by John Legg
The mustang that dragged him plowed into a knot of blocked horses and stopped. Train jumped up as the horse bolted again. He planted his feet, and when the horse neared the end of the rope, Train yanked with all his might. The movement snapped the horse’s head around, and the animal fell to its knees. Then it got up and started running again.
Pain seared through the raw flesh of Train’s palms as the rough hemp tore through his hands. But he held on, his arms trembling from the strain. He ignored the yelling of his companions as he stumbled along behind the horse. He managed to give the horse a little slack when it slowed after bumping into the other animals bunched up in one area. Then he yanked hard, once again pulling the horse to its knees. As the horse struggled back up, Train rushed in close to it and spoke softly, urgency tingeing his voice.
In the background he heard Bellows hollering at the men. “Shaddup, ya goddamn fools. Shaddup, goddammit.”
The men fell quiet, and Train gradually managed to calm the horse. He felt a new respect for Bellows as he watched the skinny man wade fearlessly into the knot of wild-eyed horses and pass out bits of sugar and apple to pacify them. As Bellows continued to gentle the animals with his soft voice and treats, Train felt the muscular neck of the horse begin to relax under his hand.
“That’s a good horse,” he said, breathing heavily from the exertion. “Goddamned stupid beast. Idiot.” He was as much talking to himself as the horse. “Yeah, that’s a good horse. Dumb bastard. Easy now.”
Bellows strolled over and fed Train’s horse some apple. “Ya done well, son,” he said quietly. “Sure did. But don’t tell nobody I said so.”
Train smiled weakly. “I’m a goddamned fool, Mr. Bellows, and you know it. But thank ya for them kind words.”
Bellows grinned. “Best go see to them hands, son. Can’t do no work with ’em like that. Sure can’t.”
“What about the horse?”
“He ain’t goin’ nowheres. And I’ll keep the other boys away from him—if ya want him for your own.”
Train nodded, grinning slightly. Bellows walked away as Train gingerly peeled the rope from his sore, blood-caked hands.
“Let me see them hands, lad,” Squire said as he reached the fence. Train held them out. Blood still oozed from the raw wounds where the flesh had been burned and scraped away.
Squire snorted a chuckle. “Reckon ye learned a lesson here today?”
Train stared at his dusty, cracked boots. “Sure have. I won’t ever do somethin’ so goddamned foolish again.”
“Didn’t reckon ye would. Now let’s go’n see about gettin’ somethin’ done for your hands, lad. I reckon we can be findin’ us a doc in this big city to be fixin’ ’em up proper.”
Finding a doctor was harder than expected, so they settled on stopping at the barber shop, where the proprietor doubled, or tripled, as doctor and dentist. When they left there, Train’s hands were swathed in soft, white bandages.
“Ye’d best be takin’ the rest of this day off, lad,” Squire said.
“No, sir,” Train said firmly. “I’m goin’ back out there. It’s my own fault this happened, and I ain’t goin’ back on my duty.”
Squire’s respect for Train soared. “Ye can’t be doin’ no ropin’ nor much of anythin’ else with them hands all swaddled up like they be.”
“I know that, Nathaniel. But hell, I made a fool of myself today tryin’ to rope that damned horse. If I can set and watch Mr. Bellows and the others, maybe I’ll learn somethin’.”
“We all be makin’ fools of ourselves of a time, boy,” Squire said in a musing tone. In a normal voice, he said, “Well, if’n that be the way your stick floats, lad, I’ll not be standin’ in your way. But I don’t want ye tryin’ to rope nor tryin’ to break horses. Give them hands a few days to heal proper. ”
“I’ll wait till mornin’,” Train said adamantly.
Squire stopped him and spun him around so they were face-to- face. The power in Squire’s hands shocked Train again. “No ye won’t, lad,” Squire said harshly. “Ye try it and I’ll truss ye up like a goose waitin’ for the cookin’ pot. I know ye ain’t got no give-up in ye, boy, but I ain’t aimin’ to take no cripples when we ride out. Ye don’t let them hands heal up a few days, ye’ll be of little use to us. There be time enough later for catchin’ up on your share of the duties.”
“Well, I still aim to be out there watchin’, dammit, and helpin’ out in such ways I can.”
Squire nodded. He grows more like me every day, Squire thought. He was not sure whether he was happy or sad about that fact.
