Pinto Lowery

by G. Clifton Wisler

  A less practical man, watching the mustangs cavorting in the natural corral, would certainly have set the whole batch loose on the Llano. The scene touched Pinto’s heart. But he’d grown used to the big stallion, and the time for running free across the unbounded plain was nearly gone. Those buffalo bones proved that. No, the longhorn had come to displace both the buffalo and the range pony.

  “And farmers’ve come to take ole Pinto’s place,” he lamented.

  Pinto shook off the notion and set off for the river. He shed his dusty clothes and splashed into the shallows. For close to a whole hour he alternately splashed around midstream and soaked in the shallows. Finally he gave his clothes a similar scrub before snaring a pair of fat catfish for supper. As he built up a brisk fire and huddled beside it, naked save for a rough wool blanket draped around his shoulders, he couldn’t help recalling similar spring eves passed with Jamie Haskell on old Abner Polland’s place outside of Marshall.

  “Now that’s a chicken-brained notion if ever I heard one!” Jamie had howled the time Pinto suggested hiring themselves out to a pair of Choctaw traders. “Them Indians’ll get a year’s work out of you and pay you with some ole nag no right-minded Texan would climb onto.”

  “Be my own horse, though,” Pinto had argued. “And I never knew any Choctaw to back out of a bargain.”

  “Still, it’s addled thinkin’, Pinto.”

  “Be an advendure.”

  “Naw, only hard work,” Jamie grumbled. “I know horses some myself, don’t I? My uncle raises good ones. These fool paints, Georgie, just ain’t worth a lick o’ salt. You got to get yer thinkin’ straight.”

  So it was Pinto turned down the Choctaws. Isaac Flowers took the job and came home with the finest bay mare anyone north of Waco had seen. Isaac ran five hundred horses nowadays, or so Pinto had heard. Of course no Flowers, man or boy, signed the muster book and shouldered a rifle for the cause.

  “Things’d been different if de war hadn’t happened, Jamie,” Pinto said, glancing at the phantom face smiling at him from the fire. “Who knows? You might’ve talked Sarah Ames into sittin’ with you at Sunday meetin’. Or maybe . . . ”

  The dancing demon frowned, and Pinto reached over and grabbed a knife. As he started skinning the catfish, Jamie’s face seemed to fade.

  “Sure, things might’ve been different,” Pinto said again. “But a man plays de hand he gets. You did, didn’t you, Jamie? So now you’re only a ghos’ goin’ ’round hauntin’ yer ole friends. And me? I guess I’m still that chicken-brained fool!”

  Perhaps it was lying beside the glowing embers of the fire that night that brought Pinto Lowery contentment. Or maybe the refreshing dip in the Brazos and the tasty fried catfish restored his old energies. Then, too, it might have been ghosts who took a rest from their eternal wanderings. Whatever the reason, Pinto awoke that next day with new vigor.

  Almost at once he set about readying himself for a summer on the cattle trails. The paint he’d ridden for two years became a second packhorse. Pinto led the two pack animals, together with the big black and the dancing chestnut mare, beyond the fence so they could graze on the tender meadow grass downstream. He then began organizing the remaining sixteen animals for the journey back to Wise County. If they brought as fair a price as the first batch, Pinto Lowery would find himself downright close to prosperous, chicken-brain or not!

  Pinto thought it likely. After all, three of the mares were long and sleek, the kind favored by Texans for breeding. The others would make good saddle ponies, and the two young stallions were sure to draw some cowboy’s eye.

  “Be a fair start toward a future,” Pinto told himself. After all, a thousand dollars would buy a fair stretch of country. It had long been a distant dream. But just then Pinto could only think of the trail to Wichita. He remembered the singing . . . missed the pranks and the company. And the idea of another week alone with only ghosts for company vexed him considerably.

  “So, it’s back down de Brazos, eh?” Pinto asked.

  He passed two more days readying himself and the stock for the journey, though. Those last horses were far more restless than the first batch, and Pinto draped a rope around each animal’s neck and tied the whole batch to a long line he trailed behind the black. Of course, a sudden stampede would likely pull Pinto, saddle and all, across half of Texas, but so long as the horses stayed calm, they would trail well enough.

