A Hundred Miles to Water

by Mike Kearby

  Twenty-One

  October 1878 - Gunn’s Cabin, Texas

  E.B. Gunn sat in the grayness of a chilly October morn spinning the rowel on one of Buckshot Wallace’s spurs.

  Deep in thought.

  Waiting.

  The scuff of leather against a horse’s lope far off in the brasada had awakened him earlier. His attention suddenly left the spur. He pressed his back against the rough slats of a willow chair and gathered a double-barrelled shotgun from his lap. He lifted the gun chest-high and let it rest across his chest. A contemptible frown rustled his grizzled face.

  Closer now.

  Another scrape and then low voices. E.B. leaned forward and placed his left ear into the October chill, listening. His cheeks pushed heavy flesh into his eyes restricting his vision to a tight squint.

  Only two.

  He turned back, deadpanned, and set the shotgun against the front wall of the cabin. The gun inched down the wall and then rested passively. E.B. made sure the gun was stable and then twisted his shoulders into the willow, taking several seconds to find a comfortable position. His expression, stolid indifference, refused to reveal the fury brewing in his gut.

  Five minutes passed before the creak of stirrups sounded from the north side of the porch followed by the tinny jangle of spurs against the south Texas earth. E.B. tilted his head toward the noise and gazed down the porch and into the yard.

  “You boys must’ve got an early start.”

  The two figures stopped mid-stride.

  Foss threw a hurried glance at Nate in the gradual lifting darkness and bobbed his head in disbelief.

  Nate inhaled a whisper of a breath and then answered in an exhale, “What’d you do, stay up all night, E.B.?”

  E.B. rocked himself forward two times and then lifted out of the willow. “Much noise as you two were making out there, I’m certain most living things in the scrub is awake by now.”

  Nate stepped onto the porch wearing a cowed expression. He instinctively knew E.B. wasn’t happy.

  “I don’t hear or see them sixty beeves you was sent after.”

  Nate slowed his step. He sensed the showdown coming.

  E.B. ran a dry tongue over his lower lip. “Where’s the other, two?” he growled softly.

  Nate stopped on his heels. His jaw muscle pulsed in and out. “E.B., hear me out now,” he begged politely. “Charlie sold those sixty head of cattle to Cap Millett and then lost all of the money in a card game.”

  E.B. exploded like a wound spring. In one blink, he stood inches from Nate’s face, shaking in anger. “Now why would he have gone and done a fool thing like that for?”

  Nate knew better than to lie to the old man. He straightened as tall as he could stretch and in a whisper of a voice, said, “Because I sent him to see Millett.”

  The back of E.B.’s rough-hewn left hand struck cat-like quick and propelled Nate backward. He stumbled clumsily into Foss causing both to sprawl into a tangled heap on the rough porch decking. “Now why in the hell would you want to go and do something like that for?”

  Nate rubbed his cheek in disbelief at the old man’s strength and quickness. “I thought it made more sense to sell those cattle there…on the trail, rather then drive them all the way back here,” he stammered rapidly. “He had the money E.B., six-hundred dollars, he had.”

  E.B. spit between Nate’s legs. “Had,” he said in disgust. “Had don’t mean nothing to me.”

  Nate scrambled to his feet. A red welt showed on his left cheekbone.

  “Had!” E.B. spit.

  “E.B., just listen.”

  “Had, hell, boy, had is nothing but a prospector’s dream.”

  Nate rubbed his cheek. “E.B.,” he pleaded.

  “Why didn’t you watch him? You knew you couldn’t let Charlie get around money or card tables,” E.B. snapped. “You was the one in charge.”

  “E.B.”

  “Not Charlie!”

  “I know, E.B., it’s just that I thought …,”

  “Thought?” E.B. turned back and grabbed the shotgun. “Had. Thought,” he muttered. “And by the way, Nate, just where were you all this time that your brother was losing my money?”

  Nate lowered his eyes, hanged-dogged. “I took Foss to Dodge City to finish it with the Restons.”

  E.B. lifted his brow and cracked open the shot-gun. “And did you,” he said and tapped the caps on each end of the gun’s shells, “Finish it with the Restons?”

