A Thousand Texas Longhorns

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “How do you spend your days, Missus Story?”

  “In the mornings I bake pies. Small pies. Usually of dried fruits I buy at the store. Then I sell as many of those pies as I can. Then I clean the house. I fetch water from the well and bring it inside. I cook supper. I do what I did before I became with child.”

  “A bucket of water is heavy, ma’am.”

  “And two buckets are heavier, Doctor. My mother, when she was with Jeanette, my sister, told me that lifting heavy items helps the body prepare for the ordeal of bringing a young life into our world.”

  Removing the stethoscope, he smiled and rose. “You and your child—”

  “My son,” she corrected him.

  “Undoubtedly, ma’am. Both of you sound healthy.”

  “Then I think my husband chose wisely for our new doctor.”

  He bowed. “I have taken up too much of your time, Missus Story.”

  “I have found our conversation enjoyable, and hope we shall have another opportunity quite soon.”

  “I would be honored.” He found his hat, his black satchel, and the wooden box. She stood and moved to the door, opening it for him. Outside, in the cold, he turned. “Mr. Dimsdale suggested I reach out to a Dr. Sparhan, to see if he might have interest in taking on a partner. Although, if you think Dr. Justice might serve me better, then . . .”

  “Sparhan, Dr. Beckstead. By all means, Dr. Sparhan.” Her head shook sadly. “His right hand had to be taken off. That . . . is dreadful . . . as well you know . . . for a man in your profession.”

  His eyes seemed different then. He started walking toward Jackson Street and talked, more to himself. “It is dreadful,” he said, “for any man in any profession. How well I know.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The blade of the bowie knife slammed down hard, splintering the ice in the bottom of the bucket. Over and over again. Until Molly McDonald figured she had enough, so she overturned the bucket, dumping shards, chips, and bits and pieces of ice into the stewpot.

  “There,” she said. “Maybe that’ll make enough for some coffee.”

  “It will not be good if the bucket no longer holds water because of this . . . imbecile.” The Bulgarian frowned at Constance Beckett, who stared at the harnesses for the oxen, trying to make sense out of a tangled mess.

  “Cory’s doing fine,” Molly said. “Way I remember things, you couldn’t tell the difference between an ox’s arse and his face when you first landed in Kansas.”

  “Still cannot,” the Bulgarian said. “But that does not make me a fool.”

  “She,” Molly said, “ain’t no fool.”

  “He’s not calling her a fool, Mickey,” Coleman said.

  Molly looked across the fire. “Maybe you think we should’ve let them soldier boys hang her,” she said.

  “It would not be so bad for us, Mickey,” the Bulgarian said, “if she would lift her skirts for us once in a while.”

  “Jeee-sus.” Molly made herself laugh. “Cory don’t wear skirts no more. And there are more whores in Leavenworth than turds in a pigpen.”

  “That charge money,” Coleman said. “And carry diseases with bad names that make one’s pecker rot off.”

  Molly found a twist of tobacco in her coat pocket, brought it up, and tore off a sizable chaw. “Maybe she does, too.”

  That got a smile out of the Bulgarian.

  But Coleman brought out a blue-tinted bottle he had bought at Goldstein’s and had his first bracer of the morning. Usually, he didn’t start drinking till at least the sun stood midway up the eastern skies. He sipped, swallowed, and did not return the cork.

  “Tell her,” Coleman told the Bulgarian.

  The Bulgarian hesitated, then reached behind his back, and withdrew a folded copy of a newspaper. He opened it toward her and said, “It’s the Daily Tribune out of Lawrence.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it, boys. Y’all know I can’t read or write.” She could read or write better than either of her pards. The Bulgarian turned to the third page, folded the Tribune, and pointed to a bold-faced, all-capital headline that read: BY TELEGRAPH & POST. His finger went down to a short notice. “This here item, Mickey, says that the soldiers at Fort Kearny haven’t got any notion about who done in Major Warner Balsam late last year, and as such they are posting a bounty of seven hundred dollars for anyone who brings the murderer to justice.”

  That’s not what the Tribune reported at all. What Molly read was:

  A dispatch to Fort Leavenworth from Col.

