by Mike Kearby
A Hundred Miles
to Water
Mike Kearby
Part One
Feud
(n). a mutual quarrel or enmity
Charlie “July” Walker
Born July 4, 1839
Died September 21, 1928
“Little Black Bull Come Down
the Mountain”
The following
is from the Journal of Charlie
“July” Walker.
Journal Entry - I rode up the trail several times. I had occasion to know some good men, and some hard cases. I never shirked from a job that needed to be done; and I always helped a friend when called to do so. I reckon that’s what kept the fret from my life. It was the code; above all else a man had to be true to his fellow cowboys. It was Mr. Charlie’s eldest son who taught me that, and that’s why we all called him Pure, because he always backed the -R brand, right or wrong and no matter the consequence.
Pure
(adj). free from moral fault or guilt
Journal Entry - After Mr. Charlie died in ’77, Pure took over the ranch and that’s when things began to change. Along the southern scrub, what old-timers called the brasada, the rustlers had banded into large outfits and the Gunn boys were the worst of the bunch. Some folks tell that Mr. Gunn went crazy after losing his oldest son, Ethan, at Antietam in ’62. And because none of Mr. Charlie’s sons fought during the war, terrible stories soon spread through McMullen County that the Restons were nothing but “No-good Yankee” sympathizers. Now it wasn’t any secret who started these untruths, but Mr. Charlie just ignored them and for years that’s all there was to it. But after Mr. Charlie passed, old man Gunn took a peculiar delight in stealing -R open range cattle and re-branding them as his own, most times right on Reston land. It was like he was testing Pure. And when Mr. Gunn took off down that trail, well that’s when Pure turned the -R into a gun outfit. And I still remember the day that the dust-up with the Gunn clan moved past the name calling. It was a wet April day during the spring round-up. That morning Pure sent Buckshot Wallace and Billy Green to search for thirty head that went missing after a lightning storm the night before. And you know what? Things never did get back right after that.
Blood Feud
(n). a feud between clans or families
One
April 1878 - McMullen County, Texas
Buckshot Wallace curled his toes inside a pair of rain-dampened boots. “Two things I never could learn to tolerate,” the old-time cowhand lamented and then stuck the tip of each boot directly into the hot ash of the morning campfire. “Punkin rollers and cold toes.”
Pure Reston, ranch boss for the -R outfit, watched in curious fascination at the smoke coming off Wallace’s boots and nodded his agreement. The early morning air, fresh and unspoiled by the harsh sun that would later lift over the range, was as addicting as laudanum or opium to a brush-popper. Pure and Wallace always rose early to get as much of that intoxicating air as possible, unwilling to share its soothing effect with the rest of their bunch.
“You better watch it or you’re going to get ash on those prized spurs of yours,” Pure remarked and concealed a grin, well aware of the story that always followed.
Wallace leaned forward on his toes and looked down, admiring the polished silver spurs. “Did I ever tell you of how I came to own these spurs?” he asked, but didn’t wait for Pure’s reply. “Well, I bought ’em in San Antonio from an old vaquero, called Alavez,” Wallace bragged.
Pure stood in silent reflection and enjoyed the old cowhand’s moment.
Wallace gazed off into the sky and smiled at the memory. “Hammered them himself, he did.”
Pure inhaled through his nostrils and filled his lungs with the morning air.
The moon, bright and full, still hung high above the horizon, not ready to dissolve under the coming morn. A seasoned veteran of the cow range, Wallace allowed his gaze to linger on the illuminated orb for a few more seconds before lowering his chin. Stretched from east to west along the camp, a chorus of snores harmonized with cricket and morning dove. Wallace smiled and nodded at his fellow cowpunchers. “If they only knew what they were missing this time of day,” he sighed. “This is what makes all of the bruises, and bumps, and scrapes worthwhile.”
Pure agreed with a slow exhale and then suddenly all business, nodded to the south. “I want you to take the kid and ride down the scrub this morning. We need to find those steers that cut out last night.”
