by Bill Dugan
He saddled his pony without paying much attention and let it find its own way to the Quitman house. The horse had no trouble, because the only places he ever went were to town and to visit Ellie. The horse took its own time, and Ted knew he was going to be late, but Ellie had gotten used to that, too.
When he rode into the front yard, she was on the porch, waiting. She ran one slender hand through her dark hair as she smiled at him.
“Been here long?” he asked.
“About an hour, I guess.”
“Sorry.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I would.”
“If you would, then maybe you ought to pay more attention to the time.”
“I thought you didn’t mind?”
“I don’t, but you said …”
“I know what I said, Ellie …”
The look she gave him stopped him in his tracks. “Sorry. I just don’t think anymore.”
“You can’t let Johnny run your life from a thousand miles away.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Yes, he does. Because you don’t run it yourself.”
“Are we going to go all through that again?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t.”
“Fine, then let’s change the subject.”
From inside the house, he heard footsteps. He glanced at the door just as Jacob Quitman pushed through the screen.
“Theodore, good of you to come, even if it is …”
“He already apologized, Daddy.”
Jacob looked at him for a long moment. “I’m sure he did. But, it’s not good to be wandering around with your head in the clouds. Not today.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not safe. Jack Wilkins lost a half-dozen horses last night. He thinks it was Comanches.”
Ted glanced at Ellie, but she said nothing. He asked, “Is he sure?”
“He didn’t see them, if that’s what you mean. But he’s reasonably sure.”
Ted shook his head. “I was wondering when they’d come back.”
“What do you mean?” Ellie asked.
“They don’t like to lose. They lost two braves in the spring, during the roundup. They lost another just before Johnny left.”
“The man he killed, you mean?”
Ted nodded. “The one I should have killed.”
“No, son, you did right,” Jacob said, patting his shoulder. “Violence doesn’t solve anything.”
“I used to think that. I still do, I guess. But … sometimes, I’m not so sure.”
“Let’s not talk about it, Ted,” Ellie said. There was a hint of pleading in her voice. When he looked at her, she looked away. He wondered whether she might blame him somehow, but for what, he didn’t know. Maybe she blamed him for not stopping Johnny. Or maybe she blamed him for not killing the Comanche himself. She seemed to agree with her father, but Ted wasn’t quite sure. When she turned back, her face was calm, no hint of any contradiction.
“Ellie’s right, let’s have some dinner.” Jacob stepped to the door and held it for Ellie. Ted waited for the old man, but was waved on in. He followed Ellie into the kitchen. Places were already set, and he could smell the pie cooling on the windowsill.
“Looks great,” he said. “Smells even better.”
“Ellie’s a good cook,” Jacob said. “She takes after her mother.” His voice caught for a second, as if a word got stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard and looked away while Ted and Ellie sat down.
“Are you alright, Daddy?”
Jacob nodded. They both knew what was on his mind. Sarah Quitman had been dead for six years, herself a victim of the Comanches. Jacob didn’t dwell on it, but there were little things that reminded him, unimportant in themselves, except for the memories they stirred.
“Maybe we should forget about everything and enjoy the meal, eh?” Jacob sniffed once, then picked up a carving knife to hack a few slabs of white meat off a roasted chicken. He speared them in turn and deposited two each on Ted’s plate and his own, and gave Ellie one piece. “Eats like a bird herself, she does.” He laughed.
Ellie chewed at her lower lip, then passed the vegetables.
“So, Theodore, have you given any more thought to what you want to do with your life now?” Jacob peered at him over the top of his glasses.
“Not really. I can’t seem to make up my mind about anything these days.”
“Maybe you have to forget about the past. Forget everything. You’re a young man, with your whole life ahead of you. Someone my age, now, there’s no hope. I am what I am, and, please God, that’s good enough. But young people, they have choices. There’s no mistake so great you can’t set it right at your age.”
“I wish I could believe that, Jacob.”
“Oh, you can, son, you can.”
They danced around the subject of Ted’s future through most of the meal, never confronting it head-on, but saying nothing that didn’t at least hint at the uncertainty. When the meal was finished, Jacob dragged him out on the porch. “Time for the men to talk about a few things, Ellie,” he said. She smiled, but said nothing. If she felt excluded, she didn’t seem to mind.
Outside, Jacob sat on a wooden rocker and Ted dropped to the top step of the porch. Jacob Quitman was a gentle man, but there was a strength in him that went beyond his size, which was just above average. The white beard made him look almost priestly, and the deep resonance of his voice just added to that impression. His powerful hands cupped in his lap, he smiled at Ted.
“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Ellie,” Jacob said, almost whispering, “but I’m afraid we may be in for some real trouble.”
“The Comanches?”
Jacob nodded. “Aye, the Comanches. I wish there was some way to convince them that Texas is big enough for all of us.”
“I don’t think it is,” Ted said.
“You can’t mean that. Why, this state is bigger than most countries of the world. How could there not be enough land for all of us?”
Ted spread his palms helplessly. “It was their land long before we were here. They can’t forget that, and they sure won’t forgive.”
“At least you understand that. I’m not so sure about most of the people around here.”
