Bitter Trail and Barbed Wire

by Elmer Kelton

  “Just us two, and all them Yanks?” Happy Jack stared incredulously. But slowly his mouth began to lift at the corners, and he shrugged. “You’re crazy, but I reckon that makes you a match for me. Let’s go.”

  First Frio rode down to speak to the caporal. “Unhitch all these teams but one and get some of the boys to swim them across, now. Just leave one team to pull the wagons up to the ferry. When you get the last wagon loaded, swim that team across too. If you see the Yankees comin’, set fire to any wagons that are still left on this side. Then get the hell across that river!”

  “Sí, patrón,” the caporal said. Before Frio and Happy Jack had ridden away, he was already carrying out the order.

  Without talking, Frio and Happy reined their horses northwestward and moved them into an easy lope. They followed the river trail, where Happy had seen the patrol. When they had ridden what Frio estimated to be two and a half or three miles, he pulled northward into the brush. He slowed to a walk and slipped his saddlegun out of the boot.

  They heard the patrol before they saw it. The troopers’ voices carried sharply through the cold. Frio stood in his stirrups, listening. He turned to Happy. “Ready?”

  Happy’s lips were drawn tight, and he seemed to be giving the matter some serious second thought. “It’s sure an awful lot of Yankees, even for two of us. But I don’t aim to let no owner get ahead of me.”

  “We’ll keep our distance,” Frio said. “I’m countin’ on these Yankees bein’ new to the brush country. I expect they’ll be mighty cautious. All we need to do is keep them confused long enough to get those wagons across.”

  Happy admitted, “I’m confused already.”

  “It’s like this: We’ll split up a ways, make them think there’s several of us. Shoot in their direction once with your rifle, move a little bit and give them a pistol shot or two. I’ll do the same. We’ll keep movin’, that’s the main thing. We’ll keep drawin’ them north, away from the river. And we don’t ever want them to get a look at us. Keep them thinkin’ we’re a bunch.”

  Happy nodded, dubious but willing. “Bueno, you shoot first, when you think it’s time. I’ll make them think old Rip Ford has brought his whole army back to the Rio Grande.”

  Frio estimated that he was a hundred and fifty yards north of the trail. Through one half-clear spot in the brush he would be able to glimpse the patrol as it passed. Cold though he was, he felt his hands sweaty against the gunstock. Finally he caught a flash of movement. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and gently brought up the muzzle. He squeezed the trigger, felt the rifle jar against him. His horse jumped, startled, but not before Frio saw a trooper’s horse go down.

  Frio spurred thirty yards, stopped, and fired again in the direction of the patrol. He heard Happy open up, firing twice, then moving and firing again. Men shouted, and horses began to strike the brush. Frio caught Happy’s eye and waved him northward. They spurred away from the river a little farther, then stopped to fire another round of shots.

  In confusion, the Yankee patrol commenced a blind, wild shooting into the brush. Frio could hear slugs whine by, snapping against the thin trunks of the winter-dormant mesquites and the catclaw.

  Frio and Happy retreated northward again, pulling a little to the west, drawing the patrol away from the river crossing. Only occasionally could Frio catch a glimpse of Union movement. Mostly he had to go by sound. As he had hoped, the federals were proceeding slowly and with caution. This thick South Texas bosque was alien to them. Frio and Happy would fire several times, moving between shots, then pull back. The patrol continued to take the bait.

  At last Frio signaled Happy to him. “I think we’ve done what we figured on. We’ll go yonderway a little more, then try to sneak east and get back to the ferry while these soldiers are still huntin’ around out here.”

  They rode north a mile. Then, certain they were out of sight and hearing, Frio reined east and spurred into a lope. Happy Jack kept close to him, picking his way through the brush. Happy was grinning in relief.

  “It was fun,” he said, “but I’m sure glad it’s over. Way them Yankees poured lead into that brush, sounded like a bunch of bees. I was afraid somebody might get stung.”

