A Hundred Miles to Water

by Mike Kearby

  Sixteen

  September 1878 - A Mile South of Dodge City, Kansas

  Paint watched Shanks McCoy draw near the -R bedding ground on a sorrel mare. The bedding ground lay one mile south of Dodge City on a patch of prairie laden with good Kansas browse. McCoy was a northern buyer with whom C.A. had done business since founding the -R outfit. The old man’s instructions to Pure, bellowed from his deathbed the previous year, rang clear in Paint’s head at the buyer’s approach.

  You keep the beeves south of town and make Shanks ride out to you to negotiate. And don’t let any of your cowboys take even one sip of scamper juice until them beeves reside in Shank’s possession. You do what I tell you, Pure, and you boys will all make out well

  Paint smiled and allowed a rolling chuckle to heave in his chest. There would never be a character, above or below, such as Charlie Albert Reston.

  McCoy, dressed in a wool suit complete with vest, tie, and pocket watch, looked like a big city banker and not a cattle buyer for the Chicago meat plants. Reining the mare to a slow stop, McCoy lifted a wide-brimmed felt hat and rasped, “Is this the Triple-Line-R outfit?”

  Paint took hold of the mare’s reins and smiled. “Reckon so,” he said.

  McCoy eased out of the saddle and shook Paint’s hand with great energy. “Howdy, Paint,” he boomed and then glanced around puzzled. “Where are your brothers? Where’s Pure? And Isa? And that bull of a foreman, July?”

  Paint’s expression changed suddenly, and in a barely audible voice, he answered, “Isa’s dead, Shanks.”

  McCoy’s face hardened in shock and bewilderment. “Dead?”

  Paint nodded. His shoulders drooped as if stricken with an unexpected weariness. “Killed in the Nation.”

  McCoy looked suspicious. “Surely not by Indians.”

  Paint led the sorrel over to a picket line extending off one side of the grub wagon. “Rustlers,” he growled. “Pure and July have headed for Fort Griffin to settle the tally with the bunch.”

  McCoy nodded and muttered between tight lips, “I’m sorry, Paint. Isa was a good hand.”

  Paint draped McCoy’s reins over the stringer and exhaled loudly. His shoulders rose and fell with the breath. Turning back, he lifted his brow and all-business, asked, “Coffee before we parley?”

  McCoy removed his hat and followed Paint toward the cook fire, “Sure,” he offered. “I need something to cut the dust.”

  Later, the seller and buyer leaned against the sideboard of the grub wagon, sanguine and cordial in their negotiation.

  “I think you’ll find the beeves better or at the very least as good as the bunch you bought last year, Shanks.”

  The Chicago buyer rolled his shoulder over the grub wagon and peered over the side-rail at the milling beeves stretched out for a mile or more. “I’m sure. But I’m a little concerned Paint; it doesn’t appear that you have the numbers that I initially agreed upon with Pure.”

  Paint backed away from the wagon and walked toward the cook fire. Once there, his back to McCoy, he reached down and grasped the swing handle of a blackened coffee pot. “I won’t lie to you, Shanks. We hit a few rough patches on this drive. I’m short by two hundred beeves,” he said and turned to face McCoy.

  McCoy pivoted away from the beeves and pushed his cup toward Paint and the coffee pot. “All rustled?”

  Paint poured a generous amount of the inky liquid into Shanks’ outstretched tin. “The day that Isa was killed, the rustlers stampeded a nearby herd into ours. It took two full days just to straighten out the brands.”

  McCoy pulled the tin of coffee to his lips and took a long swig. The Chicago buyer shook his head in solemn sympathy.

  “By the time we finished sorting, I knew I had to leave right then to make Dodge City in time for you to stay on your schedule, so I don’t really know if the Gunns got all two hundred or if some of those are still wandering in the Nation.”

  McCoy rubbed the back of his neck; a sour look settled on his face.

  Paint studied the man’s expression. “What is it, Shanks? You can still take what beeves we’ve got can’t you?”

  “No,” McCoy said hastily and then held up his left hand. “It’s not the beeves. Don’t worry about that, son.”

  “What then?”

  McCoy turned his tin over and dumped the remaining coffee on the ground. He tried to smile, but his lips hung in an awkward tautness.

  “What is it, Shanks?”

  McCoy tightened his jaw. “Who did you say rustled your beeves?”

  “An outfit from back home. An ornery bunch familiar to most of McMullen County as rustlers and thieves.”

  “But what was their name?”

  Paint rolled the name off his tongue with disgust and anger. “The Gunns.”

