Tom looked up at him. “Sorry, Tap. This will hold things up a mite. I mean our getting shot up like this. If you’ll just stand by~”
“Stand by, hell! We’re going right on with it,” Tap said. “When you boys can ride you can join us. I’m still working cattle.”
Tom looked sour. “Well, Breck can help, and Spicer.” He looked around, suddenly realizing that Spicer was not there. “Where is Spicer?” he asked.
Joe Breck answered. “Duvarney sent him to Brownsville.”
“He what?” Kittery was angry. “Damn it, Tap, what d’you mean, sending one of my men off?” He paused. “What did you send him for?”
“Men. I’m hiring more men.”
Kittery was silent, his face set in hard lines. “You figure to pay them yourself?
I hope you’ve got the money.”
“You have, Tom. You’ve got the money I loaned you, or whatever of it was saved to finance the drive. You certainly didn’t spend it all for cattle.”
Joe Breck was staring at the ground, jabbing at it angrily with a stick. Johnny Lubec, hands on his hips, looked equally angry. Duvarney glanced around at the others. He was alone here, that was obvious.
“I figured that money was mine. You bought yourself a partnership,” Tom Kittery said.
“I bought half of a cattle drive, not a gun battle. And we’ll need some of that money to lay in supplies and pay our way north.”
“There’s money,” Tom protested. “I never used it all. I figured-”
“Whatever you planned, Tom, that money is partnership money, not a war chest.”
“All right, all right! Forget it! You want to drive cattle, we drive cattle.” Tom looked at Tap. “Damn it, man, I don’t want to fight you. If ever a man had a friend, you’ve been a friend to me. You saved my bacon a couple of times back yonder, and I ain’t likely to forget it.”
Each morning at daybreak, Tap Duvarney was in the saddle. He drifted cattle toward the peninsula, and several times at low tide he swam his horse across to the island to check the cattle there. Breck or the Cajun worked with him, and when Roy Kittery had regained some strength he worked as well. Lubec was usually off scouting for enemies, and working out a trail by which they might move the cattle without being seen.
It was ten days to the day when Welt Spicer rode into camp. With him were eight rough-looking ex-soldiers, three of them still wearing partial uniform. All of them were armed; all looked fit and ready for whatever came.
Gallagher, Shannon, and Lahey were New York-born Irishmen, Lawton Bean was a long-geared Kentuckian, Jule Simms was from Oregon, and wanted to go back. Doc Belden was a lean, sardonic Texan; and Judson Walker and Lon Porter were Kansans. All had served in the cavalry against Indians and Mexican bandits, and were veterans of the rough and ready life of the frontier.
Tom Kittery stood beside Tap Duvarney as the men rode in and unsaddled. “With an outfit like that,” he said, “we could run those Munsons clear out of the country.”
“Forget it. I hired them to run cattle.”
“You’ve made that plain enough,” Tom said dryly. “Come on, let’s have a cup of coffee and hear what Johnny has to say.”
Lubec squatted on his heels and, taking a twig from the fire’s edge, traced the route as he talked. “The way I see it, our best chance is to head northwest of Goliad, cross the San Antonio east of there, and strike due north. We’re going to have to camp away from streams and hold to sheltered country, but there’s a couple of places where we can bed down without being seen unless somebody rides across country.”
Lubec paused, and glanced from one to the other. “Unless”-he hesitated-“unless you decide to drive to Indianola and ship from there.”
“Indianola?” Tom Kittery shook his head. “It wouldn’t work. We’d never make it.”
“Look,” Lubec suggested. “Before we get that herd together the Munsons will know about it. In fact, they already know we’re planning a drive. So they’ll be expecting us to try for Kansas. They’d never dream we’d have the nerve to try for Indianola.”
“It’s a thought,” Breck said. “And it just might work.”
“Supposing,” Lubec went on, “we started our drive like I said, across country to the San Antonio. Then we drive northeast from there, as if we planned to pass Victoria on the south. There’s a chance we could pull every Munson out of Indianola and have the cattle in the loading pens there before they knew what had happened.”
