by Gene Shelton
The sickness had come before the blizzard. The lung fever didn’t discriminate between the wealthy and the poor, the respectable and the shady. The town was still without a doctor. Hattie and the other women of Tascosa who had so far escaped the illness scurried about tending to prostitute and merchant’s wife, drifter, and cattle buyer alike, until they were worn down like horses ridden two miles too far. But they didn’t slow down, except to attend the occasional funeral when they lost a patient.
Jim listened to the screech of the wind outside the office. The drift would be bad this year, with heavy stock losses, and the drift fence across the Panhandle would make it worse. Four strands of Glidden wire—a trap of thorns for cattle trying to escape the bitter blast from the north.
The door swung open, interrupting Jim’s thoughts. Deputy L. C. Pierce ducked into the room, slammed the door against the blast of frigid air, and started slapping snow and ice from his hat and coat.
At least Jim had found the right man to be his deputy. L. C. Pierce was in his thirties, his shoulder-length hair and thick mustache already showing touches of gray. He wasn’t a big man—about five-nine or so—and carried only a hundred fifty pounds on a slender build. But there was an air of calm confidence and authority about Pierce that made even total strangers respect him at first glance. Those who didn’t soon learned. The soft-spoken deputy was as tough a man as Jim had ever met, slow to anger but quick to act when necessary. He carried a Smith & Wesson New American forty-four in a holster high on his right hip. As far as Jim knew, Pierce had never drawn the gun, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the former store clerk knew how to use the weapon. It was said he could talk a mad possum out of a tree and have the critter tame as a house cat by the time it hit the ground.
“Evening, Jim,” Pierce said as he strode to the stove and held his palms toward the glowing iron. “Nasty out there. Sometimes I wonder if this storm will ever break.”
“Everything stops sooner or later, L.C.,” Jim said. He nodded toward the cell. “Got a couple more drunks back there. I don’t expect any trouble from them, but watch that big teamster. He’s an argumentative sort.” Jim flexed his sore right hand with its skinned knuckles. “Got a jaw like an anvil, too.”
Pierce nodded, shrugged out of his coat and reached for a ceramic mug on a peg beside the stove. “I’ll watch ‘em, Jim. Want to feed them breakfast?”
“Just Ed Norwood. No sense in the county feeding the others. I don’t think they’re going to be all that hungry, anyway.”
Pierce filled his cup and stared at Jim for a moment. “You look like you’ve been rode hard and put up wet,” he said. “Go get some rest.”
“I could use it. See you in the morning.” He pulled on his hat and coat, stepped through the door and slogged through the windblown snow toward home.
Hattie stood by the new cookstove, her back to Jim, as he pushed the door open. The scent of ham steaks, redeye gravy and fresh bread set his stomach to rumbling. “Girl,” he said, “you sure got it smelling good in here —” He stopped abruptly as Hattie turned toward him. Her cheeks were wet with tears, the brown eyes deep pools of hurt and pain. “Hattie? What happened?”
Hattie’s lower lip trembled. “We lost the little Smith girl. She died about three hours ago.”
Jim crossed the room and pulled Hattie into his arms. He held her, rocking back and forth on his heels as if soothing a child. “I’m sorry, Hattie. I know you did all you could.”
She was silent for a moment. Her shoulders twitched in quiet sobs, her face buried against his snow-damp coat. “Jim, sometimes I don’t understand,” she said. “I know the preachers say God works in mysterious ways, but how could He take such a sweet and pretty young child? She was only four years old …” Her voice trailed away.
“I don’t have an answer for you, Hattie,” Jim said. “I don’t guess anyone does.”
The grumble in his belly subsided. The death of a child was not an unusual event in Tascosa, but it still took a man’s appetite away. Especially now. Jim remembered Tessie Smith’s perky upturned nose with its freckles and the way it wrinkled when she laughed. She had been one of those rare children full of laughter and love. Jim felt the sting at the corners of his own eyes. It isn’t fair, he thought. God shouldn’t take the best ones all the time.
