A Thousand Texas Longhorns

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “Yes. Of course, ma’am. Here’s your daughter. I will wait downstairs and brew tea. Let me know when it is permissible for me to return to the loft.” She felt the warmth of her precious child in her arms. She heard the footsteps as the doctor’s boots moved away from the bed. Ellen looked into the face of Montana and felt the love envelop her. Again. But she could not push those savage, ludicrous thoughts out of her mind.

  * * *

  “Do I belong in Bedlam, Doctor?”

  Seth Beckstead held the thermometer toward the light. “That is not for me to say, ma’am, but your temperature is where it should be.”

  He dropped the device into his satchel, smiled the smile of condescension, and asked, “When is the last time you ate?”

  “Oh . . . breakfast . . . no . . . dinner.”

  “If I were to bring in the scales from Foster and Culver’s livery . . .”

  “You would not dare.”

  “Drink your tea, Missus Story.”

  He produced a book from the black satchel, opened it, read, turned several hundred pages deep into the red-leather-bound book, and read more. Sighing, he closed the book after several minutes and returned it to the black bag.

  “You have not sipped your tea, ma’am. I am insulted.”

  She tasted the tea, now cold, drank more, set the cup on the saucer by the bedside table.

  “That was a terrible dream I had,” she said.

  “I imagine it was.” His eyes bored through her. She felt like slapping him. He was an intruder. He came up to her loft—her bedchambers—while her husband was away, thousands of miles away, and, uninvited, had taken advantage of her. The pocket pistol Nelson had given her lay under the mattress. No jury in the world, or especially in the Fourteen Mile City . . .

  Her eyes closed. “Oh, Dr. Beckstead, I fear insanity is taking root.”

  * * *

  “They brought us cadavers. Skeletons. But they did not teach us anything even close to this at the University of Maryland School of Medicine, ma’am.” He smiled warmly and refreshed her tea from the steaming kettle he had brought from downstairs. “As I told you before little Montana joined us, this is more for a midwife than . . .” He grinned weakly and set the kettle on the floor.

  “But am I mad?”

  “No. Your moods tend to swing like a pendulum.”

  “I am depressed one minute, angry the next, restless . . . it is . . . unlike me.”

  “Very much so, but this is your first child. Your husband is gone. You are alone. Should I find your midwife, Miss . . . ?”

  “No, no, no. Leave Popie alone. Besides, she charges an arm and a leg, and her work here ceased after Montana was born.”

  “Well.” He glanced toward the ladder. “Perhaps . . . The professor, Mr. Dimsdale, you know, at the Post?”

  “No. He is too busy. And an Englishman, to boot.”

  “I could ask one of the ladies in town . . . one of the respectable . . .”

  “Those bitches.” Her hands covered her mouth. “I did not mean that, Doctor . . . I . . .”

  And she broke into a flood of tears, sobbing without control, and felt herself being lifted, pulled closer. She felt his warmth, the bones of his shoulder, and his arms around her back, holding her with strength, but gentleness, rocking her on the bed, easily, smoothly, in complete control. His soft whispers assured her. “It is all right, Missus Story. Everything will be all right. You are fine. You are . . .”

  In good hands, she thought.

  When he laid her back onto her pillow, she brought his right hand toward her face, rubbed the back of it against her check, and then ran her fingers across his palm. No calluses. Not like sand. Smooth, clean, gentle hands. She looked into those deep, dark, inviting eyes. She felt safe. So safe.

  You are a married woman.

  Her hands dropped to the quilt.

  “Where is Montana?” Her head shot left, then right, then...

  “Sleeping soundly beside you, Missus Story.”

  She found the baby, so little, so fragile, so beautiful. Her mood became filled with love. “Oh, isn’t she so beautiful?”

  “As lovely as her mother.”

  Those words would not register until after nightfall.

  Turning her head, she stared up at him. “You have been a godsend this day, Dr. Beckstead. I do not know what would have become of me had you not happened by.”

  “Someone else would have heard your cries. Your latchstring was out. It was easy to get in. Perhaps the professor would have come to assist you.”

  She smiled. “Would not that have been an interesting article in the Montana Post?”

  “Indeed.”

  She felt content.

