A Thousand Texas Longhorns

by Johnny D. Boggs

  The man picked up his broom, started sweeping, paying attention to every ball of dried mud, leaf, and speck of dust on his porch. Having given up on any cooperation from the clerk, Boone swore, spit, and neck-reined the bay to the right. “If Hannah’s not still in Dallas, or hanging from a post oak, or in jail,” the man said, still sweeping, “he’ll be at Cascade Mary’s soon enough.”

  “Where’s that?”

  The man’s chin jutted out toward a solitary log cabin off to the northeast.

  * * *

  Boone couldn’t call it a whorehouse, but the ladies of the tenderloin sat on the cabin’s porch, in loosely fitting clothes, some looking bored, others seeming to be drifting into a laudanum morning. They smiled as the men reined up and dismounted. One chirpy gestured to a crib behind the cabin. A black boy, not even in his teens, stepped through the open doorway and asked, “Take your horses, gentlemen?”

  Boone handed him the reins to the bay. The kid led the horses to the corral.

  “Reckon they’re safe?” Petty whispered.

  The pockmarked brunette removed the cigarette from her lips, blew a smoke ring toward the awning, and said, “I’ll make sure nobody runs off with ’em, boys.” She then opened up her robe, revealing her white skin and small breasts, before drawing a four-shot derringer from a shoulder holster. Petty blushed. Allen’s mouth dropped agape. Story removed his hat, said, “Ma’am,” and moved into the darkened room.

  Boone stopped at the door, looked at the brunette, and asked, “If Jameson Hannah stops by, tell him a friend of Cody’s would like to talk over a business proposition.”

  “I don’t know no Jameson Hannah, sonny.”

  “Then you’re the only one in Texas who doesn’t.”

  * * *

  “How’d you know Hannah wasn’t here already?” Allen asked when they found a corner table.

  Boone answered with irritation. “There weren’t any horses in the corral.”

  A Mexican stepped out of a back room, looked the men over, and approached, wiping his hands on an apron, but using the apron to hide the pistol stuck in his waistband.

  “Coffee,” Story ordered.

  “Sí. ¿Quieres algo de comer?”

  “Just coffee,” Boone said.

  The man looked to the door, shook his head, and walked toward the potbelly stove in the far corner.

  “How long do we wait?” Petty asked.

  “You got someplace you need to be?” Story said.

  “Well . . .” The Kansan grinned sheepishly and nodded toward the porch.

  “Forget it,” Story told him.

  * * *

  By four o’clock that afternoon, they had left the cabin just to visit the privy, and their bellies and bowels were sick of what passed for coffee at Cascade Mary’s. The back door opened, and a woman walked in, stepped behind the bar, picked up a tray, laid five tumblers on it, grabbed a bottle from the back bar, and moved to the table.

  A petite woman with blond hair pulled up into a bun, she wore a one-piece gown of gray silk with a prim-and-proper white collar, fuller skirt, and banana-shaped sleeves. Even carrying a tray, she moved with grace. Smiling, she lowered the tray and slid it to the center of the table.

  “You boys are bad for my business,” she said in a smooth Southern—not Texas—accent. “Have a drink on the house before you leave.”

  “Who says we’re leaving?” Story said.

  “I do.” She removed the cork from the bottle of rye, and began pouring. “I’m Mary. This is my place. I’d like to keep it. And most of the menfolk in Tarrant County would be downright agitated if I had to close it.”

  “We’ll be leaving,” Story said, “after we meet someone.”

  The bottle returned to the tray, she picked up the cork, stoppered the rye, and held out her tumbler.

  “When Jameson comes by.” Her blue eyes sparkled. “I’ll tell him to call on you boys. Where are you staying?”

  Boone answered. “Hill up by the creek. Lot of shade trees.”

  “I know where you’re taking about.” She raised her glass and waited.

  Story said, “What if Jameson Hannah doesn’t come by?”

  “Sir, don’t be silly.” If a fellow looked just right, he could see lavender in those eyes. “Jameson Hannah always comes by.”

  Story let a rare grin appear, and he nodded and reached for the glass, and Nelson Story did not drink whiskey often. The others picked up their tumblers, holding them toward the hostess. Glasses clinked, and the rye traveled down with the smoothness of maple syrup.

