Tascosa Gun

by Gene Shelton

  “Sounds serious. And when you get serious, I start looking for something to booger at. Time for chuck and coffee first?”

  “Nothing stronger?”

  “Sorry,” Jim said. “Nothing in the wagon but a quart we’re saving in case somebody gets hurt, and it may be gone by now if the cook’s found it. Closest town to here’s Clarendon, so the whiskey supply in the Pease country’s dry as Methuselah’s chewing tobacco.”

  Tom snorted in disgust. “Clarendon. Dry as a bone. That bunch of chicken-eatin’ Methodists over there don’t know how a cowboy lives. No wonder they call it Saint’s Roost.” He sighed. “God, this mother’s son will be glad to get back to Tascosa where there’s decent whiskey. Meantime, I guess coffee and a chunk of beef would help. I’m so hungry I wouldn’t even care if it was LIT beef.”

  Jim helped himself to a final cup as Tom ate, then led the rangy cowboy out of hearing range of the wagon crew. The two friends settled down on a flat rock surrounded by scrub brush and prickly pear, and rolled smokes from Jim’s tobacco sack as the sun touched the western horizon. With the approach of evening the southwest wind eased. Fine dust grains stirred by wind and cattle settled from the red-orange sunset and the deepening purplish-blue sky.

  “What’s up, Tom?”

  Tom Emory took a deep drag from his cigarette and let the smoke trickle from his nostrils. “We’ve maybe got some problems ahead, Jim. First, though—what do you think really happened to Dink Edwards?”

  Jim frowned. “I don’t know. But I’m not buying Bill Moore’s story that Dink escaped on the way to Mobeetie. Don’t see how a man in irons could get loose from Moore and that big blacksmith.”

  Tom dragged at the cigarette, its faint glow showing the worry wrinkles in his forehead. “That’s what I figure, Jim. Moore could have turned him loose. On the other hand, there’s a lot of open range out there. Plenty of space for an unmarked grave.” Tom picked up a pebble and tossed it toward a prickly pear leaf. “Anyway, three days after Dink’s so-called escape, the blacksmith shows up in Tascosa with a couple of double eagles in his pocket. A week after that I’m riding drift over across the New Mexico line. There’s Spade Diamond and Double H Connected cattle all over that country.”

  Jim ground his cigarette butt beneath a heel. “Never heard of the Double H Connected.”

  “That’s another kick in the britches, Jim,” Tom said. His tone was cold and flat. “Brand’s registered in New Mexico. To Bill Moore. And he bought up the Spade Diamond brand a few days after the drift wagons pulled out.”

  Jim stared toward the western horizon for a few moments. There was only one conclusion to be drawn. Bill Moore was behind at least some of the sleepering and outright rustling going on in the Texas Panhandle. “Any way we can prove it, Tom?”

  Tom grunted in disgust. “Hell, if I had any solid proof I’d hang the little bowlegged bastard to a cottonwood limb myself,” he said. “If we keep an eye out, maybe we can catch him at it.”

  The two men fell silent for a moment. Jim felt the cold anger build in his gut. It made sense now why Moore insisted on taking Dink Edwards to Mobeetie instead of the Tascosa jail.

  “That’s not the worst news, Jim,” Tom said. “Word’s out that the big ranchers are fixing to clamp down on their hands. For starters, no more mavericking. The cattleman’s association’s decided that anything not already branded belongs to their outfits. The short of it is there won’t be any way a cowboy can build a herd of his own. Not on thirty a month and found.”

  Jim’s frown deepened. “A lot of the boys won’t stand for that. It’s the only reason they put up with the broken bones and can-to-can’t workdays in the first place.”

  “Gives a man a bellyache to get pushed around.” Tom’s voice had a bitter edge. “What’s more, the association’s getting set to tell the little men they can’t rep on roundups any longer.”

  The cold anger warmed in Jim’s gut. “They can’t do that, Tom. These small ranchers like Alton Moseley can’t afford to put their own chuck wagons and crews on the range. Dammit, Moseley’s a good man, as fair and honest as I’ve ever met. He’d be forced out of business sure as God made crabapples.”

