenching vaults. As powerful as Rattlesnake Jack was, he could no more keep her head high than drag a ton bull with a greased lasso. She made four leaps into the middle of the corral, growling, farting, and groaning with each surge of energy. Old Jack flopped like a rag doll as he tried to find her rhythm. It looked like he was just about to catch up when she wheeled about and launched old Jack into the sky. He hit the ground headfirst and shattered like a Christmas tree ornament as those sharpened spur rowels dug into his own back.

True to form, the Black Queen wheeled about again and made for the wreck that used to be Jack. It took four men to drive her back and drag the remains of Jack to the corral fence. They shoved him through the space between the running poles and piled him neatly in some fresh horse apples on the far side. The entire affair had been a full-blown disaster.

“Har. Har. Har.” Arky Blue laughed as the rest waited in silence to see if Jack would stir with life after they dug the dirt out of his mouth. “I guess that was about the worst ride I've ever seen. This was you boys' ringer? Hell's fire! My grandma coulda made a better showing.”

Dil Towsen's mouth fell open as he witnessed the catastrophe. He turned to Red River, his eyes wide with wonder. “Amazing! It was just as your man said it would be.”

Red River nodded grimly and looked to Driscoll for an appraisal.

“I thought he would do better than that,” Ty Lee whispered.

As the men cornered the Black Queen and jerked Jack's saddle, Arky Blue swaggered over to Dil Townsen. “Well, sir, I'll tell you, I almost feel bad about taking your money. You boys ain't the wranglers I heard you was. I guess I'll need to head farther south to find a real vaquero to bring this mare to justice.”

The men gulped as Dil counted out the money. Some of them had their life savings…meaning five or ten dollars…invested in that ride. But as bad as they hated losing the money, they hated Arky Blue's digs and scurvy remarks even more.

Dil watched Arky fold his wad and give the surrounding crowd one of his toothy, haughty grins. “Pretty sad, gents. I guess that was just plain heartrending. Old pretty boy there has about as much grace in the saddle as an anvil.”

Dil Townsen's face looked like a freshly chiseled gravestone. As Arky turned to walk away, Dil asked, “You ain't through, er you?”

Arky held up in mid stride. “Now, that all depends. I figured you boys was cleaned out.”

Dil leaned against the corral fence. “You got twenty-four hundred dollars there. You up to risking it on another ride?”

Arky eyed Townsen carefully and smiled his sick, twisted best. “You got another rider that wants to take a toss?”

Dil nodded. “I do. And I'll bet my ranch against your poke at two-to-one.”

There was an audible gasp from the crowd. The H-7 was a damned fine place; too fine to risk on this deal.

Even Arky was taken aback. “Forty-eight hundred dollars? That I can't manage.” He paused and thought out his finances. “I'll go fifteen hundred at two-to-one…after I see your man, that is.”

Dil Townsen turned and pointed a gnarled finger at Driscoll. “There he is.”

Ty Lee shifted on his feet, straightened, and removed his hat like he was being introduced to a school marm.

Arky's eyes darted quickly to Townsen to check if he was serious. “Who's he ride for?”

“Both these boys ride for the H-7,” Townsen said bluntly.

Red River and Ty Lee exchanged glances but held their composure.

Arky nodded, struggling to accept the credibility of the claim. He gave the wretch closer inspection. Ty Lee was dressed in ragged, grimy Confederate gray. One of his boot toes was torn loose from its sole and the heels were so overrun that it was a wonder he could keep his balance. His filthy hat brim drooped about his ears and his black hair draped over his collar. He was scarecrow thin and he had the look of a drowned rat in a stock tank. “I don't want to offend but is this feller healthy enough to get on the mare, let alone ride her?”

Dil turned to Ty Lee and smiled. “Well, what about it? You up to riding this mare?”

Ty Lee's eyes hardened. “Yes, sir. I'd give her a go.”

The crowd drew a breath in unison as it waited for Arky's reply.

