Matagorda

by Louis L'Amour

“You made it, looks like,” Belden said.

  “I did…pa didn’t.”

  Hunched in their slickers, they watched the backs of the cattle as seen in the flashes of lightning. The rain hammered on the animals until they were almost numb from the beating.

  “We’ve got to get shelter,” Tap called out. “Keep your eyes out for a good bank that will keep us out of the wind!”

  They had been moving steadily with the cattle at a trot a good part of the time. Tap thought for a moment of Lavaca Bay, which lay somewhere to the east…but that would be too close to the path of the storm. He yelled at Belden and Bean, then started along the flank of the herd. At the point, with steady pressure, yells, and lashes with coiled lariats, they edged the herd to the west.

  The cattle needed no urging, seeming to realize that the storm was behind them, and that safety, if there was any, would lie somewhere in the darkness ahead.

  Slowly, the riders bunched. Welt Spicer came around the drag to join them, followed by Jule Simms.

  “You seen Lon Porter?” Simms asked.

  “Lon? He’s over with Foster,” Belden replied. “Or should be.”

  “Well, he ain’t. He come up to me just as we were headin’ into town. Had a message for the Major.”

  “I didn’t see him.” Tap Duvarney edged over toward Simms. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “He was huntin’ you. Seems they had no trouble with the cattle…most of them were already moving off the peninsula…just like they knew this storm was headin’ in. Lon told us that, then took off for town, a-huntin’ you.”

  They were bunched now in the doubtful lee of a cluster of cottonwoods, and for a moment there seemed a lull in the storm.

  “The feelin’ I got,” Simms said, “was there’d been trouble below…some shootin’, more’n likely.”

  Why hadn’t Lon Porter found him, Tap wondered. He had been in the hotel or on the street much of the time, and it would not have been difficult to locate him.

  They rode on after the cattle, closing in around them, keeping them bunched, until in the gray light of a rain-lashed dawn they circled them at last on a small piece of prairie shielded by brush, mostly curly mesquite and tall-growing clusters of prickly pear. Here and there were a few small clumps of stunted post oak or hickory.

  The exhausted cattle seemed to have no desire to go further, and they scattered out, some seeking shelter in the brush, but most of them simply dropping in their tracks. A few tried aimless bites at the coarse bunch grass, ignoring the sheets of rain and the wind. One clump of the mesquite and post oak had made a cove of shelter against the wind, and the riders rode in and dismounted.

  Under the thickest of the brush they found a few leaves that were still dry, and they gathered some dead mesquite. After a brief struggle they had a fire going, half protected by a ground sheet stretched above it.

  Jule Simms came up with a coffeepot, and soon there was water boiling. Lawton Bean, a limp cigarette trailing from his lips, hunched close to the small fire, nursing it with sticks. It gave off only a little heat, but it was comforting to see. The riders sat about, hunched in their slickers, staring dismally into the fire.

  “How far did we come?” one of the men asked.

  “Maybe twenty miles,” Belden said. “We’ve been moving seven or eight hours, and faster than any trail herd ought to travel under ordinary conditions.”

  Tap got up and rustled around in the brush, where he found an old mesquite stump that he worried from the muddy ground, then some dead mesquite branches and a fallen oak limb. He brought them back to the fire and started breaking them up.

  “Lon was a good man,” Lawton Bean said suddenly. “He was a mighty good man. I crossed the Rio Grande with him a couple of times, chasin’ cow thieves.”

  “You think he’s dead?” Tap asked.

  “Well…look at it. You surely weren’t hard to find in that piddlin’ town, but he never showed up. He didn’t have much of a ride to where you were, and he was hale an’ hearty when he left us. I figure somebody killed him.”

  “If anybody killed Lon,” Simms said quietly, “he’s got me to answer to.”

  Lon might simply have got tired of the rain and taken shelter in a saloon. Yet he had a message so important he had ridden some miles to deliver it. To give up was not like Porter, and he was too recently from the army not to pay attention to duty.

  “What do we do now?” Doc asked.

