by Gene Shelton
Jim slipped out of his coat and vest, unbuckled his gunbelt, draped the equipment over a peg on the wall and topped off the peg with his hat.
“Everything all right up on the Palo Duro Creek range?” Moore asked.
Jim nodded. “Pretty fair, considering. Not much drift yet. Few head from the VP and Rafter I outfits, no more than usual. This little doodlebug of a snowstorm won’t hurt us much. The stock’s in good shape. Plenty of grass and it hasn’t got cold enough yet to freeze the waterholes.”
“I’m sending Dink Edwards out to take your place. Think he can handle it?”
“I don’t see why not. He’s young, but making a good hand.” Jim rubbed a thumb across his thick brown mustache. It came away damp from ice melt. “Come the first big blizzard you might want to get Dink some help. Palo Duro Creek country catches a lot of drift from up in Kansas and Colorado during the bad ones.” Jim plucked two coffee cups from a shelf, filled them, handed one to Tom and blew across the lip of his own mug to cool the thick black liquid before pulling back a chair.
Moore grunted in satisfaction at Jim’s report. “Okay. Might as well get us some snakes stomped here.” Moore pulled a Bull Durham sack from his pocket, rolled a cigarette, fired it with a sulphur match, and squinted through the smoke at the men around the table.
“We’ve got us some big stud hosses to cut, men,” he said. “Frank will fill you in on what’s going on.”
The association detective leaned forward, elbows on the table. Frank Stewart, Jim thought, always looked like a man with a bellyache. Jim didn’t remember ever hearing Stewart laugh. “I just got back from White Oaks over in New Mexico,” Stewart said. “Traced several head of LIT cattle to a butcher over there. I figure he’s whittled up quite a few Littlefield beeves, some LS stock and most likely plenty of others, too.”
Stewart drummed his fingertips on the table and frowned in disgust. “I couldn’t hang the bastard because he had a bill of sale, but the brands had damn sure been altered. I convinced him he’d be a sight healthier if we had a little parley about where the cattle really came from. Seems young William Bonney overstayed his welcome in Tascosa, then took some Panhandle stock with him when he left a while back.”
Jim sipped at his coffee. “No big surprise there,” he said. “Billy can’t seem to break his bad habits.”
“This time we’re going to break ‘em for him,” Stewart said. “Sheriff Garrett here’s come to ask our help. Pat?”
Garrett shifted his weight on the wooden chair, apparently trying to find some place to put legs that seemed even longer than they were, which was long enough to begin with, Jim noticed. Garrett’s pant legs were a good four inches short of reaching his ankles.
“There aren’t many men in New Mexico I can trust, boys,” Garrett said. “Billy the Kid’s got too many friends there. I need a handful of hard-nosed, tough men who don’t call the Kid friend and aren’t scared to buck him. Men who can stick on a trail through the worst kind of weather and don’t mind dropping a hammer on a man if it’s necessary. Seemed to me the Tascosa country was the best place to shop around for men like that.”
Jim shook his head cautiously. “I don’t know, Garrett. I’m a dollar-a-day cowpuncher, not a manhunter. I hate it as bad as any man when somebody steals stock from the brand I ride for, and I’ll throw down on them if I catch them at it. But I’m not a gunhand.”
“Jim,” Moore interrupted, “this job isn’t to nail Billy the Kid. It’s to get our stock back. We know there are several hundred head of Panhandle cattle in eastern New Mexico. All we’ve been asked to do is get an outfit together, go get what’s ours and trail them back home.” The foreman stubbed out his smoke. “All the big ranches—us, the LIT, the LS, Torrey’s TS Connected—are sending men to do that. I’d like for you to go along with the LX crew.”
Jim sighed inwardly. When Moore said he’d like for someone to do something it was an order, not wishful thinking. “Whatever you say.”
Moore grunted in satisfaction. “Good. I’m putting Charlie Siringo in charge of our outfit. We’ll have Charlie, you, Cal Polk, Lon Chambers and Lee Hall to look after LX interests. You’ll leave as soon as we can get everything organized. We’ll lay in a few days’ worth of chuck. Charlie can buy more supplies along the way.” The LX foreman turned to Tom. “Major Littlefield told me he’s asked you to head up the LIT crew, Tom,” he said.