Hattie finally pulled away. “Supper’s going to get cold, Jim.” She dabbed at her eyes with a plain cotton handkerchief and tried to force a smile.
Jim ate mechanically, his normal enthusiasm for Hattie’s considerable kitchen talents dulled by the vision of a small freckled face. He wondered how much hurt a family could endure and still survive. It could have been our daughter, he thought, but the Lord seems disinclined to give us a child. Is it better to have them for four years and lose them, or never to have them at all? He tried to push the thought aside. It wouldn’t leave. Hattie wanted children even more than he did, and she had endured one disappointment after another. Maybe that was why she took the death of a child so hard, he thought.
Hattie made no effort to eat. When Jim finished his supper she covered the leftover food with a tin pie pan and placed it on the warming plate of the cookstove. As she washed the dishes Jim stood at her side, drying and putting them away.
“Hattie,” he said, “I don’t know what to say.”
She leaned a shoulder against him. “You don’t have to say anything, Jim. Just be here. That’s enough.”
Jim had stowed the last of the dishes and settled into his overstuffed chair when a knock sounded on the door. Damn , not some trouble in town — not tonight , he thought as he got up and swung the door open.
Cal Polk stood in the doorway, hat already in hand. Ice and snow packed the folds in his clothing.
“Cal, come in and warm up. You look half frozen. Trouble somewhere?”
“Sorry to be a bother, Jim,” Cal said. His words were choppy, his teeth chattering from the cold. “I didn’t know where else to go. Hotels are all full.”
Jim led Cal to the stove. Hattie thrust a mug of coffee into the young cowboy’s stiff hands. Jim waited until the warmth of the fire and the coffee chased away the worst of Cal’s chill, then he motioned to a chair.
“What is it, Cal?”
“I quit the LX, Jim,” Cal said. “I just couldn’t take it —”
“Take what?”
“That damn drift fence.” Jim saw the pain in Cal’s eyes. “Jim, there’s hundreds of cattle stacked up on that thing froze to death. More piling up behind them. I cut the damn fence and herded as many as I could through the hole. Then I rode back to the LX and drew my time.“ Cal dropped his gaze to the coffee cup in his hand. “I just couldn’t stand it, Jim. All those cows, dying like that.”
Jim nodded in understanding. “Any cowboy worth the salt on his saddle blanket would have done the same thing, Cal. It’s the nature of the animal. What will you do now?”
“I don’t know. I can’t go back to the LX. Or any other association outfit. I guess I’ll try to find a place to stay until the storm quits—”
“You have a place, Cal,” Hattie interrupted. “You’re welcome to stay here.”
“Missus East, that wouldn’t be right. I mean, you and Jim—I just couldn’t impose like that. I left my horse down at McCormick’s stable. I can sleep in the hayloft.”
“Nonsense,” Hattie said, her tone firm. “We’ll rig a cot. You’re welcome here any time, Cal, for as long as you want. Are you hungry? When did you eat last?”
Jim saw the flush of embarrassment crawl up Cal Polk’s neck. “Missus East, I couldn’t—I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
“Cal Polk, you hush up about trouble. If you get to be trouble. I’ll boot you out the door.” Hattie busied herself at the stove, filling a plate with the leftovers.
At least, Jim thought, Cal’s arrival would take Hattie’s mind off the death of Tessie Smith for a spell.
Cal sipped at his coffee. A frown creased his normally smooth brow. “Som
ething else bothering you, Cal?” Jim asked.
“Yes. There’s an awful lot of unhappy cowboys out there, Jim. There’s even been talk of a cowboy strike.”
“Strike?”
Cal nodded. “A bunch of the boys have been talking. They think the only way they can get fair treatment is to walk out, refuse to work unless they get more money and the chance to run a few head of their own cows.” The young man’s smooth face twisted in a grimace. “When President Lincoln freed the slaves, Jim, he forgot all about cowboys.”
“This strike—is it coming soon?”
“Probably in the spring, just before the first big roundup.”