  When Pinto finally did set off, he wasted little time whittling down his inventory. There were twenty or thirty ranches between that ravine-scarred valley and the little town of Defiance, and Pinto had marked each one in his mind on the homebound leg of his earlier ride. Now he visited those ranches, each in turn.

  “That mare with the splash o’ brown on her rump’s a likely enough breeder,” the first rancher observed. “But forty dollars? I ain’t seen that much foldin’ money in a month o’ Sundays!”

  At the next place a bowlegged rancher named Jonas Brayville picked out five of the more ordinary ponies.

  “I know you’ll get yer price on dem others,” Brayville told Pinto. “But these here’s sound enough, and you might take thirty-five for ’em if I was to buy the five.”

  “The price’s forty,” Pinto said, frowning. “You wouldn’t talk down a hones’ man from a fair price, would you?”

  “I’d talk my own grandma out o’ her hat if I needed it to keep my ranch goin’,” Brayville insisted. “Been some lean times, you know. Comanches come through here and run off my saddle horses. Kilt my second boy. Only fourteen, he was. No bigger’n a peapod.”

  “Well, I know ’bout hard luck,” Pinto said, relenting. “You take de five at thirty-five.”

  “Bless you fer a good man,” Brayville responded. He went inside his house for a bit. He returned with a stack of well-worn green-backs and three gold pieces. His wife brought a flour sack full of food and a fresh-baked pie. A shaggy-haired boy of sixteen helped his father lead the mustangs to a waiting corral while two barefooted girls herded four younger Brayvilles out of harm’s way.

  “We’d have you take this food for yer kindness,” Brayville said when he accepted Pinto’s bill of sale. “Maybe we’ll pass you on the way north. You did say you thought to join a drive.”

  “Hopin’ to,” Pinto said, tying the flour sack behind his saddle. “They say they’s hirin’ at de Double R, up Wise County way. ’Course I still got horses to sell firs’.”

  “I wouldn’t expect that to trouble you long,” Brayville declared. “Man’s hard put to find a mustang as lively as these here.”

  Pinto nodded his thanks for the food and the praise. Then he set off eastward again.

  Gradually the string of horses melted away. A livery in Fincherville took two. One of the better mares was snatched up by a farmer north of Weatherford, and his brother-in-law rode down to Pinto’s camp on the Brazos to buy another.

  “Those two are of a kind,” the fellow pointed out. “Can’t have Henry gettin’ the upper hand on me.”

  So it was that by the time Pinto rode into Defiance, he had only seven range ponies left. He still had his packhorses, the white-faced black, and the little chestnut, but then he had no yen to sell those. Once he had a good look at Defiance, he decided the prospects for selling anything were none too good.

  Defiance, Texas, wasn’t much more of a town than Hill’s Junction. In fact there was only a motley collection of picket houses clustered around a brick-fronted bank, a plank-walled rooming house, and two saloons. Pinto saw one solitary figure trudging along the single dusty street, and that was a sawed-off boy whose tattered trousers hung down on his slim hips so low they threatened any second to commit an indecency. Anyone who cared to might count the child’s ribs, for the leathery skin of his chest was stretched so tight that each bone seemed to protrude like a regular ridge.

  “Come fer the auction, mister?” the boy called out.

  “Came to sell some horses,” Pinto answered.

  “Buyers done gone,” th
e boy explained. “I could have me a look ’round the drinkin’ spots and see if any’s stuck, though. If a man paid me two bits fer it.”

  “Have a look,” Pinto said, tossing the youngster a quarter. The urchin snatched the coin out of the air with an unexpected dexterity and then rushed toward the nearest saloon. Amid a howl of laughter, the youngster tumbled back out the door.

  “I tole you, Johnny Cole, I don’t abide scarecrows in my parlor!” a tall red-haired woman announced.

  “Was lookin’ fer him,” young Johnny said, pointing to Pinto, who nodded.

  “Well, I’ll excuse him for bein’ a stranger,” the woman said, smiling at Pinto. “You know better.”

  Thereupon the boy turned and made a dash toward the second saloon. He made no immediate exit from that one, and Pinto led his horses over to where he could tie them off to a hitching rail. He just finished securing the last of the animals when Johnny Cole emerged from the dingy door of the saloon, tugging the arm of a respectable-looking rancher.