“Just answer me one thing, Nathaniel. Why didn’t ya get horses that was already broke?”
“Ain’t easy to find that many good horses all to once this late in the season. We was lucky Homer had that many to hand at all. I took the best I could find.”
“I just hope we’re up to breakin’ ’em,” Train said solemnly.
“Me, too,” Squire laughed.
When they got back to the corral, only one other horse had been roped. The animal stood more or less docilely next to the pair Train and Bellows had roped. All three were tied to the railing outside the corral. Inside, horses milled about, their eyes frightened, while men tried talking to them and roping them with little success that Squire could see. They, too, had frightened looks in their eyes.
“How they doin’, Homer?” Squire asked.
“Worstest goddamn bunch ya ever seed. Never seen nuttin’ like it in all my days. Goddamn. Sure ain’t. And you’re expectin’ to turn these goddamn farm boys into trappers and pork eaters.” Squire looked sidelong at Bellows at the use of the term, reinforcing his earlier opinion that Bellows was a man who had been West before. “I can’t believe that. Be easier to teach a wolf not to eat sheep, it would.”
“How long ye think it’ll be takin’ ’em to learn all this, Homer?” He was a little worried. Time was passing far too quickly, and there was yet much to be done.
“Day after tomorrow. Mayhap the next day. We can do it by then. Damned bunch of no’count drifters.” He stalked away muttering to himself and turned and swore at the men who grunted in their efforts in the dusty arena.
Squire and Train stood near the fence and laughed. Squire knew that Bellows would be a good man to have along, but he figured the stockman would take some getting used to. He turned and left.
It was well into the afternoon when Squire returned after meeting with Melton. He was surprised to find most of the horses calm, tied to rails. One of the men, a slight, freckle-faced boy named Benji, was holding desperately onto a bucking horse for all his life. But the horse was tiring, and as Squire arrived at the rail, the horse stopped his reckless jumping and stood, blowing, sides heaving in and out like a blacksmith’s bellows.
Benji grinned shyly as the other men cheered, casting sidelong glances at the horses to make sure their celebration did not set the animals off again.
Squire yelled across the corral, his booming voice loud yet at the same time not alarming. “Hey, Homer, ye let them young coons have anything to eat yet today?”
“Nope. Hadn’t thunk on if. Sure hadn’t.”
“Then ye’d best be lettin’ ’em go, afore they get more om’ry than e’en ye. They done their share for this day.”
Bellows chuckled. “Reckon you’re right, Nathaniel. But to my thinkin’, they ain’t done nuttin’ worth feedin’ ’em for.” He ignored the grumblings and groaning of the men.
“Go on, lads,” Squire shouted. “That be enough for today. Get yourselves some food. Quick, afore Homer changes his mind. But ye best be back here by first light or I’ll be havin’ your hides tacked to Homer’s barn door. Homer thinks ye still have a few things to be learnin’. ”
“A few,” Bellows snorted as he walked over toward Squire. “Worstest goddamned bunch ever was.”
The boys rushed off, Train in their midst showing off his bandaged hands. All of them were whooping like schoolboys freed from class on the first day of spr
ing.
“What do ye really think of ’em, Homer?” Squire asked when the young men were gone. “They be as bad as ye say?”
“Worstest bunch. Yep.” Then he grinned. “Tellin’ true, they seems like they’re near useless, but at least a few has the makin’s. That boy Benji ya saw there. And another named Cletus has got a special way with horses. I could tell that right off. And a few others’re showin’ signs of learnin’. Afore long I’ll have ’em catchin’ horses and ridin’ like they was Sioux warriors.”
Squire studied him. “Ye e’er treated with the Sioux, Homer?” he asked innocently.
Bellows smiled enigmatically. “Never ya mind what I’ve did in my lifetime, Nathaniel. It’s time for my supper, it is.”
“Just one more thing. You’ll be able to shed yourself of this place afore we leave?”
“Well, sure, Nathaniel. You don’t think I’d promise to go wit’ ya if I couldn’t, do ya?”
“Ne’er can be certain,” Squire said with a grin, as he walked off.
Chapter Nine
AMONG those who showed an aptitude for handling the horses and mules was Cletus Ransom. He was only fifteen and slightly built, but he more than pulled his weight and there was no give-up in him.
