House of Winslow 14 The Valiant Gunman

by Gilbert, Morris

  Winslow and Wilkins turned the herd and late that evening camped five miles outside of town. The next morning, Dan mounted Duke, saying, “I’ll be back as soon as I get a man to take your place, Wilkins.”

  The town was small—one main street composed of saloons, shops, and a hotel. Winslow had passed at least one herd being held outside of town, and went at once to the general store for a few supplies and then to the saloon. It was, he knew, as good a place as any to find cowmen, and when he entered the swinging door, he was greeted at once.

  “Dan! Dan Winslow!”

  Winslow stopped abruptly, not expecting such a thing, and turned to see a man leave the bar and come toward him. He thought at first it must be one of his old riding partners from New Mexico, but he didn’t recognize the man who came smiling toward him.

  “By gum! I sure didn’t expect to see an old reb like you in this here place!”

  Suddenly Dan grinned. “Logan Mann! You no-good side-winder! I see you under that hat! Now come down out of there!”

  The two men ignored the looks of the customers who lined the bar and sat at the tables playing cards. Mann threw his arms around Dan Winslow, and throwing back his head, let out a wild cry that almost rattled the glasses in front of the mirror behind the bar.

  One of the card players, a tall man with a pair of light blue eyes, called out, “Last time I heard a rebel screech like that was at Antietam! Ain’t you heard the war was over, reb?”

  But Mann paid no heed to the remark. He was wearing a full beard, so that only his lips could be seen, but his brown eyes above the brush were as bright as ever. “My Aunt Sadie’s garters, Dan!” He shook his head. “What in the name of common sense you doin’ in this place? Here, have a drink, and let’s get caught up on our visitin’!”

  They sat down, and Dan drank a beer as Mann plied him with questions. Finally Winslow said, “Well, Logan, I reckon you’re looking at the latest edition of the prodigal son. I left Virginia right after Appomattox and lit out for Texas.” He smiled wryly as he recounted his history, then chuckled, “I guess I won’t be writing any books entitled King of the Texas Cattle Barons for my biography.” He took a swallow of the warm beer, then asked, “What’s your story, Logan? Made your first million yet?”

  “Not yet,” Mann shook his head. “I guess you and me should have stayed together and watched out for each other, Dan. I spent a lot of time runnin’ Mexican cattle over the Rio Grande. Poor things was hardly worth stealin’, to tell the truth. Did some freightin’, and went broke at that, or almost.”

  “No family?”

  “Well—” Mann clawed at his whiskers, then gave a sigh. “I got married once, to a Mexican girl in San Saba. We got one girl—but my wife, she never cared all that much for me. She left me. Hard to believe, ain’t it, Dan? Handsome fellow like me, with all my charm and money?”

  Winslow read beneath the light words. Mann made a joke out of it, but he was hurting over the thing. “Can’t you put it back together, Logan?”

  Hope sprang to Mann’s eyes. “Just what I got on my mind. You always could read me like a book, Dan Winslow!” He pulled a small tablet out of his vest pocket and the stub of a pencil. Drawing on one of the pages, he said, “This here is Wyoming Territory—here’s the North Platte, up from Cheyenne. Now right here—” he made a heavy X with his pencil “—I’ve got me a place bought.”

  “A ranch?”

  “Sure! Got good water and some land, about a hundred acres, at least.”

  “Won’t handle too many cows,” Winslow observed.

  “It’s right in the middle of a million acres of free government graze, Dan,” Mann said. His eyes gleamed and he added, “Some day all that land will be for sale—cheap. If a man was there, he could buy him enough for a few dollars an acre. It’s better than anything down here in Texas.”

  “Gets cold, don’t it?”

  “Oh, they got weather.” Mann shrugged carelessly. “Got a few Indians, too, but I hear General Custer’s working on running them all out.”

  Dan nodded, then sipped his beer. “Glad to hear you’re doing so well, Logan. How many cows you got to start with?”

  Mann dropped his eyes, crestfallen. “Well—that’s the hitch, Dan. I only got about twenty-five head. Took most of my money to buy the place, so I guess I’ll get a late start.”