  “Dr. Beckstead . . . ?”

  “Missus Story.” He held up his right hand. “Might I, as your doctor, as your friend . . .” He paused, debated in his head, and laughed. “Would you please call me Seth?”

  “Seth.” She tested the word. “It is a fine name.”

  He said nothing, just waited.

  “Very well. From this day forward, you are Seth.”

  “Thank you.”

  Now the debate ran through her mind. “You may . . . you must . . . call me Ellen.”

  “You will not believe this, Ellen . . .” He grinned and rose, bringing his black valise off the bearskin rug. “But I have two other patients that I need to call on.”

  “By all means, Doc . . . Seth. By all means. I hope I have not inconvenienced you, or them.”

  “Not at all, Ellen. I will drop by tomorrow morning. Is there anything I can bring you?”

  “No. I feel much better now . . . Seth.”

  “As do I, Ellen. Till tomorrow.”

  He bowed, turned, and quickly moved down the ladder. The door opened, closed. The baby still slept. Ten minutes later, Ellen Story cried again. And did not stop until Montana awakened, demanding in tears that her diaper be changed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Circling the horse herd, Boone reined in his gelding as Bill Petty rode toward him. The Kansan smiled, pulled off his hat, and wiped sweat off with his shirtsleeve, then withdrew the makings from his vest pocket and rolled a smoke. “This typical for March in Texas?” Petty asked.

  Boone shrugged. “I don’t know if Texas has typical weather in any month.”

  “Doesn’t feel like spring.”

  “Spring lasts about four days. Fall about the same.”

  Laughing, Petty held out the sack, but Boone shook his head. Once the cigarette was lighted, Petty held it out toward the horses. “That’s a lot of horses.”

  Boone nodded.

  “And that Hannah said he only needed one wrangler to watch after them.” Petty shook his head, returned the cigarette, and started talking, but Boone didn’t hear what he said. Twisting in the saddle, he looked over the hill toward the south.

  “You hear something?” Boone asked.

  Petty went silent. “Yeah. I sure do.” He looked at the grazing horses, then back at Boone. “What . . . I’m not sure about . . .”

  “Stay with the remuda,” Boone said. “I’ll see what’s behind that hill.”

  He put the bay into an easy lope, and stopped on the hilltop, removed his hat, and gawked at the sight. There they came, a long line of various colors and massive horns, stretching out perhaps a mile or more. Wind blew clouds of dust off toward the southeast. A covered wagon rolled along on the western side of the cattle, pulled by four mules. Two riders rode along—the beginning of the herd—and another man rode ahead of them. From the gray hat, that must have been Jameson Hannah. Farther down the line, Boone spotted two other riders, again one on each side of the longhorns. There had to be more riders past them, but the dust obscured most of that for several yards, and beyond that, coming up a draw, Boone’s eyesight wasn’t that good to make out any riders.

  If the wind had not carried Petty’s shout to the hilltop, Boone might have just sat in his saddle, staring at the spectacle. He blinked, twisted
, waved his hat and shouted, “It’s the herd. Go fetch Mr. Story.” Petty must have heard. Boone wasn’t sure his voice would carry that far with the wind blowing toward him, but Petty whipped his horse into a gallop toward the camp. Boone looked back, debated his options, then spurred the bay back toward the horses. Of course, if the cattle spooked the cow ponies and scattered the remuda toward every point on a compass, Boone didn’t know what he could do to stop them. And only when he saw Nelson Story, Tom Allen, and Bill Petty riding hard from camp did Boone think of something else.

  What if it’s not Jameson Hannah but some other drover bringing a herd up the Shawnee Trail?

  Story and the others reined up when they reached Boone. “Tom, Bill, you stay with the remuda. Boone, ride with . . .” He stopped at the sound of hoofbeats, and four riders crested the hill—no cattle behind them—and sent dust rising behind them as they thundered toward them. Boone breathed a little easier when he recognized Jameson Hannah, riding a chestnut with three white feet that slid to a stop.

  “You made it,” Story said, unable to contain his excitement.

  “This far.” Hannah glanced at the remuda, then said without looking at the men behind him. “Lopez, there are our horses. Get them moving and moving quick and we’ll see you at the camp.”

