The Abilene Trail

by Dusty Richards

“You get that material sewed up?” she asked.

  “What?” he asked, not understanding the question.

  “The bolt of material you bought a few days ago.”

  “Oh, that bolt. No, not yet.” He wanted to tell her to start extending his credit to Jenny, but then she’d surely figure out who had received the material. He was damned if he did or didn’t.

  “Oh, ma’am, Mrs. Fulton and her sons are going to be taking care of my place while we’re gone, so if she needs anything put it on my bill.”

  “Nice of you. I’m sure she can use the income, but I hardly can see how a woman and two young boys can do much for a farm.”

  “They’ll do fine,” he said, holding back his temper. “Better than some of these drifters in the country, anyway.”

  “It’s your farm.”

  “Ranch,” Ben said to correct her. He wasn’t a farmer. He grew cattle, not cotton.

  “As you say, Mr. McCollough.”

  “Ben,” he said.

  “Yes, Ben. Is this cash or credit?”

  “Cash,” he said, still not certain whether he would use Whitaker’s credit for his supplies. A busybody like Whitaker’s wife had about made him lose his temper. She’d be talking about Jenny, too, before he got out of town. Why couldn’t folks leave things alone that weren’t any business of theirs? He would never know, and stormed out, forgetting to thank the boys who worked there and loaded the wagon.

  Then a cold chill ran up his spine. Was someone out there somewhere waiting to dry-gulch him. He’d better get his wits about him. He reached down, straightened the Spencer, then headed his team for the ranch, the sun already showing past two o’clock. It would be after dark before he got back home, at this rate. Jenny, Jenny, I won’t see you until we get back from Mexico.

  Chapter 8

  Ben’s hands found a good use for prickly pear cactus—target practice. His armed men took shots from their horses as they rode by the patches. He had plenty of black powder and lead. The riders were shooting at the pads and some dried-up fruit. They were doing better, and several pears had .30- and .44-caliber holes shot in them.

  The betting was going on, and several months’ pay looked to be at stake. Chip missed a few, and Billy Jim moved to the fore as money winner. His keen squint and determination were winning over suave Chip’s cockiness.

  “Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Mark asked Billy Jim.

  “I guess my paw. He can put six shots in a pie pan.”

  “Not riding by,” Chip said.

  “Yeah, he was a shell shucker during the war,” Billy Jim said. “They taught him how to shoot—Quantrill did.”

  “Your father was with him?”

  “Sure, he knew Frank and Jessie and them Youngers.”

  “Wonder them carpetbaggers ain’t rounded your paw up.” Chip shook his head in disbelief.

  Billy Jim nodded his head at him. The cap-and-ball Colt reloaded; he sent five more lead balls through the next pear pad sticking up.

  “Why ain’t you shooting, Digger?” Ben asked.

  “I’s going to, Mr. Ben. But I been listening to all these here gun experts so I be ready.”

  “Fire away, Digger; they ain’t experts,” Ben said, and shared a wink with his black cowboy, realizing he’d forgotten all about getting Digger’s new clothing. Maybe in Mexico he’d find him an outfit.

  Ben caught up with Hap and the wagon. He could hear more shots and smiled. Digger would be all right with the pistol.

  “When they going to run out of ammo?” Hap shouted over the jingle of harness, the sound of hoofbeats, and ringing of the iron rims on the hard ground.

  “Couple of days,” Ben said, taking off his hat and wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. The sun turned up warmer than it had been in a week. They were in mesquite country: gnarled ancient mesquite, many dead, some greasewood, sprawling beds of prickly pear cactus, and long dried grass.

  “When you gonna wear that new shirt she made you?”

  “When we start north.”

  “Saving it?”

  “Yeah,” Ben said absently. “For good luck.”

  “Who’s this shooter made that hole in my rig?”

  “Rain Crow says his name’s Harold Coulter. Robert Kilmer said he had some brothers and they all were troublemakers.”

  “Why’s he mad at you?”

  “Damned if I know. I think he was drunker than a hooter and stood up to me when I started to leave this joint. I just threw him aside. Guess he landed wrong.”