No one spoke. Tap Duvarney stared into the fire, thinking about the suggestion. It might mean trouble, big trouble; on the other hand, it might mean a quick and adequate return on his money. The profit would not be as great, but neither would the risks be as great as those of the long drive to Kansas and the trail towns.
Indianola was only a few miles away. If the cattle could be driven there, sold there …
Then Tom said, “I like it. I think we can do it.” He turned to Duvarney. “What about it, partner?”
“Let’s wait. We can decide when the cattle start, but once we start nobody leaves the herd, not for any reason at all.”
“What’s the matter?” Lubec demanded. “Don’t you trust us?”
“Do you trust me?” he countered. “If nobody leaves the herd, nobody can talk. It is simple as that.”
Chapter Five.
Matagorda was all of seventy miles long, and anywhere from one mile to five miles wide, depending on the state of the tide and the wind. On the Gulf side there were dunes, and a fairly even beach. The west, or landward side, was cut by many little coves or inlets, most of them shallow. There was also a good bit of swampland, with occasional patches of higher, wooded ground. Down the middle of the island was some good grassland, enough to feed a lot of cattle.
It was also a land of catclaw, mesquite, and prickly pear, with the usual allowance of rattlesnakes, jack rabbits, and deer.
Tap Duvarney rode out to the island with Welt Spicer, Jud Walker, and Doc Belden.
There were a lot of cattle, most of them wearing the Rafter K, the Kittery brand.
Among the others, they found a dozen old cows with calves, carrying no brand at all.
“Doc,” Tap suggested, “you’re carrying a running iron. You start a fire and heat it up.”
By noon they had roped and branded fifteen head-branded them with a Rocking TD.
“Your brand?” Belden asked. “If it ain’t registered, you’d best ride to the county seat and do it. Else somebody will beat you to it. Whoever registers that brand owns the cattle.”
“I’ll do just that, Doc, and thanks. We’ll ride in tomorrow.”
Spicer watched the last of the cows walk away, then looked around at Duvarney. “What’s that for? I thought the Kittery brand was Rafter K?”
“It is … until we’ve road-branded; and until we’ve a road brand for both of us, I’ve nothing to show for my investment, so I’m starting my own brand. I’ll have something to build on, something to use as a bargaining point.”
Spicer nodded doubtfully. “You got to be careful,” he warned. “Tom may not like it.”
“He’ll like it. Half the cattle in Texas wearing brands got them just that way. And remember? I bought a piece of this outfit.”
They rode on, and finally branded two more cows; then they crossed back to the mainland.
Now there were not only a lot of cattle on the island, but also a lot of cattle on the peninsulas, and there was no reason why they should not start the drive.
Tom Kittery had thrown up a brush corral, and there were twenty new horses in it when they returned. They all wore the Coppinger brand. Tap Duvarney studied them thoughtfully, then looked at the tracks on the ground, the tracks of three horses that had carried riders. The men were at the fire when he came up.
Tap’s own men had drifted in and were gathered around a smaller fire.
Two of the Coppinger riders were Mexicans-tough, salty-looking vaqueros. The third was a lean, stoop-shouldered man with a perpetual smile
that did not quite reach to his eyes. He wore a tied-down gun and bowie knife.
“Lin Stacker … Tap Duvarney, my partner.”
“Howdy,” Stacker said, sizing him up coolly as Duvarney acknowledged the greeting.
He started to speak, but Duvarney squatted on his heels near the Mexicans.
“That grulla looks like a tough little horse,” he commented: then addressing the shorter Mexican, he asked, “How do you like him?”
“Bueno. That one is my own horse.”
“I figured so. I like him.” He turned to the other Mexican. “How do you like the paint?”
The Mexican shrugged. “He runs fast.” He grinned. “He pitches a leetle, too.”