  They reached the river crossing as the last wagon was pushed onto the bobbing ferry. Frio could see dust on the trail to the north. Whoever was leading that patrol wasn’t as slow-witted as Frio had hoped. To the remaining teamsters, Frio said, “You-all get on the ferry and ride across with the wagon. Happy and me, we’ll swim the team.”

  They stripped off their clothes and pitched them onto the ferry. The ferry slid away from the muddy bank. Frio held a moment, watching the dust, trembling from cold.

  “Well, Happy,” he said, “if we don’t want to be shakin’ hands with the Yankees, we better take us a swim.”

  He took up the long lines and led the last team down the bank. Happy brought up the rear, shouting and urging the mules off into the river. Quickly the bottom fell away from beneath the sorrel’s feet, and he was swimming. Frio slipped out of the saddle, the cold water almost taking his breath away as it came up over his bare skin. Behind him, Happy went into the water and yelped a little like a coyote. Frio kept hold of the saddlehorn and let the horse carry him along. Behind him splashed the mules. And behind them trailed Happy, holding onto his horse’s tail.

  The ferry moved slowly along ahead of them, its pace barely enough that the two horsemen and the mule team did not catch up. Finally the ferry drew against its southside mooring, bumping hard. Frio waded up onto dry land, still holding the reins. The teamsters who already had crossed were waiting to grab onto the mules as they drifted out.

  Happy dragged himself ashore and turned to look back, trembling with cold.

  “We got company over yonder, Frio.”

  One of the teamsters came running, bringing Frio his dry clothes from the wagon. Shivering, Frio pulled them on while he looked. The Union patrol had stopped at water’s edge and stood looking across the river at the quarry it had just missed. One man, afoot, moved in quick, angry strides. Frio guessed him to be the officer in charge. The officer pointed. Half a dozen troopers rode over and cut Don Andres’s ferry rope.

  Shaking his rough old fist, Don Andres cursed in a manner that he had taken a lifetime to perfect. Some of Frio’s teamsters quickly moved to tie the old man’s ferry so it would not drift off downriver.

  Happy Jack observed, “Sore losers, ain’t they?”

  Don Andres fumed. “In all the wars that have come across this land, no one has ever seen fit to cut my rope.”

  Frio said, “Don’t worry, Don Andres. The Confederacy owes you a new one. I’ll see that you get it.”

  The last wagon was drawn up into line with the others. The teamsters had built a large fire, and Frio and Happy Jack went to it to warm themselves. Both were nearly purple from cold.

  Well satisfied, Frio said, “Amigos, you’ve put in a good day’s work. We’ll camp here and rest. We’ll head on down the river toward Matamoros in the mornin’. Nobody’s apt to bother us anymore now.”

  Happy Jack said, “How about them Yankees yonder?”

  “They won’t cross into Mexico. It was sanctuary to the Yankees and the renegados when the Confederacy held the other side. Now it’s sanctuary to us.”

  “They’ll follow along with us all the way to Matamoros.”

  “Let them. They’ll learn a lot about handlin’ a string of wagons.”

  “Blas is still over there someplace.”

  “He’ll be all right. When he sees we’ve made it, he’ll slip back to the ranch.”

  Happy Jack stared awhile at the Yankees, eyes wide in wonderment. These were the first he had ever seen in uniform.

  “They don’t look no whole lot different from us, do they?”

  Frio said in surprise, “Were they supposed to?”

  Happy shrugged. “I don’t know. Guess I thought they was supposed to have horns and a tail, or somethin’. Outside of the blue c
oats, they look like us. You couldn’t hardly tell no difference.”

  Frio shook his head. “I don’t suppose you could.”

  Happy Jack held his hands out over the fire and warmed himself, his face creased in thought. “Frio, you reckon we killed any of them with that shootin’ we done?”

  “We kept a long ways off, and we didn’t get much chance to aim. I’d say the chance was mighty small.”

  Relief came into the cowboy’s eyes. “I’m glad. I never killed nobody in my life.”

  * * *

  THE ROAD FOLLOWED the river all the way to Matamoros, though it was straighter, sometimes edging southward to avoid duplicating the river’s needless bends. As Frio had expected, the patrol followed along all the way. Every time the road came close to water’s edge, he could look northward and see the riders on the far side, watching.

