by Elmer Kelton
Tom nodded soberly. “I reckon he will.”
“If you meet him on the other side of the river, you will have to fight him.”
“Luisa, I’m servin’ my country. I do what has to be done.”
“In the end, one of you may have to kill the other.”
Tom drew his lips against his teeth and closed his eyes a moment. “As your people say, Fortune and Death come from above. What can a man do to change Fate?” He took her hand and squeezed tightly and felt the responding pressure of her fingers. “Come, Luisa, let’s go home.”
5
Frio Wheeler squinted back through the dust at his lumbering wagon train, moving along the brush-edged trail behind him, making poor time because heavy sand tugged stubbornly at the iron-rimmed wheels. The mules strained in harness, sweat shining against their brown hides. They needed a rest, but it was less than a mile now to the well. They could have a rest there, and water too, unless this well had gone dry like some of the others.
Fall had come, but still there had been no effective rain. Where normally his mules could find cured grass, there was only the sand. Along trailside, dust churned by thousands of wagon and cart wheels had settled on the brush with the appearance of a dirty snow. No rain had come to wash it away. Now it was November, and it seemed that half his cargo was Indian corn, carried along of necessity to feed the mules.
Through the dust he saw Happy Jack Fleet coming forward in a trot. Happy wasn’t hurrying, so whatever he had on his mind must not be particularly important. Eyes on the trail ahead, Frio stopped and waited. Happy Jack reined up and let his horse blow. Frio smiled at the sight of the young man’s eyes, staring from a dust-masked face like two small pools of water in the midst of a desert.
“Must be nice to be an owner,” the cowboy said. “Get to ride up front in the clean air instead of back in the dusty drags.”
Frio shrugged, still smiling. “But think of the responsibility. Anything happens to these wagons, the loss is all mine. You’ve got nothin’ to lose but your life, and maybe that horse.”
“I hadn’t thought of it thataway,” Happy Jack admitted, his eyes shining with humor. “Guess you do take all the risk.” He reached in his pocket and brought out a Havana cigar, bought in Matamoros. He allowed himself just one a day so they would last the whole trip. He wouldn’t smoke it. He would simply start chewing on it and eventually wear it away to a nub. “Some of them mules are might’ near dried out. Reckon that next well has still got water in it?”
“It had better have,” Frio said. “We’ve about emptied our barrels.”
They had counted on the last well they’d passed, for it had contained water when they were on their way north. Now, on the return trip to Brownsville, they had found it dry. They had rationed water from half-empty barrels in hopes that the next one, at least, would still yield. Most of the natural waterholes had dried up or had receded to small stinking bogs rimmed with parched remnants of rank weeds and with the skeletons of starved cattle and wild animals of the brush.
Frio said, “Better ease on back and take up the rear guard again. No better place for renegados to hit a train than just before it gets to water. Stock is dry and slow, and the men have got their minds on a drink.”
Happy Jack nodded. “Hear of any new raids lately?”
“Army courier the other day told me renegades hit a couple of small wagon trains a little ways south of here. Killed three teamsters, made off with some rifles and war goods. That’s why I’m not lettin’ my wagons split up, ever again. As many as we are, we can give them a pretty good scrap.”
He hadn’t seen anything of Tom McCasland since that night at the fandango. He had seen Florencio Chapa once, over his rifle sight. Chapa had made an exploratory probe against Frio’s wagons but had retired quickly upon finding how much firepower Frio’s men could mass against him. He had not tried again, although occasionally Frio felt eyes watching him from the brush.
Chapa hadn’t forgotten him. He never would.
Frio slipped his saddlegun out of the boot and took a position in front of the train. Presently he reached the clearing that marked the well. He eased into it with the wariness of a deer edging into an open field to graze. He stopped a moment, spotted the two men at the well—only two—and decided the way was clear. He rode ahead, putting the rifle back into the boot.
A Mexican family had settled here originally, and the ruins of their brush jacal had stood until one day last winter when a freighter had accidentally burned the place trying to keep warm. The Mexicans’ laboriously hand-dug well was still as good as the first day they had dropped a bucket into it and had drawn up fresh water. That it had a slight salt tang was of little importance. Most water in this country did.