  “You hole up and wait out the storm,” Tap answered. “It’s no use trying to push on in this. We’ve come to higher ground—”

  “Not much higher,” Bean interrupted.

  “Probably thirty or forty feet higher,” Tap said, “and we’ve come inland a good piece. We’ll hold them here and keep a sharp lookout for Munsons. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  “You think they killed Lon?”

  “Who knows? I agree that he could have found me easily enough. The way I see it, he would ride to the stockyards, and if he didn’t find me there he’d come on up the street. I’m going to look around the yards for him first.”

  They stared at him then. “You goin’ back?” Spicer said. “You’re foolin’!”

  “Lon was riding for me. I want to find him, or find out what happened to him. I want no part of this Munson feud, but if they’ve killed a man of mine, that’s something I’ll take care of.”

  “I’ll go along with that.” Doc Belden got up. “All right, if you’re going, let’s go.”

  “I’ll go alone.”

  “Now, that’s foolhardy,” Spicer said. “If anybody goes it should be me. I know them boys, every last one of them.”

  Tap did not move, but stared at the fire, considering the situation. “If Lon came running for me in this weather,” he said after a moment, “there was trouble, real trouble. So you better keep a sharp lookout.”

  “You think the Munsons would move with it blowing like this?”

  “Most of them wouldn’t. They’d be more likely to sit it out in comfort, but that isn’t Jackson Huddy’s way. It would be like him to use this storm to end the feud once and for all. You see, because of the drive he’s got all the Kittery outfit bunched up where he wants them.”

  Still Tap lingered. He was no more anxious than any other man to leave even the small comfort of that fire for the storm outside. He looked around at the campsite. It was almost surrounded by the wall of mesquite, prickly pear, and post oak, but on one side it opened on the small parklike area where the cattle slept. Seeking shelter from the storm, they had also found a position that could be defended if necessary.

  It was a dawn of rain and dark clouds, so low they seemed scarcely higher than the brush, and above all was the sound of the roaring wind. There was no question of escaping the rain; one could only hope to avoid the worst of it. The wind drove through the brush, bending the stiff branches, bending even the stunted trees until it seemed they must break or be uprooted.

  They huddled together a minute or two longer. “You watch yourself, Major,” Belden said quietly. “This here is one helluva storm. I never saw its like.”

  Tap wiped the water from the horse’s back, then saddled it once more. Welt Spicer came up, a small bit of rawhide tied over the muzzle of his rifle.

  There was a minute or two when the horses fought against facing the wind; then reluctantly they started, bending their heads low, pushing against it, moving forward with straining muscles.

  Chapter 11

  *

  DAWN CAME TO Indianola with a weird yellow light, revealing the gray faces of the rain-hammered buildings, the dark, swirling water, ugly with foam and debris, rushing through the street. A lone steer, moss trailing from one great horn, came plunging and swimming along, a straggler from the herd, following blindly.

  Somewhere up the street there was a crash as a wall gave way…more wreckage went by.

  Jessica had risen from her seat in the old leather arm chair. “Mr. Brunswick,” she said, “we’ve got to chance i
t. I think everything is going to go.”

  Reluctantly, he agreed. “All right.” He looked around at the stunned, frightened people in the room. “We’ve got to get what blankets we can, and whatever food there is. There’s no telling how long we’ll be caught there.”

  “Major Duvarney will return,” Jessica said. “He knows I am here.”

  “If he can,” Brunswick responded grimly.

  “Oh, no!” The words came from Mady in a low, tortured cry. Jessica looked out at the water. Something else was swirling there, hanging for a moment against the smashed boards of the walk. It was a body, the body of a man, and it needed only a glimpse to see that no flood waters had killed this man. He had been shot…shot in the back of the head, and one side of his head was blown away.

  For an instant nobody moved, then Brunswick and Crain lunged for the door, catching the body before it could be washed away, and getting it onto the solid part of the walk. Huddled over the body, they searched it for clues, and then stumbled back inside, Brunswick holding a small handful of money, some water-soaked papers, and a gun belt.

