by Gene Shelton
Jim nodded in agreement but winced inside. The Pease River watershed was brushy, wild and rugged. It was also more than two hundred miles from home. “What about Edwards? Won’t I be needed to testify at his trial?”
“You can give a sworn statement to the sheriff in Tascosa. Besides, you might even be back before the trial comes up.” The LX foreman downed the last of his whiskey, and tilted the bottle toward Jim. Jim shook his head. One drink was generally his limit.
“I’ll make sure you have plenty of help down on the Pease,” Moore added. “You can pick your own crew. That’ll give you ten top hands. Every little rancher around will send at least one rep each, and the big spreads will have a wagon apiece there.”
Jim pushed back his chair and stood. He hated to ask favors of anyone. Especially Bill Moore. Then he swallowed his pride and dove in. “Think you can spare me for a couple of days first? It’s been a while since I’ve seen Hattie.”
Moore grinned, stood and clapped Jim on the shoulder. “Sure. I reckon the outfit owes you a little time off. We won’t pull the wagon out for another couple of weeks. Take four or five days, get reacquainted with your wife and put some meat back on your bones. You look like death warmed over.”
Jim nodded and reached for his hat, anxious to be back in the saddle. He started for the door, then turned as Moore called his name.
“I’ve been sending your pay to Hattie while you were gone like you asked,” Moore said. He reached for the rawhide box where the LX kept its spare cash. “Bates and Beales said you’ve earned a bonus. An extra month’s wages.”
Moore reached into the box, counted out thirty dollars and handed the cash to Jim. “I reckon you’ve got it coming. I’m putting in another ten for catching those rustlers on the way back.”
“Thanks.” Jim tucked the money into a shirt pocket, more than a little surprised. Bates and Beales were fair men where their hands were concerned, but they weren’t known to be especially free when it came to handing out greenbacks. “Anything else?”
“Nope. We’ll see you in a few days. We’ll form up the crews on the LS outfit’s flat south of Tascosa before moving out. That’ll give you an extra night or two at home.”
“Sounds good to me,” Jim said.
He strode from the ranch house, tugged his hat on, and headed to the bunkhouse for a bath and a shave. He became aware of a flutter in his gut and grinned to himself. All through the Pecos War business he’d been reasonably calm and relaxed, even if he had been colder than a Montana blizzard. Now he felt his nerves begin to twitch in anticipation, and the chill in his fingers wasn’t from the cold.
After nearly five months away from home, Jim East was going courting again.
Tascosa
Death was no stranger in Tascosa. Accidents and disease had claimed a dozen lives, more than half of them children, in a town with no doctor. But a fatal shooting still drew a crowd, Jim noticed as he glanced at the faces surrounding the wagon.
Most of the adult men, a few women, and what seemed to be every kid over the age of ten were gathered about the LX spring wagon that bore the body of the rustler named Cochran. Hattie East stood at Jim’s side, her face pale, a hand clamped beneath his upper arm. Jim had asked her not to come with him for the inquest, but she had insisted. Now he was grateful for her presence and her support, unspoken but still something he could feel in her touch.
Sheriff Cape Willingham flipped aside the blanket covering the body. Jim felt a shudder ripple through Hattie. She turned her face away from the bloody corpse in the wagon, but she kept her firm grip on his arm.
“I’ll be damned,” Willingham said. “I think that’s Bud Cochran. Got a wanted notice on him somewhere. He killed a store owner in a ten-dollar holdup in Kansas about a year back, best I can recall. I’ll know for sure after I check out the description with the law in Kansas.”
At Willingham’s side, Oldham County Judge Jim McMasters leaned over the sideboard of the wagon to examine the body. Several tousled-haired and dirty-faced youngsters pushed closer for a look, eyes wide in awe and wonder. Many of them had seen dead people before. Few had seen an outlaw who had been killed in a gunfight.
Willingham, a former teamster and stage driver and now the first duly elected sheriff of the new county, growled at the youngsters and glared at them through wide-set hazel eyes. The kids tried to sneak one last glance at the corpse before the sheriff’s cold stare and firm tone of voice shooed them away.