Arky shook his head. “I don't want any part of a killing. This feller ain't up to it and I think we all know it.”

Dil Townsen now had his turn to dig. “Must be that carpetbagger courage you were speaking of.”

Arky Blue's features hardened. “The hell you say. All right, I'll put up the money against a quitclaim deed to your ranch. But, I want you to know that I don't welch and would draw a damned fine line against a welcher.”

Dil nodded grimly in spite of the offensive insinuation. “Let's get a paper and write it up.”

As pen and paper were gathered and the witnesses assembled round to watch the ceremony, Red River and Ty Lee waited by the corral fence.

“Well, pard,” Red River said. “It looks like we got us a job offer. What do you think?”

Ty Lee shook his head. “It'll be all right. He seems straight enough.”

“I hope you don't think I talked out of turn. I mean, I never intended for you to risk your neck like this.”

Ty Lee leaned over the rail and studied the Black Queen. “All those days of the war. How many good friends have we had to say goodbye to? This ain't nothing no matter how it turns out.”

Red River shook his head. “She could hurt ya, pard.”

Ty Lee turned to get his saddle from his pony. “Tain't nothing,” he said softly.

The wranglers saddled her up and got ready to hold her head so Ty Lee could get his foot in the stirrup. He waved them away, slipped his hand close to the bit shanks and held her nose next to his face. He spoke softly to her and gently rubbed his hand under her chin, kind of like a mother comforts her fretting babe. He and that mare stood there in the middle of that corral for nigh to five minutes talking and getting to know each other. Finally, Ty Lee smiled, spoke another soft word, and eased into the saddle.

She took her four jumps and spun around. Ty Lee stayed with her. She tried it again. Ty Lee hung in a little tighter. She bucked her heart out for nigh on to twelve minutes and Ty Lee Driscoll clung to her back like he had been growed out of it. Old Ty Lee and that mare took on the appearance of a finely tuned New England glider as each part swayed in rhythm against the other. Witnesses to this day say that it was just about the prettiest thing they'd ever seen.

Suddenly, she quit. We're not talking a run out, mind you. She just plain quit and stood in the middle of that corral like a Jersey cow waiting for the milk stool and the bucket.

There was dead calm in the crowd as Ty Lee eased himself to the ground. He gave the mare a pat on the neck, jerked the saddle, and walked to the corral fence.

“Poetry. Pure poetry,” Dil Townsen whispered.

Arky Blue looked like he just swallowed a plug of chew whole. He turned to walk away.

“What do you want for her?” Townsen asked.

“She's your horse,” Arky Blue said. “He rode her fair and square. I'm cleaned out and she has no more value to me.” He mounted up and rode away, never to be seen in Williamson County, or Texas for that matter, again.

Townsen counted out the original losses to his partners and kept the profits for himself. When it was over he turned to Red River and Ty Lee. “You boys got a job on the H-7 as long as there is such. Take the mare, Driscoll. She's yourn.”

Ty Lee nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Townsen. You say she's mine to do with as I like?”

“Yes, sir. Now let's get you boys a well-deserved steak dinner.”

Ty Lee opened the corral gate and gathered the Black Queen's halter rope. He led her into the open and slipped the halter. “Go on. Get!” he said.

The mare took off into the mesquite at a dead run and without a backward glance.

Sam watched it all a-grinning and said nothing.

Ty Lee looked at his partner and smiled. “Her war is over too.”

Red River Sam nodded and pulled his hat close over his eyes. “Let's go eat that steak.”

The Murder Steer

The cowpuncher was watching his bacon fry in his camp skillet nigh on to sundown when the youngster returned from checking the picket line. The youngster seemed unsettled as he nestled down next to his saddle on the far side of the fire.

“What's your problem?” the puncher asked. “You look like you just seen a spirit.”

The kid shook his mop. “I guess maybe I did. It was the dangdest thing I ever saw. I guess my eyes were playing tricks on me.”