  As the train entered the western edge of Matamoros, innumerable lanky dogs came bounding forth as a reception committee. Mexican people began to line the streets. Frio could hear people shouting:

  “Los algodones vienen!” The cotton men are coming!

  Men, women, and children came hurrying to watch this first wagon train with its load of heavy bales. Frio could see in the faces of the adults a considerable measure of relief, even joy. These people had no stake in the gringo war, no particular enthusiasm for either North or South. Many of them actually looked upon the gringo as being akin to the plague, whether he be from Texas or New York. But they had a large stake in the border cotton trade, the hectic commerce the Civil War had brought to Matamoros. Union stoppage of the border trade had threatened ruin to the overgrown Mexican city.

  A Matamoros merchant who was a friend of Frio’s came trotting out to walk beside Frio’s horse and look back down the dusty street at the strung-out wagons. “Then it is not true, Frio, that the yanqui troops have stopped the algodones?”

  Frio shook his head. “Not true, amigo. They’ve slowed us down, but they won’t stop us.”

  The merchant smiled. “Bueno. It had looked like a hungry winter.”

  Someone shouted, “Vivan los algodones!” Others of the crowd took it up, and cheers preceded the wagons down the long, winding street.

  Passing a municipal building, Frio glanced up at the second-story iron-grilled balcony, where two men stood looking down upon the wagons. One was a U.S. Army colonel in full dress uniform, evidently here in his finest for a state visit to the powers of Matamoros. Beside him, resplendent in plumes and braid, was the erect figure of Juan Nepomuceno Cortina. Frio could see the Union officer’s face flare with wrath and frustration. A half smile crossed the visage of Juan Cortina, for the Mexican could see an ironic humor in this development.

  Frio suppressed an urge to give the officer a mock salute. Behind him, Happy Jack had no inhibitions.

  “Hey there, Yank,” Happy yelled at the colonel, “come on down and I’ll let you buy me a drink!”

  Frio could see the officer speaking angrily to Cortina and Cortina shrugging as if to say, “What can I do?”

  At last Frio reached the riverbank cottonyard the Confederacy had maintained on the Mexican side, opposite Brownsville. He glanced across the muddy waters at the Texas city that now was closed to him. He could still see the charred remains of cotton bales and household goods on the far bank. There was no sign of the riverboats. The Santa Cruz ferry was crossing empty, except for a couple of passengers.

  Portly old Hugh Plunkett came hurrying across the nearly empty cottonyard to meet him. “Frio!” he shouted in surprise. “For God’s sake, it’s Frio!”

  Hands outstretched, he reached up and grasped Frio’s shoulders and shook the freighter for joy. The cotton agent’s eyes glistened with tears as he looked at the wagons trailing in. “Well, I’ll swun,” he said wonderingly, over and over. “I’ll swun.” He walked out past the first wagon and stopped, watching the others come in. “How many did you get across with, Frio?”

  “All I had. Fourteen.”

  Plunkett kept shaking his head. “I’ll swun. I don’t know how you done it. Thought the cotton trade was done for.”

  “They’ve crippled us, Hugh, but we’re a long way from dead. Before you know it, we’ll be bringin’ cotton into Matamoros just as heavy as we ever did.”

  He told the cotton agent how they had done it. “Of course,” he said, “nobody else will be able to use Don Andres’s old ferry. The Yankees will keep a watch on it. But the Rio Grande is a mighty long river. They can’t watch it all the way to Laredo. The cotton trains that are on the road now can swing west and cross way up yonder, beyond the Yankee patrols. It’ll add a lot to the trip down from San Antonio—well nigh double it, I expect. But the cotton will come through—that’s the main thing.”

  Plunkett nodded, his eyes glistening as he stared in triumph at the bales Frio had brought in. “Mexican customs officials will be put out about it,” he said, “you crossin’ where there wasn’t a customs house. But a little mordida in the right place ought to fix that.”

  Frio looked across the river again, pointing his chin toward Brownsville. “How’re things over there, Hugh?”