  “Boy, I’ve seen all the horses I ever care to gaze upon!” the man complained. “Now leave me to enjoy an honest game of cards in peace.”

  “Ain’t honest if you play with Kansas Jack,” the boy argued. “And there’s a fellow here with horses he wants to sell.”

  “Were a dozen of ’em this morn,” the man barked. “I’ve seen ’em. Now git!”

  Only then did the man happen to glance around and spy Pinto. For a moment the rancher paused.

  “You weren’t at the auction, were you?” he called to Pinto.

  “Didn’t know ’bout it,” Pinto explained. “Jus’ come off de Llano.”

  “Well, you couldn’t’ve planned it better so far’s I’m concerned,” the rancher declared as he trotted closer and began looking over the horses. “That chestnut mare’s a dandy.”

  “Ain’t that one fer sale,” Pinto replied. “It’s de seven there on de end.”

  “I see. Well, the roan’s a stumblefoot, I’d guess, and that mare with the white tail’s a hair young. Far stallion, too. I’ll take the other four if the price is right.”

  “Forty for de three mares. Fifty for de stallion. He’s a runner.”

  “I won’t even dicker,” the man said, nodding. “It’s close to what I’d ask myself. I’m out a dollar or two gettin’ ’em shod, but they look used to a hard life. That’ll get up the trail to Kansas.”

  “Should,” Pinto agreed. “You headin’ out soon?”

  “Once my neighbor gets his herd formed. We travel paired these days. Renegades and all, you know.”

  “Sure,” Pinto said, scrawling his name across a bill of sale while the rancher counted out two hundred and ten dollars.

  “Lowery, eh?” the man said as they made the exchange. “You sold a pony or two to Bob Toney.”

  “Sure did,” Pinto admitted. “Bob and me soldiered some.”

  “Well, I was with the Second Texas till they took us prisoner at Vicksburg. J. B. Dotham’s the name.”

  “George Lowery,” Pinto said, grinning. “’Course mos’ call me Pinto. For my way with mustangs.”

  “Name’s apt enough, Pinto. Why don’t you come along into the Lucky Seven here with me and cool off. You look to’ve had a fair ride. Don’t play cards, do you?”

  “Not with nobody calls himself Kansas Jack,” Pinto said, flashing a smile at little Johnny Cole. “Would like to ged thad boy somethin’ do eat, though.”

  “Ramon, is it too late to buy a platter of tamales?” Dotham asked a pleasant-looking young Mexican.

  “No, I fix ’em,” Ramon answered. “Johnny Cole, you come on to the kitchen. Mama will feed you.”

  “Thanks,” Pinto said, tossing Ramon a silver dollar. Ramon waved to the boy, and the two of them trotted around the bar and found the kitchen. Pinto, meanwhile, sat at a table alongside J.B. Dotham. The rancher poured out two glasses of smoky-looking liquid and passed one to Pinto.

  “It passes for whiskey,” Dotham explained. “Does settle the dust.”

  “I thank you, sir,” Pinto replied as he raised his glass and drank to the health of his new acquaintance.

  “It’s me’s been done the service,” Dotham countered. “I’ll at least have four men well-mounted on the trail.”

  Before Pinto could reply, a young cowboy rose from the gaming table and slammed a pistol barrel across the forehead of the dandy to his right.

  “Won’t Kansas Jack cheat another cowboy this day!” the young drover announced as he held up a handful of banknotes.

  Two other players carried the Kansan over to a bench and set him there to recover. The game then resumed.

  “Bunch o’ fools,” Dotham grumbled. “Cowboys! Children! Drink too much and talk too much and ain’t worth half the wages I pay ’em. Still, they get my cows to the railhead.”

  “Yeah, and if dey lissen some, dey live to learn better,” Pinto declared. The two went on talking another hour. Pinto tried to bring the conversation around to the upcoming trail drive, but Dotham had his mind on horses and wouldn’t be distracted.

  That was when Ramon swept Johnny Cole out of the kitchen. The ragged youngster hopped out past the bar and fell against the gaming table, upsetting a near-empty whiskey bottle and bringing the cowboys to their feet.

  “Fool boy,” the nearest one shouted, lifting young Cole off the ground by the chin and flinging him hard against the wall. The little boy bounded off the hard oak planks and fell in a whimpering heap. As if that wasn’t enough, the cowboy drove the toe of his boot into the small of the youngster’s back.

