“It doesn’t matter, Mister Ashworth. As long as I take home thirty-five dollars for every cow we leave in your corrals, Pa will be happy.”
“Well, unfortunately, your pa’s happiness doesn’t factor into my final offer.”
“The figure in that note you sent him does, though.”
Ashworth paused to give me one of those glares weak men like to offer up when they’re trying to feed you something they call steak, but comes closer to boiled pig’s feet. “What did you say your name was?” he asked after a moment, when I just sat there staring back.
“It’s Boone, Boone McCallister.”
“Well . . . Boone, I am not opposed to dealing with one of your father’s representatives, even someone as inexperienced in matters of business as yourself, but if there is going to be any difficulty in concluding this transaction, I may be forced to hold your cattle here while I send for your father to negotiate with him personally.”
“My instructions from Pa was to bring you enough cattle to fill the hold and deck of a mid-sized ship bound for Cuba, and to collect thirty-five dollars in gold coin for every cow I delivered. He also said that if you tried to renege on your offer, I was to bring the herd back to the Flatiron, and we’d find another buyer.”
Ashworth’s face got real red at that. I imagine my face was also turning a faint shade of rust. Although Pa had warned me about this possibility, I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to it. I was going to owe my crew a month’s wages, whether I sold the herd or not, and I didn’t relish the prospect of having to drive those cows back the same way we’d come and risk losing even more of them to the swamps. But the ultimate decision would be Ashworth’s, because hell was going to freeze over before I backed down on either the price or the means of payment, which was still Spanish doubloons.
After an awkward silence, Ashworth stated: “See here, young man, I have obligations of my own to fulfill. I wrote your father in good faith, and won’t allow a bull-headed youth to stand in the way of my completing this transaction.”
I stood slowly, letting the muzzle of my rifle tip toward the floor. That was done more to draw attention to the Sharps than as any kind of threat, although I did want him to understand that I wouldn’t be intimidated. “I’m pressed for time, Mister Ashworth, and won’t waste too much of it sitting here in useless dickering. I did the math for two hundred and fifty head, and it comes out to eight thousand, seven hundred and fifty dollars . . . in gold. Do you have that kind of money on you?”
Ashworth’s nostrils flared as he rose to his full height. It must have been disappointing to him to realize that, even stretched out as far as he could go, he was still several inches shorter than I was. “Get out, McCallister, and don’t come back until you’re willing to deal reasonably.”
I swore and spun toward the door, yanking it open forcefully enough that it’s a wonder I didn’t pull the damned thing off its hinges. But before I could step outside, Ashworth called for me to wait. I turned back, glaring. The muscles in my legs were twitching with a desire to keep walking, but in the end I decided to hear him out.
“What do you want?” I managed to squeeze through a throat just about closed off with anger.
“I might . . . might . . . be able to raise my price a little,” Ashworth said after a moment, and it was only then that it dawned on me that he’d been bluffing when he ordered me from the room, that he was actually hoping that I’d be the one to cave in first. I felt the rage flow out of me and had to struggle not to laugh in his face.
“The price is thirty-five dollars a head, Mister Ashworth. If you’re not interested at that price, there are other markets I can take them to.”
He sneered. “And sell them for Confederate script?”
“No, sir,” I said, and this time it was me laying it on thick as molasses. “Spanish doubloons, just like you offered.”
Doubt flashed across the cattle buyer’s face. He didn’t believe me, but wasn’t quite confident enough to call my bluff. Taking a deep breath, he said: “I don’t have that kind of money with me, but I can get it.”
“Thirty-five dollars?”
Ashworth’s eyes narrowed. He looked hot enough to boil, but I guess he needed that herd more than he wanted to admit. Likely he already had a ship waiting down in the Ten Thousand Islands, its crew growing itchy to load up and get out of there before they were spotted by a Yankee gunboat. “I will pay you eight thousand, seven hundred and fifty dollars for whatever cattle you have, numbering at minimum two hundred and fifty head. If you want to take home any beeves above that amount, you may feel free to do so.” A smirk crossed his face. “I’m sure the creatures of the swamps would appreciate your generosity.”