  McCoy at Ft. Karny, Neb. Ty., reveals no

  arrests in the murder of Maj. W. Bullson,

  stabbed to death last December. Col. McCoy

  requested permission to place a reward of up

  to $700 to help solve the mystery.

  But Molly had to admit that the Bulgarian got the gist of things pretty damned close. Better than the damned rag of a paper, which couldn’t even spell Balsam’s name right.

  “I can’t believe the two deceitful miscreants I got for pards,” Molly said. “You’re willing to turn in poor ol’ Cory Bennett yonder, hard worker that don’t even talk too much, when you know the major got what he deserved.”

  “What I know,” Coleman said, “is that all we have to do is turn her in on our next trip north, and we get two hundred bucks apiece, Mickey.”

  Coleman’s math was as bad as his breath, or, more than likely, he was trying to cheat on the division.

  “Turning her in,” the Bulgarian said, “does not mean she swings. She can prove she killed the major in self-defense. She goes free. We go away . . . rich.”

  Molly sat back, spit tobacco juice into the flames, heard the sizzle, and wiped her mouth with the thick sleeve of her winter coat. “Two hundred dollars each would buy a lot of tobacco and whiskey. Maybe even a whore without no pecker-rotting pussy.”

  Her pards chuckled.

  “We might could even testify on her behalf,” Molly said.

  Coleman and the Bulgarian nodded with enthusiasm.

  “Show me that writing again.”

  The Bulgarian turned the page. Molly stared at the note, let her eyes wander, and jabbed at an advertisement.

  “What do that say?”

  The Bulgarian stared, swallowed, and read slowly and carefully. “Hembold’s Fluid Extract Buchu.” He looked at the smaller typeface of the advertisement, wet his lips and said. “Non retention of . . .”

  “That’s enough,” Molly said. “What does buchu mean?”

  The Bulgarian looked at Coleman, who ran his tongue underneath his lower lip for a moment before saying, “It’s a type of medicine, Mick.”

  “By golly,” Molly said, laughing. “You boys got an education.” She looked at Constance Beckett, now Cory Bennett, trying to figure out one end of the harness from another. “She ain’t the sharpest blade I’ve ever seen, but, you know, boys, she ain’t that bad of a looker. Even if she don’t lift her skirts for us gents.”

  They laughed, and got the coffee ready.

  * * *

  The boss of the train bound for Lecompton came by to say that he wasn’t going to risk setting out until the norther passed. Didn’t want to risk getting caught in a blizzard. He would wait until morning and see what the clouds looked like then.

  Molly nodded her agreement, even though she found the boss to be a gutless wonder. Lecompton wasn’t much more than forty miles from Leavenworth, and if they got caught in a norther, the damned storm would have blown past them in no time. She figured the boss just wanted another night with a soiled dove to keep him warm. She hoped his pecker would rot off.

  On the other hand, that was fine with Molly.

  “How’s that Bennett working out for you, Mickey?” the boss asked.

  “Slower than Easter,” Molly replied, which wasn’t an exaggeration. Maybe it was even an overstatement.

  “Well, fine. Just fine. See you in the morning. I’m thinking about having a nightcap at Matilda’s.”


  “We’ll join you,” Coleman said. “How about you, Mickey?”

  Molly shook her head. “Roulette wasn’t kind to me. I can’t afford what they charge at Matilda’s.”

  When they were gone, Molly picked up the copy of the Lawrence newspaper and moved to the tent, pushed her way through, and shoved Constance Beckett until her half-frozen eyelids opened. “What . . . what . . . is it?”

  “What it is,” Molly told her, “is my pards is greedy and you’re suddenly showing a profit.”

  “Huh?” The subzero temperatures had frozen her brain.

  “Me and you, doll baby, are lighting out. Right now. Pack up your possibles.”

  “I don’t . . . understand.”

  “The army is considering posting a reward for you. Not you who be Cory Bennett, but you who be Constance Beckett, who put a knife in a major’s chest. Right about . . . here.”

  The frozen face lost even more color. “I’ll never get far enough away.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, kid.” Molly pulled out the paper, unfolded it, and placed it on the ground near Constance’s slouch hat. “See that there notice?” She tapped the advertisement.

