“Why I rode over here. Good sausage.”
“My wife, she makes them.”
“Tell her she’s very good.”
“You got a wife?”
Ben shook his head—he was working on one, but there was no sense telling the bar owner about her.
“I was going to get her recipe for your wife.”
“Thanks anyway. I’ll have to come back and see you to get some more.”
“Good. You want more beer?”
“No, thanks, I better get over to the Alamo and find Rain Crow.”
“You come back—I always have smoked sausage.”
“I sure will. Thanks.” He took the last of it from his plate in a sandwich between two crackers and headed for the door, eating as he went. There’d be lots of riffraff in the Alamo Saloon. He felt for his six-gun and hefted it in place under the slicker as he went outside. A spray of mist struck his face. He checked the girth and swung in the saddle.
The Alamo Saloon was under the hill on the banks of Nephi Creek. A set of hip-shot ponies lined the hitch rack when he topped the rise coming past the two-story stone mill building. He could hear the hiss of the steam engine that powered the flour mill when he dismounted and tied the reins on the rack. The Alamo’s porch roof leaked when he stepped on the springy board floor and drew the unplaned wooden door back. The bat wings were tied open, and a haze of smoke clouded the room.
Conscious of the many hard looks following him, he went to the bar and ordered a beer. When the grizzle-faced bartender brought it, Ben paid him the dime and turned slow-like to consider the room’s contents. Several toughs sat under the yellow light coming from some candle lamps around a wagon wheel hung from a rope off the ceiling. The end of the rope was tied off on the far wall.
“You here on business?” the bewhiskered bartender asked.
“Yeah,” Ben said, not turning as he watched the progress of the card game. “I’m looking for Rain Crow.”
“He ain’t been in today. You got business with him?”
“Yeah,” Ben said, sucking on his tongue trying to dislodge a small piece of sausage caught in his teeth. “Working on a trade. Tell him Ben McCollough’s in town.”
“May not see him for weeks.”
“Tell him when you see him. He knows me.”
“You might be the damn law.”
“Just tell him,” Ben said, hearing the edge of impatience rising in his words.
He finished the beer and set the mug on the bar.
Ben reset the rain-sodden hat on his head and started for the door. Something clawed at his guts. Something was amiss in this dive. He felt it, knew something was wrong; then he noticed someone step away from the bar, throw his shoulders back, and start to bar his way.
“Stranger, what the hell you doing in this place, anyway?” the drunk demanded, wavering on his boot heels and blocking Ben’s exit.
“For me to know and you to find out.” Ben caught him by the front of his shirt and tossed him hard enough against the bar that the man grunted when he hit and slid down to the brass rail. Ben’s fist closed on the redwood butt of his navy .44; when he spun around, the long Colt filled his hand.
“Anyone else in here want to know?” The loudest sound was his breath rushing up into his nose. Not even a glass tinkled. All eyes were on him, including those of a few dull-looking doves with low-cut blouses and stringy hair.
“Guess that settled that,” one of the women said. “Damn, mister, you sure threw him away.” She came striding over with her hands on her hips and wagging her way over until she stood ten feet away from him. “These others damn sure don’t want any part of you.”
Her words brought a titter from the crowd.
“Good,” Ben said, then spun on his heel and started to go outside. The drunk on the floor made a grab for him. Too slow—Ben whacked him with the barrel of his pistol and he fell back on the floor. After a quick check of the others, he saw no opposition, and went out the door.
He holstered the Colt and gathered his reins as the water began to run off his hat brim again. His attention centered on the rough board door—no one came after him.
He put the horse in the livery—it was already late afternoon and there was no sign of the Comanche breed. His trip might be in vain—no telling where Rain Crow was. Word would get to him soon enough. Ben took his own bedroll and saddlebags over his shoulder and went three doors down to check into the Crockett Hotel.
Piling his things in the bedroom, he went back downstairs to the lobby. After explaining to the clerk a man might seek him, he went across to Sturdivan’s Saloon and joined a low-stakes poker game. Introducing himself to the four men, he anted up a quarter and waited for his cards.