“I’d probably just sell them to folks right here in Punta Rassa to butcher for their own table,” I replied mildly, appreciating how quickly that smug expression melted off of Ashworth’s mug. “Where do you want the herd delivered?”
“Right here, tomorrow morning after nine o’clock. I’ll have the money by then, and men to help with the final tally.”
I nodded and left the office, slamming the door closed behind me. Walking up the sandy alleyway to where I’d left my horse, I looked around for Punch, but he was nowhere to been seen, and I felt a twinge of concern as I stepped into my saddle and reined toward town. I’d gone maybe a hundred yards when a horseman nudged his pony out of the scrub on my left.
“Howdy, Boone,” Punch called softly, jogging his marshtackie in my direction.
“What’re you hiding from?” I asked, and I didn’t mean it in a high-handed manner, either. Not in those uncertain times.
“I ain’t sure,” he admitted. “They’s been some strange things going on that was making me kinda nervous. That’s why I decided to stay up here.”
“What kind of things?”
“I seen a man leave the corrals and make a run for the livery. A few minutes later, he scooted outta there like his britches were on fire.”
Remember me mentioning that little prickly feeling earlier, when I thought I heard a door open and close in Ashworth’s office? Well, it came back with a vengeance at Punch’s words. “Which way’d he go?” I asked.
“Along the road.”
I don’t know what it’s like today, but back then, there was only one road in and out of Punta Rassa, and about a dozen miles up that lay Fort Myers.
“Could you tell who it was?”
Punch shook his head. “It was too dark.”
“But he came from the corrals?”
“That’s what it looked like to me.” When I didn’t immediately reply, Punch said: “What do you think, Boone?”
“It might not be anything,” I replied, although deep in my guts I knew that it was. “On the other hand, it might’ve been a Union sympathizer, heading for the fort.”
“Why’d a Union man want to fetch the army for a couple of drifters like us? They wouldn’t know we’ve got a herd stashed out in the scrub.”
“Maybe, but I’m not sure I want to bet my neck in a noose on it.”
“Maybe it was a Klee,” Punch said out of the blue.
“A Klee? You mean one of Jacob’s boys?”
“Mister Müller said Jacob Klee and his men rode into town yesterday. Said they was drinking real heavy last night at the Havana House, and that Jacob was telling people you fed his nephew to an alligator.”
“What!”
Punch shrugged. “That’s what Mister Müller told me.”
“That son of a bitch,” I swore softly.
We sat there in silence for a few minutes, Punch waiting patiently as I tried to work it all out in my mind. To tell you the truth, my options were seeming mighty few and damned unpromising, but the one thing I couldn’t ignore was my first responsibility, which was to get Pa’s cattle into town and collect the gold from Ashworth so that we could rebuild the Flatiron after the war. As badly as I wanted to go after Jacob Klee and set him straight, I knew any thoughts of confronting the cattle rustler would ha
ve to wait.
“Head on back, and tell Casey to get the herd started,” I finally told Punch. “Tell him to go north, then follow the river in. It’ll be faster than trying to make a drive through the swamps.”
“Tonight?” Punch asked in surprise.
“Yeah, tonight. Ashworth said he wanted those cows delivered after nine o’clock tomorrow, but I’m not going to wait that long. Start riding, Punch, and tell Casey to hustle them cows along. I want to be out of here before first light if we can manage it.”
Punch nodded and reined away, slapping the sides of his stirrups against his mount’s ribs. My little marshtackie wanted to go with him, but I kept a tight rein and hung back until the young cow hunter had vanished into the darkness east of town. Then I twisted partway around in my saddle to stare at Ashworth’s tiny office, sitting like a lump of squared-off mud at the edge of the corrals. He and I had some more business to take care of that night, but first I decided to ride up to the Havana House and find out what kind of lies Jacob Klee and his boys had been telling.