  Hap chuckled. “I seen you throw folks aside before. Here,” he shouted to one of his horses for doing something wrong. “It ain’t the easiest way to land.”

  “I figure a man won’t face you with a gun, then he’s afraid, and scared folks are the worst kind you can deal with.”

  “I agree. Where we camping tonight?”

  “A small ranch up ahead. Santos Montoya’s.”

  “I know now. I don’t make this run with you to the border often enough to remember all the stopovers.”

  Ben twisted in the saddle. His riders were coming. They’d left without Dru Nelson, but maybe when he showed he’d find the note Ben had left tacked on the door for him. The man might have had some trouble.

  Santos Montoya greeted them in late afternoon when they drove up to his jacal-and-brush corrals. His beard was gray and his face lined from many days in the sun. He nodded to the riders and welcomed them. An ample-bodied woman rushed out and hugged Ben when he dismounted.

  “Ah, Silva,” Ben said, holding her out to look at her. “You are as pretty as ever.”

  “Such a liar you are, Ben McCollough.” Then she threw her head back and laughed freely. “Ah, these young men ride with you this time.”

  “My vaqueros.”

  “I will kill a fat goat to feed them,” she said, hands on her hips and the low-cut blouse exposing her coffee-colored cleavage.

  “My compadre Hap has beans and rice.”

  “Oh, he is your cook.” She threw her head back to appraise Hap.

  “Yes, ma’am, and as soon as I get these horses out of harness I’ll be right along to help on the goat-butchering business.” Hap started off the wagon.

  “Better yet, the boys can handle the horses,” Ben said, and gave a head toss to his men. They smiled and agreed, dismounting and undoing their own cinches.

  “She got any hot water?” Ben asked Santos.

  “Sure.”

  “Bet you’re ready as I am for as fresh cup of coffee.”

  “Oh, my, sí. We have been out for a while. When I get time I will go buy some.”

  He was probably out of dinero to buy some, too. Ben climbed up in the wagon to get some and returned with a sack of roasted fresh-ground coffee. He followed Santos inside while the boys unhitched the team.

  “So many cowboys?”

  Ben poured the coffee in the boiling pot and straightened. “I’ve got some steers bought in Agua Fría. About half as many as I need.”

  “Be careful there, señor. Many bandits are on the border these days. Not like the old days.”

  “I don’t know much about it. I’ve contracted some cattle before down there from Benito Martinez. We were on a deal for eight hundred head. But he only has four hundred.”

  “Why only four hundred?”

  “To be honest, I think all this talk about cattle drives has him thinking others will pay more for them.”

  Santos pinched his beard. “You may be right, señor.”

  “You hear anything about cattle sales?”

  “Only what my cousin he says; they are only paying them fifty centavos for big steers that they round up.”

  “Was he having trouble getting big steers?”

  “Always trouble with the big ones. They live in the brush and are like deer: They only come out to graze at night. But Mother of God, there are more cattle in the brush on both sides of the Rio Bravo than ten thousand men could gather.”

  “I’ll keep my
eyes and ears open down there.” Ben could hear Silva and Hap talking nonstop as she came in holding up by the hind leg the young goat carcass they’d already skinned.

  After supper, the boys spread their bedrolls out near the wagon. Ben squatted on his boot heels to talk to them.

  “Santos says the bandits are bad down at the border. So I want you boys to stay together. They might try to rob us. Miguel, you know much more?”

  “There are some bad hombres there.”

  “Will you listen for anything and be sure we don’t get double-crossed? Times before there have been men bought cattle on the border and they were robbed and the cattle stolen back.”

  “Oh, sí. I know some people down there who would tell me anything they know.”

  “From here on ride with your eyes and ears open. And your six-guns close by. ’Night.”

  “ ’Night, Mr. Ben,” came the chorus.

  Two days later, Ben could see the pale green cottonwood tops in the distance. The Rio Bravo, which most Texans called the Rio Grande, lay about an hour ahead. Harness chains jingled and the horses’ trotting made a drumbeat on the sandy ground. Agua Fría sat upon the escarpment across the watery border. And the usual washerwomen would be scrubbing their clothes and give his boys an eyeful of bare brown breasts when they rode past.

