Pinto Lowery

by G. Clifton Wisler

  PINTO

  LOWERY

  PINTO

  LOWERY

  G. CLIFTON WISLER

  M. EVANS

  Lanham • Boulder • New York • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

  Published by M. Evans

  An imprint of Rowman & Littlefield

  4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706

  www.rowman.com

  10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP, United Kingdom

  Distributed by National Book Network

  Copyright© 1991 by G. Clifton Wisler

  First paperback edition 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  The hardback edition of this book was previously cataloged by the Library of Congress as follows:

  Wisler, G. Clifton

  Pinto Lowery / G. Clifton Wisler.

  p. cm.-(An Evans novel of the West)

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS3573.I877P56 1991 90-25766

  813’.54—dc20 CIP

  ISBN: 978-0-87131-634-x (cloth: alk. paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-59077-266-9 (electronic)

  ISBN: 978-1-59077-265-2 (pbk.: alk. paper)

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

  Printed in the United States of America

  All that I am, all that I know,

  flows from those who have molded me.

  For Elnora Higgins,

  my grandmother

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 1

  You couldn’t call Hill’s Junction a town. No, that would’ve been a stretch. It was just a meeting of roads where a few folks had chosen to build their houses. A fellow named Robertson had set up a store there a year or so after the first settlers came, and Elroy Tubbs had started up his livery and freight business after that. In all, there were close to a dozen buildings now—weathered post oak pickets and pine planks mostly, with nary a splash of paint on the whole lot. In the gray mists of the February morning, Hill’s Junction seemed to rise like a phantom from the Texas plain.

  Pinto Lowery eyed the swirling fog with suspicion. Back in Marshall, growing up, his ancient grandmother would have tossed chicken bones on a table and read the omens. In Lowery’s experience, anytime you couldn’t see what rested down the road was a time to stand up and take notice. Plenty of times, fighting with Hood in Virginia, the Yanks had come out of a mist, flags waving, and lashed into the Marshall Guards like a pack of winter-starved range dogs.

  That war’s over now, he thought as he satisfied himself that the hire horses in the corral had enough oats in their feed trough. He was turning back toward the barn when a door groaned on its hinges, and a shaggy yellow-haired boy of fourteen stepped outside.

  “Feels odd, don’t it, Pinto?” the boy asked.

  “Jus’ frog spit’s all,” Pinto said, grinning. “Sign winter’s passin’, Muley.”

  “I won’t cry over that. No, sir,” Muley Bryant said, scratching the bare quarter of shoulder left exposed by a pair of overalls a size and a half too large and blowing a tune through an old tin mouth-organ.

  “Catch a fever takin’ de Mornin’ air witout a shirt,” Pinto scolded. “Miz Dubbs scrubbed that flannel one las’ week. Ain’t oudgrowed it, have you?”

  “No, but it’s tight just the same. Chafes the fool out o’ my arms. And other places besides.”

  “Maybe I’ll shoot up a deer and make you a Comanche breech-clout,” Pinto offered. “Dat or we could jus’ leave you oud for dem bucks do snatch some night.”

  “Wouldn’t be much worse’n slavin’ for Elroy Tubbs,” Muley grumbled. “Only thing keeps me here’s your promise I can chase mustangs with you come summer.”

  “I never promised dat.”

  “Maybe no, but you’ll let me come along just the same. I’m good company.”

  “Good fer aggravation,” Pinto muttered, shooing the youngster back inside. “Now let’s ged along after dis work. Got wagons due in today, and we’ll be all afternoon unloadin’.”

  “And all the mornin’ workin’ these fool horses,” Muley said, wiping his brow. “If Miz Tubbs wasn’t such a fine cook, I’d ...”

  “You’d have to find yerself a new pair o’ britches,” Pinto said, laughing as he pulled at one of the oversized legs. “Or else get yerself a twin to share dem pants.”

  “We can’t all o’ us match you for style,” Muley replied, pointing to the odd assortment of patches that held Pinto’s wool trousers and homespun cotton shirt together. His boots were new, cut from fresh cowhide by his own hands and sewn with proper needle and lace. Why not? Before turning to chasing range ponies, George Preston Lowery had labored a whole year stitching boots and saddles at a Victoria factory.