The puncher poured coffee into the youngster's tin cup. “Go on. Amuse me. Spit it out.”

The kid took the cup and set it down quickly, spilling a quarter on the ground. “Damn! That's hot! I was checking the horses like you said when I heard a movement in the brush back yonder. I gave a look-see and a big old lineback steer shook out of the mesquite. The thing is I thought I saw a crude, haired-over brand running clear along his side. I ain't for certain but I think it said MURDER.” He shook his head again. “Heck, it was probably just the coming night playing tricks on my eyes. Nobody would scar up a critter like that.”

The puncher held out his hand. “Give me your plate. This bacon's ready for eatin'. It was a black steer with white running along his back and belly white running a quarter up his flanks. One horn is turned slightly down and he's got some age on him.”

“Can't say for certain. He was black and white but I was too busy reading his brand to notice much else.”

“Son, you just got yourself a look at the Murder steer. There ain't a handful of men living that can make that claim. Some say it's a sign of good luck and a feller is blessed for seeing it. Others claim it to be a warning from the devil and you better be damned careful of your ways for a spell. Either way, you're one of a very few.” He handed the plate of bacon with a ration of pintos over to the youngster.

“Thank you, kindly,” the youngster said as he admired the crisp back fat and wild onions on his plate. “What the tarnation is a Murder steer?”

The puncher poured himself a fresh cup and fished a strip from his skillet. “You want the whole story or just a bit?”

The kid lounged back against his saddle. “It's early. Spin me the whole yarn.”

“It was twenty years ago, back before they disbanded the Western Battalion of the Rangers. All this country hereabouts was open range with four of the big outfits sharing it. It weren't good for nothing just like today so the outfits kept outriders along the fringes to keep the cactus boomers pushed back on home range. This here country of rocky red hills and scrub mesquite was hard on cattle and cowboys to boot. The boomers would go wild and many a wrangler broke his neck or got laid up proper trying to lasso them. They called this scrub Worthless Mesa and it was a general agreement that anybody with any gumption would be too proud to claim it. Still, cattle drift and every green-up each of the outfits would send in riders to gather the winter strays and sort them out. Main camp for all the outfits was Red Box cause it was the only canyon where water springs from the rocky ledges. It was a natural tank for the linebacks to come for water and a natural box canyon was an easy spot to hold them for the sortin'. Heck, if fellers used their heads, a fair majority of them critters would catch themselves in dry times just a-coming for a drink.

The biggest outfit was the Slash Nine and as usual they sent the most men cause they would end up with the most cattle when it was all said and done. That year the Nine bunch was run by a range foreman named Blu Packett. Now, old Blu was a cocky sort of gent with an eye for the ladies and a weakness for the spotted pasteboards. He was something of a gent favoring concho chullas and nearly always sporting a black bib shirt and fancy Mexican sombrero for a sky shade. Most men thought fairly high of him if he weren't in the jug and busting a string of losing hands. When old Blu was a-drinking and gambling he could get plum spiteful and he was known to hold a grudge.

The next biggest outfit was the Arrow run by Arnold Hernandez, a half Mexican gent whose mama was a German immigrant girl who'd taken up with his daddy and was disowned by her family for her foolishness. Everybody called him Arny and his ancestors were land granted this whole end of the plateau before the rebellion, but the best Arny could do was manage a scrub outfit running a poor water range between the Nine and the Broken Bar Cross. He was a quiet sort they say, but more like a deceitful bronc that yearns to take a bite out of you when your back's turned or you're distracted from remembering his temperament. You can never tell what a Mexican is really thinking and Hernandez had just enough beaner in him to be that sort. He didn't pack no handgun but carried a six-inch, double-edged Arkansas toothpick in his belt.

The Broken Bar Cross wasn't much of an outfit and it didn't last long after this affair. Its owner, Doc Freisen, got found out with a running iron in his saddlebag and a herd of fresh brand-altered boomers a few months later. A hemp necktie ended the Cross's business dealings that next morning. But that was a few months after this story and the outfit was represented by a lunger called Four-Bit and three other hard-case, grub line riders. They were there to get the boss's share of his rightfuls and a little more if possible, but not much else. They was generally a sorry lot by most accounts.

