A Thousand Texas Longhorns

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “You son of a bitch,” he whispered to himself. “You’re jealous.” And from the looks on the faces of the other cowboys and bullwhackers around the camp, Story wasn’t alone. A few minutes later, Peña and Dow walked to camp, but Constance did not fix their dinner.

  Story strode to the center. “Boone.” He made sure Boone looked away from Constance. “Peña, Dow.” The bullwhacker Kyle McPherson happened by so Story called out his name, too. “You all will have guard duty on the horse corral. So if you need sleep, get it this afternoon.” He turned, called out four other names, told them that they would be guarding the oxen and mule corral. Then he looked at Hannah. “You and me will take first watch on the cattle.”

  Hannah didn’t like that. Boone wasn’t happy. Nor was Constance Beckett, but Story felt like he had done a good deed for the night. Hell, boy, he thought as his eyes locked on Boone’s, I might have just saved your life.

  * * *

  Throwing off the covers, feeling the bitter predawn cold, José Pablo Tsoyio cursed the day he learned how to cook. Yet he rose, bones aching, blew into his hands to warm them, and moved to the fire. He jammed it relentlessly with the piece of charred wood, then added kindling to the hot coals. Eventually, he had the fire going, and the coffee boiling, and soon started tossing thick slices of bacon onto the skillet. Fort Phil Kearny wasn’t much, but the commissary and Mr. Story’s money could be a blessing.

  Bacon would get cowboys up quicker than a puta.

  Yet the first person to come to the fire was the girl in men’s duds. She knelt, held her hands to the fire for warmth, and finally asked, “Is there anything I can do?”

  José Pablo Tsoyio sighed. He wasn’t about to send a woman to gather firewood, even if it was real wood, not dried dung they had used for so damned long on the plains.

  “There is a small pot,” he said at last, and slid the bacon into a plate. He nodded. “There. Fill it from the big pot.”

  She worked eagerly. Most cowboys, and a few bullwhackers, would do this for an extra biscuit or two. He did not know what he should pay a woman. He wondered if she could cook. Not as well as he could, he decided.

  The woman set the smoking pot on the rocks. She was smart enough to use a big rag to hold the handle. Most cowboys burned themselves because they did not think.

  “Can you fry bacon?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  He rose, nodded at the skillet and the thick slabs. “Do this.” He pointed to the side of bacon and the knife. “Till I return. I must bring the guards some coffee.” He picked up a wheat sack that rattled with tin cups. “They have been up all night.” And better be awake, he thought to himself, unless they want to have their manhood kneed into their stomachs.

  “I can do that,” the girl cried out, and almost spilled the smaller pot into the flames, which caused an obscenity to escape from José Pablo Tsoyio’s lips, but it was in Spanish, so perhaps the señorita did not understand.

  “I’ll do it,” she said, and this time lifted the pot, again using the rag, and extended her left hand for the sack of cups. But her eyes betrayed her as she looked toward the corrals.

  José Pablo Tsoyio smiled. Ah, to be young, and in love. It was a good thing. He said, “Let me fry some more bacon first. They will be hungry, too.” He forked the meat in the skillet, looked up, and laughed.

  “It will not take long, señorita. The fire is hot.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Ellen thought she had prepared herself for this, but the tears ran down her cheeks the moment she stepped into the room. Dr. Sparhan squeezed her and whispered that she could come back later, but she shook her head. “I’m all right,” she told him, and stepped forward, slowly, smelling the death and foulness, and managed to sit on the stool by the cot.

  For some undeterminable amount of time she sat there, uncertain, and finally found the rag in the bowl on the nearby table. She wrung it out, placed it on Dr. Seth Beckstead’s head, reached down to his arm and squeezed it gently.

  He struggled for breath.

  A shadow passed over Beckstead’s face, and Ellen lifted her head.

  “He refused to allow a tracheotomy,” Sparhan whispered. Tears welled in the old man’s eyes, too. “I am not certain it would have helped. In his case.” He moved closer, leaned, and held out a pad and pencil. “If he regains consciousness,” he said, and walked to another patient.