Tom nodded, his gaze steady on Moore’s face. Jim thought he detected a challenge in Tom’s eyes, but if Moore saw it he said nothing.
Garrett dragged at his cigar and gazed at the ceiling. “I’ll ride on ahead and pick up a few of my own men. We’ll rendezvous at Anton Chico and start hunting Panhandle cattle.” Garrett unfolded himself from the chair, shook hands around, and gathered up his hat and coat. He paused at the door and glanced back. His gaze caught Jim East’s. “Better bring along an extra set of longhandles,” Garrett said. “Gets colder than a banker’s heart in New Mexico in winter. See you boys at Chico.” He ducked under the low doorframe and stepped into the biting wind outside.
One by one the others filtered from the overheated room, bound for the more familiar comforts of the LX bunkhouse. Jim sipped at his coffee and made no effort to follow.
“Something on your mind, Jim?”
Jim’s gaze met the foreman’s stare. “We’ve got more than just rustlers, Bill,” he said. “We’ve got some sleepering going on up on the Palo Duro. Over on the LIT, too. I found four head in the past few days. Tom tells me he found a half dozen long yearlings sleepered.”
Jim watched Moore’s eyes closely for any visible reaction. There was none. The LX manager merely nodded. “Not surprising. I’ll ask the rest of the boys to keep an eye out. Anything else, Jim?”
Jim checked the urge to tell Moore he didn’t agree with his choice of leader for the outfit. Jim liked Charlie Siringo well enough personally, but he didn’t trust him as far as he could throw a grown buffalo when it came to handling money. But Siringo was Moore’s favorite, and Moore was the boss.
“No. I reckon that’s it.” He rose and started for the door, then turned. “I suppose you’ll get word to Hattie that I’ll be gone for a while?”
Moore half smiled. “You tell her yourself. Take a couple days off and go see Hattie.” The slight grin faded. “Jim, I want those cows back. That’s why I’m sending my best men on this hunt. I’ll spend every dime the LX can spare if I have to. We’ve got to let the Kid and the rest of those Pecos River thieves know what to expect if they steal our stock. And if you get a chance at the Kid, take the little buck-toothed bastard down,” Moore said. “I want to be damn sure he’s stolen his last LX cow.”
Jim shrugged into his heavy coat and turned to the foreman. “Bill, I’ll bust my butt to bring our cows back. I won’t set out to gun any man. But if the Kid gets in our way, we’ll handle him.”
Moore nodded. “That’s good enough for me.”
Jim donned his gear and stepped outside. Miniature buckshot pellets of sleet ticked against his hat and stung his exposed cheeks. The wind had picked up. Jim East had ridden the Texas Panhandle range long enough to know that a bitter cold spell, and most likely a full-bore blizzard, were just over the horizon.
He made his way toward the bunkhouse. He wanted to go straight to the barn, saddle up and ride to Hattie. But he figured he’d best take the time for a bath and shave before heading to Tascosa. He didn’t want Hattie to have to hug somebody who smelled like a he-goat.
After he’d cleaned up, Jim would catch the blaze-faced bay for the ride into town. The bay was Jim’s personal mount, a solid horse with a smooth, ground-eating foxtrot and the eager nature of a hound dog anxious to please.
The LX cowboys had a tendency to refer to horses by their specialty, like “cuttin’ hoss,” “ropin’ hoss,” and “drive hoss.” They called the bay “Jim’s courtin’ hoss.”
***
Jim reined the bay to a stop on the bank of the Canadian River and studied the crossing
below. The river’s main channel ran shallow here, probably less than knee deep to Courtin’ Hoss. The only ice visible was a thin fringe on shallow pools separate from the main river course. The crossing looked solid and secure enough.
Jim had crossed here many times. His first trail drive to Kansas had forded at this spot on the way to Dodge City. He knew the river ford’s history as well as he knew his own.