  Dan Winslow looked at his friend, something coming into his mind. He was not a man who spent much time thinking on how men’s lives took direction, but now was one of those times when he thought he saw a pattern.

  “Logan, you got a ranch and no cattle. I got two hundred fifty head of good stock—and no ranch. That give you any ideas?”

  Logan Mann stared across the table, dumbstruck. Finally he whispered, “You ol’ rebel! I cain’t hardly believe it!” Then he slammed his fist on the table with a force that nearly overturned their glasses, and once again let loose a wild yell. A heavy man came over, scowling at the two. “Listen, if you want to yell like a catamount, go outside to do it, you hear me?”

  “Yeah,” Mann nodded and watched as the bouncer went back to the bar. Then he turned back to say, “You ain’t lying to me, are you, Dan? You really got that many cows?”

  “They’re five miles outside of town right now. I got one hand, but he’s going to quit on me. That’s why I rode in, to hire another man.”

  “Two hundred and fifty head!” Logan Mann almost gloated over the figure. Then he said, “You and me, we got to figure some, Dan! Now—”

  An hour later the two of them left the saloon and rode back to the herd. While Mann rode around looking at the cattle, Winslow paid Wilkins off. The man took the money, and surly to the last, mounted and rode out of camp without a single word to Dan.

  Dan cooked some fresh pork chops he’d bought from the butcher, and the two of them ate hungrily. When the meat was gone, he opened up a can of peaches and they speared the yellow fruit with their knives, letting the juice dribble down their chins. Then they shared the thick syrup left in the can and settled back to smoke and drink coffee.

  “Dan, I got me an idea. Seein’ as how we’re partners now, lemme hear what you think.” He lit his pipe with the glowing end of a stick from the fire, got it going, then said, “About fifty miles south of here there’s a big thicket. Nothing much but cactus and rocks and some grass. Thing is, it’s as full of half-wild steers as a dog’s full of ticks. Now if a man was tough enough, he could take a couple of hands and go down there. He could collect maybe a hundred or so of them cows and bring them to the Circle W.”

  Dan said, “I don’t see how we can get another herd and take care of this one at the same time, Logan.”

  “Done thought of that. What we do is split up. One of us takes your herd to the ranch. The other one makes the gather and follows soon as he can.”

  “It would take some money, Logan. I’m broke.”

  “Well, I got just about enough to hire a few hands. You can hire some bean-eaters to collect them mavericks in that thicket. They do it better than white men anyway. Hire a couple more to make the drive with your cows. What’s your thought on it, Dan?”

  “It sounds like a pretty chancy business, Logan,” Dan said after a long pause. “I been worrying about making one drive—and you’re talking about two.”

  “Sure, but we’ll start out with a good-sized herd, Dan,” Logan urged. “It’d take three to four years to breed that many from what you got now, but if we got four to five hundred head, why, in two or three years, we’ll be shipping a thousand head to the market!”

  They talked until dark, then cooked supper and talked some more. Dan was reluctant, but finally Mann’s exuberance convinced him. “All right, Logan,” he finally grinned. “You always could talk me into anything, you old grayback!”

  Logan put out his hand, saying, “Here’s to us, Dan Winslow, two rich old codgers sittin’ on the front porch and lettin’ poor cowboys do all the work! Now, which you want to do?”

  “You take what cows we
got,” Dan said at once. “I’ll make the gather and come as quick as I can. Some of the stuff is too young to take the trail good. Leave them with me, and by the time I pull out, they’ll be in good shape.”

  Logan nodded. He leaned back, puffed at his pipe, thinking hard. “Seems like a million years ago . . . the war . . . don’t it, Dan?”

  “More than that. Seems like another life. But I can remember one night just like this. We were sitting around a fire, the night before we went up Little Round Top at Gettysburg. Remember that, Logan?”

  “I reckon I do! Lots of good boys wasn’t there the next night, Dan. I’ve thought about that a heap.” He puffed at his pipe, letting the silence run on, then said, “I was sittin’ beside Harlow Killegrew that night. He shared his last piece of bacon with me. And he got killed goin’ up the hill. Why him, and not me, Dan? I’ve wondered that a million times! Old Harlow was a better man than I’ll ever be.”