  When the eyes opened hours later, after the lanterns had been turned down and morning light filtered inside the cabin, Ellen swallowed and tried not to cry, but her lips kept trembling. Beckstead’s eyes found hers, widening, his lips tried to part, he sucked in air, and must have seen the pencil and paper on her lap, for he wiggled his pointer finger.

  Understanding, she slid the pad under his arm and placed the pencil in his hand.

  He struggled to speak, couldn’t, and she found the rag again, wet it, and let water trickle over his lips and into his mouth. She looked for the Adam’s apple to move, but just couldn’t tell. He scratched with the pencil, which left him exhausted, and his eyes closed.

  U shldnt hve com

  When he looked up at her, she smiled. “After all you’ve done for me?” She pointed to the bunk a few feet away. “You and Jessie Baker are the last patients, Seth. Dr. Sparhan says Jessie should be sewing dresses in a week. You saved a lot of lives.”

  The lips moved, but no noise came out. The hand worked again.

  Go hom

  “Grace is with Montana, Seth. We’re all fine. Dr. Mathews says he believes the contagion is gone.” She repeated. “You saved a lot of lives.”

  He wrote: GO!

  The sluice opened, and she cried, trying to find a handkerchief, giving up and using the cuffs of her sleeves. When she had some composure, she saw he had written again.

  Dont want U 2 se me die

  Tears came harder this time, and the sleeves were no help. She prayed, even cursed, and tried to be like that hard-rock husband of hers. When she could see again, he had written more.

  Its al rite. I stil no how to spel.

  His lips barely mouthed, “A joke.”

  She smiled. He wrote.

  Plez. Go. 4 Me?

  Her head dropped, but she managed to nod, and she whispered something, though she could not remember what she had said, and doubted if Seth Beckstead heard. The pencil scratched again, and she made herself look again.

  I love you

  She sighed, and mouthed, “I know,” and thought: And I wish I could have loved you but . . .

  “Go.” Somehow, he choked out the word, and gasped out, “Please.”

  Nodding, she asked, “Is there anything I can get you?” And not waiting for a reply, she leaned over and kissed his forehead and gingerly traced his lips with her fingers. She felt his arm moving, heard the scratching, and when she rose and saw what he had written, she tried to laugh, but couldn’t.

  Ry Wisky

  She blew him a kiss, and said, “Rest, my sweet prince.”

  She left the O’Ryan cabin, knowing that the next time she came down this street, if she ever did, she would find ashes in its place, and that Dr. Seth Beckstead would lie in the cemetery, perhaps next to another brave man, Thomas J. Dimsdale.

  And she wondered if her husband were still alive.

  * * *

  Story sat bolt upright, flung off the blanket, and cursed the wailing coyotes or wolves and himself for sleeping so damned hard when he hadn’t done anything for the past eternity except sit around and play some kids’ game with an idiot army officer. The sons of bitches would scatter the herd. He found his hat, started to rise, and stopped. That wasn’t a coyote, or a wolf, and he didn’t think it was an Indian brave.

  The cowboys in the early dawn stood at the cookfire, some pointing, some staring. The cook moved away from the skillet. Every one of them looked at the corrals, and Story swore again, grabbed his rifle, and ran.

  Others began to roll out of their bedrolls, and seeing Story, they rushed for t
heir guns. The cowboys by the fire drew their revolvers—those that had already buckled on their rigs—and began to run.

  “Not all of you,” Story roared as he reached the camp. “Half of you stay here. In case this is some Indian trick.” Could be, he thought, that the warriors might want to ransack the wagons, which could also, if not bankrupt him, leave him broke one more time.

  The cook, well ahead of them, moved fast for an old man.

  * * *

  “Dear God in Heaven.” John Catlin lowered the Enfield, dropped to his knees, hung his head over, and vomited. Something he hadn’t done since before the second battle of the rebellion. The first time, the soldiers said, you don’t know any better, and all you do is piss your pants. The second time, you puke up all you’ve eaten and drunk for a month. After that, it wouldn’t matter.