The ford had been in use for hundreds of years before the town called Tascosa sprouted on the north side of the Canadian, nestled in a grove of trees at a curve of the riverbed. It was the only reliable passage across the often treacherous quicksands of the ever-changing river for miles in any direction. The ford was one of the more favorable quirks of nature. A wide, grassy valley flowed from the open plains of the vast Llano Estacado to the south; across the river a similar but smaller valley climbed toward the rolling grasslands of northern Texas and on to Kansas. The north valley provided a natural trail, a gradual slope upward to the plains beyond. It was an almost level path in contrast to the steep hills and bluffs of the river breaks that spread for a dozen or more miles along the red tinted ribbon of water. It was through the two valleys that cattlemen moved their herds up the Dodge City Trail to market.
Before the big ranches came, the valleys and the natural ford of the river had welcomed huge herds of migrating buffalo. Red-, brown-, and white-skinned hunters followed the trails hammered into the red earth by the hooves of millions of the shaggy brutes.
The bend in the river, with its clear spring waters, its surrounding hills that offered protection from bitter winter winds, and its groves of trees had seen the passing of the carretas of Comancheros bearing goods for trade with the Plains tribes, who only a few years ago had been pushed from the Panhandle into Indian Territory to the north and east.
The Mexican sheepmen had come, settling in the meadows called “plazas” along the Canadian. Their flocks flourished until the Anglo cattlemen came. The cowmen bought up most of the plazas. The ones they couldn’t buy they took at the point of a gun. There were still many Mexican families in Tascosa and along the river, but few sheep remained. The cattlemen hated sheep worse than they hated droughts, blizzards or even rustlers.
Jim’s bay splashed through the deepest part of the main river channel, climbed the sandy bank on the north side, and lifted into an easy foxtrot toward the settlement ahead.
Tascosa seemed to have grown more each time he came home, Jim thought. New adobe homes sprouted among the cottonwoods and elms. The settlement now boasted more than a hundred permanent residents, most of them making their living from the heavy demands of the cattle trade.
The wide, sandy streets led past almost thirty residences, two general stores, a blacksmith shop, two livery stables, a hotel, two restaurants, an assortment of small shops offering everything from fresh-baked bread to saddles and bridles, and three saloons. There was even talk about building a church and school.
Main Street’s east end led to Lower Tascosa, commonly called Hogtown, where the more adventuresome cowboys could satisfy their cravings for women, liquor, and gambling. North of Hogtown along a spring-fed creek were the homes of several Mexican families, a couple of orchards and hay meadows, and a wagon yard where freight carriers from simple carts to big eight-horse-hitch Conestogas and Studebakers parked between trips to and from Dodge City, Fort Worth and Mobeetie.
East had been to and through a lot of frontier towns from South Texas to northern railheads. Tascosa was his favorite. He had come to look upon the collection of adobe buildings as his town, a place where he planned to put down some roots and stay awhile.
He reined in at Mickey McCormick’s livery stable on Main Street and called a greeting. There was no answer. Jim knew the little Irishman wouldn’t be hard to find when it was time to pay the bay’s board bill. All a man had to do was look for a faro game and Mickey would be there.
He shucked off the saddle, found a stall for the bay and shouldered his rifle. Good weapons often disappeared when left unattended in Tascosa. Jim supposed that was part of the price paid for growth and progress. His footsteps quickened along with his heartbeat as he strode the fifty yards to the rented adobe at the northwest corner of Main and McMasters.
A wisp of smoke drifted from the stone fireplace and flattened itself against the north wind. Jim paused for a moment at the door, savoring the scent of baking bread. He tapped on the wooden doorframe.
He heard Hattie’s footsteps and then the door swung open. She stood and gazed at him for a moment. Dark brown hair burnished with tints of auburn brushed her shoulders and rippled in the breeze. Rivulets of sweat painted dark streaks on the bodice of her simple white cotton house dress. Hattie East wasn’t a beautiful woman in the classic sense, but she wasn’t hard to look at. She was about five-foot-three, slender in the right places and just full enough in the others. Laughter lay just beneath the surface of her large brown eyes framed by small crow’s-foot wrinkles. Her features were almost plain until she smiled, and then the whole room brightened up. Jim had never met anyone who could be down in the dumps around Hattie. She was the kind of person who never saw the storm clouds but never missed a rainbow.
“Well, look at this,” she said, a twinkle in the brown eyes, “another saddle tramp looking for a handout.”