  “His family might need this money,” Brunswick said. He straightened the papers. One was an envelope addressed to Lon Porter, in care of a hotel at Brownsville. Texas. “Don’t know him,” he muttered.

  “That man was murdered,” Crain said sternly. “He was shot in the back of the head, at close range.”

  “There’s twenty-six dollars here,” Brunswick said. “Ma’am, will you see that this gets to whoever should have it? This letter here—I think you can make it out…that might help some.”

  “Yes.” She took the money and the letter. She was thinking that this might be one of the men Tappan had hired. Brownsville…Fort Brown…yes, she was sure of it.

  Something else occurred to her.

  Mady…Mady had come to her room drenched to the skin and frightened, and there had been mud on her shoes. That was easy enough to get, even by crossing the street, but it had looked like the dirt from a stable or a corral. And Mady’s sudden exclamation just now…was it only at seeing a man’s dead body? Or was it because it was this particular man?

  Jessica turned to look, but Mady had withdrawn and was working her way toward the back of the group, as if to avoid the accusing face of the dead man.

  Jessica suddenly remembered their critical situation. “Mr. Brunswick,” she said, “we’ve got to go. We’ve got to move right away.”

  Crain suddenly spoke up. “My God! We have prisoners locked in the jail!”

  “Bill Taylor’s in there,” somebody said.

  Just then two riders turned into the street, their horses almost belly-deep in the rolling water. Both men were bundled in slickers, and both had their hats tied under their chins, but she recognized Tappan at once.

  She stepped to the door and Brunswick tried to restrain her. “Wait! We’ll join hands! We can make a human chain, and the first ones who get to the courthouse can help the others.”

  “We’ll have help,” Jessica said. “There’s Tappan Duvarney.”

  He rode up, facing his horse into the current. He saw her, started to speak, and then he saw the body of Lon Porter.

  Instantly he swung to the hotel porch, which tilted badly under his weight, water sloshing over it. He bent over the body, turning the injured head gently with his fingers. Then he looked up. “Did anybody see this happen? Who shot him?”

  Nobody answered, but involuntarily Jessica looked at Mady, whose face was taut and pale. Mady’s stare was defiant, but she said nothing.

  “His body floated down here,” Brunswick said. “He must have been shot somewhere east of town.”

  “He was looking for me,” Duvarney responded. “Somebody did not want him to see me, or else killed him because he was herding Rafter K cattle.”

  “We were going to make a try for the courthouse,” Crain said. “I’ve got to go to the jail. If you could—”

  Tap stepped back into the saddle and took down his rope. He shook it out. “Grab hold,” he said, “and hang on.”

  People rushed to catch the rope, but Welt Spicer was doing the same thing. Just then four riders turned into the upper end of the street.

  “Look out, Major!” Spicer spoke quickly in a low tone. “Those are Munsons.”

  “Let’s go!” Duvarney shouted to the crowd. “Let’s go and keep moving!”

  Crain, also mounted, was riding toward the jail. Tap caught a glimpse of him, and then could pay no more attention, for he needed every bit of his awareness. His horse started well, but the footing was bad; once the horse slipped, going almost to his knees, and it was only Tap’s strength on the reins that pulled him up.

  Half the people clinging to the rope were elderly. The wisest ones had managed to take a turn of the rope around their arms, for even if it was pulled taut and caused pain, it would at least hold them.

  Only two persons were still at the hotel when Tap looked back. One was Bob Brunswick, and the other was Jessica. He almost pulled up when he saw her there, but she waved him on, and he lifted a hand and then spoke to his horse. “Steady, boy,” he said. “Steady now.”

  A barn door went swinging by, narrowly missing the horse’s legs. Tap squinted his eyes against the rain and stared ahead. At the corner, where two currents met, there was a swirling whirlpool. Somewhere along here the street was lower than further back…but where?

  The four riders were coming nearer. He reached back and under the guise of straightening the rope, slid the thong from his pistol butt.