  The cook slid to his knees, crossed himself, and began praying in Spanish. Wiping his mouth, Catlin saw tears streaming down the man’s dark face. He started to look at the girl, stopped, and had to use the Enfield to push himself to his feet.

  Coffee cups littered the pasture, as if the Indians had flung them in all directions, like they were playing a game. The pot Constance Beckett had been bringing to the guards was gone; the warriors must have taken that, along with Constance’s scalp. Arrows, more than Catlin wanted to count, pinned the poor woman to the earth, blood pooled all around her. Mason Boone cradled her head in his hands, lifted his head to the breaking dawn, and let out sounds Catlin never had heard in all the battles he had lived through.

  Then Story stood over Boone and the girl. Catlin waited for him to talk, but the man of iron will paled, and he sank to his knees, letting his rifle fall into the grass.

  The whispers began. “What was she doing out here?” . . . “Did you hear anything?” . . . “Nothing.” . . . “They didn’t rape her.” . . . “Too dark to see, I reckon. And her in men’s duds.” . . . “God, I never seen nobody scalped before.” . . . “Maybe we ought to get back to the camp.”

  “Shut up,” Catlin barked. “All of you, shut the hell up.” He stood, wiped his lips, moved to the girl, her eyes wide open, her throat cut, her shirt drenched in drying blood, the topknot of her blond hair jerked off. “Sons of bitches,” Catlin swore.

  “Boone.” Catlin touched the grieving cowboy’s shoulder. “Boone.” He had cried his voice hoarse, but the tears flowed like water from a busted dam. “Boone, we need to get her out of here. All right? We’ll take care of her, son. I’ll take care of her. Come on. Come on.”

  Story stood then, breathed in deeply, watched the latecomers arrive. Most of them removed their hats. A few turned around, unable to look at the dead woman. Then Beckett’s pard, Mickey McDonald, ran forward, ripping off the hat, sliding to the knees, slamming fists into the dirt, and roaring louder than a dozen coyotes. And all the while, for five minutes or more, Story stared at the pale, bloody face of Constance Beckett, and instead of seeing her, he saw Ellen’s face. And he wondered as he cursed himself for not making Constance Beckett stay back at Fort Laramie. Was this what that damned dream about him burying a dog meant?

  * * *

  “We can ask permission,” Connor Lehman said in the compound. “I’m sure the colonel will let us bury her in the post cemetery. The chaplain—”

  “Like hell you will.” Boone hadn’t said a word that anyone could understand until that moment. “You’re not burying her with a bunch of damned Yankees.”

  Silence covered the camp like a shroud.

  “We’ll bury her on the trail,” Story said after a long pause. “We’re pulling out. Tonight.”

  “With the Sioux brave enough to kill one of us this close to camp?” George Dow shook his head. “Let’s think this through.”

  “I said . . .”

  But Lehman cut Story off. “We should put this to a vote.” Story whirled, but Lehman raised his hand. “You’re the boss, but this is dangerous. Extremely dangerous. You can’t force these men to commit suicide.”

  Story stiffened for a minute, finally nodded, looked around, and said, “All right. All in favor of leaving tonight, raise your hands.” His hand was already up. So was Boone’s.

  One by one, the hands raised. There was no question this was the majority, and it stunned Story. Would it be unanimous?

  “Anyone object?”

  George Dow stepped out into the center and raised his hand. “Mr. Story . . . this just . . .”

  The revolver barrel held against Dow’s head silenced the lone dissenter. When Boone cocked the trigger, Story cleared his throat.

  “Boone.” The wild eyes came up, and Story shook his head. “Shot’ll bring the troops down on us.”

  “We can’t leave him behind,” Hannah said. “Yellow as Dow is, he’ll tell Carrington and those bluebellies.”

  “We’re not leaving him behind. Tie him up. Gag him. Throw him in the back of . . .” Story spit. “A wagon with room.” He spun around to Lehman. “You want to object, too?”

  Lehman’s head shook. “No, I think you’re right. Dow would talk.”

  “We’ll need another driver,” Story whispered, and nodded toward the wagon Constance had driven, and before that, Bill Petty. He spit. Dow started sobbing.