  McCoy went silent for a long moment, mumbling under his breath, then said, “Paint, there’s a fella in Dodge City, a bad hombre of sorts by my estimation. He’s been drinking in the Lone Star and the Alamo with others of whom I would say were of a similar persuasion.”

  Paint paled, knowing, but still needing to ask the question. “Who are they, Shanks?”

  McCoy inhaled and then exhaled slowly. “The mouthy fella goes by Nate,” he muttered and then looked straight in Paint’s eyes. “Nate Gunn.”

  Paint tightened his mouth and tapped his forefinger on the bottom of his coffee tin. He looked down and stared hard into the Kansas dirt. “What else, Shanks?”

  “He’s making it known to everyone in town that a bunch of Texas trail drivers riding under the -R brand killed his brother Street down in Texas.”

  Paint jerked his head up and yelled, “That’s a damnable lie, Shanks!”

  “I knew your pa well, Paint, and I know you boys just as well. I know what this fella is spouting can’t be the truth, but you have to understand that he’s making a case for killing any triple -R cowpuncher that comes into Dodge.”

  Paint slammed his coffee cup to the ground and cursed silently.

  “I’d keep my business north of the railroad tracks, Paint”

  Paint expelled a bitter laugh and pointed toward the herd. “I’ve got seven hands that have been on a cattle drive most cowboys would shy from. These boys have been on the trail for three months, Shanks, and they are ready to let the wolf loose. Now, how in the hell do you propose that I keep them from riding south of the deadline?”

  Shanks shook his head grimly. “I don’t know, Paint. All I can offer is to settle with you here and plead that when you drive the herd for the stockyards that you keep north of the tracks where the play will be at least somewhat gun free.”

  Paint removed his hat and scratched the top of his scalp roughly. “Thanks for the information, Shanks. I’ll get the boys to run a tally for you and we’ll meet at the yardage pens this afternoon so you can run your own count.”

  McCoy nodded at Paint and extended his tin.

  Paint took the cup and motioned at McCoy’s horse. “Sorry we shorted you, Shanks. You can take a fair amount off the tally if you’re of a mind to do so.”

  McCoy moved for the string and gathered his reins. “No need, son. Weren’t any of it intentional or by your direction.”

  Paint nodded and watched the Chicago buyer step up into his stirrup.

  McCoy turned his horse’s head north and looked down at Paint. “Just remember what I said about staying north of the deadline. After hearing of your brother’s killing, I sure wouldn’t want to see any further misfortune come your way.”

  Paint gave McCoy’s horse a light slap on the flank and said darkly, “Thanks again, Shanks. We’ll see you at the stockyards this afternoon.”

  McCoy locked stares with Paint for a brief moment, then tipped his hat and started the sorrel toward Dodge City.

  Paint watched the buyer ride away at a lope and uttered a low vow, “And after that, I’m going to make an end to the rough string known as the Gunn brothers before this feud of theirs kills every last one of us.”

  Journal Entry - No
w back in those days, Dodge City was cut in half by the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe railroad tracks. The tracks, known to all Texas cowboys as the dead line, divided the town north and south. Each side of the railroad tracks had a main thoroughfare called Front Street. North of the dead line, a cowboy was required by law to check his guns at the livery or hotel upon riding in. And over the years, the Dodge City Gang, a group of businessmen led by ex-7th Cavalry scout Dog Kelley, hired some of the most hard-barked, game lawmen to back up that order. Men like Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, and Charlie Bassett. A cowboy who crossed any of that bunch quickly found his match. But the Gang also wanted to keep the Texas cowboys happy and spending their hard-earned money so south of the dead line, law was a very different thing. South Front Street was home to poisonous whiskey, slick card hands, dangerous women, and vile debauchery, a place where a small fine and immediate release was the only penalty for a cowboy’s law-breaking. I’ll never forget my first trip into Dodge. As we rode into town, I swear there were a hundred saloons and dance halls lining the street. Course there really wasn’t that many, but to a green cowhand, it sure seemed so. Best I can recollect there was the Alamo, the Lone Star, the Long Branch, the Variety, and others I can’t likely recall now. Back then almost every place offered the Texas boys the rare opportunity to taste ice and the chance to listen to a piano player. Those were some fun times for the cowpuncher who wanted to get out on a high lonesome. But a shave-tail on South Front Street could just as quick-like find himself in deadly confrontations arising from words that north of the dead line would be considered harmless and insignificant. And it always came about from what Mr. Charlie called prattle fluid. That fluid always seemed to bear some responsibility for a cowboy’s demise. Pure never had any call for it. He got that from Mr. Charlie. Neither of them ever paid a driver his full wages until they were clear of Dodge and headed back to Texas. Pure didn’t mind others partaking, but he always preached to his cowboys to keep it in small regular doses. And after leaving Cap Millett that afternoon, a good week from Dodge, I hoped to hell that Paint had given the boys the same sermon.