  He felt the drive of the rain, and knew the sea was rising, rising with the wind. He looked back along the black swirling river of the street, and saw the collapsed buildings, the gutted stores, all torn and spoiled by sea and wind. His hat brim flapped against his brow; the wind tugged at the drawstring that held his hat in place, and flapped his slicker against the flanks of the horse.

  “Steady, boy. Take it easy now.”

  The rocks that had washed from the makeshift foundations were slippery, mud coated, and mud was deep in the street. He held to the side of the street for doubtful shelter from the wind. Always his eyes looked ahead, watching the wreckage as it hit the whirlpool at the corner, studying the currents, to move with them when crossing.

  Actually, he was only supposed to be guiding the people, giving them something to cling to, but in effect he was hauling them along through the water, for many were too weak to do more than struggle feebly. Water had soaked their heaving clothing and weighted them down.

  A cry rang out behind him…somebody was down. He drew up, giving his horse a chance to breathe. A woman had lost hold of her valise and her cry was one of anguish. No doubt the valise contained those keepsakes that a woman holds of most value, and she let go her hold on the rope and grasped frantically for it.

  Instantly the swirling waters swept her from her feet. She struggled, came partly erect once more, then was knocked down by a piece of wreckage.

  A tall, fine-looking man, roughly dressed and unshaved, broke from his shelter near the side of a house and caught her sleeve, helping her up. Looking past her, he saw the valise had brought up against a step, and he struggled across the street, almost breast high in the center, retrieved the valise, and brought it back. With one arm around the white-haired woman, he helped her on toward the courthouse, holding the handle of the valise in the other hand.

  “That’s Bill Taylor,” somebody said. “Crain must have let them out of jail.”

  Duvarney headed his horse for the courthouse steps. Turning in the saddle, he glanced at the Munson riders. Two of them he knew, the two on the wharf at Indianola on that first day. They were looking at him, and the grin on their faces was not pleasant.

  “Go ahead, Majuh,” one of them said. “You get free of what you’re doin’. We can wait.”

  Four of them…and there was just Welt Spicer and himself.

  It was to be a fight this time, storm or no storm. Duvarney watched them sitting there in their saddles, water
washing their stirrups, making no effort to help. Taylor had been a feudist, too, imprisoned for the killing of Sutton and Slaughter on a steamboat alongside the dock in Indianola; but Taylor was a gentleman and a Texan. The Munson crowd were a rabble; few of them now were even of the family, most were just a gang gathered together, fighting for whatever they could win.

  “Better get inside,” Duvarney said to a man who stopped at his stirrup to thank him. “I’ve got to go back after Brunswick and that girl.”

  “She gave up her place,” the man said. “She stepped aside.”

  “She would,” Duvarney said; “she’s got the backbone to do it.” And to follow him here, to leave a comfortable and beautiful home…she had come here to this and, knowing her, he knew that she would have no regrets.

  He turned his horse as Welt closed in beside him. “Well, here it is, Major. We’ve got our fight, whether we want it or not.”

  “If they killed Lon Porter,” Tap said, “I want it.”

  He swung his horse and rode toward them. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jessica standing with Brunswick on the end of the boardwalk. He wanted to go to them, but if he did he would expose himself to the fire from the Munsons…and he knew they would wait no longer.

  He rode right at them, his horse buck-jumping through the water. Welt had kept a little behind and on the right, working toward their flank, and they didn’t like it.

  “Which of you killed Lon Porter?” Tap spoke mildly.

  “That gent over back of the corral who was huntin’ you?” one of them asked. It was one of the men from the wharf who spoke. “I missed out on that. Didn’t git there soon enough. Know what he was fixin’ to tell you? We hit ol’ Tom Kitt’ry t’other day an’ knocked him for a loop…scattered his cows, shot up all those folks he had with him. Ol’ Tom’s either dead or hidin’ in a swamp somewheres. Maybe he’s drowned by now.”

  “We come after you,” the other one said. “We heard tell ol’ Jackson had staked you out for hisself, but that ain’t fair. We figured to owe you somethin’ for that mix-up down to the dock.”

  “Now, look, boys.” Tap’s voice was still mild.