  “Guess dey ain’t much to look at,” Pinto admitted. “But den I don’t spend my mornin’s at de Governor’s Ball.”

  Muley laughed at the notion, then began scooping oats into feed bags. Elroy Tubbs kept the draft horses in stalls, and they wanted feeding just like the ones outside. As for Pinto, he had himself a look after a roan gelding with a bad front foot. He was still working on the horse when Tom and Ted Tubbs climbed up and sat on the wall of the animal’s stall.

  “Mornin’, Pinto,” twelve-year-old Tom called as he yawned. “Looks like a storm’s comin’.”

  Ten-year-old Ted nodded shyly.

  “Be a storm sure enough if your ma finds you climbin’ stalls in yer school clothes. Thought you’d be on yer way to Miz Pritchard’s by now.”

  “She’s sendin’ a wagon today,” Tom explained. “Now the Franklin boys and Sarah Mills’s comin’ along. Makes six, what with Alice.”

  “I figured Alice to have all the educatin’ anybody could abide,” Muley called from the far side of the barn. “Girl’s powerful smart already. Puts me to shame.”

  “That ain’t sayin’ so much,” Tom remarked. “You could take some lessons, too, Muley.”

  “Nobody’s goin’ to educate me!” the stableboy objected. “I’m chasin’ mustangs soon as Pinto says the weather’s changed.”

  “Wish I could,” Ted said, moaning. “Don’t guess you’d take me, would you, Pinto?”

  “I did, I wouldn’t have just Comanches after my hair. Yer ma’d scalp me sure.”

  The Tubbs boys laughed at the notion. Pinto just went on working.

  “Got a tale for us today?” Tom asked after a time. “Bout the war, maybe? Seen that scar on your hand plenty o’ times, but you never tell us how you got it.”

  “Was at Sharpsburg as I heard it,” Muley answered. “But he’s mum about it. Get him to talk ’bout horses. He don’t altogether mind that.”

  “Pinto?” Tom asked hopefully.

  “Well, dere is one story I recall,” Pinto said as he worked the stiffness out
of the roan’s tendons. “I was thirteen, jus’ a hair older’n Tom here.”

  Pinto went on to tell how he’d captured his first range pony, but he didn’t quite get to the end.

  “Here they are!” Alice Tubbs called as she swung the side door wide open and marched into the barn. “Just like I thought, Pa. Pinto’s gabbin’ away the mornin’, keepin’ the boys from their lessons and Muley there from his chores.”

  “I was workin’ de roan’s sore tendon,” Pinto countered. “As to dem boys, I never got myself paid to boss dem. Thad’d be yer natural born pleasure, wouldn’t it be, Alice?”

  The boys chuckled at their red-faced sister, but it didn’t last. Elroy Tubbs waved them outside, then propped a foot onto an anvil and stared at Pinto Lowery.

  “Know it’s in your nature to spin yarns, Lowery, but I won’t have you philosophizin’ when work’s waitin’ to get done,” Tubbs complained. “Bad enough Muley’s lazy. Don’t need Tom and Ted turnin’ out that way.”

  “I work hard enough,” Muley objected.

  “Hush,” Pinto said, motioning Muley to silence. “Was jus’ de boy in ’em comin’ out, Mr. Tubbs. Youngsters never have much patience waitin’ fer wagons and such. As for de tale, it wasn’t one thad’d do ’em harm.”

  “It wastes their time,” Tubbs argued.

  “Well, some boys burn down barns smokin’ cigars. I never heard a story to hurt anybody. I’ll hurry ’em along from now on, though. Yer de boss, and you call de tune.”

  “It’s just you have ’em dreamin’ about chasin’ horses and huntin’ buffalo,” Tubbs explained. “That’d turn any farmboy’s head.”

  “Guess you’re right,” Pinto confessed. “I don’t know much, I guess. Do have a knack for drawin’ wild cridders, though. Horses and boy children mainly.”