  Seventeen

  September 1878 - Dodge City, Kansas

  Paint stood on the west corner of the railroad depot watching as a somber blackness flattened and rolled across the Dodge City landscape. Two hours earlier, Shanks had taken possession of the trail herd and penned them in the stockyard. Flush with cash, Paint had paid his trail hands full wages and then warned them to the dangers of being caught alone south of the tracks. After all of the transactions were complete, he relinquished the shower, shave, and new clothes that the rest of the -R outfit so energetically sought and instead walked to the corner of the depot and waited and watched. The gold coin payment for the cattle filled the inside of a trail-worn leather wallet draped across his right shoulder. His gaze, directed toward the Variety Saloon, was unyielding in its purpose, yet a twinge of guilt twisted his conscience into knots. He knew the -R cowboys would soon cross the tracks, ready to frolic at their favorite bar, the Variety. And he reckoned Nate Gunn would be watching too and would most likely follow the boys in. He buried both hands deep inside his armpits as a hint of winter rode in on the darkness. He didn’t like using his own cowboys in this ploy, but he reasoned he didn’t really have any other choice. West, down the tracks, the revelry of cowboys filled the night air. Paint smiled as the familiar hoots and catcalls of the -R merrymakers announced their arrival to the merchants south of the dead line. These were boys ready for a night filled with tonsil varnish and painted cats. Paint skulked west, down the tracks toward the jail house careful to never leave the shadows. When he reached the back corner of the city offices and the jail, he stopped and stayed hidden as his outfit hurried toward the Variety.

  Stay well, boys.

  Paint hunched slightly and cupped both hands around his mouth, pondering. He wanted his draw hand warm and flexible for the expected confrontation with Nate Gunn. Imagining his play, he blew long, hot breaths into his palms and then rubbed his hands vigorously. Folks in McMullen County always bragged about Nate’s gun speed, but Paint was confident he could match the oldest Gunn brother with his own Colt as long as the fight was straight up. With his hands warmed, Paint whipped his Colt from its holster in a dizzying blur, pointed the gun into the darkness, and whispered, “Drop it.” A broad smile crossed his mouth at his draw speed. After several seconds of holding an imaginary Nate Gunn at gunpoint, he pushed the Peacemaker back into the holster, and questioned the darkness. “Who’s the fastest now, Nate?”

  From behind, the characteristic click of a trigger being cocked jarred the smugness from Paint’s expression, and the unmistakable feel of a gun barrel pressured his back. A hand slithered from the darkness and eased Paint’s Colt from its holster.

  Another lifted the leather wallet from his shoulder.

  A familiar voice laughed and mimicked Paint. “Who’s the fastest now, Nate?”

  And then . . .

  “Why I reckon you are, Paint,” laughed Nate Gunn.

  Eighteen

  September 1878 - On the South Canadian River, Indian Territory

  Pure’s stomach curled at sight of the -R grub wagon. He rolled the Snapping and Stretching gum to the front of his mouth and pushed it deep into his lower lip. He didn’t know why, but the sight in front of him was troubling. The trail camp was silent and sedate and filled with expressionless, faceless cowboys. Not the sort of camp a man expected to find after an outfit was free of their beeves and flush with several month’s wages. There wasn’t any singing or horseplay or free-spiriting to be seen or heard. Pure shook the reins above his piebald’s head and urged the horse to a lope. At his approach, the -R hands slowly gathered their feet. Not one in the bunch raised a head, choosing instead to acknowledge Pure with upturned eyes peering from beneath new hat brims. The whole camp was filled with grave apprehension. He counted the cowboys instinctively.

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six… seven.

  Where’s Paint?

  The cowboy closest to him, Willy Barry, cleared his throat and lifted his head.

  Pure made a grimace at Willy’s appearance. The -R cowboy was pale and distressed.

  “Where’s Paint, Willy?”

  Silence, pained and disturbed, hung around the cowboy.

  Pure crinkled his brow and looked past Willy. He studied each cowboy’s down turned face.

  A fit of throat-clearing circled the group.

  Goose pimples popped under Pure’s shirt-sleeves. He took a heavy, knowing breath and contorted his lips against one another. “Where is he?”

  Willy, his eyes glazed, his expression wordless, tilted his head toward the grub wagon.