  The blonde set her empty glass on the tray, picked up the bottle, and brushed past Boone, stopping to run her hands through his hair. “If you boys decide to spend some money, stop by again. I enjoy entertaining Texas boys.” She winked at Story. “But I can tolerate a Yankee now and then.”

  They watched her return the rye to the bar and disappear through the back door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The rider with the green sash and gray hat rode up the tree-studded hill on a wiry buckskin mustang, cradling a Spencer carbine in both hands. A good horse, Nelson Story figured, and a good rider, who had draped the reins over the gelding’s neck and controlled the animal with his legs.

  “Morning,” the man spoke evenly, nodding first at Story, then at the others in the camp. Story had risen from the fire that morning, holding his cup of steaming coffee in his left hand, and his right thumb hooked inside the belt next to the holster on his left hip. “The name’s Hannah. Word is you’d like to have a parley with me.”

  Story nodded at the coffeepot. “Step down.”

  Tall, lean, and hard, his face bronzed by sun and wind, his hair dark and long, a mustache dropping down toward his chin, Hannah swung down gracefully, ground-reined the buckskin, and strode to the fire. He still held the Spencer, but now smiling, he lowered the hammer and leaned the weapon against Mason Boone’s saddle. At that point, Story moved his right hand away from the Navy Colt.

  Boone emptied the dregs from his tin cup and pitched it to Hannah, who caught it with his left hand, and squatted by the fire. Once his black coffee filled the cup, he sat back on his haunches and looked up at Story.

  “The word I heard was cattle.”

  “That’s right.”

  Hannah sipped, nodded with approval, and looked at Boone. “I take it you knew my kid brother.”

  “Yeah,” Boone said uncomfortably.

  “Told him not to go. Told him this wasn’t our fight.” He stared at the coffee. “But Cody just had to go and prove himself.”

  “He proved himself,” Boone said. “More than once.”

  “Well, that’s good to know, I reckon.” Hannah swallowed more coffee before looking up at Story. “I’m listening.”

  “I’m driving a herd of longhorns to Montana.”

  The cup had been coming up toward Hannah’s mouth, but it stopped, and wound up resting on a rock by the coals.

  “Well, that’s certainly a plan.”

  “I didn’t say I’m planning to drive those cattle. I said I’m driving.”

  “I heard you. And I still say it’s a plan. How far is it to . . . where exactly in Montana?”

  “Virginia City. In Alder Gulch. By my guess, fifteen hundred miles, but that’s from here. We have to go through Leavenworth first. Leavenworth, Kansas.”

  “I know where Leavenworth is.” He winked across the fire at Petty. “There’s a Yankee fort there.” His head shook, and Hannah sipped more coffee. “All right, let’s call it three hundred miles to Leavenworth. Thereabouts. I’d have to see a map to figure out how much more . . .”

  “Let’s call it eighteen hundred miles or so,” Story said. “Thereabouts.”

  “Mister, it’s March already. Late March. We’d be lucky to get your herd moving by the first of April. Eighteen hundred miles? Getting your beef there by November would take a miracle.”

  “As long as it’s before January the first, I’m good.”

  �
��You might be, but your beef won’t. Cattle eat grass on a trail drive, mister. And grass don’t grow in winter.”

  “Cattle eat grass in winter, too, and the Gallatin Valley’s pretty well protected.”

  “A horse is smart enough to paw through frozen snow to get to some feed. A longhorn just bawls and starves to death.”

  “A miner in Summit told me it would be a mild winter.”

  “And how the hell does he know that?”

  “I didn’t ask. But he hasn’t been wrong in three years.”

  Hannah laughed. “How many head are you thinking about driving?”

  Story shot Boone a glance before looking back at Hannah. “First, this will be a mixed herd. Some I aim to sell. But I want some for breeding. I figure if I raise beef in Montana, I can sell beef in Montana, without all this expense and time.” Seeing no reaction from the mysterious cattle broker, Story asked: “Three hundred head sound about right?”

  Hannah shook his head.

  “Six?”