  “That’s about enough o’ that!” Pinto exclaimed as he rose to his feet and slid over to block the next kick.

  “I don’t see this’s any o’ yer business, pop!” the cowboy said, backing a step and throwing open his jacket. A polished leather holster holding a Colt revolver hugged his right hip.

  “I didn’t come here do shoot anybody,” Pinto said as he helped a shaken Johnny Cole off the floor. “Boy, bes’ run along and find a place to hide a time.”

  “Yessir,” Johnny said, darting out the door.

  “Now, it’s settled, eh?” Pinto asked.

  “Not by half,” the cowboy answered. “You done butted into my business. You got to pay for that.”

  “How much?” Pinto asked, souring. “Fifty cends cover it?”

  That made the red-faced cowboy madder. He tapped fingers on his hip and stared coldly at Pinto’s face.

  “You ever shot anybody, Danny?” Dotham suddenly asked.

  “About to,” the cowboy answered.

  “Well this fellow’s kilt a dozen Yankees in his time up in Virginia. Look to that left hand there. See where the bullet’s sawed a finger down to size. Now look him in the eye. No sweat on his forehead. He’ll shoot back, boy.”

  “I’m fast, Mr. Dotham.”

  “He’ll kill you just the same,” Dotham argued. “And won’t be happy doin’ it, either, I’m guessin’. Son, there’s those here who’d judge you not the wronged man here. That boy was clumsy, but he’s just a snip of a child and didn’t merit yer boot. You’ll find later on dyin’ ought to follow a better grievance. Drink a little less and apologize a trifle more. That’d be my advice. I can’t afford to lose a man before even settin’ out for Kansas.”

  “But he—”

  “Get yerself back to the ranch, Danny Elton, before I lose my temper. Hear?”

  “Yes, sir,” the cowboy reluctantly agreed.

  “You others, too,” the rancher commanded, and the remaining drovers stumbled toward the door.

  “You did that jus’ fine,” Pinto observed.

  “Ain’t bad boys,” Dotham said by way of apology. “Just young. All I got, though.”

  “Shorthanded?” Pinto asked.

  “Not as you’d know it. Twenty-eight men, and that’s just my half of the outfit.”

  “I thought maybe you might need another man.”

  “You? I could, Lowery, but I signed on a full crew,” Dotham e
xplained. “I wouldn’t be able to pay you, and I never hire a job done I can’t pay for. Breeds ill feelings.”

  “Sure,” Pinto said, dropping his gaze.

  “Still, there’s my partner. And neighbor. Ryan Richardson. He runs the Double R. Might buy them other horses, too. Just head north from town. Toward Decatur. Three miles up and on yer right. Can’t miss it. House is a big one with a gabled roof.”

  “Might ride out and have a talk with him.”

  “Tell him I suggested it. And that you know Bob Toney.”

  “Sure,” Pinto said, turning toward the door. “Thanks fer de conversation, Mr. Dotham. Good luck to you, too.”

  “Might be I’ll need it,” Dotham muttered. “Good luck to you as well.”

  “Might need some my own self,” Pinto answered as he stepped out the door. Might indeed!

  Chapter 6

  The Double R Ranch wasn’t at all what Pinto had expected. On the short ride out from Defiance he’d seen only the same windswept plain and spotted hills that spread north of Fort Worth toward the Red River. But now, east of the dusty market road, a tall gabled house rose from a grove of peach trees. It was as if Pinto Lowery had suddenly been swept through time and space to one of the Virginia manor houses encountered during his soldier days.

  “It’s a place to remember,” Pinto remarked. And he judged Ryan Richardson to be that sort of man, too. Not many who had lived through the dark days of the war and the hard times that followed had kept dreams kindled. Pinto Lowery hadn’t. This Richardson, though, was even now adding rooms off the west side of his house. Moreover, the walls were built of flat gray stone. Yes, here was a place to last.

  Pinto couldn’t help staring at the wide veranda and the tall, symmetrical windows that flanked two heavy wooden front doors. Even when he dismounted, his eyes remained on the grand house. So it was that when a gangly boy of fifteen or so suddenly called out, Pinto responded with a start.

  “Talkin’ at me?” Pinto cried.