  “Digger,” Ben called out, and the black hand spurred his horse to catch up.

  “Yes, sah?”

  “The crew wants you to look like a cowboy. I’m going over there and look for my cattle buyer. You want to ride along, I’d advance you enough money to buy some duds.”

  Mischief danced in the deep brown pools of his eyes and he glanced down at his faded one-piece outfit. “They don’t like my overalls?”

  “I guess they’d like you to dress . . . well, like they do.”

  “I’d sure be proud to do that. What you think it’s going to cost?”

  “Hat, pants, shirt, vest or serape, some footgear and a sombrero—hmm. Five, six dollars.”

  “Gots to have a bandanna.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “I’ll be so in a few minutes,” Ben said, and nodded. He rode back to the others. “I’m advancing five a man. Be here and ready to herd cattle at daybreak. Don’t lose any of my horses or saddles, since most of them are mine and it would be a long drive to Kansas riding bareback.”

  “I’ll have supper here at six,” Hap said, looking over the crew whom Ben had paid. They began shaking their heads—no, they’d miss it.

  “Good, I won’t cook no supper,” Hap said, and scratched the beard stubble on his cheek. “I may go see the city lights then too.”

  “Same goes for you. If I can get Martinez going we’ll have cattle to herd at daybreak.”

  “We’ll be here, Captain.”

  “Good. Let’s go, Digger.” Ben mounted his roan. “If we all leave they might rob the camp.”

  “I’ll stay,” Billy Jim offered.

  “Be careful then,” Ben said, wondering if he’d left any guard at all.

  “Naw. I ain’t got no business over there,” Hap said. “Billy Jim, you go along, keep them boys out of trouble.”

  “Thanks,” Ben said, feeling better about Hap’s decision. “You ready, Digger?”

  “Yes, sahree, I be ready,” Digger said, and swung up into the saddle in a bound.

  Ben couldn’t put his finger on anything, but the itching up his spine made him look about more than usual. During time spent in the war, he recalled the same feelings. He and Digger bailed their horses into the Rio Grande and splashed across the knee-deep stream. The washerwomen talked to them in Spanish, and Digger grinned as if pleased to be with him for their frontal show.

  “Mr. Ben, how’s you know a bandit from the rest of ’em?”

  “That’s the hard part,” Ben said.

  “Well, I just wondered. I’m looking a lot, but I ain’t sure I’d knows one.”

  “Take my word, you will.”

  “Kinda like a dog runs out barking, huh—you knows real quick if’n he’s just barking or gonna bite you.”

  Ben laughed and agreed.

  They found Digger a pair of stripped pants and a collarless cotton shirt. Two women waited on them in the shop, and they soon brought him a selection of serapes. Digger took a gray one, then a high-crowned straw hat.

  His word for bandanna and their Spanish one was not translating until he pointed to Ben’s. Then they both nodded, and one ran off while the other showed him boots. He made faces trying them on.

  Ben found a pair of soft leather boots and tossed them to Digger.

  “Naw, them don’t hurt my feet,” he said, stomping around in them.

  The women smiled in relief and so did Digger as he walked around in his new footgear. “How much dinero?” he asked.

  One girl began to count using her fingers and mumbling numbers. “Ten pesos.”

  “Oh, no,” Digger said. “Three.”

  “Ten!” she shouted.

  The bickering went on; the manager came over, and they went over the items.

  Ben squatted on his boot heels, amused over the haggling. Digger needed no lessons in border dickering. He could get right in and argue with the best. In the end, Ben paid the man four dollars and six bits. Outside he gave Digger his five dollars and sent him off to find the rest of the boys.

  Ben rode his horse to the livery, left the roan there—too easy to steal him off the hitch rail—and walked two blocks to look for Martinez in the La Pa loma Cantina.

  “Ah, mi amigo Ben,” the cattle buyer said at the sight of him.