  “That’s what the big men want. When you cut it down to the bone, they’re setting things up to drive the little ranches out. The cowboys and the small operators aren’t going to stand for it. I’m afraid we’re looking at a range war, Jim. Not now maybe, but a few miles down the road. It’s coming. I can smell it. And that, my friend, brings us to the reason I rode all the way out here. How would you like to be Oldham County’s next sheriff?”

  Jim sat bolt upright. “What the hell are you talking about, Tom?”

  “I’ve been thinking, Jim. Now, I’ve got nothing against Cape Willingham. He’s a good man. But he’s an association man. The big ranchers put him in office and they want to keep him there.” Tom reached out, broke a thorn from a prickly pear and slipped it into the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been talking to a few of the cowboys, kind of on the sly. We want one of our own wearing that badge, somebody who knows cow piss from weak beer if trouble starts. You’re the best man for the job. It’s not too early to start talking it up with the boys.”

  Jim sat silent for a moment, stunned at the idea. Then he shook his head. “I don’t know, Tom. I don’t see what I could do to help —”

  “Just be there,” Tom broke in. “The cowboys trust you and the big ranchers respect you. Everybody in the country knows they’d get a fair shake from Jim East. You’re one man who could maybe keep the lid on if the pot boils over. All we’re asking is that you think it over. Let me know when roundup’s done.” Tom stood and brushed the dirt from his backside. Then he chuckled. “If it means anything, the pay’s about a hundred a month more than you can make punching cows.”

  Jim rose and offered a hand. “I’ll think it over, Tom. I won’t promise you more than that.”

  “That’s enough.” Tom returned the handshake. “Now, if you can spare a spot of ground for the night that doesn’t have a rattler or a scorpion in it, I’d sure like an invite to stay over for breakfast. Hell of a long ride out to Yellow House.”

  “You’ve got the invite, Tom, but I won’t make you any promises about the rattlers and scorpions. If you have to kill a couple, don’t worry about it. We’ve got plenty to spare.”

  Jim lay awake in his bedroll for an hour after turning in. Usually it took only a couple of minutes before he fell asleep, but now he lay on his back and stared at the wash of stars overhead.

  In the near distance he heard the lowing of cattle as the herd settled down. An owl hooted twice from the cottonwood grove along the nearby creek, then fell silent, awaiting a reply. A coyote howled in the distance, mournful, as if it had just lost its only friend. From the bedrolls around him came the raspy sound of cowboys snoring, and the occasional rustle of a canvas groundsheet as one of them shifted his position. Near the herd the night-hawks sang, off-key voices flat against the still air. One of them sang a hymn, the other a bawdy cowboy ballad.

  Tom Emory had handed Jim a tough biscuit to chew on. The thought of being a peace officer had never entered his head until now. Sheriff of Tascosa did have sort of a ring to it, he thought. Jim had never considered himself a politician, but he knew he had a knack for getting along with people. The appeal of the idea wasn’t in the power that went with the badge. It was in the chance to maybe do something worthwhile in a life that so far had been drifted away behind trail herds and in cow camps and line shacks. He didn’t have much to offer Hattie at the moment. They could do a lot more on a sheriff’s salary than on a cowboy’s pay.

  He sighed heavily and stirred in his blankets. His bruised butt seemed to find every pebble on the Pease River. The job here was nearly finished. In a few days they would start the long drive back to the Panhandle. One thing was certain, Jim promised silently as his lids finally grew heavy. He wouldn’t say yes or no to the idea until he’d had a chance to talk it over with Hattie.

&
nbsp; Tascosa

  June 1881

  Jim rested his elbows on the faded checked cheesecloth, coffee steaming in the mug before him, and cocked an eye at Hattie seated across the small table.

  “Well, girl? What do you think?”

  Hattie made a steeple of her fingers and peered across the tips at Jim. “I think you’d make a fine sheriff, dear,” she said.

  “It could be a dangerous job.”

  “More dangerous than what you’re doing now? Jim, you don’t know how much I worry about you. There are so many things that could happen out there on the range.” She dropped her hands and leaned back in the chair. “I’m being selfish about this,” she said. “If you were sheriff, I’d have you home almost every night instead of once a month. Or less.”