Bellows took the tousle-headed youngster under his wing and began entrusting him with a lot of responsibility. Two days before the brigade was set to leave, Bellows and Ransom rushed around the small camp just west of the city, taking care of some of the final chores. They loaded panniers so they balanced, dividing the equipment to distribute the loads on the mules. As usual, Bellows roared as many curses as he did orders. And young Ransom, who learned not only the handling of animals from Bellows but also Bellows’s vituperation, kept up a steady stream of swearing.
As Squire checked off the supplies with Melton and Strapp, he heard Ransom’s shrill, nagging voice: “You horse-headed son of a toad. Pack them panniers like I told ya. Dumb bastard. ”
Squire glanced over to see who Ransom was scolding. It was Zeb Willis, a mean, hardheaded Alabaman. He was one of the few of whom Squire had taken notice when he first met the men—the one with whom he thought there would be trouble.
“Y’all don’t like it, boy, y’all can do it yo’self,” Willis snarled as he threw down the ropes and glowered at Ransom. Willis was not a tall man, but he had a barrel chest, thick muscles and hard, calloused hands. He also had a temper that flared hot and wild at the slightest provocation.
The slight, freckle-faced Ransom stared back at Willis without fear. “I showed ya how to pack that lead in the goddamn pannier,” he snapped. “It ain’t hard. Even an empty-headed son of a bitch like you ought to be able to do it without too much trouble. So just go’n do it.”
“Why don’t y’all just make me, runt?”
The rest of the men stopped their work and stood watching silently. Most had little liking for the bullying Zeb Willis, but they were not all that certain, either, that they wanted a fifteen-year-old boy telling them what to do. Ransom and Hank Carpenter were the youngest of all of them, and the others wanted the two to prove themselves. Now seemed like a good time for Ransom to do so.
Melton sprang toward the two young men, but Squire grabbed him. “Just let ’em, be, Colonel. They’ll be settlin’ it in their own way.”
“But, Nathaniel, the boy will get hurt.”
“Aye, Colonel, that he might. But he’s got to be facin’ hard doin’s some day. ’Tis the way things be out here. I ain’t gonna let him get hurt too much. If’n it looks like Zeb’ll be doin’ Cletus some real damage, I’ll step in.”
Melton nodded. “I hope,” he said thoughtfully, “that this doesn’t mean we’ll have continued trouble on our journey. The men are stronger now that they’ve been fed and worked regularly. Maybe a few are feeling their blood run too high. ”
“Mayhap. But we can’t be havin’ no weaklin’s with us. Best be findin’ out now just who’s got grit and who ain’t, rather than when we be fightin’ Blackfoot. I was afeared when I first saw some of the boys that they might not be makin’ it too far. But they’ve done well, and I be pleased about it. It ain’t gonna do no harm for ’em to be rippin’ and snortin’ some. Shows they got spirit.”
“I guess you’re right, Nathaniel,” Melton sighed. There were too many things on his mind. He knew full well when this many high-spirited men got together in close proximity for a continued period of time, there would be fights. Most would amount to little.
While Squire and the Colonel were talking, never taking their eyes off the two young men, Ransom had carefully put down the harness he was holding and removed his new knife and pistol from his belt. Willis did the same and, without warning, bulled into Ransom, knocking the boy sprawling. Willis pounced on Ransom and aimed a fist at his face.
Ransom was quick. Moving like an oiled eel, he squirted his face out of the way and then squirmed furiously until he had squiggled from under Willis’s grasp. He leaped up and pounded the startled Alabaman twice on the nose with his small fists before Willis could retaliate.
A powerful backhand sent Ransom stumbling backward until he fell. Willis leaped at him, hoping to land on his chest to smother the youth under his greater weight and bulk. But Ransom slithered out of his way again. As he leaped up, Ransom booted Willis in the side.
The other men began yelling. Some rooted for Willis, but most appeared to favor Ransom. Soon a few small wagers were being made.
Willis pushed himself up and stared at Ransom with cold, hate-filled eyes. He charged, arms flailing. Ransom ducked and weaved, trying to keep away from the windmilling fists, knowing he was no match for Willis in sheer strength. But he could not duck all the punches. Willis’s knuckles thumped on his face, head and shoulders, bringing short grunts of pain with each new blow.