  WESTWARD TO RICHES

  I am organizing an expedition that will depart

  NEBRASKA CITY

  in the spring for the goldfields in the

  Northern Rockies.

  Following Bozeman’s trail.

  Experienced Bullwhackers needed.

  Apply to: MAJ. COUSHATTA JOHN NOAH,

  The American House, Nebraska City,

  Nebraska Territory.

  Liberty and Union Men Preferred.

  “Nebraska City?” Constance’s head shook dully. “How far is that?”

  “In this weather, by train, eight, nine days.”

  Constance shook her head, adamantly. “We’d never make it. I’d never make it. We’d freeze to death. And they would follow us, follow our wagons, we’d . . .”

  “I don’t aim to take these wagons.” Molly pulled off the eye patch. “I aim to burn this, as they’ll be looking for a one-eyed horse thief and his pard. I aim to steal two fine-blooded stallions. Then I am for us to take off at a high lope as far as we can get tonight. The gents in Leavenworth won’t be thrilled about having to go after us in this cold, and the only two who’ll want to track our horse-stealing hides and kill us will be afoot. We’ll swap the horses with some Pawnees, drift in to Nebraska, wait till the thaw, and see this Major Coushatta John Noah. That’ll give you a couple of months, maybe longer, to learn how to pass for not only a man, but a first-rate, Yankee-loving bullwhacker.”

  Constance Beckett blinked rapidly.

  “Unless you’d rather drop from a gallows,” Molly reminded her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  José Pablo Tsoyio left a gringo dollar by the sleeping head of the mujerzuela and softly closed the door to the crib before he walked down the alley. The residents of Dallas would call the weather on that February night cold, but José Pablo Tsoyio had been much, much colder, and after a lovely evening with a soft-skinned woman and a glass of tequila—good tequila, not the garbage they poured at most establishments in this poor North Texas town, José Pablo Tsoyio found the evening pleasant. Until he heard his name called by a man in the shadows.

  Stopping, José Pablo Tsoyio put his hand on the Dance revolver he carried in the mule-ear pocket of his Mexican denim trousers.

  “Me llamo Jorge Sanchez.” He made up the name on the spot. A match flared, followed by slow, easy movement as an orange glow faded and flamed while a cigar was lighted.

  “Well,” the voice behind the cigar drawled. “I don’t recollect ever meeting a cook by that name. Or a man real good with a knife. I do remember a gent about your build, your age, your attitude, and your voice. Alfonso Rivas?”

  José Pablo Tsoyio had not used that name in three and a half years.

  “Carlos Luis?”

  That one was more recent, but not exactly timely.

  “Heliot Ramos?”

  That brought the pistol out of the pocket, and José Pablo Tsoyio slowly cocked the hammer, stepping on the garbage to muffle the sound.

  “Antonio Pinero?”

  The hammer lowered. José Pablo Tsoyio had used that name only once. He slid the Dance into his pocket. “And what name are you using today, señor Hannah? Besides hijo de perra.”

  Jameson Hannah stepped out into the alley. Smoking his cigar, he moved easily toward José Pablo Tsoyio. He seemed taller, leaner. “Could I interest you in a drink, amigo?”

  “Como desées,” José Pablo Tsoyio said.

  “How about Hardee’s bucket of blood by Trinity Mills?”

  “They do not let Mexicans in, señor.”

  “They will if you’re with me.”

  * * *

  The norteamericano at the door did not like it. Neither did the man at the long bar, but none objected, for Jameson Hannah remained a powerful man, in reputation and size. He wore tall boots of a caballero with a green sash around his waist that carried two pistols. His pants were black, as was his vest and cravat, the shirt a heavy blue wool, the hat gray—but not the gray of the old horse soldier that he had been for three or four years. It was a new hat. Jameson Hannah seemed to be doing quite well, which not many former Confederate soldiers could claim.

  Hannah ordered brandy. It was not the drink José Pablo Tsoyio would have ordered for himself, but since Hannah was spending his own money, there was no reason to complain. They sipped, and Hannah dipped the end of his cigar in the amber liquid and drew on it.