Wallace ignored the request and fidgeted from one foot to another in the warm ash.
Pure waited for Wallace’s response. The -R owner was a small framed, unimposing figure whose eyes carried the droop of riding herd in the Texas sun for fifteen odd years. He had taken rein of the Reston cattle operation a year earlier and was considered a hard but fair boss by both his brothers and the ranch cowboys. He was a man who said little, more inclined to let his gun speak for him. He holstered his Colt low. The six-shooter’s handle, even with his wrist, ensured unhampered quickness. Along the trail, and by those not kin, he was simply known as Mr. Reston.
Wallace lifted his chin and scratched at a morning’s worth of whiskers.
Pure studied the -R cowhand’s serene stateliness with silent admiration. Wallace was a cowboy through and through. He could ride the brush for days on a single biscuit and a swallow or two of water.
Wallace dropped his hands to his hips and rolled his shoulders back without an utterance.
Undismayed at Wallace’s silence, Pure rubbed his left shoulder and repeated his request, “I want you to take the kid and ride down the scrub and find those steers that cut out last night.”
Wallace scooted his boots out of the fire and snorted under his breath. “I heard you.”
Pure’s eyes wandered over the -R rannie. Wallace had worked for the Reston outfit since Pure was a ten-year-old kid. Wallace was a top hand and a family friend. And Pure knew that snort all to well. He suppressed a grin and asked, “What’s stirred up your war bag so early?”
Wallace exhaled an exaggerated breath, paused, lifted one boot and dusted the gray ash from its toe. “It’s the kid, that’s what.”
The grunts and groans of a waking camp began to stir the air. Several fits of swearing flashed like lightning as cowhands hopped about desperately, determined to push dampish socks into wet boots. Pure glanced over at Billy Green. The youngest member of the Reston outfit was just climbing out of his hot roll. The kid yawned sleepily and patted the ground in search of his boots. Pure removed his wide-brimmed hat and dragged a hand through his thinning hair. “What about the kid?”
“Might delicate concerning his courage.”
“He’s thin-skinned, that’s a fact.”
“Doesn’t like to listen neither.”
“He’s only fourteen.”
Wallace dipped his chin. “Youth can be a deadly disadvantage in our line of work.”
“How were you at that age?”
“Open-eared and that’s a well-known truth.”
“He’s a good kid,” Pure said.
“I reckon the bone orchard is filled with good kids.”
“Likely so, but I’ll bet none of those kids had an old moss back like you for a teacher.”
Wallace tossed a hard look at Pure. “You’re wasting your loop,” he said. His voice boomed with sarcasm.
A chuckle rippled deep in the ranch boss’s chest. “Hard to catch a horned jackrabbit if you don’t throw your rope.”
Wallace glanced right to hide a wide grin.
Pure stared straight ahead and waited for Wallace to look back.
When the -R rannie swung his head around, his expression was as sober as a judge. He locked eyes with Pure and a
sked, “What if them head ain’t running free this morn?”
Pure returned Wallace’s glare. A thin frown tightened the corners of his mouth. “You expecting to find trouble out there?”
“Has nothing to do with expecting or finding.”
Pure’s mouth tightened.
“There’s plenty enough of it running the scrub these days.”
“That figures to be about right.”
“I ’spect we’ll run headlong into it.”
Pure lifted his chin and stared east, mulling over Wallace’s words. A slight glimpse of orange lit up the horizon. “I’ve got a schedule to meet.”
“That’s a fact.”
“With all the work to be done here, I can’t afford to send more than two men out looking for strays.”
“Figures.”
“You know that,” Pure said.
“Don’t need more than two,” Wallace mumbled. “Just don’t need the kid.”
Pure dug his toe in the wet earth, deep in thought, and then ran a hand over his lower back. “Take one of the dogs with you,” he muttered then almost as an afterthought added, “and the kid.”
Wallace nodded with an abrupt snort and started for his gear.