Frio frowned as he recognized the big man at the well—the cotton trader Trammell, who had tried once to hire Frio’s wagons. Frio didn’t know the tall, heavy-shouldered man beside Trammell, but he thought he could recognize the type. This was one of the kind who always came in troubled times—a tough, a saloon brawler more than likely. He wore a pistol in his waistband and gripped a rifle in his huge, speckled hands. The two men stepped forward as Frio approached. Frio dismounted.
“Howdy, Trammell,” he said, his voice flat. “Where did you come from?”
“There’s lots of trails through the brush, Wheeler, but they all lead to water. I’m headin’ to Matamoros, same as you.”
The trader was dirty and unshaven from long days on the trail. He jerked his head toward his companion. “This here is Bouncer Bush. I reckon you’ve heard of him?”
Frio had, and the name simply confirmed his earlier opinion.
“I got wagons comin’,” he said, turning to point his chin at the first of them moving into the clearing. “If you’ll pardon me, I’ll be drawin’ up water for my mules.”
Trammell shook his head. “No, you won’t.”
Frio stiffened. “And why not?”
“Because there’s just so much water in that well, and it takes a right smart of time for it to seep more in again. I got some wagons comin’ too. I claim first right to that water.”
“Your wagons aren’t here yet. Mine are.”
“But I’m here, and so is Bouncer. We rode ahead to stake us a claim. Now you just circle up your wagons and wait, Wheeler. Maybe by noontime we’ll be through here.”
Frio said, “I got thirsty mules, and they’re goin’ to have water.”
Bush swung the muzzle of his rifle around. Frio looked down its barrel and felt his stomach draw up. “Trammell, you got no right to do this. It’s first come, first served on this trail.”
“And I was the first come.”
“But not with wagons.”
“I got Bush here, and he’s got a rifle. You got any law that’ll countermand that sort of combination?” The cotton trader grinned with sarcasm. “You talked a mite rough to me one time, Wheeler. I been hopin’ ever since that I’d get a chance to rub your nose in it a little.”
Frio’s cheeks blazed with anger. “I never said anything to you that wasn’t the truth. This just goes to prove it.”
A movement caught Frio’s eye. At the edge of the clearing, behind Trammell and Bush, he saw Happy Jack Fleet swing down from his horse. Rifle in hand, the cowboy began moving cautiously forward, trying to make no sound. Frio decided to keep Trammell interested and prevent him from noticing Happy.
“How does it feel to be gettin’ rich off other men’s blood, Trammell?” Frio asked. “Do you ever wake up at night and think about the boys who are dead because the cotton money that was supposed to buy them guns and ammunition went into your pockets instead?”
Trammell flared. “If it wasn’t me, it would be somebody else. It had just as well be me.”
“You don’t ever worry about those boys up there fightin’ the war?”
“Sure I worry; I’m a good Southerner. But I’m a businessman too. This war can’t last forever, so I’m goin’ to make all I can while I can. If them boys
are fated to die anyway, nothin’ I do is goin’ to hurt them or help them. It’s all written down up yonder in a Big Book, everything that’s goin’ to happen to a man, the date and the place. I can’t change a word of it. And if I don’t take care of myself, nobody else is goin’ to.”
Frio said, “Reckon you know what they’ve got written down in that Big Book for you, Trammell? I hope it’s somethin’ strong enough to fit the crime.”
Face darkening, the trader took an angry step forward, then realized he was about to step between Frio and the rifle. He jumped aside with more agility than Frio would have thought he had. “I got a good notion to let Bouncer take care of you, Wheeler. Lord knows you got it comin’.”
Frio smiled. “You waited too long. Now I got a man behind you.”
Trammell snickered, thinking it was a trick. Then Happy Jack thumbed back the hammer of his rifle with a click that could have been heard halfway across the clearing. Trammell and Bush whirled, their jaws slack with surprise.
Happy Jack grinned, the unlighted cigar in his mouth, tilted upward. “This look about right to you, Frio?”