“I’m not so sure about me, either, Jacob.”
“You can’t blame them for trying to steal a few cows. I’ve been to their camps. Their children are undernourished, half of them. And with winter coming on, they’ve got to be concerned. That means we’ve got to be concerned, too. For them, as well as for ourselves.”
“Jacob, you don’t seem to realize that they don’t give a hoot in hell, if you’ll forgive the expression, about us. We’re the enemy, plain and simple. They’d as soon as not scalp every last one of us.”
“But like you said, Theodore, one can hardly blame them. They haven’t been fairly dealt with. You know that as well as I do. None of the tribes has been.”
“Tell that to Tommy Dawson. I nearly got him killed, trying to understand the Comanche. Would have, too, if Johnny hadn’t been there.”
“But Johnny’s not here now. Now you have to think for yourself. All I’m suggesting is maybe a little understanding will go a lot further than another Indian war.”
“Or another massacre?”
“I don’t deny there’s been violence on both sides, inexcusable violence. But nobody has tried anything but violence. Don’t you see that?”
“Why are you telling me all this, Jacob? What’s the point?”
“The point is, you’re not like the others. Maybe you can make a difference.”
“No, I can’t. It’s out of our hands. It’s up to whoever’s in charge upstairs, and I’m not so sure he’s paying any attention.”
“Never doubt it, son. If God had wanted man to take vengeance, He’d never have given him two cheeks.”
“That’s really a pretty sentiment, Jacob. I wish I could believe it, but I can’t. You
and Ellie, you’re different from most of us. Maybe you’re even right. My problem is, I just don’t know. I’ve seen enough killing, that’s for certain. But nothing else seems to work out here. There are too many people willing to kill you as it is. If they know they run no risk from you, it’ll be even worse. I want to be like you, but I don’t know how. At Shiloh …” He stopped abruptly and rubbed the corner of his mouth.
“Have you ever really tried anything else? Has Johnny?”
Ted shook his head. “Have you, Jacob? Have you ever thought what it might be like to find the Indian who killed your Sarah? Have you ever wondered what it would be like to look him in the eye and watch him understand the meaning of justice as your finger tightened on the trigger?”
“No, I haven’t. You know that.”
Ted sighed. “Yes, Jacob, I do know that. And I know you don’t consider that justice. That’s why I find it so hard to understand you. I want to be like you, but I don’t know if I can.”
“All you have to do is try, son.”
“That takes more courage than I’ve got, I guess.”
8
AT SUNUP, JOHNNY had already been awake for an hour. He sat by himself on the hillside, watching the gray bulk of the herd slowly dissolve into individual lumps of color. As the red disc slipped one edge over the horizon, flooding the valley with red light, he could pick out the shapes of the night riders, half asleep in the saddle, watching the ends of the herd.
He glanced over his shoulder at the three farmers, who lay sleeping in their blankets. He envied them. They had something to protect, they knew what it was, and they’d be damned if they wouldn’t do whatever they had to. He felt the same once, but now he wasn’t so sure. The drive had already cost him a brother. And there was no end in sight. This latest wrinkle was just the least expected. He hoped it would be the last.
He watched Cookie light the fire and fill a big, ash-blackened coffee pot from one of the barrels on the mess wagon, then scoop coffee into the basket. After the coffee was on, Cookie looked up at the sun, then turned to scan the hillside. When he saw Johnny, he waved a hand, then turned back to breakfast.
Up on the hillside, Johnny heard the horses first. He yanked a pocket watch from his jeans. It was only six o’clock, too early for O’Hara and the sheriff. He started up the hill when a dozen riders broke over the ridge, reining in just past the crest. Whoever they were, they weren’t the law. That much was clear.
Johnny sensed something he couldn’t put his finger on. All twelve wore the tattered remnants of Yankee uniforms, mixed with CSA gray and whatever else had come to hand. There wasn’t a clean-shaven face in the crowd of them. Several wore ammunition belts crossed on their chests, in the fashion of Mexican banditti.
Something told him not to get too close, and he stopped where he was. He knew better than to reach for his Colt, but he cast a quick eye toward his hip to make sure the gun was there. One of the crew dismounted, tossing the reins to a henchman and swaggering down the hill toward Johnny. He tucked his hands in his gunbelt, and his spurs clanked like he were proud of them.
He planted himself a half-dozen feet in front of Johnny, rocking back and forth on well-worn heels. Even allowing for the differential caused by the slope, he was a good four inches taller than the Texan.
“Cowboy?” he said as if it were Johnny’s name. “You a long, long way from home, ain’t you?”
“I been closer,” Johnny said.
“I’ll bet you have. That your herd down there?”
Johnny nodded.
“What’ve you got there, three, four thousand head?”
“More like twenty-seven hundred, why?”
Instead of answering the question, he turned to his cronies. “Man wants to know why?” he said.
The mounted men laughed, one even slapping his thighs in exaggerated enjoyment The breeze quickened, and Johnny got a whiff of the wolf pack on the hill. He was ripe himself, but this went beyond the pale.