Jim swept the hat from his head. “Reckon you can spare a cup of coffee and a stale biscuit, ma’am? I could chop some wood or something …”
Hattie stepped aside and waved him in, closed the door and then hurled herself into his arms. “I just got through chopping wood, cowboy,” she said, “but we’ll think of something else.” She raised onto her tiptoes and kissed him. “It’s about time you came home, Jim East. I thought you must have found some rancher’s wife or dance hall girl.”
Jim tightened his embrace and grinned at her. “No need to steal bacon when there’s steak at home, girl,” he said. “God, Hattie, I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you more, cowboy,” Hattie said. She leaned back and looked up at Jim, tears of happiness pooling in her lower lids. She reluctantly released him from her embrace. “Don’t get me too distracted, Jim East,” she said, “or you’ll make me burn the bread.” She turned toward the Dutch oven resting on a bed of coals in the fireplace. “How long can you stay this time?”
“A couple of days.” Jim shrugged out of his coat and draped it over a peg, then settled into a cane-bottomed chair at the crude table. He hesitated for a moment, like a man about to dive into the water of a cold spring, then decided to go ahead and jump. “It may be a long time before I get to come home again. A little business over in New Mexico.”
Hattie glanced up from her work. Disappointment flickered briefly in her brown eyes. “How long, Jim?”
“I don’t know.” He drew in a deep breath and told her the whole story. She listened attentively, then nodded as Jim finished. She came to him and took his hand.
“At least we’ve got a couple of days, cowboy,” she said. “We might as well make the most of them …”
***
Jim had never known two days could go by so fast. Hattie stood at his stirrup, shivering in the cold. He leaned down to kiss her one last time before heading back to the LX. He tasted the salty tears on her lips.
“Take care of yourself out there, Jim,” Hattie said.
“I will, girl. And one of these days I’ll be home to stay.” He had to touch spurs to the bay before his own voice cracked under the strain of emotion. Riding away from Hattie always hurt, like a fingernail bent back to the quick inside his chest. A grown man wasn’t supposed to let a thing like that show in public.
He glanced over his shoulder and waved as he kneed Courtin’ Hoss down McMasters Street toward the river crossing. The north wind seemed to have grown a few more fangs in the last two days. It’s going to be a long, cold ride to New Mexico , he thought.
TWO
Anton Chico
New Mexico December 1880
Jim East didn’t believ
e in wasting good cuss words, but Tom Emory had no such compunction. When the easygoing LIT man got mad, he got mad all over. Like now.
The growl in Jim’s belly and the empty buckboard in front of the adobe left him tempted to give Tom a hand in dusting Charlie Siringo’s ears with the barrel of a pistol. Siringo had taken the buckboard to Las Vegas to buy grub and ammunition for the men and grain for the horses. It would save time to do it that way, Siringo had said. We should have sent somebody with him , Jim thought in disgust. Charlie never could buck a monte dealer.
“What the hell do you mean, there’s no supplies?” Tom’s tone was a mixture of disbelief and growing rage.
Siringo stared back at Tom, his expression unworried and unrepentant on the lean and angular face. Siringo shrugged. “It ain’t my fault the games were rigged,” he said.
Tom balled a fist. Jim glanced at his friend and saw the veins in Tom’s temples bulge in fury.. “Damn you for a fool, Charlie!” Tom all but shouted. “You ride out of here with better than four hundred dollars in expense money in your pockets, gamble it all away and come back here with no grub? I’m half a mind to yank you off that buckboard and kick your butt all the way to Mexico.”
Jim put a hand on Tom’s shoulder “Easy, Tom,” Jim said. “We didn’t ride all this way to wind up killing each other.” Jim saw wariness flicker in Siringo’s eyes. It was obvious the rangy LX cowboy wanted no part of a mad Tom Emory. Siringo—and Jim—feared Tom might not know when to stop kicking. Jim knew Siringo wasn’t about to pull a gun on a friend. Besides, there was a better than even chance that Siringo would be the one to catch lead and Charlie knew that, too.
“No use gettin’ all worked up over it, Tom,” Siringo said. “What’s done’s done. Ain’t no sense in two old pards like us tanglin’ over a little nonsensical thing like this.”
“Nonsensical! Dammit, Charlie, you haven’t been the one living on beans and weevily flour around here the last few days!” Jim tightened his grip on Tom’s shoulder.