Duvarney had already decided that Stacker was a troublemaker, and he wanted to have as little to do with him as possible. The three had brought the horses over from the Coppinger outfit, which meant they knew where to find Tom Kittery, and also that a drive was in prospect. Tom Kittery did not seem to be as wary as Duvarney remembered him. Either he had changed or he was inviting attack … perhaps inviting attack because the Munsons could not know of the new men Duvarney had brought in.
Tap found himself growing more and more irritated and more anxious. He had bargained for no feud. What he had made was a simple business deal, and that was exactly what he wanted.
“How’d you know Pedro rode the grulla?” Stacker demanded. “Did you see us ride in?”
“He wears Mexican spurs, with big rowels. He left some sign where he tied his horse and where he dumped his saddle.”
Duvarney felt sure that Stacker was not to be trusted. The tall, stoop-shouldered cowboy did a lot of looking around. Duvarney drifted over to where Tom Kittery sat, and dropped to the ground beside him.
“I’m taking some of my boys and riding into Refugio,” he said, “and then we’ll swing around by Victoria. Any business I can do for you?”
Tom Kittery took the makings from his pocket and began to build a smoke. “If you aren’t in this fight,” he commented, “you’d better ride careful. There’s those who wouldn’t believe it.”
“Tom,” Duvarney said quietly, “I know you’d like to have me take up this fight of yours, but I say again that I joined up only for the cattle business. I think this feud is a foolish thing. You and the Munsons are fighting a fight that should have died out years ago. I know they burned you out, I know they killed some of your kin, but you killed some of theirs, too. All I want is to make my drive, and I’d like you to make it with me.
“If we get these cattle to Kansas or sell them in Indianola, whichever proves out, we’ll have some cash money, enough to start ranching up north … in Wyoming or Montana.”
“I’m a Texas man,” Kittery protested.
“Hell,” Duvarney said, “I’ve been up there. Half the cattlemen in Wyoming and Montana are from Texas … or England. There’s good grass up there, and I know the country.
We could sell our steers, then drive the young stuff and the breeding stock to northern grass. You could leave this feud behind, own your own outfit, marry Mady Coppinger, and live happily ever after.”
“You make it sound good, Tap. You surely do.”
“Which sounds better? That, or to roust around the country hunting for Munsons all your life? Until they’re all dead, or somebody dry-gulches you?”
“When do you want to pull out?”
“A week from today, with whatever we have. We can try for Indianola if things work out: if they don’t, we can strike north for the Red River, fatten our stock on Indian grass, and push into Kansas when the market is right.”
Refugio was a sleepy-looking cowtown that belied its appearance. The four riders rode into the dusty street and tied to the hitching rail in front of the courthouse.
Boardwalks ran along both sides of the street, and back of the walks were adobe or frame buildings with a few galleries hanging over the walks. The courthouse was open, and Tap strolled across the street and went up the steps. Doc Belden stayed near the horses; Jud Walker and Welt Spicer had gone into the nearest saloon.
“Rocking TD?” The clerk opened the brand book. “I don’t recall that one, so you’re probably all right on it.” He registered the brand, studying the name he had written …
Tappan Duvarney.
“I’ve heard of you,” the clerk commented. “Friend of Tom Kittery’s, aren’t you?”
“Met him during the war,” Duvarney replied.
“He come in with you? If he did, you might tell him Mady Coppinger’s in town.”
Despite himself, Tap felt excitement. Was it because he hadn’t seen any woman in so long? Or—
He shook himself to escape the thought, settled his hat in place, and went out. For a moment he paused in the doorway, his eyes studying the street. One of the ways to avoid trouble was to see it before it got to you.
Doc Belden was still standing near the horses, smoking a small cigar. He was looking down the street toward the saloon, which Tap could not see. Almost without thinking, Tap reached up and unbuttoned his coat. He carried two guns, one in its holster, the other in his waistband.
He walked directly to the horses and stood near Doc. “Everything all right?”
Doc gave him a quizzical glance. “Half a dozen riders just pulled in … lathered horses … like maybe they’d hurried to get here.”
“Mount up,” Tap said; “we’ll ride down and join the boys.”