The other outfit of note was Dil Townsen's H Bar Seven. Dil was long in the tooth by that time so he sent his two prize vaqueros, Red River Sam Bonnet and Ty Lee Driscoll and their pack of hounds, to do the judging and sorting for the outfit. He only sent two wranglers because he knew he was sending the best. Red River Sam was a colorful sport who could shake out a gut line better than most any man and he had Townsen's complete trust. Driscoll was a lame-between-the-ears scarecrow but could ride anything a man could saddle, fair wind or foul. He was the gent who rode down the Black Queen back in '66 and did the Pecos Drift in four days when the best any other rider could manage was five and a bit. Probably no better horseman ever gathered his boot in a stirrup, but Ty Lee was dumb as a post and needed some guidance to find his way to breakfast, even on a good day. Totally devoted to Driscoll were five of the nastiest, green tick bit, mean-natured, inbred hounds ever assembled in Texas. No man in camp had the courage to turn his back on any of them as he might just as well turn his back on a rabid skunk or a vengeful Comanche. The only security they had was that those curs loved fighting cattle and each other so much more that they seldom got around to going after anything else. Still, a man kept his six-gun handy if he was afoot and the pack was near.

It was Townsen's turn to supply the grub wagon. The camp cook for that round up was a Bar Seven nigger by the name of Candle Corn. I've heard many a story about Corn. He had a mighty temper and a butcher's blade to match but he was the best cook and finest camp doctor, or Psalm reader, whichever was most appropriate, to ever line out a chuck. He was famous throughout the plateau and a fine friend of many a cowhand, as long as you didn't bitch about his biscuits or steal none of his apple pie fixins. Then your life was in your own hands cause nobody crossed Candle about grub fixin' or camp running. Nobody knows for sure how many jammed fingers he lopped off, broken bones he set, stitches he took, haircuts he gave, or boils he lanced during his Dutch oven years. For all intents and purposes it was Candle Corn who ran the show concerning everything that wasn't cow bones and hide. He allowed card playing at his fire but he didn't tolerate no whisky drinking until it was time to break camp and head for home. Then he'd likely take a swig or two himself in the spirit of a farewell celebration.

The first days in camp were like most, I guess, as the boys waited on straggler outfits, dug out a latrine, repaired the catch fence, and lined out the country. Ty Lee and his hounds were driving in a passable herd before the Arrow and Cross outfits even rode in. Once they did, the whole bunch saddled up at dawn and didn't show in camp again until sundown or later for the next five days. Most of the time those boys only had a few of Candle's dodgers to cheat their bellies at noon and get by until beans and back fat that evening. When they were through scouring the mesa, they had nearly seven hundred head milling in the Box and only had to shoot two bulls, a mossback cow, and one dog for taking after them. It looked to be a right good year for everyone.

But unbeknownst to most was the fact that Blu Packett and Arny Hernandez were packing a grudge for each other. It all started over a disputed watering hole that lay near the line between the Slash Nine and the Arrow. Packett had taken it upon himself to run off some of the Arrow cows and let his herd water free. Arny considered that pond to be his and although he didn't mind a man watering his herd on a pass by, he took some offense that his own cattle were denied water for several days while Blu rested Slash Nine cattle up and they free grazed on Hernandez grass. Harsh words were spoken and the threat of gunplay sworn before the various interests parted company. Since Blu was a foreman on wages, Hernandez took his cause up with Sam Bridges, the owner. Bridges, in turn, dressed Blu down in front of his riders and told him that he wouldn't tolerate such doings again. Blu didn't quit the outfit, which was the honorable thing, but kept on with the Nine because some say he was sweet on Bridges's daughter and fancied himself the future owner of the whole shebang. He never forgave Hernandez for going over his head regarding the matter and held a grudge for being dressed down because of a Mexican. Blu was out of line on the matter but sometimes a man can't see the forest for the trees or is blinded by the flirty ways of a comely gal of property. Most say he never was in the running as far as she was concerned. He was cool around Hernandez and his mind-set was mirrored by the Mexican. Generally the pair of them just steered clear of each other and went about their business with none of the other outfits the wiser.