Judge McMasters leaned forward to study the bullet holes, then tossed the blanket back over the body. McMasters and Willingham had already heard the story of the shooting from Jim, who arrived a half day before the LX wagon that bore Cochran’s body turned onto Main Street. They also had read Dink Edwards’s brief account of the shooting, a childlike scribble that confirmed Cochran had drawn his weapon. Edwards had made no reference to his own part in the incident. The young rustler would by now be on his way to Mobeetie, escorted by Bill Moore and the burly blacksmith called Slim.
“Sheriff, if you’ve nothing to add, I’d say the evidence is consistent with the statements of Mister East and young Edwards,” McMasters said. “I see no need for a more formal inquest.”
Willingham grunted in agreement.
“The findings of this inquest are that the deceased met his end at the hands of James H. East, duly employed by the LX Ranch, and that Mister East’s actions were justified in the defense of his own life and the protection of his employer’s property.” McMasters glanced at Jim. “You’re free to go, Mister East. There will be no charges filed.” The judge turned to the driver of the LX wagon. “Take the body to the back room of the Exchange Saloon. We’ll give him a decent burial. The LX Ranch has agreed to absorb the funeral expense.”
Jim nodded his thanks to the two county officials, then let Hattie lead him toward home.
Later, Jim sat by an open window and sipped at a cup of coffee. The early spring breeze whispered past the flour-sack curtains Hattie had made and stroked a cool, comforting hand along Jim’s cheek.
Hattie looked up from the fireplace where a stew bubbled in an iron pot over the coals. She dabbed a few beads of sweat from her forehead. “Jim, is something bothering you?”
Jim heard the concern in her words and saw the worried tenderness in the deep brown eyes. He forced a smile. “I’m fine, Hattie,” he said. “It’s just that I keep seeing that rustler’s face. Charlie Bowdre’s, too. I keep thinking maybe I could have done something different and those two might still be alive. It kind of leaves a hollow feeling inside. A life is something you can’t put back after you take it.”
Hattie rose from her perch on the hearth, straightened her dress and strode to him. She sat on his lap and put her arms around his neck. “Jim East, you stop that kind of talk,” Hattie half scolded. “You didn’t have a choice where those men were concerned. I don’t like the idea of killing any more than you do. But if it’s a choice between men like that and you, I know how I’d call it.”
Jim reached up and ran his fingers through her hair. It smelled of rose water.
“I know it’s hard, Jim,” Hattie said, her voice soft and gentle. “But you’re no killer. I’ve seen you stop in the middle of the street to pick a grass burr from a puppy’s foot. I’ve seen you somehow manage to find a penny for a poor child staring at the hard candy in Rhinehart’s store. I’ve seen you put blisters on your hands to help a newcomer dig a well or break land for a garden.”
She snuggled closer against him. “You won’t admit it, Jim East, but inside you’re one of the most gentle men I’ve ever met.” Hattie lifted her head and kissed him lightly on the corner of his mouth. “Before we married you told me this was rough country out here. Now I’ll remind you of the same. The Panhandle needs men like you. It’s no place for cowards or crybabies. Out here we need strong men. Men with compassion for others but who aren’t afraid to fight for what’s right. You did what you had to do. There’s no rule that says you have to like it. I wouldn’t ha
ve you if you did like it.”
Jim lifted a hand and stroked her cheek. “Hattie, I guess you know me better than I know myself. Thanks for understanding.” “Are you going to the funeral?”
“I owe the man that much.”
Tascosa was a young community, but already it had established its customs. The whole town turned out for a funeral, paying its respects to the dead regardless of their status in life. Stores closed, saloons emptied, and a long line of silently respectful men and women stood as Cochran’s funeral cortege drew to the top of the rocky hill just west of Tascosa. If mass attendance had become a custom, so had the location of the deceased’s final resting place.
The law-abiding and more affluent families of Tascosa laid their dead in the plot of land town founder Casimiro Romero had set aside on a grassy mesa on the hill east of town. Relatives of the respectable dead didn’t want their cemetery tainted by those from the other side of the law.