  An eerie uncomfortable silence fell on the porch.

  “Well, did ya?”

  “I only found one of them,” Nate confessed.

  “Only one?”

  Nate nodded. “Paint.”

  “That math don’t add up for me, Nate,” E.B. said and bit down on his lower lip.

  Nate stiffened and stayed silent.

  E.B. slammed the broken-down gun together with a loud snap. “And your brothers?” he asked, already knowing what had happened. “How’d it go down?”

  Nate inhaled and then exhaled a long breath. “Pure Reston killed the both of them,” he blurted out.

  E.B. pushed both barrels of the shotgun into Nate’s chest. His lips pulled back from his teeth, exposing an animal-like snarl. “Didn’t I tell you what I’d do to you if you got any of my sons killed on this outing?”

  “Wait a minute, E.B.,” Foss shouted impulsively.

  E.B. tossed an angry glance at Foss. “Shut-up, Foss.”

  Foss ran his tongue around his lips and then sucked in a heavy breath.

  “Or you’re next,” E.B. growled. “And even if you do shut-up, you might be next.”

  Nate rolled his eyes skyward and pressed them both shut.

  “But, E.B.,” Foss uttered and thrust a hand into the leather wallet hanging heavily over his shoulder.

  “Shut-up, boy!”

  Foss fumbled a handful of coins from the wallet. “Just look at what Nate found that one Reston to be carrying.”

  The jingle of coin caught E.B.’s attention. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Nate took this off of Paint,” Foss proclaimed.

  E.B. sniffed the air. His hands relaxed. The shotgun slipped to his side. “What’ve you got there, Foss?” he asked. His eyes sparkled.

  Nate opened his eyes and exhaled in relief. “Gold coin, E.B.,” he answered for Foss. “Fourteen thousand dollars worth of gold coin.”

  “Better than sixty straggling Reston beeves,” Foss stammered.

  “Let me see it all,” E.B. bellowed, grabby and anxious.

  Foss poured the wallet’s contents into E.B.’s cupped palms. Coins overflowed from the Gunn patriarch’s upturned flesh. The coins splashed onto the weathered porch and glittered in the now rising morning sun.

  “Whooo, doggies,” E.B. squealed.

  Nate watched his father’s face light up in childish delight. He breathed easy.

  E.B. glanced up, locked eyes with both sons, and motioned for the wallet.

  Foss eagerly handed the coin-laden wallet to his father.

  E.B. exposed a yellow, tobacco-stained smile. “Hell, boys, why didn’t you just tell me this to begin with?”

  Nate stood stunned at the ease in which the old man forgave Charlie and Ben’s killings.

  E.B. stepped between Nate and Foss and plopped heavy arms around both boy’s shoulders. “None of that other means a tinker’s dam to me right now. Let’s go inside and count all of this one more time.”

  Nate started forward cautiously. “What about Pure Reston, E.B.?”

  E.B. looked over Nate. “What about him?”

  “He killed Charlie and Ben.”

  E.B. lifted his forearm from around Foss’s shoulder and shook the coin-laden wallet. The muffled jingle of coin against coin sounded inside the bag. “We’re gonna count all of this first, Nate.”

  Nate smiled, uneasy.

  “You understand that, boy?”

  Nate looked past E.B. at Foss. His expression was confused. He was unsure of how t
o answer.

  Foss lowered his eyes and tilted his head toward the front door.

  “Them brothers of yours is dead,” E.B. said, calm and deliberate.

  Nate shook his head in understanding. “I know, E.B.,” he said.

  “Ain’t nothing we can do that’ll bring ’em back to this earth.”

  Nate swallowed hard.

  E.B. shook the bag once more. “While this, on the other hand, is life, Nate.”

  “Sure, E.B.,” Foss volunteered. “I understand.”

  E.B. ignored Foss and squeezed harder on Nate’s neck. “Life for all of us.”

  Nate squirmed to pull away from E.B.’s powerful grip.

  E.B. grinned at Nate’s attempt to free himself and tightened his hold. “A very good life for all of us, Nate.”

  Nate lifted a hand and pried his way out of E.B.’s clench.