A barber named Grandstein, a thin-faced man named Vogelman, and a quick-eyed boy by the name of Delf were the other players. The game proceeded. Ben held two pairs and when the hand was over he won.
“Just beginner’s luck,” Vogelman said, and began to shuffle the cards.
Ben had taken a chair with his back to the side wall, where he could see the entrance and most of the room. The cards came again; he held an ace and drew three sevens.
Bets were laid down and he won the second hand. Vogelman frowned and cleared his throat when Ben raked in his winnings. But cards, like some women Ben knew, could turn south as fast as they came right in a legit game. The barber won next and looked relieved hauling in his winnings. Four years of gambling with other officers taught Ben a lot about poker—but his real lessons came watching the enlisted men play. He could spot clumsy card shifts and sleeve stuffing—marked cards so you could tell what your opponent held.
“Where’s your place?” Vogelman asked, looking over the pasteboards fanned out in his hand.
“Teeville,” Ben said, disappointed in his cards and undecided whether to simply fold or try for a good draw.
Vogelman nodded.
Ben looked up when someone came inside: bare-headed, with lots of gray showing in his braided hair, the unmistakable high cheekbones on a swarthy face. Rain Crow had arrived. He spotted Ben and like a cat crossed the saloon’s sawdust floor. He squatted down close by Ben’s chair and put his back to the grooved board wall.
“They say you need to see me, big Ben.”
“Need four good mules,” Ben said, tossing in his hand.
“Meet you daybreak, down by the creek.”
“They broke?”
Rain Crow shook his head so his shoulder-length braids danced on the shoulders of his faded flannel shirt. For a long moment Ben considered—four unbroken mules. Did he have the time or the patience to mess with them? If they could use a team of horses to go to Mexico and get the first steers, they wouldn’t need that many supplies in the wagon for that weeklong or so drive.
“How much?”
“ ‘Forty apiece.”
“Too much.”
“They good mules.”
“But they ain’t broke.”
“You see they good mules.”
“You in?” the barber asked; it was his turn to deal.
“Leave me out this hand,” Ben said, and turned back to Rain Crow. “I’ll be there.”
The Indian nodded, straightened, and headed for the door under the disapproving eyes of the other customers.
“Next time you do business with that blanket-ass sumbitch, do it somewheres else,” Vogelman said, arranging his new hand.
“There was a time I’da backhanded you out of that chair. I’ll just say I didn’t hear you,” Ben said, and nodded at the man.
“Well, guess you’re a damn Injun lover.”
A smile split Ben’s lips. “It’s over, stupid. He’s left.”
“It may be over for you, but them damn Comanches are still out there killing folks west of here.”
“Rain Crow’s been around here all his life. He ever offer to kill you?”
“No, but he’s a damn half-breed, acts and looks like them woman-raping, baby-killing sons a bitches.”
Vogelman looked over at him, appraised his large frame, and nodded in agreement. The game continued until Ben grew weary and excused himself, some fifteen dollars richer.
The hotel bed offered little solace. Ben’s concerns ran from his new commitment to Jenny Fulton to Martinez’s failure to supply enough steers and the four unbroken mules. Things he must resolve came first—but thoughts of Jenny as his future wife filtered through the rest like smoke at a barbecue.
He woke up bleary-eyed, dressed, and looked out the window at the predawn darkness. Maybe he had time for some coffee and a bite to eat. Rain Crow would be there whenever he got there. Amazing how a half-breed could do math as well as that one. The story about the horse trader was that his mother had been rescued from a tribe of Comanches by Texas Rangers when he was six years old. She stayed with her white relatives; he ran off and rejoined his father’s people. When he was taken prisoner and brought back as a teen, he moved in with her. Both she and the boy lived at the edge of white society. Taken captive at fourteen, her face tattooed, and so many Indian ways about her, white people ignored her. They also shunned the half-breed son, except for his white grandfather, who taught Rain Crow all he knew about money and horses.