  “Sí, patrón.” A young, thin, wiry boy still in his teens spurred his spotted horse toward the remuda, but Boone did not have a chance to see how one rider could manage a herd of horses that size because Hannah was calling his name.

  “Boone, you and your pards ride to the drag. Tell my riders there to fall back. They’ll be watching our back trail.”

  Hannah must have seen Boone’s face because he went on. “There’s nothing to do at drag but keep your mouth shut and just push the slowpokes along. I’d pull up your bandannas, boys, and tight. Else grass might sprout from your stomachs and lungs from all the dirt you’ll eat and breathe. Ride on the east side. Won’t be likely to spook the herd as much. Fabian, you show them the way, then ride back with the drag boys. You know what to do.”

  Another Mexican, but wearing pants with embroidery and buttons up the legs, nodded, turned his black horse around, and trotted off. Boone didn’t know what else to do but follow him. When he caught up with the dark-skinned man with a thin mustache and black hair to his shoulders, the man put his horse into a lope. Once Allen and Petty joined them, they galloped south, a good fifty yards away from the herd, through dust clouds, leaping over a narrow wash, up a hill and to another.

  Seeing the end of the herd, the rider named Fabian reined up hard, twisted in the saddle, and gestured toward the crimson silk bandanna around his neck.

  Boone understood, pulled his piece of calico up until it covered his nose and mouth. Fabian did not give them time to tighten the scarves, but pushed the gelding into another lope, slowing down when they neared the trail’s end.

  Four riders, filthy beyond belief, stopped their horses as Boone and the others approached. He would not have bet on being able to say what colors the horses were, either, the dust was so thick. Fabian whistled and three of the riders turned their mounts south. Then the Mexican looked at Boone.

  “My name is Fabian Peña, but introductions will come later.” The accent was definitely Mexican, but he spoke in perfect English. He nodded at the one drag rider left behind. “This is Jimmy Titus.” The ghost in dust raised his pointer finger from the horn on his saddle. “Just do what he does. Vaya con Dios.” He spurred his horse, yelling, “Vámanos,” and the quartet rode south.

  Jimmy Titus adjusted his dirty bandanna, nodded, pointed, and eased his horse up to catch up with the longhorns. Boone fell in alongside of him. Dust billowed and built as Petty and Allen moved their horses into position.

  Dust and the bandanna, Boone figured before they had ridden a tenth of a mile, helped hide the smell of manure.

  * * *

  They might have driven through Dallas. Maybe they skirted around it. Boone wasn’t sure of anything except the constant bawling of longhorns, a world of blinding dust, and the soreness in his thighs, calves, buttocks, and spine. The sun beat down on them. He wondered what Nelson Story was doing. It certainly could not have been as terrible as the job Boone found himself doing. Sometimes he would look to his right to see how Petty fared, but two thirds of the time he couldn’t even see Petty, and when he did, he wasn’t about to open his mouth. His lips rarely parted except when the wind shifted, and then he would just spit. That made the bandanna heavier as the spit helped turn the dust into small balls of mud.

  They did not stop for dinner. They rode. They did not stop for creeks. They forded them. They stopped only when their horses emptied bladders or bowels.

  The sun sank. They kept driving until dark.

  Finally, the young man named Jimmy Titus pulled down his bandanna and showed them how to bed down the herd. Boone could see a campfire and the outlines of men. Titus nodded.

  “Y’all done good.” His twang reminded Boone of the boys he had fought with in the 10th. He realized the kid hadn’t said anything to him until just then. “Get some coffee. Tell Mr. Hannah I’ll keep an eye on these beeves till he sends my relief.”

  Boone struggled with the knot in his bandanna, but finally got it undone and began shaking it and slamming it against his filthy britches. “You were at this longer than we were. Maybe I should watch the cattle.” He had done a fair job, he figured, looking after the remuda for days.

  “Yeah, but I know what I’m doin’. Y’all rest.” He looked at Boone’s legs. “Mister, you really ought to get yourself some chaps. All y’all. Saddle’ll wear through ’em denims and ducks in no time and then go to work on your hide.”

  “It already has,” Boone said, and felt a kinship with the kid when Jimmy Titus grinned widely.