  Jim sighed. “Don’t think I haven’t considered that. And with the extra money I’d be bringing in, we could buy that house, get you some new clothes, a cookstove instead of a fireplace —”

  Hattie leaned across the table and touched a finger to his lips. “Never mind the money and the house and the stove. I want you here with me, Jim.” She dropped her fingers to his forearm. “Besides, I know you would be a good sheriff. Not that Cape Willingham isn’t. He does his best. I’m prejudiced, but you could do better. This is our town, Jim. It needs you.”

  Jim rose, strode around the table and kissed her on the nape of the neck. “That’s what I needed to hear, Hattie. I wouldn’t go into something like this without your support. But for now, let’s keep it between us. I want to talk to Tom again, and to Cape Willingham. I wouldn’t try to put a man out of a job without looking him in the eye first.”

  Jim felt Hattie’s body tense as the sound of distant gunfire echoed through the streets of Tascosa. He patted her shoulder in reassurance. “Nothing serious, I’d bet. That was from over in Hogtown. Probably just some of the boys letting off a little steam before they point the trail herd toward Kansas and railhead.”

  Hattie looked up, a quick flash of disappointment and pain in her deep brown eyes. “Oh, Jim—does this mean you’ll be gone another three months?”

  Jim smiled. “Not this time, girl. I’ll be closer to home. The LX wants me to run a floating wagon up in the Coldwater Creek country. Lon Chambers drew the black bean on the Kansas drive this time around. I’ll get to come home at least twice a month until fall roundup starts.”

  Jim was relieved at not drawing the trail drive duty. Before Hattie he had looked forward to trailing the herds north despite the danger of flooded rivers, the occasional stampede, even being ambushed by gangs of thieves along the way. Now the only thing that mattered was being able to come home once in a while. Must he getting old , Jim thought. Next thing you know I’ll he in a rocking chair out front of the house watching the young ones ride by. The report of another gunshot rattled through the streets.

  “Sounds like this might be serious, Hattie,” Jim said. “Maybe I’d better go see if Cape can use some help.”

  “It’s not your job yet, Jim,” Hattie protested.

  Jim patted her shoulder again, then strode toward the door and his gunbelt hanging on a peg nearby. “Not my job, girl, but like you said, it’s our town.” He strapped on the gunbelt and pulled his hat into place. “Almost forgot my manners, Hattie,” he said as he reached for the door latch. “That was one mighty fine supper. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “You watch yourself out there, Jim East,” Hattie scolded. “I’d like to have you back here for breakfast, and still in one piece.”

  Jim flashed a smile of reassurance. “I’ll watch out, Hattie. I’m not near as reckless as I used to be in my younger days.”

  Jim studied the town anew as he strode toward Hogtown. Tascosa had grown a lot this spring. New buildings sprouted along the streets and the town’s population swelled by the day. Not all the growth was welcome.

  Texas Ranger Captain G. W. Arrington had finally gotten his fill of the rowdies, gamblers and assorted riffraff in Mobeetie and chased them out. Those who didn’t chase got carried out. The problem was that the majority of those evicted from Mobeetie had drifted into Tascosa. Most of them settled in Hogtown, where they followed their chosen occupations of drinking and whoring and fighting. Sometimes they spilled into Tascosa proper, where such goings-on were not looked upon kindly.

  Jim tested the Colt’s fit in the holster as he crossed into Hogtown. Technically the place was Lower Tascosa. It had earned the name “Hogtown” after one of Upper Tascosa’s ladies remarked in disgust that everyone who went there behaved like swine and got hog-drunk. The name stuck.

  Jim stopped in the middle of the dusty street as Sheriff Cape Willingham and Constable Henry Brown stepped through the doorway of the Emporium, a three-room adobe saloon, each dragging a man in range clothes. Jim knew the two captives by sight. One was an LS cowhand named John Lang. The other was J. B. Gough, a saloon hanger-on, gambler and sometime gunman known as the Catfish Kid for reasons Jim could never fathom. The side of Gough’s head was bloody.

  “Problem, Sheriff?” Jim asked.

  Willingham shrugged. From hat crown to boot heel, Cape Willingham wasn’t a big man. From side to side he was big enough—thick chest, heavy sloping shoulders, and hairy forearms almost as bulky as a corral post. “Nothing serious. These boys got a little too much panther piss in ‘em and decided to shoot up the place. Henry had to massage Catfish’s head a bit with his sixgun to get his attention.”