“That’s all I can give you.”
“I heard.” Wallace responded and then lifted a horsehair halter from atop his saddle. Halter in hand, he shuffled toward his cow pony. “I’ll have ’em back by night,” he muttered in the lifting darkness.
“The dog or the cattle?” Pure joked, trying to lighten the mood.
“Depends on which sulks and fights the most.”
Pure smiled and grabbed a tin cup from the hanger. As he reached for the coffee pot bubbling in the fire, he offered, “We’ll have hot grub waiting for you.”
Wallace snorted once more and slid the halter over a piebald mare. He mumbled, “Hot grub my backside…be nice if once before I die, I could get the ramrod of this greasy sack to bring in some canned peaches for a man to eat.”
Pure smiled at Wallace’s grumbling, then as an afterthought remarked, “Watch yourself out there.”
Another snort.
Then from the blackness, Wallace boomed, “Get alive, kid, you and me are going on a cow hunt this morning!”
Two
April 1878 - The Brasada, Texas
Buckshot Wallace leaned off his saddle and studied the muddied set of tracks and trampled grass leading into a dry ravine several miles above Cita Creek. A look of concern darkened his expression.
“What is it?” the kid asked.
Wallace snorted and ignored the question and the kid. At least six horse prints now mixed with the cattle tracks.
Appears them beeves picked up some company.
Wallace shifted in the saddle and surveyed the landscape. He knew this place well.
Cañón Cerrado.
A hundred yards down the ravine, the gorge swept left and followed a dry riverbed into a natural box. Hardly a canyon by appearance, the south and southwest sides of the ravine were covered in a dense thicket of prickly pear, black chaparral, and Spanish dagger as high as a horse’s head. A rolling hill of mesquite bordered the southeast side. Wallace, considering the landscape, made a face and pushed his boots against his toe-fenders. He knew wild beeves would seek the brasada for cover, but the more calm Reston beeves might work their way into Cañón Cerrado where the sandy floor would be free of thorny vegetation and out of the wind. Wallace had driven many a stray into this natural corral for branding. It was an oasis to a brush cowboy. “Soft-work” was how C.A. Reston described working in Cañón Cerrado. The canyon also made an ideal area for any working rustlers to re-brand -R beeves. Wallace took a long look down the narrow entrance and tugged at his right earlobe.
“What is it, Buckshot?”
Wallace snorted but wouldn’t look over at Billy Green. “Kid,” he said. “You see that mesquite hill back to our southeast?”
“Yeah, I see it,” the kid answered with a long drawl. “Why?”
Something about the smug way that the kid answered caused an uneasy tightness in Wallace’s stomach. His expression soured. He glanced from the canyon entrance to the trail behind them.
“Well what is it?” the kid asked. His voice dripped false concern.
“Back outta here and swing your pony around to the top of that hill.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I told you so,” Wallace grumbled.
The kid tossed a quick glance toward the hill. “What’s going on up there?”
Wallace inhaled and counted to three, resisting the temptation to slap the youngster out of his saddle. He rolled his neck from side to side. Years of riding the scrub yielded the audible pop of bone against bone. He glanced over at the greener with little regard and said, “When you get to the top, find yourself a nice hiding spot.” Wallace paused and pointed at the carbine slung off the kid’s saddle horn. “Then you pull that Winchester and keep your sight steady on my back.”
The kid glanced down at the rifle in its leather scabbard, then his face lit up. “Trouble coming?”
“Maybe.”
The kid took a deep look into Wallace’s eyes. “Somebody fixin’ to wake the wrong passenger?”
“Not if you do what I say. Now get going. I’ll give you a five-minute start, and then I’m going to ride into the canyon with the dog.”
The kid reined his horse left and clicked his tongue. “Don’t you worry,” he said and straightened in the saddle. “Me and this Winchester will make sure no harm comes your way.”
Wallace watched the kid ride off and then snorted, “I surely hope you do just that, kid, I surely do, or you just might end up getting the both of us killed.”