Session Three
One of the things that always surprised me when I moved to Texas in the fall of 1866 was how similar to Florida the Western cattle industry was. Sure, some of the terms were different—like Texans calling a motherless calf a maverick instead of a heretic, or referring to drovers as cowboys instead of cow hunters—but there was so much you could have just picked up out of Florida and plopped down right in the middle of Texas and never known the difference.
The Havana House was like that. Named after the final destination of probably 80 percent of the beeves we shipped out of Punta Rassa, it was a combination saloon and meeting house, with rooms upstairs for sleeping and cribs out back for whores. The Havana was a long, narrow building squeezed between a saddle shop on one side and an abandoned tannery on the other. It was constructed of cypress logs, hewn and fit so tightly together there was no need for chinking. The floor was rough puncheon, the ceiling low and smoke stained, the furniture hard used but serviceable. Except for the fact that the logs were cypress rather than cottonwood, the place would have looked right at home anywhere along the Chisholm Trail.
There was still no one in sight as I rode back into Punta Rassa. Judging from the position of the stars, I figured it had to be close to midnight. In a sleepy burg like Punta Rassa had become since the war siphoned off most of the state’s able-bodied men, its remaining citizens had probably been in bed for hours. Only the Havana House seemed to be open. Dismounting out front, I climbed the steps to the boardwalk, loosening my six-gun in its holster as I peered in over the top of a pair of batwing doors.
The Havana’s bar ran down the right-hand side of the room, its polished-mahogany surface gleaming richly in the lamplight. A backbar made of the same warm wood stretched all the way to the ceiling. There was an oval mirror in its center, but the shelves along either side were nearly bare—no doubt another casualty of the Union blockade. A faro table, chuck-a-luck cage, and green-felt poker table shared space against the rear wall, collecting dust and cobwebs. The half dozen other tables scattered around the room were plainly made, their surfaces scarred with initials or obscene images, carved into the wood with knives; stubby burn spots from neglected cigars rimmed each one like dark-furred woolly worms laid out in death—a dismal reflection of the town itself, I mused.
Except for Eric Burke, who owned the place, the big room was empty. Eric was sitting at a table near the front door, a pair of thick-lensed eyeglasses pushed up on his forehead, his feet crossed at the ankles atop a second chair, his head tipped so far back it looked painful. Soft snores wafted out over the batwings, along with the lingering odors of beer, whiskey, and tobacco, like memories of more prosperous days.
Pushing open the right-hand door, I stepped inside and moved to the bar. Somewhere deep within Eric’s mind, the sound of my heels on the hardwood floor and the faint, musical jingle of spurs must have roused consciousness. He stirred, then jerked upright with a closing snap of his jaws. His eyes widened fearfully when he saw me standing alone at the bar, and he quickly fumbled his glasses down over the bridge of his nose.
“Dammit, Boone, why didn’t you say something?” he grumbled when he realized who I was. Pushing to his feet, he moved around to the sober side of the establishment.
“To tell you the truth, Eric, you were looking so dang’ peaceful, I wasn’t sure I wanted to interrupt whatever it was you were dreaming about.” I whistled softly, just to needle him. “Must’ve been pretty interesting, the way you were twitching.”
He gave me a sour look and wiped the drool from a corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “If I was twitching, it was because I was dreaming a bunch of randy cow hunters had come in wanting something to drink, and all I had was empty kegs.”
I laughed and leaned into the bar, starting to relax for the first time that evening. I’ve always liked a saloon. There would be a time later on in life when that fondness grew into something of a problem, but that was long after I left Florida.
“Where is everyone?” I asked, more or less echoing Punch’s earlier query, except that I was referring to Eric’s usual bartender and the girls who had once plied their trade at the Havana.
“Bob went to fight the Yankees, and the girls skated off not long after to follow the soldiers.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “You alone, Boone, or did you come in with a herd?”