The rocky hill to the west, overlooking the bend of the Canadian, held only a few graves. Jim East stood, hat in hand, as the rustler known as Cochran was buried in a distant corner of the small plot of land with the same respect due a man of honor.
The cemetery was called Boot Hill.
SIX
Pease River
May 1881
Jim East landed hard on his butt., bounced once on the hoof-torn grass, and watched as the dun gelding that had just dumped him bucked toward the LX chuck wagon, empty stirrups flapping over the saddle like the wings of a big bird in flight.
Jim looked up, a wry smile on his face, at the young cowboy astride a mouse-colored half mustang a few feet away. Charley Emory, Tom’s younger brother, struggled to hide a grin.
“Dammit, Charley, I thought the wagon boss was supposed to get the gentle string,” Jim groused, aware of the flush of embarrassment in his cheeks.
Charley Emory shifted his chew to the other cheek, spat, and winked at the sitting man. “You did. Besides, I thought any wagon boss worth his salt was supposed to be able to ride a bronc once in a while. You hurt?”
Jim stood and brushed the Pease River dirt from his backside. He knew he was going to have an impressive bruise on his butt. He shook his head, glanced around and spotted his hat three strides away. He’d lost the hat on the dun’s first jump, both stirrups on the second and his seat on the third. “Hell, Charley,” he said, “I just had to get off to get my hat. Catch that idiot horse for me and we’ll try it again.”
The LX rider grinned and touched spurs to his horse. Jim watched the chase until Charley’s fast mustang caught up with the still-pitching dun. Jim lifted his Colt Peacemaker from its holster and examined the weapon. It had caught a little dust, but it wasn’t damaged. He blew the dirt from the cylinder and holstered the pistol as Charley led the dun back to him and handed him the reins.
Jim stood for a moment and stared at the powerful, deep-chested dun. The horse’s nostrils were distended, the whites of his eyes showing, ears pricked forward. “Sandy,” Jim said to the dun, “you know damn well you can’t do that twice in a row.” He toed the stirrup and swung aboard.
The dun fell apart again, the first jump high and twisting to the right, the second short and choppy with a half-spin to the left. But this time Jim had the dun’s rhythm. He rammed his spurs into the dun’s shoulders and raked the rowels back to the cinch on each jump, his free hand braced against the saddle horn. Jim felt the dun’s enthusiasm for pitching fade under the spur rowels. He sensed that Sandy now knew he had hit his best licks and the rider was still in the saddle. The horse lined out, crow-hopped a few times, then quit after thirty yards. Jim reined him toward the herd in the distance. The horse had his daily buck out of his system. Sandy would settle down to the day’s work now.
Jim grinned back at the joshing he took from the other LX hands on the way to the herd. He heard the tone of respect under the wisecracks. Not many men had been able to ride the dun called Sandy to a standstill. And Jim had worked with cowboys long enough to know that when they joshed a man it was a sign of friendship, of acceptance. If the crew ever stopped ragging him—and each other—the outfit was headed for trouble.
Some wagon bosses kept their men in line with sharp tongues and threats. Jim didn’t work that way. He led his men not with orders but with his own actions. Cowboys respected a boss who wasn’t afraid to get his own britches dirty and his knuckles skinned, who took his share of the hard jobs, and who—when he wanted something done—asked a hand to do it instead of ordering him to do it. Jim knew that was one reason his men worked harder and better with less bellyaching than most other crews.
Two drift crew chuck wagons were set up in a grassy flat below a bend in the South Pease, their latest camp in a long string of stops. They moved the herd upriver a few miles every other day to keep from overgrazing the land and fouling the water.
The drift gather had gone about as well as could be expected, Jim mused. Now they were down to their last working of the South Pease country. A few more days on this final herd and they could start the long drive back north to home. More than eight hundred head of Longhorns, Durhams and other breeds milled and bawled on the flat. Jim was confident that they had found most of the drift that could be located. The big gathers of two hundred to three hundred cattle a day had dwindled to only a handful with the efforts of more than twenty men on horseback. Jim’s ten-man LX crew had linked up with a Diamond Tail chuck wagon. Three ranchers whose outfits were too small to afford to run their own roundups had joined the gather.