The coffee, ham, bread, and eggs at the café helped Ben’s disposition. He retrieved his horse from the livery. In the cool north wind that swept the land and had chased away the rain, he used his bedroll blanket for a coat. Tom Jack acted ready to buck, and he kept him in close check heading down the empty street for the creek.
Somewhere off in the distance he heard a jackass bray, no doubt one of his mules. Ben shook his head, then felt the horse underneath him gather up again. Ready to release the blanket and pull leather, he knew the grain-fed bay could turn things into a high-jumping contest in a split second. But talking softly, he quieted him and headed downhill toward the creek.
In the first shafts of sunup, he saw the four mules, which raised their heads and brayed in a chorus at him. Not bad-sized mules, twelve to thirteen hands tall, two blacks, a sorrel, and one paint. He wished they’d all been solid colors, but Indian mares a spotted one was bound to show up.
Under a blanket, Rain Crow squatted close to a large cedar. A repeating rifle across his lap, he nodded when Ben rode up.
“I don’t like the spotted one,” Ben said, dismounting and dropping the reins so Tom Jack was ground-tied.
“He’s sound.” The breed gave a “no matter” look.
“Yeah, but he’s a flag. I don’t need a flag where I’m going.”
“Only mules I have. Hard to find good ones.”
Ben dropped down and squatted beside him. He drew the blanket up over his shoulder. In the shade it was still cool.
“They threes and fours.”
“Will they lead?”
Rain Crow nodded. “Plenty good lead.”
“Bottom dollar.”
“Hundred-fifty.”
“Hundred.”
“No!” The breed shook his head. “Have to go way west trade with crazy ones. Take lots of goods to get them. Have to dodge army now, too. No like me trade with Itaha.”
Itaha meant “the people.” Comanches called themselves by that name. Ben considered the mules. They would be as Rain Crow said, sound, and their ages would be right. But he dreaded the breaking process that lay ahead for him and his crew if he bought them.
“A hundred and twenty.”
“No.”
“A hundred-thirty.” Ben shook his head warily. “That’s more than anyone would pay for four wild mules.”
“Good ones hard to find. You go up the trail with cattle?” He motioned to the north.
Ben nodded.
“You want horses too?”
“I could use some.”
“Bring you forty head. No colts. Two hundred dollars. You pick out any bad ones.”
Forty head plus the ones at the ranch would make a good-sized cavvy. He considered the offer—if Martinez got off his butt and found the rest of the cattle, he’d be in the market for horses.
“Some be broke; you like ’em, big Ben.”
“Not stolen?”
“No, only Indian brands.”
“Bottom dollar on these mules?”
“You take horses?”
Ben nodded, knowing Crow wanted to sell the horse herd, too.
“One hundred-thirty to you, big Ben.”
“We’ll trade, but you’ve got to be sure I get headed home with them.”
Rain Crow smiled. “Me help. When you want horses?”
“This week sometime?” Ben dug out his purse and counted out the money in gold coins for the mules. He might be home by dark—if he was lucky—though he considered anything happening in the company of the mules could not be counted upon.
“Bring them in three days,” Rain Crow said, and stood up. “You like horses plenty good.”
“I like solid-colored horses.”
“Horses be plenty good.”
Damn, Ben knew by those words that he’d get some paints in whatever the trader delivered. Oh, well, he’d have his cow ponies. Might be a good market for them in Kansas after the drive. He could hope so, anyway.
Tom Jack gave the mules a wide-eyed look when Ben drove him in close. Rain Crow began bringing them over. He hitched the outside mule to the lead one’s halter and did the same on the other side. So Ben had two leads wrapped around his saddle horn, a pair of mules on each side, and a goosey Tom Jack underneath him.