  Hannah reached for his cup, drank, and said, “Make it a thousand.” When Story hesitated, Hannah grinned and added, “Your miner said it was going to be a mild winter. So this Gallatin Valley ought to be able to support that many head.” He passed the cup to Boone. “More, son, if you’d be so kind.” Back at Story, he went on, “Rule of thumb here is one cowboy for a hundred head of beef. That’s cowboy.” He held up his left hand and spread out thumb and fingers as he counted. “That doesn’t include trail boss, cook, or wrangler.”

  “What’s a wrangler?” Tom Allen asked.

  “The fellow in charge of the remuda. And you’re looking at one substantial remuda.”

  “Remuda?” Allen asked.

  “Horse herd. You don’t take one horse for one cowboy. A good cowhand’ll go through maybe six horses a day. Sometimes more.”

  “Ten cowboys for a thousand head is a lot more expensive than three cowboys for three hundred,” Story said.

  By then, Jameson Hannah had the coffee cup back. “Yeah.” He sipped, nodded again in satisfaction before adding: “But I’m not talking about cowboys or cattle. I’m talking about guns.”

  “Guns?” Petty said.

  “I work Texas, boys,” Hannah said. “Some in the Indian Nations. Missouri a bit. Eastern Kansas. Louisiana.” He leaned back and sighed. “There’s this sweet gal in Natchitoches.” Another sip of coffee, and he straightened. “But from what I hear and from what I read in the newspapers, there’s a hell of a lot of tension on the western plains, and I have to think that one cow or a hundred steers would invite some unwelcomed curiosity among the Cheyennes and Sioux.”

  “All right,” Story said. “A thousand head. Ten cowboys. And the others.”

  “Good enough.”

  “But you ought to know that we’ll be bringing some freight wagons with us from Leavenworth.”

  Hannah laughed without humor and shook his head. “Well, then we definitely won’t see your mecca till mid-November at the soonest. How many wagons?”

  “At least two. I’m considering my options.”

  “I like a man with vision. Why not a couple of omnibuses filled with whores?”

  “No, Mr. Hannah. One thing Virginia City doesn’t need is another whore.”

  Chuckling, Hannah twisted his mustache. “Then I just might take a liking to Virginia City.”

  He rose, finished his coffee, and tossed the cup back to Boone. “I’ll hire the crew. If that suits you. How particular are you about your men?”

  “You have the reputation, Mr. Hannah,” Story said. “Men you choose should be suited for the task at hand. But warn your men: I don’t bend at all.”

  Hannah nodded. “If I thought you’d bend, I wouldn’t have stuck around to hear your little fantasy . . . Now, how particular are you about your cattle?”

  “No more than nine or ten dollars a head.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You’ll want an advance.”

  To Story’s surprise, Hannah shook his head. “No. I’ll get the cattle at my price. You’ll pay me your price. My top hand is Sam Ireland. Top hand with a running iron, plus he’s a pretty good smithy when he wants to be. I’d have him pound out a road brand for you, ordinarily, but if you want to get your herd to Montana before January, maybe we should forget about road brands. I don’t think we’ll run into many inspectors anyhow. Let’s get to the more important matters: Cowboys here earn forty a month. Wrangler the same. Paying in full at the end of the drive.”

  “I heard it’s twenty,” Story said.

  “Forty. You hire them at twenty, and they’ll quit when they find out we’re going to Montana.”

  Puzzled, Boone set his cup down and said, “You don’t aim to tell them where we’re going when you hire them?”

  “If I told them that, they wouldn’t hire on. Not at first. They’d have to get used to you. I’ll tell them. Hell, I won’t have no choice but to tell them. Cowboys are stupid, but they’re not fools. So I’ll tell them when the time’s right. That’s why you pay me one-fifty a month. And I’ll take a month’s wages in advance.”

  “Agreed,” Story said.

  “One of you go see Cascade Mary in the morning. Tell her that I said for her to get you horses for the remuda. Pay her. Less than what you plan on paying for these longhorns.”

  He pointed east. “Follow the West Fork till you come to the Elm Fork. Where the Trinity branches off. Then follow the Trinity. It’ll start moving south. When you come to the big crossing, just sit with the remuda and wait for me. Five or six days. If I’m not back by then, figure that I’ve been killed. Then you’re out a hundred and fifty bucks, but you got your remuda. And it’ll be up to you to hire another crew, buy your herd, and start this harebrained drive.”