  “How’s your English, whatever you’re calling yourself these days?”

  José Pablo Tsoyio shrugged.

  “You still making beans and bread for your keep?”

  Another shrug.

  “Way I recollect, you cook muy bueno, mi amigo.”

  José Pablo Tsoyio smiled ever so politely.

  “Though I imagine a certain notorious individual and some of his colleagues would not think that was the case. Your being a good cook, I mean. There was a news item I read in Fort Worth, somewhere south of here. Bunch of rustlers got poisoned. All of them dead. Three, four, six. I don’t rightly remember the exact number. And this store clerk at the town, someplace south of here, pretty far south, he—this is according to the paper, and it was a Fort Worth paper, so you know the facts might not altogether be true—but the clerk said there was a Mexican cook working for the outfit. Went by the name Heliot Ramos. No Mexican was found among the bloating, poisoned bodies of the rustlers.”

  “Perhaps they ate bad beans.” José Pablo Tsoyio sipped his liquor.

  “Maybe. Man I knew down in Millican died after eating bear grease he warmed up in a brass kettle.”

  “Cholera morbus,” José Pablo Tsoyio said softly.

  “What’s that?” Hannah crushed out the cigar.

  “It is of no importance.”

  “Well, it’s the name of the Mexican cook that made me read the little article.” Hannah sipped. “Do you remember a tinhorn named Heliot Ramos down Brownsville way? Just before the war broke out?”

  José Pablo Tsoyio shrugged again. “Should I?”

  “You killed him.”

  Another shrug. “I have killed many men, señor. As . . .” He touched his snifter against Hannah’s. “. . . have you.”

  “And since Heliot Ramos had no need of his name anymore, you borrowed it . . . just temporary.”

  No answer.

  “What name should I address you by tonight . . . no . . . I guess it’s morning . . . what name, amigo?”

  “The name my mother and father gave me sixty-four years ago this evening, señor. José Pablo Tsoyio.”

  “It’s your birthday. Damnation, pard. Many more blessed years before you.” Their glasses clinked again, and they moved from the bar to a table.

  When the brandy was finished, Hannah ordered another round. The bartender frowned. The waiter took his sweet time bringing two more brandies to the ta
ble, and when he set them on the table, Hannah motioned him forward, handed him a silver coin, and then shoved the barrel of one of his revolvers into the man’s privates. “You tell your boss that my name is Jameson Hannah.” The man was already gagging, but the name caused the eyes to bulge even more. “And two things I detest. One is arrogance. One is tardiness when it comes to drinking on my friend’s birthday. And the next time I look at the bar, I’m not saying anything, but if there’s not another round on my table in half a minute, I’m killing somebody. And maybe more than just one body. ¿Comprende? That’s Mexican lingo for ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, bucko?’ Because I figure that since these Mexicans owned this here country before you, me, Davy, Jim, Travis, Austin, or General By God Sam Houston ever set foot in this country, it’s probably a good language to use.” He shoved the man backward, and he toppled over a table, came up, righted the table, plus the chair that had gone over with him, and moved fast to the bar.

  “You are still a man of immense patience, patrón,” José Pablo Tsoyio told his benefactor.

  “Well, I like to stir the pot now and again. How have you been?”

  José Pablo Tsoyio responded with his patented shrug.

  “How about if I spell things out for you, José?”

  After reaching into his vest pocket, Jameson Hannah showed him a ripped page from the Dallas Herald. An advertisement had been circled.

  DUNN, HOWE & CO.

  Pork and Beef Packers,

  Jefferson, Texas

  Will pay the Highest Market Price for

  GOOD FAT CATTLE and HOGS

  “I am no cattleman, señor.”

  But Hannah pointed toward the east. “It’s a hundred fifty miles or so to Jefferson. I figure to drive a hundred head or so of fat Texas beef to East Texas. Sell good fat cattle for the highest market price.”

  “Why not pigs?” José Pablo Tsoyio grinned.

  “Pig dung stinks,” Hannah said. “I sort of think cow shit isn’t that foul-smelling. Chicken shit, now that’s the nastiest.”

  They finished their cordials. Jameson Hannah did not look toward the bar for another.