Willis’s pace slowed some, and a groggy Ransom jumped in under a punch and landed a right uppercut with all the strength his small frame could muster.
The punch rocked Willis, and Ransom swarmed in, landing short jabs to Willis’s face and nose. He was so tired and sore now that his legs trembled with each step, but he was driving Willis back a little with each shot. He couldn’t keep it up, he knew, and so he put all that was left in him into one roundhouse punch that splattered Willis’s nose.
Blood squirted from Willis’s broken proboscis and then slowed to a steady stream that smeared over his mouth, giving him a ghastly look. But it was Ransom who sank to his knees, played out.
Willis swiped at the blood on his face with the back of his hand, smearing it all the more. He stood weaving with pain and fatigue, looking furiously at the thoroughly exhausted Ransom, who was on hands and knees, breathing heavily, not looking up.
“You little bastard,” Willis snarled. “Y’all broke mah nose, and now ah’m gonna kill y’all for it.”
He crouched and yanked a small knife from the top of his boot. He stalked forward threateningly.
Ransom stared up at the looming Alabaman with pain-clouded eyes. No fear marked his face, just quiet resignation. He had no more strength left with which to fight, but he would face his death bravely.
Willis had stopped a few feet from Ransom when a massive hand encircled his knife arm. He could feel the muscles, like those of a bull, in the hand that held him. He looked harshly at Squire.
“Ye gonna be puttin’ that knife down, boy, or am I gonna be breakin’ your arm for ye?”
“Let me be, Squirah,” Willis muttered. “This ain’t none of yo’ affair. It’s ’tween me and that pissant son of a bitch. So y’all just get out of mah way.”
“And if’n I be choosin’ not to?”
Willis leveled his glinting, piggish eyes on Squire and stared hard. It had little effect on the giant. Then he dropped his knife.
“That be a good lad,” Squire said, freeing Willis’s arm. “But heed me, boy. I don’t want to be seein’ no more trouble ’tween ye and Cletus. Ye’ve settled your differences, so let it be. If there be more trouble, you’ll be
answerin’ to this chil’ for it. Understand?” Willis spat blood at Squire’s feet and turned away. Then he spun back and said, “ Ah’m gonna kill y’all one of these days for what y’all done to me here, Squiah.”
Squire smiled without humor. “Any day ye think ye be ready, lad, ye come ahead. But till ye be ready for that, ye leave Cletus and e’erbody else alone.”
Willis stalked off, grabbing his weapons as he did. Squire helped Ransom up. “Ye be some sight, lad,” Squire said with a crooked grin. “Ye’d best be gettin’ back to your room. Get yourself cleaned up and rest a bit.”
“No, sir, Mr. Squire,” Ransom protested, shaking his head, which set it to thumping with renewed vigor. “I’ll just set to the side a bit. I’ll be all right then. There’s a heap of work to be done, and I ain’t gonna get it done sittin’ back in town.”
“Don’t be arguin’ with me, boy, or I’ll pick ye up and carry ye.”
Ransom smiled through his cracked and bleeding lips, “You ain’t got to do that. But who’s gonna do the work?”
“We’ll get by,” Squire said dryly. “Homer’ll be seein’ to it. Ye just go on.”
“Yes, sir.” As Ransom started trudging off, two of the camp helpers rushed over and each took one of Ransom’s arms. Ransom nodded his thanks, knowing he could not have made it without help, but too prideful to have asked for it.
When Ransom returned the next morning, his face was a bright rainbow mask, but he was full of good humor and cheer. He sat and watched while the others worked—including a sullen Zeb Willis, whose broken nose was clumsily repaired with a flimsy splint held in place by a dirty bandage wrapped completely around his head. Ransom’s wounds did not keep him from offering a continuous string of joyfully profane instructions to the sweating group of young men.
The others looked at Ransom with new respect. There would be no more trouble when he gave orders.
Chapter Ten
NATHANIEL Squire gazed down at the long column lined out before him. It was into September, and the big mountain man chafed at the slowness with which they moved. It was already too late to be able to catch much of the fall trapping season before winter set in. He shook his head, but there was little he could do. He sat atop the massive black horse on a small bluff and watched Colonel Melton’s brigade inching along. From his vantage point, he could see the broad, muddy Missouri off to his left.