Frio walked around to peer into Trammell’s astonished face. “I’d say you might be aimin’ just a shade high, Happy. Bear down to about the fourth button.”
“That’s a target I couldn’t hardly miss.”
Bush dropped his rifle. Frio picked it up and let the hammer down easy, then pitched it off to one side. He took the pistol from Bush’s waistband and sent it sailing after the rifle. “Now I reckon you men can sit yourselves down and watch us water our mules.”
They brought the wagons out into the clearing. Frio’s Mexican teamsters began dividing the wagons into two sections and circling them, curving so that the wagon tongues pointed outward. They started unhitching the mules then. Some of the Mexicans came to help Frio and Happy haul up water out of the well and pour it into hollowed-out trees that served as troughs. It would be a slow process, watering all the teams this way. But time meant little to a mule.
Trammell sat glowering. His own train came into sight while Frio’s teamsters were watering the last of Frio’s mules and filling the barrels on their wagons. By that time the water in the well had declined almost to the limit of the bucket rope’s reach. It would take a while to seep full enough again to water Trammell’s stock.
“Well, Trammell,” Frio said, “we’ll hit the trail again directly and turn this over to you. A man ought to’ve just shot you a while ago and left you here. Try somethin’ like that again and maybe I just will.”
Contemptuously he turned his back on the cotton trader and swung onto his sorrel horse. He looked a moment at Trammell’s wagons filing out of the chaparral. There must have been thirty of them. At up to sixteen bales per wagon, that was not much short of five hundred bales on the one train. No wonder Trammell had been concerned about establishing a claim on the water, even an invalid claim. This much cotton at the present eighty-cents-a-pound river market represented a fortune.
Frio signaled his Mexican caporal. “Let’s head them out!” He took the lead and moved on down the trail, pointing south. Behind him Happy Jack sat his horse, watching the wagons move into place and singing a Confederate war song dedicated irreverently to Abraham Lincoln:
“You are a boss, a mighty hoss
A-snortin’ in the stable;
A racer too, a kangaroo,
But whip us if you’re able!”
Frio saw the dust first, then heard the sound of the horses. He drew the saddlegun, raising it over his head in the signal that would stop the train behind him. He glanced backward and saw the teamsters getting their wagons ready. Two gun-carrying outriders moved up, one on either side of the train. At the rear, Happy Jack came spurring fast. He overtook the outriders and sent one back to cover the end of the train. He galloped his horse up and reined him in beside Frio.
“We fixin’ to have company?” It was a needless question, for he could see the dust.
The first riders came into view. Frio stood in the stirrups, looking through a spyglass he had won from a ship’s officer in a Matamoros monte game. “Soldiers, Happy.”
“Ours?”
“Who else?”
“The way they’ve stripped the garrison at Fort Brown, it’s been just like sendin’ old Abe an engraved invitation.”
“That’s the way of war. The privates fight to win it, and the generals give it away.”
Frio recognized the men as some of General Bee’s command out of Fort Brown. The soldiers pulled their horses to a stop in front of Frio and Happy. One was a lieutenant.
Happy said, “Say, boys, the river’s thataway,” pointing in the direction from which the soldiers had come.
“So are the Yankees!” replied the lieutenant excitedly. “We’ve just abandoned the fort. The Yankees have landed at Brazos Santiago!”
Frio felt as if one of his mules had kicked him in the belly. This was news he had expected for months, yet he wasn’t ready for it. He swallowed hard. “You sure about that, Lieutenant?”
“There’s no question of it, sir. Last spy report we had was that there were nearly thirty transports. Rumor was that ten thousand troops were moving on Brownsville, with Texas renegades from across the river showing them the way.”
Frio swore, watching the rest of the Confederate entourage moving up rapidly. His mind went quickly to Amelia McCasland, and Meade. “What about the civilians in Brownsville?”
“Most of the Anglos are getting across the river as quick as they can. When we left they had the ferries jammed with household goods. They were pushing and shoving, fighting for places on board. It was an awful mess.”
Anger touched Frio. “And you just rode off and left them that way?”