  Dan shook his head. “Can’t say, Logan.” He poked at the fire, watched the sparks fly up, then lifted his head, his eyes thoughtful. “Maybe you didn’t get killed because God knew I’d need you and your ranch. And maybe I didn’t get killed so you could have some cattle to start your ranch.”

  “Shore would like to believe that, Dan,” Mann said quietly. Then he said, “I’m an ungrateful scamp—but I thank the good Lord you walked into that saloon, Dan.”

  Winslow nodded. “I feel the same way, Logan. My father would say it’s God trying to run me down.” He grinned crookedly, adding, “You’re no angel in disguise, are you, Logan?”

  “Fraid not.” Mann shook his head. “I’m just a poor cowboy tryin’ to put things together.”

  They sat there thinking of the future, and finally Mann said, “Well, Dan, we went through a whole war, and the Yankees couldn’t kill us. So I’m just believin’ that God will take us the rest of the way.”

  “Amen to that,” Dan Winslow murmured. Then he lay back and the two of them slept under the silent stars that looked down on them from high in the sky.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ROSA

  By the end of the first day’s gathering, Dan realized that hiring his Mexican crew was the smartest thing he’d done in a long time. There were four of them, all small dark men, wearing tight-fitting clothing, including heavy leather trousers called chaparreras—which Americans called “chaps.” Their saddles had a high cantle rising to their belts in the back and a sharply curved pommel in front, so that it was almost impossible for a rider to fall out. Not that they were likely to—for they were the best riders Dan Winslow had ever seen. They used braided rawhide lariats, strong enough to hold a roped 1,200-pound steer. Those lariats could be dangerous, for they were as taut as a blue-water fishing line when the steer hit the end, and any man who got his fingers trapped would see them sliced off as neatly as with a knife.

  Their method of bringing down the steers for branding startled Dan. He was accustomed to the head-and-heel catch in which one cowboy put a loop around the steer’s head and another snared the hind legs. Then the two riders backed their horses off while the branding iron was slapped on.

  But the vaqueros, as they called themselves, employed a rougher method. A single rider would enter the broken-up country, rutted with gullies and rocks, and spiked with cactus that could tear a man’s clothing from his body and blind his horse. Riding at top speed, he would turn a steer that had learned to run like a deer through the brush, and drive him into the open. When he got him there he would drop a head catch over his horns, then flip his rope over the steer’s flank. Then he would throw out all the slack of his rope and angle away forty-five degrees from the steer’s path. The loose rope would tighten, twisting the animal’s head back and lifting its hind legs, reversing its direction and throwing the animal in a violent corkscrew somersault.

  More than one steer never got up but lay there with its neck broken. Those that survived the maneuver were meek enough after that to be handled easily.

  “I thought I’d seen some good roping, Diego,” Dan said to his chief vaquero, admiration shading his tone. “But I’ve never seen the likes of you fellows.”

  “Ah, Señor Dan,” the small rider smiled. “Gracias! You would make a good vaquero yourself with some training.”

  “No, I’m headed north, Diego. Soon as we get as many of these critters as we can. Sure wish I could hire you to drive them for me.”

  “That is possible, señor,” Diego nodded. Nothing more was said, but when the number of steers bearing the Circle W brand grew, Dan made the deal with the slight Mexican. They agreed on wages, and Diego indicated that three of them would make the drive with Dan.

  It was a relief to Dan, for the Mexicans worked more cheaply than American riders. They agreed to brand twenty or thirty more steers, but late that afternoon a rider came into camp.

  “You Dan Winslow?” he demanded. He was a skinny young fellow, no more than sixteen, with a fair skin burned red by the sun. “Got a telegram for you,” he said. Fishing a piece of paper from his pocket, he handed it to Dan. Opening it, Winslow read:

  Dan. My wife died. You got to bring my daughter, Rosa, when you come. She’s in San Saba, on Pecos River. House of Delores Fluentes. Don’t argue. Tie her across your horse if you have to. Give messenger ten dollars. Meet you in Wyoming at our ranch.