  Jim glanced at the constable. He didn’t much care for Henry Brown. The man was tall and lean, with prominent ears and a quick temper; he was a former buffalo hunter who had ridden with Billy the Kid in the Lincoln County War. Jim suspected Brown might have had a hand in the Kid’s rustling business around Tascosa, but the man had stayed behind when Billy’s bunch made their run for New Mexico. Brown, Jim thought, looked a bit smug over tonight’s affair. He liked hitting people. Jim promised himself that if he won the sheriffs race he’d ask Henry Brown to find another line of work.

  Jim touched the brim of his hat to Cape Willingham. “I’ll be on my way then, Cape,” he said. “Just thought you might have run into something you might need help with.”

  “Thanks, Jim. Appreciate the offer. Come along while we lock these two up until the whiskey wears off ‘em. Got something at the office you might be interested in.”

  The small adobe jail stood at the south end of McMasters Street, not far from Jim’s home. Willingham opened the door of the single cell. Brown roughly shoved the men inside and locked the door. Jim watched Willingham open the bottom drawer of a small, scarred desk and drop the prisoners’ weapons inside. He picked up a newspaper clipping and handed it to Jim.

  “The Kid broke out of the Lincoln jail before they could hang him.” Willingham said. “Killed two deputies, Bob Olinger and J. W. Bell.”

  Jim scanned the clipping. It recounted, in somewhat florid prose, the deaths of the two guards—Olinger blown almost in half by shotgun blasts from a window of the Lincoln lockup, Bell shot with a pistol on the stairs inside the jail—and the Kid’s escape. It added that Sheriff Pat Garrett was again on the fugitive’s trail. Jim handed the clip back to Willingham and shook his head. “Maybe I should have let Barney Mason kill the Kid after all,” he said. “Billy told me he wouldn’t hang.”

  Willingham dropped the clipping casually onto the cluttered desk. “Likely he won’t. I expect Garrett’ll get a slug or two in the Kid this time around.”

  Jim hesitated for a moment, then decided this wasn’t the time to bring up his notion of running for sheriff against Willingham. Especially not with Henry Brown hanging around. He nodded a good-night to Cape, turned and stepped through the door into the last hour of daylight. He had never before noticed how close the jail was to his home. He made a mental note to check the loads in Hattie’s shotgun before he rode out.

  SEVEN

  Tascosa

  July 1881

  Jim sat in an overstuffed horsehair chair, his right leg propped across a pillow atop a lo
w bench. The knee was swollen to twice its normal size, and it sent a knifepoint of pain up his leg each time his heart beat. His shoulder was less painful. It was badly bruised, but for the most part undamaged. His head still hurt and every time he took a breath the cracked rib ripped a double-bit axe blade across his chest.

  Jim didn’t remember all that much about the fall but the details he did recall were vivid enough to bring on cold sweats. He especially remembered the sheer terror of those few seconds that were the worst nightmare of the working cowboy.

  He had the blue roan in a dead run with all the flat-out speed the horse could muster, trying to turn the lead steer of a dozen LX cattle before they reached the dense thicket on Coldwater Creek. The roan’s forefoot hit a badger hole. The fall was too quick and too hard for Jim to kick free of the stirrups. He remembered seeing the ground slam into his face and feeling the fleeting, crushing weight of the horse as it rolled over him. Most of all, he recalled the gut-ripping fear when the horse regained its feet with Jim’s right boot hung up in the stirrup. He vaguely remembered a hoof grazing his head, rocks and brush tearing at his body as the panicked horse bolted.

  Then Lem Woodruff’s horse appeared from somewhere and charged alongside the roan. Lem leaned in the saddle, grabbed the headstall of the roan’s bridle and yanked the horse to a stop, pushing its head around to keep the hooves clear of Jim’s body. Jim remembered looking up at the roan’s side, his foot still twisted in the stirrup, before the red haze came and the lights winked out.

  The lights flickered on once, briefly, and Jim lay confused until he realized he was stretched out in the back of a flatbed wagon. Then the pain roared back and the world went dark again.

  The memories triggered a chill in Jim’s bones. He had seen men dragged to death. It was a brutal and messy way to die. He had been lucky. If Lem Woodruff had been another twenty yards away or riding a slower horse, there wouldn’t be much left of one James H. East today.