Jim rose and started pacing. “It won’t solve anything, Cal. The ranchers are likely to fire the whole lot without so much as a faretheewell. There are people drifting into the Panhandle every day looking for ranch work. Most of them don’t know which end of a cow eats, but they’re warm bodies and they need work. I tell you, Cal, I don’t like the sound of this.”
TEN
Tascosa
April 1883
Jim East leaned against a porch post of the Wright and Farnsworth general store on Main Street and watched the steady procession of cowboys file past.
Three of the riders—Tom Emory, Tom’s brother Charley, and Lem Woodruff—reined away from the latest group, pulled their mounts to a stop before Jim, and nodded a greeting. Tom’s expression was drawn and serious. Woodruff still wore his perpetual grin. Charley just stared toward Hogtown.
“Light and set a spell, boys,” Jim said.
Tom Emory stepped from the saddle and tossed the reins to his brother. Charley and Lem remained mounted, Lem sitting loose in the saddle with his forearms crossed over the horn. “The strike’s on, Jim,” Tom said. “Nearly all the cowboys in the Panhandle have laid down their ropes. The big outfits won’t have a choice now but to go along with us. Spring roundup’s due to start any day now.”
Jim arched an eyebrow. “How’d the owners react?”
“Fired a bunch of us on the spot,” Tom said with a shrug. “Maybe half the hands on the LS, LX and LIT are out of work. But we’ve all got a little money saved up, knowing it was coming. We’ll wait ‘em out.”
Jim sighed. “I’m not sure you can pull it off, Tom. There’s too many men around here looking for work. Plus, the big outfits have the money to sweat you out.”
Tom snorted in disgust. “Those kids don’t know the first damn thing about cattle. They can’t handle a roundup, let alone drive a herd to railhead. The owners will have to come around.”
“Don’t count on it, Tom. You’re dealing with a bunch of pretty hardheaded men there.”
Lem Woodruff chuckled aloud. “They’re not the only ones can be hardheaded. Tom Harris put this thing together and I never met a more stubborn man.”
There was more than a little truth to that, Jim thought. Harris was as tough as he was stubborn, and he could carry a grudge a long time when he thought he had been wronged. He also was Jess Jenkins’s brother-in-law.
Lem straightened in the saddle. “You two can stand around and yammer all day if you want. Me, I’ve got some business in Hogtown. Lady named Sally.” He raised a hand in salute and kneed his horse toward Lower Tascosa.
Tom watched his friend ride away, then turned to Jim. “You’re one of us, Jim. I expected a little more support from you.”
“You know where my sympathies are, Tom,” Jim said, “but sympathy doesn’t wear a badge. I don’t have the authority to step into a squabble between owners and cowboys unless somebody breaks the law. I’ll talk to the ranch bosses and the strikers both.” He leveled a steady gaze at Tom Emory. “We’ve ridden many a mile together, Tom, but I’ll warn you just like I will everyone else. I’ll do what I can to keep the peace. I’ll jail anybody who starts trouble.”
Tom returned Jim’s gaze for a moment, then shrugged. “Aw, hell, I know that, Jim. I shouldn’t have shot my mouth off. No insult intended.”
“None taken.”
Tom half-smiled. He reached for the reins. “Guess I’d best get on to Hogtown before old Lem gets all the whiskey and women tied down. See you around.”
Jim watched as Tom nudged his big bay into a trot down Main, Charley riding alongside. Then he sighed and stepped off the porch. It wouldn’t be long until the whiskey started hitting thirsty cowboys. He rolled a smoke, hitched up his pistol belt and started his patrol.
Tascosa
May 1883
Jim East tried to shrug the exhaustion from his aching shoulders and blinked against the grainy feeling in his eyes. Tom Emory had been wrong about the ranchers caving in to the cowboys’ demands. The combination of idle cowhands with a little money in their pockets and the whiskey, women and card games of Tascosa left a sheriff with little time for rest.
He leaned back in his chair behind the desk, hoping to catch a short rest before starting his evening rounds. At least, he thought, there hadn’t been any serious trouble yet. The ranchers had blacklisted the fired strikers. None of the cowpunchers on the list could find work with association brands. But the cattleman’s group had agreed not to take stronger action against the strikers.