  Dan reached into his pocket, counted out ten silver dollars to the messenger. “Much obliged,” he said, and the young man turned and rode away without a backward look.

  He stuck the telegram into his pocket and went to where Diego was working. “Diego, I’ve got to go to San Saba. You know it?”

  “Sí, señor,” Diego nodded. “Small town village, about two hundred miles south of this place. On the Pecos.”

  Winslow came to a quick decision. “I’ve got to go there and pick up my partner’s daughter, Diego. Will you finish the gather and hold the herd until I get back?”

  “But of course, señor. I hope it is not trouble.”

  “It’s trouble—but I got to do it,” he said grimly. “I’ll take four horses so I can spell them. Draw me a map, will you?”

  He left twenty minutes later, rode hard all day, changing horses every three hours. That night he camped beside a creek that had shrunk to a trickle, rested for four hours, then was riding before the sun arose. He resented every mile but had no choice. He thought often of Logan’s admonition: Don’t argue. Tie her across a horse if you have to. It sounded ominous, and he wanted no part of getting into a family feud. The Mexicans were a touchy people, proud and quick to anger—especially where family was concerned.

  “I’ll do the best I can,” he thought grimly, “but I’m not kidnapping any child—not even for Logan!”

  He rode into San Saba an hour past noon and asked at the general store for the house of Delores Fluentes. The owner glanced at him quickly. “She died, you understand?”

  “Yes. Can you tell me how to get there?”

  “Back down the road you came in on. Turn off west first trail. You’ll see the house set back—adobe with a big garden beside it.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dan swung into the saddle, rode out of town, and ten minutes later took the turn west. The house sat where the merchant had indicated, and he slowed down, studying the place. It was a touchy situation, and he wanted to make no sudden moves.

  The house was a low structure with a flat roof, whitewashed at one time but now dulled by weather and time. There were two corrals, each of them containing several horses, which told him the family was not completely broke. Several women were working in the garden beside the house, all of them stopping to watch him with suspicious eyes.

  As he rode up to the house, several men appeared. They formed a line along the front of the house, saying nothing, but all of them carried weapons, rifles or six-guns in holsters. One man stood slightly in front of the others, an older man with white hair and jet black eyes, which he kept fixed on Winslow.

  “I am looking for the family of Señor
a Delores Fluentes. My name is Winslow,” Dan said, speaking easily and keeping his hands carefully away from his gun.

  “What is it you want, Señor Winslow?” The older man was taller than most Mexicans and straight as a soldier.

  “I’m a rancher. My partner is a man named Logan Mann.”

  The dark eyes of the Mexican changed, and he said, “Get down, señor. I am Ramon Fluentes.” He waited until Dan dismounted, then said, “My sons will see to your horses. Come into my house.”

  Dan handed the rope to one young man and another took Duke’s reins. Winslow followed Fluentes into the house, welcoming the cool air of the large room. “Bring some wine and some cool water,” Fluentes said to an older woman who waited for his order. She nodded, and soon Dan was seated in a comfortable chair, drinking alternately from the olla of water and the bottle of wine that his host set on the table.

  “That tastes mighty good, Señor Fluentes,” he said. “I’ve had a hard ride.”

  “The desert is dry,” Fluentes said. He studied his guest but asked no questions.

  Dan decided to lay it out at once. If this man decided that the girl was not going—then she was not going, that was evident. “As I said, señor, Logan Mann and I are partners in a ranch far in the north. He left a month ago with one herd, and I have been gathering another. It was my plan to leave at once, but I received a telegram two days ago.” He drew it out of his pocket and offered it to Fluentes, who shook his head, saying, “Read it to me, señor.”

  Winslow read the telegram aloud, then stuffed it back in his pocket. “I knew that Mann had been married and had a daughter, but he never told me anything about her.”

  “You came for the girl then?”

  “I came to speak with you and to see what would be best, señor,” Winslow said pleasantly. “Family is family—and I am a stranger. I come at the request of my partner, but you know what is best, of course.”