“I’m bringing in a small herd, but I wouldn’t count on a long hooray.”
“Them sum-bitchin’ Yankees is the problem. Ain’t nobody left no more except for little boys and old men. Little boys ain’t got money, and old men ain’t got hooray. If my eyes weren’t so bad I couldn’t see the end of a rifle barrel, I’d go off and shoot some bluebellies myself.” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Hell with ’em. You want a beer, Boone, or something harder?”
“Maybe after we’ve got the herd delivered. Right now I’m looking for information.”
“What kind?”
“Jacob Klee. I heard he brought his gang into town.”
“Yeah,” Eric replied warily. “They rode in yesterday about noon.” He brought a glass mug out from under the counter. “You sure you don’t want a beer?”
“I’m sure. Tell me about Jacob Klee.”
“Aw, hell, you know that bunch. Troublemakers, every last one of ’em.”
“You’re working real hard at avoiding what we both know I’m talking about, Eric.”
The barman sighed. “Yeah, they were here. Did some drinking, but mostly lost interest when they found out the whores had moved on. They brew their own rotgut down in the swamps, so I guess they didn’t see much point in paying for what they could have for free back home”
“What about the ’gator?”
Eric stared at the top of the bar and didn’t say anything for nearly a minute. Then he returned the mug to its place under the counter and brought out a shot glass and a half-empty bottle. He poured to the rim, then nudged the glass across the bar. “You’re gonna need a little medicine to make the rest of this go down, Boone.”
“Just tell me what that skunk-kissing son of a bitch said.”
“All right. Jacob Klee was drinking heavy last night, like he had a real-bad mad burning a hole in his gut. After a while he started making some claim that you and Casey Davis cornered his nephew out there on the prairie, wrapped him up in some rope, and tossed him in a ’gator hole.” Eric was silent a moment, staring into the bar’s reflection. Then he lifted his eyes to mine. “Is that true?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. There was a time not so long ago when I would have called Jake Klee a liar. Not to his face, mind you, but after he left. But things haven’t been the same around here since the war, and it’s common knowledge that your daddy’s had his share of trouble with Klees.”
“Mostly with old Judah Klee, trying to run Pa off the range when we first came over the Highlands. Pa wasn’t the only one that old man ran afoul
of, either.”
“The Klees say differently.”
“Most thieves will tell you they’re innocent.”
“They say that Pease River country was rightfully theirs, and that it was your pa who horned in on land already claimed.”
“To hear the Klees tell it, they once owned the entire state.”
“Yeah, I reckon they do.” Eric was staring at the bar again, deep in thought. After a bit, he said: “You McCallisters have always treated me fair, Boone, but I’ve never had any problems with Klees, either. I’ve got nothing against either of you.”
“What about Dave Klee, Eric? Do you believe me, or Jacob?”
“I ain’t heard your version of it yet.”
I told him then, explaining how Jacob and his gang had been following us for several days, and how, after we’d confronted them south of the Caloosahatchee, Dave had apparently decided to try to flank our position. I described the cry we’d heard, and what Casey and I found when we went to investigate.
“You say he was armed?”
“We figure he was. We heard a shot that he said was at the ’gator.”
Eric looked surprised at that. “You talked to him?”
“It was me and Casey who pulled him out of the water.”
A scowl creased the bartender’s forehead. “I’ll be honest, Boone, I was having a hard time believing you’d go to all the trouble of tying up a man, then tossing him to a ’gator when you could have just as easily shot him.”
“Hell’s bells, Eric, are you telling me you believed that old windbag?”
“Look, you McCallisters are a hard bunch. I know you had to be, starting that ranch out there when those plains were filled with wolves and bears and bandits, not to mention Seminoles, but . . . yeah, it crossed my mind that maybe your daddy could’ve done something like that, and so maybe his sons could have, too.”
“What’s crossing your mind now?”
Miami Gundown Page 6