They tied the horses at the rail in front of the saloon, listening for voices. There were six horses tied nearby; all had been ridden hard, all bore the Circle M brand.
“Sit loose in the saddle, Belden. This may be it, but let me open the ball.”
They pushed through the swinging doors into the shadowed coolness of the saloon.
Spicer was at the end of the bar, facing the room, and Jud Walker stood close by.
Two of the Circle M riders stood well down the bar from Walker. Two others were seated at a table behind him but about fifteen feet away. The other two were down the room, but facing Walker and Spicer, boxing them neatly.
Tap stepped to one side of the door, his eyes taking in the scene at a glance. Doc Belden had moved easily to the other side of the door.
One of the men at the tables turned his head, squinting his eyes against the outside glare, to see who had come in. It was Shabbit.
“How are you, boys?” Tap said quietly. “Let’s all have a drink, shall we?”
The situation had suddenly reversed itself, and it was now the Munson party who were boxed. If they faced the two men at the bar they could not face the two at the door.
And shooting against the sunlight was not too easy a thing.
Shabbit hesitated, and the moment passed him by. “To the bar, gentlemen,” Tap insisted.
“I’m buying the drinks. Bartender, set them up … right there.”
He was pointing at the center of the bar, and he was pointing with a gun.
Nobody had seen him draw it … it was simply there.
One of the Munson men, whom Tap remembered from the graveyard, pushed back his chair and got up. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said coolly. “You ridin’ with the Kitterys now?”
“I’m in the cattle business with Tom Kittery,” Tap replied calmly. “I’m not mixed up in any feud, and don’t intend to be.”
As the first man started to the bar a second man got up. Shabbit was the last to move, muttering under his breath. When all had lined up along the bar and their drinks were poured, Duvarney motioned Walker and Spicer back to the door. Then he went to the bar and paid for the drinks.
“Oblige me, gentlemen,” he said, “and stay with your drinks. My finger is very touchy on the trigger, and I’ll need at least ten minutes to complete my business here.
I would regret killing a man for merely putting his head out of the door.”
Retreating to their horses, they mounted and walked them slowly down the street.
They left town on the road to Victoria, but soon t
urned off it and went toward the San Antonio River. It was after dark when they made camp in the breaks along the San Antonio, and before daylight they were moving again. By late morning they were riding into Victoria.
Spicer and Walker stayed with the horses, while Duvarney and Doc Belden walked down the street. Mady Coppinger was on the boardwalk on the other side. Tap crossed over, removed his hat, and bowed.
“Miss Coppinger?” he said. “It is good to see you again.”
His eyes went up and down the street, scanning the buildings, even the second-story windows.
“I don’t understand you, Major Duvarney. Why would a man like you want to come to Texas? Tom says you have connections in Virginia, that you’ve lived all over, know all sorts of people.”
“I like Texas.”
“You like it? I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s a man’s country, I will admit, but you would find the cities less attractive after you had been there a while.”
“Anything is better than this,” she replied. “I wish … I wish I could just move away and never see it again. You men may like the dust, the cattle, the sweating horses … I don’t. I want to be where there’s life … excitement.”
“You would find it just as dull there after a while,” Tap commented. His eyes swept the street again. “Have you time to eat with me? I see there’s a restaurant up the street, and I’d be pleased if you’d be my guest.”
“I’d like that very much,” she agreed, “after I get some things I need.” While she went on down the street to do her shopping, Tap Duvarney walked back to the horses.
“We’ll be in town for a bit,” he said. “I’m going to have dinner with Miss Coppinger.”
“You sure do pick ‘em, Major,” Walker said, grinning. “That’s a mighty handsome figure of a woman.”
“She’s spoken for,” Duvarney replied shortly. “That is the girl Tom Kittery is going to marry.”
“You’d never know it, the way she was lookin’ at you,” Jud commented. “But that’s none of my affair.” He looked around uneasily. “You want us to stay close? I smell trouble.”
Matagorda (1967) Page 5