  Ben looked over the crowd in the dimly lit place. Hard to see much of anything except near the small candle lights on the tables.

  “You want a drink?” Martinez asked

  “Beer,” Ben said, and took a place, nodding to the heavy-jowled other man seated at the table with him.

  “Señor Salano, I want you to meet my friend from Texas, Ben McCollough.”

  “Glad to meet you, señor.” The man never offered his hand, so Ben let him go. He listened as Martinez arranged to get beer with the barmaid.

  “Ah, I have the steers,” Martinez said, and slid in beside Ben. “You wish to go look at them?”

  “How many?” He could see them at delivery—how many and the price was the thing at the moment for Ben.

  “Four—four-fifty.” Martinez shrugged.

  “When do I get the rest you promised me?”

  “Oh, it is hard to get that many big steers.” Martinez shook his head as if troubled.

  Ben tapped his index finger on the table. “Martinez, I can get them bought. You either get me the rest of them or I’ll look elsewhere.”

  “Ah, Señor Ben—I will do my best.”

  “Best ain’t good enough. I want the rest of the steers.”

  “These cattle, they cost more.” Martinez squirmed in his seat. Salano looked as if he had nothing to do with the matter.

  The girl delivered his beer and Ben sat back to sip it. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Two dollars is all I am paying across the river for big steers.”

  “They cost—”

  Ben shook his head. “Fifty cents a head is all you pay those brush poppers for their delivery.”

  Like a banty rooster, Martinez rose up, showing his indignation. “Oh, but I have more expenses.”

  Ben waved his complaint away. “So do I.”

  “You are ready for the delivery?”

  “Yes, put them across the river in the morning.”

  “Two-fifty?”

  “We had a deal last fall for two dollars, and you better find the rest of them.”

  “Pay me two-fifty.”

  “And the rest of them?”

  “I will have to find them. You can pay me?”

  “Yes. If you’ll bring four hundred big steers I’ll pay you two-fifty.” He grew weary of Martinez, the place, and his company, the shifty-eyed one he called Salano. Something
was not right—Ben didn’t have his finger on the problem, but he’d been in enough fixes during the war to trust his senses. Maybe it was all the Spanish being spoken. He knew enough to be conversational, but something was amiss in the smoky atmosphere of the cantina.

  “You pay me two-fifty?”

  “I will if they’re big steers—no trash, no heifers, and no old mossy horned ones either. That’s prime price.”

  Martinez agreed, and Ben stood up. The deal was made. If only he could have gotten all the cattle at one time he’d have felt better.

  The skin on the back of his neck crawled as he walked the block back to the livery after he left the cantina. He’d better have the boys ready for anything, to back him if necessary. The youth brought the roan out and he paid him ten centavos, checked the cinch with his back to the wall so he had a good view of the narrow street in both directions, and once in the saddle headed for the red-light district.

  He found the newly dressed Digger standing guard over the boys’ horses on a vacant lot. A broad smile on his ebony face, he wore a sombrero on his shoulders.

  “Mr. Ben?”

  Ben leaned over and lowered his voice. “Tell the boys I think we have some problems. Might be better if they all eat supper at the camp.”

  Ben straightened in the saddle, checked around, and saw little activity in the late afternoon: a few sleepy cur dogs panting in the shade, a woman or two weary colorful head coverings, going shopping perhaps. Still, he felt on edge.

  “Maybe Miguel can learn something in town about a double cross.” Ben checked the impatient roan. “But tell him to take no chances.”

  “We be there; yous tell that old Hap we’s coming for supper. Make him moan, won’t it?” Digger laughed out loud. “Him’s got his feet up and resting.”

  “I’d rather hear him moan than someone get hurt. Take care,” Ben said, then swung the roan around and headed for the river.

  “You’ve got nothing to go on but a gut feeling?” Hap asked as he shoveled coals on the Dutch oven lid, then set it on a small pile of red-hot chunks from his fire.

  “Nothing, but I know Martinez is up to something. This buddy of his, Salano, is some fish-eyed guy. Martinez talks business in front of him like they’re partners.”