Wallace pushed both toe-fenders outward and glanced down at his spurs to pass the time. Five minutes later, he lowered the stirrups, eased his pony down the trail, and pulled rein with a soft, “Whoa.” He turned an ear into the ravine, listening for any sound, the clop of a hoof or the bawl of a beeve. The piebald, an old trail hand, instinctively understood what the seasoned cowman wanted and stood unmoving and quiet. Within seconds, from down the ravine, the sound of milling beeves caught Wallace’s attention. He lifted his head, paused, and then lowered his ear back toward the faint, yet distinct sound.
“Hold him, Street!”
Wallace winced at the voice.
“Hurry up, Nate!”
Normally hard to stir, Wallace chewed on his bottom lip, wondering. A small part of him wished that the voices he heard inside the canyon were nothing more than the sound of wind against brush, but he knew better.
“Drag that next one to, Foss!”
Wallace made a face. He had had the feeling when he tossed off his hot roll this morning. Cowpunching for twenty-five years provided a man with an intuitive understanding of each day and the difficulties that always seemed to follow. A cold shiver rattled his shoulders. It was as if someone had walked over his grave. He dragged a dry tongue over a chapped lower lip and for a few seconds thought about canned peaches. The natural fragrance of sugar filled his nose. His mouth watered at the taste of the thick sugary syrup. A half-smile tugged at one side of his mouth.
“Let’s go boys!”
Wallace scowled.
“Damned Gunns!”
Wallace straightened in the saddle, his wool-gathering interrupted by the sound of his own voice, strong, angry, and cursing. He recognized the voices in the canyon, knew all of their names, and understood his predicament. “Damned Gunns!” he swore again and then with some reluctance clicked his horse forward, well aware of what he had to do. Knowing Nate Gunn’s reputation with a pistol and his own quick draw limitations, the grizzled cowhand unholstered his pistol.
You best confront the lot of them with a full hand.
And then as an afterthought, he glanced about and whispered through his teeth, “I hope all six of them are in there.”
Exposing a full grimace, Wallace clicked his tongue twice and turned his spurs into the
sorrel. Ten yards down the ravine he shot a glance back at the dome-top hill and a second after that, he turned the dog loose.
Journal Entry - In those days, it was common knowledge throughout McMullen County that the Gunns were rustlers. It was an occupation that just seemed to come natural to them. Old man Gunn, whose given name was Echol Brocious, went by E.B., and every one of those Gunn boys did anything E.B. asked of them. I often thought it was a shame that those boys didn’t take to a respectful living as they could rope beeves and turn brands quicker than any outfit in the county. We found out later that E.B. had an arrangement with a group of border bandits. E.B. would push his stolen beeves to the Nueces and exchange them for the bandits’ stolen Mexican beeves. Both sides would then go back to their own localities and sell what appeared to be legitimate brands…and as we later came to understand nobody knew that better than Pure.
Three
April 1878 - Cañón Cerrado, Texas
Street Gunn secured a half-hitch around his oversized saddle horn with expert finesse. The far end of the leather reata was looped tightly around the broad horns of a -R steer. With his rope set, Street lifted the reins and walked his horse rearward, tightening the reata’s loop with each backward step. Meanwhile, his brother, Clark, kept a ketch rope taut around the back legs of the steer.
Nate Gunn, the second child and oldest son, braced his left shin against the steer’s back bone and pressed his right knee into the steer’s midsection. His hands were wrapped with thick pieces of hide. Skilled at his trade, Nate rolled a cherry-red cinch ring over the steer’s existing brand. At the cinch ring’s placement, a yellowish blue cloud billowed from the steer’s hindquarters. The branding smell was sweet to the accomplished rustler but served only to make the thousand-pound steer all horns and rattles. Within fifteen seconds, Nate had deftly transformed the -R brand into the EB brand. His task complete, Nate hollered, “Drag that next one to, Foss!”