  He reached down, grabbed the Spencer, and moved to the buckskin.

  “What about the cook?” Allen asked.

  “Cook’s the most important man on the drive. You’ll pay him a hundred a month. Same as the others. He gets his money when the job’s finished.”

  “Where . . . ?” Petty started, stopping as Hannah swung into the saddle.

  “Don’t worry about the cook,” Hannah said. “I got just the man to serve chuck.” This time, he gathered the reins, kept the rifle across his thighs, and turned his horse back toward town. “Just remember,” he said as he ducked under a tree branch. “The worst thing a cowboy can do is piss off a cook. This one in particular.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Montana hated her. Not the territory. Ellen’s own baby daughter. Ellen knew that had to be the case. Sometimes, the girl wouldn’t suckle. Or sleep. Heaven help her, just an hour, or even fifteen minutes. That’s all Ellen wanted. Just to sleep. Sleep. Sleep. She had put the baby to sleep, bundled her ever so gently, and lay down, closed her eyes, and slept so peacefully. Only to wake up, sweating, fearful, her heart pounding, and slowly started whispering a prayer.

  “Oh, God, oh, dear God in heaven, please, please, please let my baby be asleep.”

  Only to roll over so slowly and stare into the wide, stunningly blue eyes of Alice Montana Story.

  Before her daughter began bawling, Ellen Story started sobbing.

  Well, she certainly knew who to blame. Nelson Gile “No Good” Story. He was off to New York . . . no, the last letter she had received came from Leavenworth, Kansas . . . saying how he could not wait to see his daughter, that Alice Montana was a crackerjack name. Well, thank you very much for your blessing, you hard-rock piece of trash. Nelson Story was the man who brought her to this godless, summerless Hades. Her hand touched the scar above her eye, the scar being courtesy of her husband, No Good Story. Or maybe she should be cursing her father. Oh, yes, Father. Now, Nelson Story, there’s a good man. A provider. A man with ambition. Thank you, very much, Papa. A man who was going places. Places? Certainly. Denver, Colorado, and the bitter mining camps in the Rockies. Then on the trail, with two incessantly slow mules pulling the wagon to Utah and on up to what remained
of Bannack City. Those mules were so slow, the Storys became a joke of the train. They’d wait, sometimes taking bets, to see how long after dark it would be before Nelson and Ellen Story made it to camp.

  Provider? In a pig’s eye.

  Ellen caught her breath. Told herself that she had not meant what she had been thinking. Or had she been speaking aloud? God, she prayed, you know I did not . . . Oh, yes, oh, hell, yes, I meant exactly what I was thinking.

  Shut up. Damn you, Montana, shut up. I just fed you. I only have so much milk in my breasts. Will you, for the love of God, God in all your mercy, cannot you do just this one little thing for me?

  Guilt almost curled her into a ball. She had gone mad. Mad. Completely. Like Aunt Rhonda of Gallatin County. Montana, just shut up. Just go back to sleep.

  “Missus Story?”

  Shut up. Go away. Just let me die.

  “Missus Story?”

  “I will rip your throat out with my bare hands if you touch me again, Nelson. You and—”

  “Missus Story!”

  The slap stunned her. Her eyes widened. If she could have freed her wrist from the vise that gripped her, she would have broken . . .

  A face came into focus, not the face of the devil, but the kind face of . . . no. No. It was not the Texan named Mason Boone.

  “D- . . . Doctor . . . Becker?”

  “Beckstead. But that’s close enough.”

  He swallowed. He held the bundle that had to be Montana tucked in his left arm. His right arm supported her. He sat on her bed. In the loft. She wanted to reach for her robe, cover herself. But . . . was she fully dressed?

  “Missus Story, I am going to lay you down on your pillows,” the man said, evenly, calmly, a wonder. “Your daughter sounds hungry.”

  She blinked. “What are you . . . why are . . . ?”

  “I happened to be passing. Purely coincidence. I heard the baby. I heard shouts. Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “Y-y-yes. It . . . It was . . . a . . . a n-ni. Nightmare.” She smiled.