  E.B. roared with laughter. His eyes sparkled. “So let’s all go inside,” he said. “And once the counting is done…once I know the honest tally for the coin inside this wallet…well, then I’ll tell you how we’re gonna end Pure Reston’s lucky string once and for all.”

  Journal Entry - In late October of ’78, I sent our seven hands to inspect the western boundary of the -R. It was on the west that we bordered the smaller Gunn ranch, and I wanted to make sure that not one -R branded beeve was even close to being on E.B.’s land. I told the boys to herd back any beeves grazing on the line and to keep a close watch on each other’s backs. Normally I would have dispatched outriders in groups of two, with each outrider team setting up sign camps on the line. That way each would have a smaller territory to ride and inspect. We always dispatched outriders in the late fall to inspect the water and grass situation for the coming cold months. But because of the trouble brewing with the Gunns, I told the boys to stay together in one camp and make dang sure that they kept a guard working all night long. I didn’t ride with the boys that morning as Pure asked me to ride into Dogtown with him. By that time the town had been renamed for that presidential candidate from New York, but to me, it would always be Dogtown. Pure was headed for the general store to tell Mr. Edwards that he couldn’t pay his ranch bill due to the theft of the herd money. The Edwards Store, like most of the county back then, was as rough as a longhorn’s hide. A number of cowboys and citizens had been gunned down there and were buried in Dogtown’s Boot Hill. Because of that, Pure reckoned it would be best if I rode along him, just in case any Gunns were lying in ambush. What we couldn’t realize at the time was that there was indeed a bushwhacking being planned, just not for Pure and me.

  Twenty-Two

  October 1878 - Outside the -R Outrider Camp, Texas

  Past midnight and under a bright full moon, E.B. Gunn finished tying a half-hitch knot to his saddle horn. After a quick tug to check the knot’s hold, he turned back and marched thirty-feet to the opposite end of the rope where a rag-wrapped torch, slathered in beef tallow, was tied. The crisp crackle of dried grass sounded under the heel of each boot step, which brought a devious grin to the face of the normally surly Gunn patriarch. The rare yet plentiful summer rains had produced a knee-high crop of grass in the brasada. But September had returned the county to its normal drought-like condition, and the lush native grass had quickly changed back to its natural state of brittle tinder. Picking up the prepared torch, E.B. lifted a Lucifer from his shirt pocket and struck the red-headed match against the butt of his pistol. The sulphurous demon flared immediately. E.B. pushed the match against the torch and watched in delight as a slender blue flame slowly engulfed the entire surface of the cloth.

  Mesmerized by the combustion, E.B. observed the growing flame for several seconds before dropping the fire stick onto the dried grass. A slight breeze against his face fanned the flame backward and the dried foliage of the brasada soon glowed in a rapidly spreading orange hue. Satisfied with the fire’s energy, E.B. hurried back to his mount and grabbing a handful of mane pulled his massive frame up into his saddle. With little time to waste, he raked his spurs against the horse’s rib cage and jumped the beast into a gallop. The provocation was unnecessary as the animal’s natural instinct to run from fire emerged, and the animal raced away out of hand, chased by the flame-struck torch. Unwilling to allow the horse to run strictly on its own fear, E.B. kept rolling Buckshot Wallace’s spurs against the animal’s ribs. The horse bounded high with each rake of the spurs, causing the trailing torch to bounce like rolling lightning through the tall kindling brush of the brasada.

  Situated a hundred yards outside the Reston outrider camp on the north, south, and east, Nate, Foss, and Clark took note of E.B.’s ball of fire and just as quick spurred their horses in response to the burning signal. Within seconds, the whole of the brasada transformed into a ghoulish hell-like vision, burning in a giant ring around the -R cowboys.

  The growing thunder of a stampede encircled the fast asleep -R camp.

  Horses whinnied and pulled violently against their stakes.

  Willy Berry, enclosed in his hot roll, lifted his head at the noise. “What the—,” he muttered sleepily, and then slowly recognizing the danger began to swear aloud.

  The rest of the -R cowboys sprang to life at Willy’s hollering. Curses and shouts streamed through the camp as the half-asleep cowboys tried to desperately to get out of their hot rolls and pull on their boots. Unheeding of July’s orders, the men had all gone to sleep without a night guard.