With care, he nudged the bay forward. The next thirty seconds would tell. Tom Jack blowing roller out his flared nostrils. Ben could feel the muscles down the horse’s loin gathering under the saddle. He talked quickly and softly to the big horse in the midst of the canary-braying contest. One step, two . . . He checked him, and in a few more they were headed east in a rough trot, with Rain Crow on his own black horse riding beside them.
“What’s Kansas like?”
“They say tall grass as far as you can see. Want to go along?”
“No, just wonder. How many more going?”
“There’s talk all over about many folks taking herds up there.”
“Them need more mules,” Rain Crow said, as if thinking out loud.
“Before springtime you might do a lively business.”
The breed nodded and rode in to lash the laggard black mule on the butt with his quirt.
“You going back to trade for some more?”
“Yes. You watch out, big Ben. That one you tossed aside last night, him bad one. Talk about shooting you.”
“What his name?”
“Harold Coulter. He plenty bad hombre.”
“I’ll watch for him. Thanks.” Rain Crow wasn’t afraid of much; when he said that Coulter was bad, he was that way.
Damned braying jackasses—he’d be glad to finally be home.
Chapter 5
Ben came out on the porch and met the glowing face of Billy Jim Watts. It looked like the boy had scrubbed until every freckle shone. He stood with his hat in his hand and the slab-sided horse snorting in the dust at his back.
“Morning. I heard you still lacked a crew, Mr. Ben.”
“Billy Jim. Didn’t I tell you—”
“Yes, sir, you said it would be pure hell most of the time. Still, I done considered all you said and I still want to work for you. You give me a chance—I’ll work for free. I don’t make a hand you can send me packing.”
“It won’t be no Sunday-school picnic. In fact, I’d bet my best horse before we get to the Indian Nation, you’ll want to go back home.”
Billy Jim stuck out his chest. “You got to be a man sometime.”
The boy hit a chord. Only Ben hated to wet-nurse one to get him there. Dang—no more men that he could hire. Maybe Billy Jim would be his best—No, not his best, but his only choice.
“Got all your stuff?”
“You mean I’m hired?”
“Trial basis only. We’re b
reaking mules today. You hear them canaries?”
“Huh?” The youth made a face, then smiled. “You mean jackasses.”
“That’s it, and we have four unbroken ones to start with. Put that horse up. You can take him back home Sunday. Get down there and help Mark halter them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ben looked up and frowned at the sight of a stranger. Aboard a small gray burro with his bare feet hanging out of ragged overalls came a black boy.
“Mr. Ben McCollough, sir,” the youth called out, and bounded off the donkey’s back.
“Yes?”
“My name’s Digger Jones. I done heard you was needing help.”
“Where you from, Digger?”
“From my mama, I guess.”
“No.” Ben chuckled. “I mean, where did you live last?”
“Oh, Mr. Jones’s place up by San Antonio. But he don’t got no more work.”
“How old are you?”
“I says sixteen, maybe mores, maybe less.”
“You ride and rope?”
“I sure does.”
That was all he needed—a round-bottomed boy and a cotton-patch black one. He’d be lucky to ever get to Kansas. Digger Jones . . . Ben shook his head.
“Tell you what, Jones. I’m going to give you a try. You don’t cut it, you’ll have to move on. This is a man’s work, and I pay a man’s pay regardless of your skin color, but you better give me your all.”
“What you got for me to do?”
“Mule breaking starts in a few minutes down at the corral. Wait,” Ben said. “When did you eat last?”
“Two, three days ago.”
Ben drew in a deep breath and shook his head. No way anyone could work who hadn’t eaten since then. “Go in there and tell Hap I said to feed you.”
“Yes, sah.” A smile swept his dark face.
“Wait. What’re you going to do with that burro?”
“Nothing. Turn him loose.” Digger shrugged. “I’s just found him to ride out here.”
Ben nodded that he heard. One more braying devil wouldn’t hurt, he guessed. Then he frowned as the boy started around the house. “Where you going?”
“Around to the back door.”
“No, go in the front door like the rest of the crew.”
The Abilene Trail Page 4