The big man stroked the ends, of a full, ginger-colored beard, then scratched his jaw. “Seems like you need a little education. Texan, ain’t you?”
Johnny nodded.
“Thought so. Cain’t miss that drawl. I knew a few Texans my own self, once.”
“Once?”
“Dead now. All of ‘em. Secesh bastards, every last one. Kilt a few myself.”
“The war’s over.”
“No it ain’t.”
“Look, if you just want to chew the fat, I got work to do.”
“Chewin’ the fat? Is that what I’m doin’?”
“Seems like.”
“Maybe so, maybe it seems like it to you. But I got a different picture, see. I’m a tax collector, is what I am.”
“Then don’t let me keep you from your work.” Johnny turned and started down the hill. He heard the spurs jingle and turned as the big man’s hand landed on his arm. “Don’t do that, mister.”
“Don’t you walk away from me, cowboy. Just don’t, you hear me?”
“What I hear is a lot of hot air.”
“You think it won’t burn you, cowboy? That what you think?”
Johnny turned again. As he started down the hill, he spotted Rafe and two others sprinting toward him, carbines in their hands. Behind him, he heard several rifles cocked, and he turned back to the big man. At the same time, he waved Rafe off. If anything got started now, they wouldn’t stand a chance. They were outgunned, and the big man held the high ground.
“What do you want from me, mister? I’m just trying to make a living, that’s all.”
“I already told you, I’m a tax collector.”
“Tax collector? What kind of tax? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then you better listen real good, ‘cause I’m only gonna say this but one time.”
“Go ahead.” Johnny made no attempt to conceal his exasperation. It seemed to amuse the big man. He smiled broadly, revealing an uneven set of teeth the color of dead grass.
“You said you got twenty-seven hundred beeves, that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right, give or take.”
“Now, there you go. You got to give a little. I make it three thousand head, on the nose.”
“What’s the point, dammit?”
“I’m comin’ to that. Just shut up and listen. Cattle are going for forty to fifty dollars a head over in Abilene. Seems like you’re about to come into some pretty fat wallets, you and your hands.”
“So?”
“If you get to Abilene. And if you still got them beeves when you get there. See what I mean?”
“No, I don’t, and I don’t really give a shit. Now, if you can’t get to the point, I guess I’m gonna have to be rude and walk away. And this time, you put your hand on me, I’ll rip it off at the goddamned elbow. You see what I mean?”
“So, a regular Texas wildman, are you? You gonna give me some shit about how you eat Comanches for breakfast and wash them down with half the Pecos River? ‘Cause I got no patience for that kind of garbage.”
“You do me a disservice, sir.” Johnny grinned.
“That’s more like it.”
“Definitely. Because I wouldn’t even give you garbage.”
The smile on the big man’s face vanished. His features seemed to contract and stiffen, like plaster shrinking as it hardens. When he opened his mouth again, there was a razor edge to his voice. “Now you listen to me, cowflop. You want to take them cows any farther, you got to pay. And that’s a fact.”
“Pay?”
“You heard me. Four dollars a head. At three thousand head”—he paused for a brief flicker of his former smile—“I make that twelve thousand dollars, U.S.A. money. Give or take.”
“Are you crazy? Even if I was willing to pay, I don’t have that kind of money. Twelve thousand dollars?”
“On the button, cowboy.”
“No, sir, that just ain’t in the cards.”
“How much you got, then?” The big man seeme
d suddenly open to bargaining. But Johnny was not in the mood.
“For you, nothing.”
“We can always take us some beeves, instead. Hell, you give me three hundred head, I can unload them in Abilene myself. At forty, it comes to the same thing.”
“You’re not as dumb as you look, are you?” Johnny asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You can do arithmetic just fine. Now try and understand some plain, old Texas English. No way, no time, am I giving you one dime. Nothing, you understand. No cattle, no money, nothing. And that’s the last time I’m going to tell you. Now get out of my way.”
This time Johnny didn’t turn back. He heard the jingle of spurs, but he continued on down the slope. This time, Rafe and the other hands waited, their carbines pointed vaguely in the direction of the big man, who stood there with his mouth open, as if he didn’t believe what had just happened.
As Johnny approached the bottom of the hill, Rafe jumped forward to meet him. “What in hell was all that about? What’d he want?”
“Said we got to pay him to bring the cattle through.”
“Pay him?”
“Four dollars a head.”
“What the hell for?”
“Said it was a tax. Permission to bring the herd through.”
“Who is he?”
“Didn’t say.”
The three farmers scrambled down the hill to join the two men. Rafe glared at them, but they ignored him. One of the men grabbed Johnny’s arm. “I was you, mister, I’d pay him.”
Johnny whirled on them. “That part of your plan, boys? A way to put pressure on us, that what that was?”
The farmer who had spoken shook his head. “No, sir. He ain’t one of us. Man doesn’t know how to grow nothing. To him, crops are for burning. We have our own share of trouble with him.”
“Then who in hell is he?”
“That was Ralph Conlee.”
Johnny looked blank.
“Jayhawkers, mister, they was Jayhawkers. You rebels had Quantrill; Kansas had Jayhawkers. Still does.”