When it came to splitting up the herd, Red River Sam Bonnet was elected the brand judge and the ownership of calves was either decided by him or negotiated by the head man from each outfit. This normally isn't too difficult a task, as any calf sucking the teat naturally went with his mamma and it was early enough in the season that most calves were small. Any brands not associated with one of the outfits were turned over to those closest to that brand so the cattle could be drifted back on home range, but that never amounted to more than a dozen or so cattle. It was also generally the practice to brand and work the calves on the spot while the cattle were handy, so several irons were kept hot and all calves worked and separated at one time. It was a busy time and the men kept hard at it.

The one redeeming grace was that Candle Corn was rustling up some shining fine grub and the eating was plum larapin. For sorry ass outfits like the Cross, those boys had never eaten so good, so they were in no hurry to break camp and go back to the belly cheater of that spread. It quickly became evident to all that those boys were stalling just to get another day or two of three squares before lighting out. But with the apple pie and corn bread as sweet as shortcake that Candle was dishing out, nobody could get too upset at Four-Bit and his riders for taking advantage when they could, especially since the Cross had a reputation of being a hardtack and raw bean outfit.

They were getting close to the end when Four-Bit talked some of the boys into a little low stakes poker to pass the evening. Gathered round the blanket were Blu Packett, Ty Lee Driscoll, and a couple of Slash Nine wranglers. Everyone knows that it takes six to work out a solid poker game, so Four-Bit was looking for another man when Arny Hernandez happened by. After some persuasion, Arny joined in the game, “for a hand or two, but no more,” he said.

Now, lo and behold, they played four hands of poker and Arny won three. Arny could see that Blu wasn't taking it too well so he begged out of a fifth. That didn't sit well with Blu either. There were some words but the others agreed that Arny had said from the get-go that he was in for only a few hands and he could rightly walk away without a grudge being held. Blu backed down but it was just one more bit of salt rubbed in a festering wound.

The next morning the outfit gathered round the tailgate for biscuits, back fat, and coffee. Arny was walking away with his vittles when Blu sort of nudged up against him and sent his grub a-flying into the dirt. Arny didn't say a word but turned back to the line for another helping.

“I guess Hernandez gets double shares this morning,” Blu blustered. “But that's what I guess should be expected from a pepper.”

Now, everyone there knew what was afoot and the place got as quiet as a graveyard. No one knew for certain how Arny would take the comment. Blu was hankering for a fight and it was up to Arny as to whether he'd oblige him or not. Blu had thirty pounds on him and Arny didn't carry a gun. Still, when a man is getting dogged his pride will tend to even the odds. Arny may have got whipped but a bully like Blu would usually never have the gumption to try a second time. At least that's the way most figure it.

Candle Corn took the lead. It was his fire and his right. “There's plenty,” he said as he shoved a slice on a biscuit and held his paw out for Arny's cup.

That should have settled the matter but Blu was on the prod. He shook his head and leaned up against the wagon wheel as Candle filled the cup and returned it to Arny. “I shoulda guessed the likes of you'd stick together,” he snarled. “Peppers and niggers. Hell, he can have mine to boot.” He threw the biscuit on the tailgate and pitched his dregs into the fire as he stomped to his pony.

Ty Lee and Red River were closest to Candle. They could see the fire build in Candle's eyes and knew that his temper was a-rising.

“I wouldn't pay too much mind,” Red River grinned. “Sometimes, early in the morning, a gent has to get the meanness out of his system. Old Blu never did let looking the fool interfere with his glory.”