  “Save me some coffee and a soft spot of earth,” the boy said before turning his horse and riding into the darkening night.

  * * *

  He could have kissed the wrangler, Lopez, when the young Mexican took the reins to Boone’s bay and led the worn-out horse to the remuda—wherever that was. Boone looked for a washbasin, found none, but he smelled coffee and beans. He tried brushing off as much of the dust as he could, and started moving toward the covered wagon and the fire, but mostly toward that pot of coffee, when Nelson Story’s voice rang out.

  “Boone. Over here.”

  Boone sighed. Story and Hannah sat on a tree stump, drinking coffee, pewter bowls, empty, at their feet. Slowly, stiffly, Boone approached his bosses. Story brought the coffee up toward his mouth, but stopped when he saw just how dirty Boone was.

  “How you like riding drag?” Jameson Hannah asked.

  Boone wanted to drive a fist through the twinkle in the man’s cold eyes.

  “Hannah says we need to push the herd hard the first few days,” Story said. “It’ll tire them out.”

  “Less likely to run,” Hannah added, and sipped more coffee. “It’s eighty miles to the Red River. Usually, we’d make it there in ten days. We’ll make it in six, no more than seven. Get that river behind us, slow down a wee bit. Where’s Titus?”

  “With the herd,” Boone said. His mouth felt as if it was coated with dirt. “Says he’ll stay there till you relieve him.”

  “Good kid, Titus.” Hannah dumped out the dregs of his cup and tossed it to Boone, who was too worn out. The coffee cup bounced off his fingers and hit the grass. He groaned as he knelt to pick it up.

  “Course, I won’t be relieving the kid. You will.”

  Boone stared.

  “You need chaps,” Hannah said. “Or you’ll be crippled. Better pants. But we’ll get you outfitted once we reach the Indian Nations.”

  “Should we get proper clothes before we leave Texas?” Story asked.

  “No. We’re not doing any shopping till we’re out of Texas. We’ll get supplies for our cook in the Nations there, as well.” Hannah nodded. “Drink up. Fill your stomach with José’s chow. Then pick out a good night horse. Or, bett
er yet, let Lopez get your horse.” He looked across the camp. “Ward. You and Boone here are spelling Titus and Barley in two hours.” He looked back at Boone. “You’ll get spelled around one or two.” He stared again at the fire. “José. Breakfast at four-thirty. Just biscuits and coffee. We’ll be pulling out before daybreak.”

  “When do we sleep?” Boone asked.

  “In Virginia City, Montana,” Jameson Hannah told him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  On most days, Story rode ahead of the crew with Jameson Hannah, checking out watering holes, possible camping sites. He knew little about cattle, and less about driving cattle, but he kept learning. Nelson Story always prided himself as a fast learner.

  Sam Ireland—the one Hannah called a “top hand”—and Fabian Peña rode point. Those were the lucky ones. The only dust they had to eat was whatever the covered wagon driven by the cook, José Pablo Tsoyio, and Story and Hannah kicked up. The wagon had been moving alongside of the herd before the crew caught up with Story and the remuda. Now, the young Mexican Cesar Lopez kept the horse herd moving on the western flank of the long line of beeves.

  Farther back, where the line of cattle appeared to swell rode Dalton Combs and Luis Avala. Hannah called that spot “swing,” and beyond that came two men at the “flank” position, Jordan Stubbings and Kelvin Melean. The most miserable job fell upon the drag riders, which for the past few days had included Jimmy Titus and Story’s men: Allen, Petty, and Boone. Hannah’s regular drag riders, Ryan Ward, Ernesto Martinez, and Jody Barley, still trailed the herd. Hannah said that they likely would take over their regular positions after they crossed the Red River at Rock Bluff.

  This afternoon, Hannah had loped off ahead, leaving Story behind. Not that Story minded that one bit. His legs were stiff. Miners walked more than they rode, and most of Story’s riding had been in buckboards and freight wagons. Spending fourteen or more hours in a saddle took some getting used to. Men like Sam Ireland and Fabian Peña—indeed practically all of Hannah’s hires—looked as if they had been born in a saddle. Even Jimmy Titus seemed unfazed by all this riding, and Titus couldn’t be much older than fifteen.