  “Well, you do your work,” Tubbs said begrudgingly. “Better hurry it up, too. Saw some dust on the Weatherford road. I’d guess the freight wagons are early.”

  “Den I’d bes’ lead out de horses,” Pinto said, giving the roan a final touch of salve. “Won’t be a minute.”

  “Better not,” Tubbs replied. “I hear horses now.”

  “What’s due?” Muley asked as he trotted over and opened the first stall. Is it two or three? I can’t ever remember.”

  “Three wagons,” Pinto answered. “So you see, we won’t need that pacer. He wouldn’t care to heave that load.”

  Muley gazed at the sleek horse and covered his face. In another moment the correct animals were paired. Pinto left Muley to watch the team and walked out to supervise the freight unloading. But the expected wagons were nowhere to be found.

  “Where are they?” Pinto called.

  “Wasn’t wagons at all,” Tom said, hurrying over. “Just riders. Pa took them along inside with him. Most anyway. There’s a couple o’ young ones got left outside. Likely their pa don’t trust ’em inside.”

  “Could be,” Pinto said, following Tom to where three slight-shouldered young men tended half a dozen horses. One was filling a cigarette paper with tobacco. The other two were seeing their horses got fresh water.

  “Why don’t you take ’em a dipper from de well?” Pinto suggested as he waved to the three young visitors. “But afterward you trot along to de barn and climb up to de loft, hear?”

  “What?” Tom asked.

  “Take Ted and Alice along if you happen across ’em.”

  “Pinto?”

  “Don’t ask me questions, Tommy. I got no time nor answers either. Hurry along wid you.”

  The twelve-year-old stepped to the well, drew a dipper of cool water from the bucket, and set off toward the strangers. Pinto walked past the trio and stepped inside the freight company office.

  “Here’s another one now,” a dark-haired man in his early twenties called.

  “It’s my stablehand,” Tubbs explained as he glanced anxiously at Pinto. “Does some smithin’, too. Maybe he could have a look at your horses and tell you what ails ’em.”

  “Yeah, Joe, bet he can,” the youngish fellow said, turning to a tall, heavyset man with a nose someone had spread over half his face.

  “It’s a beauty, ain’t it?” the big man asked Pinto. “Little boy there took to it right off, didn’t you, son?”

  Ted Tubbs nodded his head and hugged his father’s leg.

  “Got it busted three times,” the younger visitor explained. “Once in a fist fight, once by a pine log, and the last time by a Jacksboro deputy.”

  “Won’t that deputy bother anybody else,” Joe said, pounding a big fist against the wall. “Will he, Pat?”

  “Not ’less he comes back as a ghost,” the younger man said, laughing. “Now, Mr. Tubbs, why don’t you tell us ’bout them wagons?”

  “Jus’ whad’s ...“Pinto started to object.

  “Hush, Lowery!” Tubbs shouted. “Look around you. Can’t you see what’s happened?”

  Pinto stared grimly around the room. Faye Tubbs stood anxiously with Alice in one corner. Elroy and Ted faced the big man with the broken nose. Pat, the younger one, kept vigil over the door. The shotgun that normally stood in the gun rack beside the desk was gone, as were the three Winchester rifles. Pat drew a pocket Colt from his right pocket. Big Joe didn’t seem to need a gun.

  “Who’s outside now?” Joe asked. Pat stepped outside and began a short tour of the Tubbs place. He was gone maybe ten minutes. When he returned, Joe repeated his earlier question.

  “Was a boy passin’ a dipper o’ water about,” Pat explained. “He seems to’ve gone.”

  “Neighbor boy,” Pinto broke in. He flashed a warning with his eyes, and the Tubbses remained silent. “I asked him to tend yer men,” Pinto went on to say. “Then he was hurryin’ along to school.”

  “Anybody else here?” Joe demanded.

  “That’s all,” Tubbs replied.

  “You’re a liar, mister!” Pat shouted, striking Tubbs with the back on his hand. As Tubbs collapsed onto the floor, Pat laughed. “Was a boy in the barn.”