  “Make a show. Do the same damn thing we’ve been doing for the past few weeks. But get ready. Build big fires tonight. And then we leave this damned place. We’re three miles away from the post, so nobody should hear us, but keep the noise down. We’ll swing a wide loop, pick up the trail, move on.”

  “What if Carrington sends troops to bring us back?” a teamster asked.

  “He won’t. He’s too scared of leaving his fort unprotected. And if he does, we’ll kill the bastards.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  The Milky Way and a bright half-moon guided them across cold, desolate country, and once the moon disappeared behind the peaks, they stayed on the trail, moving slowly, cautiously, shivering from cold and dread. At dawn, they breakfasted on coffee and the last of the bacon, after which they continued, slowly, steadily, cowboys and bullwhackers alike watching the Lakota warriors that followed them along the ridge line before disappearing a few hours before dusk.

  That morning, they held Constance Beckett’s funeral.

  Connor Lehman read from the Old Testament, Story stood in the back with his hat in his hand, Boone bowed his head, and Luke Beckner led the assembled in prayer, while most of the men stared up the ridge, waiting for the Indians to return. When they didn’t, Beckner looked at the gathering and said, “It strikes me that we should sing.”

  Men exchanged glances, a few looked at Boone, who did not look up, only sniffled and absently rotated his hat by the brim with his hands.

  “Well,” Beckner said after a moment, “I guess . . .”

  The gasp stopped him. Whispered profanity caused him to raise his head as the mule skinner they knew as Mickey McDonald walked from the parked wagons, wearing a dress that didn’t fit all that well but certainly revealed the cleavage previously kept hidden with tightly wrapped linen. She had washed her face, combed her hair, and even scrubbed her tobacco-browned teeth with paste.

  Isaac Collins said, “Shit,” that everyone heard, though he had not meant to say it so loud.

  Mickey, née Molly, stood by the blushing Beckner, whose mouth hung open, and smiled. “She was my pard, and a body to ride the river with. And if any of you bastards say something demeaning her character you’ll answer to me.” That hushed the whispers, but what silenced them was when Molly McDonald began singing “Tarry with Me.”

  Now the shadows slowly lengthen,

  Soon the evening time will come;

  With Thy grace, O Savior, strengthen,

  By Thy help I would go home.

  Tarry with me, O my Savior,

  Tarry with me through the night;

  I am lonely, Lord, without Thee,

  Tarry with me through the night.

  She started the second verse, only to fall to her knees, then forw
ard, stopping herself with hard arms and hands, sobbing without shame or control. Men gawked. Only José Pablo Tsoyio walked over, put his hands on Molly’s shoulders, and let her cry.

  She stopped when a male voice picked up the song, out of tune, out of key, broken by sobs.

  Thou art with me, O my Savior,

  On Thy bosom calm I rest;

  Thine anointed, Lord, Thou savest,

  Now I know Thou givest rest.

  When Boone started the chorus, the others joined in. Even Molly McDonald mouthed the words. On the far side of the clearing, Story watched in silence, hands shoved deep inside his coat pockets, his face stoic, mouth closed, eyes impenetrable.

  * * *

  It would not be right for Mason Boone to see teamsters dig alongside the trail, where the remuda and herd would march over the young woman’s grave to keep it hidden from Indians. While the men dug late that afternoon, Tsoyio found Boone leaning against a pine tree, drumming his fingers against his thigh.

  Clearing his throat, he waited until the cowhand lifted his eyes, then Tsoyio gestured. “Follow me,” he said.

  Boone stood as though by rote, and walked behind the Mexican cook for two hundred yards before he finally asked, “Where are we going?”

  Tsoyio stopped, turned, and said, “I want to show you something.”

  Without comment, Boone followed. At length he asked, “Aren’t you worried about Indians?”

  “Are you?” Tsoyio answered. By then, they had found the stream, and they moved along its banks till finding the pond.

  “Wait here.” Tsoyio moved to the massive dam of twigs, branches, limbs, and logs. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a shining chain and ornament, draping the necklace over a log. After maneuvering his way across the drifts of wood, not seeming to mind the cold water, he pulled himself onto the bank beside Boone.