The out-of-work cowboys in turn caused no problems with the men who had taken their places. There were some hard stares exchanged from time to time between blacklisted punchers and new riders, but no lead had been thrown.
Leadership of the opposing factions became more clear by the day.
Tom Harris and Jess Jenkins were the backbone of the loosely organized “little men,” the small ranchers and the cowboys who had lost jobs in the strike.
The Panhandle Cattleman’s Association hauled the wagon for the “big men.” But the man who held the whip was W. M. D. Lee, the majority owner of the LS ranch. Word of the strike had reached Lee, who headquartered in Leavenworth, and in less than four days he rode in behind a lathered buggy horse to take charge. Lee was a man who wouldn’t be pushed. Even the association members with power and money backed off when the little LS banty rooster got his feathers ruffled.
Jim knew those three men were the ones who held the aces in this poker game. Where they led, the others followed. Jim just hoped the herds stayed pointed in the right direction. The only blood spilled so far had been from noses broken in brawls over cards and women. Jim idly wondered how much longer his luck would hold.
“Jim?” Ed Norwood’s call from the cell interrupted Jim’s musings. “Can you spare another cup of coffee?”
Jim sighed. “Ed, son, you’re eating this county into bankruptcy. I guess we can stand another cup of coffee. If you’ll forget that fifty cent monte debt I owe you.”
“Jim, that’s blackmail!” Ed feigned indignant outrage, but Jim heard the low chuckle. “That’s downright unethical, what with you being a man of the law and all. But I sure would like to have some coffee.”
Jim filled two cups and carried them to the cell. He handed one to the clean-shaven young cowboy and sipped at the other as he perched on a low stool outside the cell, studying Ed Norwood’s smooth face and his eyes that twinkled with humor just below the surface. It wasn’t hard to figure out why Norwood had a steady stream of visitors, from cowboys to dance hall girls, almost every day. Lem Woodruff and Luis Bausman dropped by like clockwork to lose money to Norwood at cards. Jim knew Woodruff and Bausman were top hands with the pasteboards; they let Ed win just to keep him in tobacco and a few other necessities of life. It was impossible to dislike the kid even if he had gunned down a man.
“Ed, I’ve got some good news for you,” he said. “The girl, Ginny—she finally broke down. Admitted to me that Johnnie Maley had gone to her room after your brother passed out. She heard a shot, muffled, like somebody had fired a gun through a pillow. And she said Maley showed up the next day with a handful of Mexican silver like your brother was carrying. She’s agreed to say so in court when your trial comes up.”
A grin brightened Ed Norwood’s face. “Does that mean I can go, Jim?”
“Sorry, Ed. It might get you off the murder charge, maybe reduce it to manslaughter. I’ll write the district attorney and see what we can do. If you have a good lawyer and a jury with a sense of real justice they might even turn you loose. In the meantime, I’ll have to keep you here.”
“But Jim, that bastard Maley killed my brother.”
“We both know that now, Ed. We both also know that you killed Maley. At worst you should be looking at maybe four, five years in prison instead of a hangman’s noose.” He paused for a sip of coffee and winced. As usual it was strong enough to double as an anvil. “I think you should be satisfied with that.”
Norwood half-smiled. “I reckon. Maybe it was worth it after all.” The cowboy riffled the battered deck of cards. “Want to try your hand again, Jim? I’ll forget the four bits.”
Jim grinned back and shook his head. “You’re not going to sucker me in again, Ed. Drink your coffee and play solitaire—”
A rattle of gunfire in the distance brought Jim off the stool. The abrupt movement splashed hot coffee on his hand and triggered a sharp curse. He rushed to his desk, plopped the cup down and grabbed the sawed-off shotgun.
The office door swung open and Deputy L. C. Pierce poked his head in. “Trouble in Hogtown, Jim,” he said as he lifted his revolver from its holster and checked the cylinder to make sure it was loaded. “Sounds like it came from Jenkins’s place.”
Jim broke the action of the shotgun, popped in two buckshot loads, and closed the breech with a solid chunk. “Let’s go.”