“Some of us would have stayed and fought, but the general said no. The handful of troops we had left wouldn’t have held the Yankees back long.” He looked behind him. “You’d better move these wagons aside and leave the trail for the general. He’ll probably burn them anyway.”
“The hell he will!” Frio blurted.
He turned and signaled for the wagons to move off the road. The signal was unnecessary, for the lieutenant passed the word to every teamster as he rode by. Frio and Happy Jack sat their horses in the trail and waited.
At length the general came, riding on an ambulance. He was forty-one years old, General Hamilton Prioleau Bee, and looked much older. He had been a state legislator from Laredo before the war, and he was destined to become a hero in battle before the war was done. But this was not his heroic day. His face was red with excitement and pressure. His hands were unsteady.
“Whose train is this?” he asked quickly.
“Mine, sir,” replied Frio.
The general peered at him with narrowed eyes. “Oh, yes, Wheeler, isn’t it? You’ve already heard? The Yankees are coming.”
“I heard.”
“I have orders from General Magruder in Austin not to let a bale of cotton fall into enemy hands. We fired all the cotton that was left in Brownsville before we retreated. We’ll have to burn yours.”
Frio squared himself in the saddle, his mouth turning down at the corners. “Not my cotton. I had my orders too. They were to get this cotton to Matamoros. You’re not goin’ to burn it!”
Bee stiffened at the unexpected disobedience. He started to reply, then sputtered. Frio could see the man’s experience in evacuating Brownsville had left him almost totally unstrung. Bee studied a moment, then said, “Very well, not all of the cotton then. Dump half of it and set it afire. Maybe with only half a load you can keep these wagons moving at a good pace northward. We’ll rally at King’s Ranch and work out a plan of action.”
Frio shook his head. “I’ve already worked out mine. I’m hangin’ onto this cotton. Burn the other trains if you can, but you’re leavin’ mine alone!”
Bee sputtered again. “I’ve given you an order, sir!”
“I’m not a soldier.” Frio leaned forward in the saddle. His voice droppe
d almost to a whisper, but it had the sting of a whip. “If you fire this cotton, you’ll have to kill me first!”
Bee’s mouth dropped open, but no sound came. He glanced around him to see if he had the support of his troops. He did.
Frio said, “General, the South needs this cotton. One way or another, I’m goin’ to try to get it across the river. But I promise you this: If it ever looks like it’s fixin’ to be captured, I’ll set it afire myself.”
The troops pressed in, ready to follow their general’s orders even if it meant blasting Frio Wheeler out of the saddle. But General Bee finally shrugged. He was angry, yet he was impressed by the unyielding freighter who sat here and defied him in the face of impossible odds.
“Very well, Wheeler. On that promise, I’ll leave you your wagons. God help you.” He thought a moment, then added, “God help us all!”
A moment later he was gone in a cloud of dust, trailed by mounted troops and by some forty wagons and carts carrying what supplies he had been able to salvage before putting the fort and the cottonyard to the torch.
When they had gone, Frio sat his horse in the middle of the trail, watching the dust slowly settle. His shoulders sagged, for the weight of the news bore heavily upon him. He seethed with anxiety for the McCaslands. He wanted to forget about the wagons and rush into Brownsville to find out what had happened to Amelia and Meade. But he knew his first responsibility was here. With the world collapsing around him, he had to save this cotton, had to get it across the river for the Confederacy.
Still, a man couldn’t just rush blindly ahead.
Happy Jack sat quietly awhile, waiting. Finally, impatient, he asked, “Well, what next, Frio? What’re we goin’ to do?”
Frio shook his head, not answering.
Happy said, “This sure does clabber the sweetmilk. I been lookin’ ahead real hard to some fun in Matamoros. Last time I was there I found a place that had a real pretty little dancin’ girl. I swear, Frio, she was barefooted clear up to her chin.”
Frio growled, “Hush, Happy, and let me think.” In a moment he said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t go to be so ornery. It’s just that.…” His face twisted, and he broke off. But a minute later he straightened in the saddle. “Let’s get these wagons out into the chaparral, Happy. Get them plumb out of sight from the road. Later on, you come back with some of the men and brush out the tracks. We don’t want anybody to find that cotton.”