  “What is it?” one screamed.

  The spooked horses’ screams were high-pitched and reverberated eerily throughout the camp. The animals tugged and pulled at the bindings with nostrils held high into the night air.

  “Where are they? yelled one cowboy as he scrambled from all fours to his feet.

  “What the—!” was all Willy could muster as answer.

  In seconds, each -R hand was on his feet and staring around the camp at the night sky’s orange complexion. The deceptively calm luminescent glow quieted the cowboys and their animals momentarily. But the lull was short-lived as the deafening, yet unmistakable, wind-fed roar of fire rose up from every direction and raced for the camp. The realization that it wasn’t a stampede descending upon them but instead a growing, windstorm of flame forced a harsh reality on each man.

  “It’s got us circled!”

  “Look,” Willy barked at the others. “There, to the west. There’s a small break. Leave everything! Mount up and let’s get through it before it fires too.”

  In minutes, the cowboys had haltered their mounts and riding bareback, disappeared through the small ten foot opening on either side of the wildfire. And in all of the turmoil, not one cowboy noticed that their escape route had been raked free of grass and saturated with a large amount of river water.

  Twenty-Three

  October 1878 - Outside the Hell Storm, Texas

  The four Gunns sat horseback behind the burning hell storm raging through the -R outrider camp. Levered Winchesters rested in each of their hands. They waited impassioned and fervid for the Reston cowboys to ride through the prepared escape chute.

  E.B.’s eyes hardened. “Shoot every man of ’em,” he instructed coldly. “But be damned sure that the colored goes down forever.”

  A deadly anticipation of the killing ahead silenced the sons and brothers. Winchesters were lifted and pressed against shoulders. Fingers rested coolly on metal triggers. Not one wanted to disappoint the father…some out of fear, others out of hate.

  The Reston bunch appeared as if on cue. The fleeing cowboys, dark shadows bathed in the glow of a reddish outline, galloped ahead carrying with them the audible bubbling of relief. Each was unaware that their escape and thus their lives were transitory.

  Nate eased forward in the saddle and with a deep inhale pulled against the slight curve of the Winchester’s trigger. The gun’s explosion was swallowed by the raging fire, which made the lead Reston cowboy’s fall from his steed seem staged and humorous.

  Clark and Foss followed quickly with shots of their
own. The three brothers killed the first three riders with deadly accuracy.

  E.B. shot next, and another Reston cowboy slid unceremoniously from his horse. Ejected Winchester cartridges flashed in the darkness and the metallic clink of levering arms snapped loud and cold.

  The remaining cowboys pulled up hard on their mounts to avoid their fallen comrades. Amidst the confusion, all three stared into the darkness ahead and died without ever knowing who or what had unleashed such a murderous fury upon them.

  Later, with all seven cowboys laid out under the light of a rising morning sun, E.B. swung his wide-brimmed sombrero against his thigh. “Damn, he ain’t here,” the Gunn patriarch cursed.

  Nate paced along the feet of the dead or dying men and chewed on his bottom lip. Two of the men’s bodies still instinctively gasped for air at long intervals as if their brains refused to accept the end.

  Clark shook his head at the grotesque death dance and laughed, “These two ain’t going to let go.”

  E.B. glared at Clark, unamused at the comment.

  Foss tilted his hat back and glanced at his father. “Where do you figure July is, E.B.?”

  E.B. stroked his unkempt beard and muttered under his breath, thinking, before growling, “He must be with Pure. I reckon that oldest Reston cur is fearful for his life right now and keeping the colored nearby.”

  Nate watched the two Reston cowboys’ final twitches and then raised his head toward E.B. “This bunch were outriders. They were out checking the grass and water situation. I imagine Pure and July rode into Tilden to see about a loan to tide them over the winter.”

  E.B. narrowed his brow and studied over Nate’s words.

  Foss lifted his chin at his brother. “Why would he need a loan?”

  Nate looked down and scratched the palm of his hand. “Because, Brother Foss, we took all of his herd money. I reckon Pure’s been running the ranch on borrowed coin.”

  E.B. poked his tongue into his bottom lip and nodded. “Your brother’s right, Foss.”