  Pinto started to speak, but Pat jabbed the pistol into his ribs.

  “Don’t get yourself all riled, mister. We don’t aim to hurt anybody. Just come for the money.”

  “What money?” Pinto cried. “All we do here’s ship goods on de marked road.”

  “That right?” Joe asked. “Or is it what ole Tubbs here tells you? Why, he looks to keep you at starvin’ wages, friend. Past three months this fellow’s been shippin’ gold and silver for the carpet-baggin’ Yanks in Jacksboro. Tax money. Sends it down to Austin in tool crates. How’s that for clever?”

  “Not clever enough,” Pat observed. “We Hannigans got eyes.”

  “Yer Joe Hannigan?” Pinto asked, feeling his toes grow numb.

  “Heard o’ me, have you? More reason to do what you’re told. I don’t make war on Texans if I can help it. Just on gold boxes and cash drawers. Open up that ’un yonder.”

  Tubbs complied with his orders, and Pinto took charge of Ted for a moment. The youngster felt feverish to the touch, and he was clearly worried. Tubbs and the women were even worse. There was a trace of murder in the eyes of Big Nose Joe Hannigan. Pinto knew enough about the outlaw to judge that killing the whole population of Hill Junction wouldn’t rob Hannigan of much sleep.

  Once the cash drawer was emptied, Joe sent his brother Pat out to tie the money behind a packhorse. A bit later the freight wagons rolled in. The drivers surrendered without a shot, and the outlaws quickly ransacked the supplies.

  “Here’s the gold, Joe!” one of the young thieves announced. “Now what do we do with the people?”

  “I could take ’em to the barn,” Pat suggested with a cruel grin. Only now did Pinto take note of something thin and shiny popping out of Pat’s pocket. Muley’s mouth organ! There was blood on Pat’s boots, too, and ...

  “Muley!” Pinto shouted, leaping past the Hannigans and starting toward the barn. An outlaw rushed over and blocked the path. A second raider slammed a forearm into Pinto�
�s ribs, doubling him over. Before Pinto could catch his breath, Pat appeared, pistol in hand.

  “Ever hear this tune, Patches?” Pat asked, pressing the mouth organ against his lips and playing a jaunty version of “Dixie”. “Now you be real good, mister, and maybe my big brother’ll let you get a little bit older.”

  “Thad boy was simple,” Pinto growled. “Never would’ve caused you a particle o’ trouble.”

  “Wouldn’t let go o’ the mouth organ,” Pat explained, drawing out his knife. “So I gutted him like a catfish.”

  “Dear Lord,” Faye Tubbs whimpered as the outlaws dragged her outside. Big Nose Joe held a knife against fifteen-year-old Alice’s throat.

  “You’ve got your money!” Tubbs shouted as he struggled to free himself from the grasp of a young outlaw. “And you’ve killed!”

  “Maybe we’ll kill somebody else,” Pat suggested. “Or maybe pleasure ourselves a hair.”

  Pat stepped toward Alice, and little Ted raced over.

  “Ma!” the terrified boy screamed.

  “I’ll tend him,” Pat said, turning that way.

  “Stop, Teddy!” Faye pleaded as she reached for the boy. “Ted!”

  Pat leveled his Colt and fired a single bullet into the ten-year-old’s hip. Ted fell in a heap, and Pat holstered his pistol.

  “Murderer!” Alice screamed.

  “My Colt’s got a lot o’ use left in it,” Pat replied, turning toward the girl. “We got time, Joe?”

  “Best we move on along,” Big Nose Joe answered. “Burn the wagons and what supplies we don’t take with us. Run the horses away. Be sure they got no guns. Wouldn’t want any vengeful papas on my trail.”

  “There’s a better way to make sure o’ that,” Pat said, drawing the Colt.

  “Boy’s got a taste for killin’, don’t he?” Joe asked, slapping his brother to the ground. “I got no love o’ posses, little brother. You go murderin’ little kids and such, people take note. There’s neighbors already growin’ curious, what with you shootin’ off your gun. Now get onto a horse and let’s leave this place behind us. I got the itch to ride.”