Jim waved to two of the Diamond Tail hands who had been riding nighthawk, keeping the cattle from scattering or drifting through the dark hours. The nighthawks filtered back toward the wagons for a meal and a few hours’ rest before hitting the saddle again.
Jim studied the herd as he had every day since they had run the first two Longhorns out of the canyons and thickets along the Red River well to the northwest. There were at least a dozen brands, ranging from the big LX, LIT and LS outfits to the Bar M of Alton Moseley, who ran only a hundred head on his section-and-a-half of grass in the eastern Texas Panhandle. Here and there a milk cow that had strayed from some farmer’s pasture mingled with the wilder stock.
The men worked well together. The routine established in the first few days was now honed to a fine edge. The cowboys held their horses to a slow walk as they approached and surrounded the herd. The cattle were more accustomed to men on horseback now, but still jittery early in the day. The mother cows and their calves stayed together during the night; they would get separated if the herd spooked, and the tedious wait while they mothered up again would delay the day’s work of sorting and branding.
The exciting life of a cowboy, Jim thought as he reined Sandy into place a few yards from the edge of the herd. Dust, heat, thirst, bruised butts, scraped knuckles, and rope burns on the good days. Worse than that on the bad. I can’t figure out why a man would do this. Or why I like it so much . He motioned to Charley, then toward the herd. Charley Emory was a taller version of his brother, lean and rangy, a natural horseman. He was new to the Panhandle country, but Jim had hired him on the spot. His judgment of the man’s ability had proved right. Charley was the best herd man and roper in the outfit. The little mustang he rode was a top cutter.
Jim eased the big dun into the herd and soon found a Bar M cow nursing an early spring calf. He slipped behind the pair and slowly worked them toward the edge of the herd. The dun’s ears dropped back against the thick neck. Jim knew the horse had the pair spotted and knew what was expected. All Jim had to do was go along for the ride. It never ceased to amaze him how smooth and quiet a good cutting horse could handle stock in a herd.
The dun edged the cow and calf from the herd toward Moseley and his son, who were mounted and waiting a hundred yards south of the main gather. A short distance away Charley Emory pointed another cow-calf pair in the same direction.
Jim saw the glint of relief in Moseley’s eyes as he and Charley turned the cuts over to th
e rancher and his son. The LX could lose five hundred head and never miss them on the profit sheet. Moseley couldn’t afford to lose a single cow without feeling the ache in his pocketbook.
Jim reined the dun back toward the herd. The long sunup-to-sundown routine had begun. Roundup days meant hours under a hot sun. Mother them up, brand and earmark, castrate the bull calves, sort the stock owned by smaller ranches for the drive to spreads closer to the Pease country. Change horses at least twice, feel the ache of exhaustion build in legs and knee joints and shoulders. And at day’s end savor the relaxed feeling of work done well.
At sundown they turned the herd over to the nighthawks and headed back to the wagon for a supper of beef, beans, potatoes when they had them and canned corn when they didn’t, along with sourdough bread, coffee, and tins of peaches or tomatoes. Despite the grueling day’s work the cowpunchers still joked, laughed, and joshed each other until time to shake out the bedrolls. Not such a bad life , Jim thought, at least not for the young bucks who had never learned a real trade and didn’t expect to leave their widows rich women.
He was spreading his own bedroll in the twilight when a familiar figure rode up to the picket line where the night horses were kept. Jim stood as Tom Emory dismounted, exchanged greetings and a few words with his brother, then picketed his horse and started toward the camp. Jim met him halfway, hand extended.
“Well, Tom,” Jim said, “what brings the LIT’s top hand over to this neck of the woods? Get out of riding with a roundup crew this year?”
“Sort of,” Tom said, flashing the familiar quick grin. “Major Littlefield wanted me to do a little scouting around, see if I could turn up a rustler or two. Was on my way to the Yellow House country and thought it’d be neighborly to drop by and say howdy. It ain’t but a couple hundred miles from there to here.” The grin faded. “I think we better talk some, Jim.”