  “Not good. A lot of people were burned out, or lost most of what they owned tryin’ to get across the river. And it wasn’t necessary. That’s what makes it hurt so much, it wasn’t necessary.” His mood shifted from joy to momentary anger. “General Bee was in too much of a hurry about gettin’ out of Brownsville. He listened to rumors, not to facts. Way it turned out, it was the third day after he left before the first Yankee troops got to town. Seemed there was a storm at the Boca Chica, and the soldiers had a hard time gettin’ off of the boats. Bee could have brought all the refugees over here and ferried every single bale of cotton to boot. He could have hauled out every last bit of Confederate army supplies and not had to burn a single thing.

  “But he got hold of bad information, and he panicked over it. Things would’ve been different if we’d had Rip Ford here.”

  Plunkett lighted a cigar, his face sober. “A lot of the Brownsville people have gone back home now to see what they’ve got left. They’ve decided the Yankees aren’t goin’ to shoot them. Them as go home are made to take an oath of allegiance to the Union. It don’t mean much, though. I’ve taken an oath a dozen times to quit drinkin’, and I ain’t done it yet.” He frowned. “One more thing. How do you stand with Juan Cortina?”

  “I don’t stand one way or the other. I only know him to see him.”

  “He’s the top tamali around here now. While all the excitement was goin’ on across the river, Cortina turned things upside down on this side. He shot General Cobos and has taken charge of Matamoros.”

  Frio’s eyes narrowed. “He’s no friend of the Confederacy. He might stop the border trade where the Yankees couldn’t.”

  “I doubt that. It would mean too much loss to Matamoros. Cortina likes money even more than he hates Texans. He’s on kissin’ terms with the Yankees, but I expect he’ll let the border trade go right ahead as long as there’s profit in it. Just the same, he’ll bear watchin’.”

  The ferry pulled up. Frio’s gaze was drawn to the two passengers. One was a Union officer, a major. The other was Tom McCasland. They walked slowly up to the cottonyard. The officer’s face twisted with displeasure as he regarded the wagons. Tom McCasland’s face showed only sadness.

  Tom held out his hand. “Frio.”

  Quietly Frio said, “Tom,” and shook hands.

  Tom said, “Major Quayle, meet Frio Wheeler.”

  The major gave no sign that he intended to shake hands, and Frio didn’t press the issue by putting out his own. Quayle said, “Is he the one who brought in the wagons?”

  Tom nodded. To Frio he said, “Patrol sent a man ahead, said a wagon train had gotten across at Don Andres’s ferry. I figured right then it would be you, Frio. You’re the only man I know with guts enough to try a stunt like that, and luck enough to get away with it.”

  Hugh Plunkett grinned at the open anger in the
major’s face. “Looks like you soldier boys got seasick for nothin’, don’t it, Major?”

  Major Quayle said crisply, “One wagon train doesn’t mean anything. We were still a little disorganized. But this will be the last one, you can be assured of that. We’ll patrol the river so that not even a hawk can get across it without our permission.”

  Frio squatted and leaned against a wagon wheel. With his finger he traced a rough map of lower Texas in the dust. “Major, you may know your maps, but you don’t know the Rio Grande. You’ve got no idea what a long river she is till you wear blisters across your rump ridin’ it. How much of it do you really think you can control? Up to Reynosa, maybe. Rio Grande City if you’re real lucky. It’s brush country, mister, plenty wild if you don’t know its ways.

  “No matter how far west you go, we’ll go a little farther. You stop us here, we’ll go to Rio Grande City. Stop us there and we’ll go to Laredo to cross. We’ll go as far as Eagle Pass if we have to. The point is, you won’t stop our wagons. Do the damndest you know how, but we’ll still keep them comin’.”

  The major’s face colored, and his eyes snapped. “You secesh! You don’t know when you’re whipped!” He turned and stalked away. He went fifty feet, stopped, and turned back. “Are you coming, McCasland? We’re going to talk to Cortina.”

  Tom nodded. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He looked at Frio again. “How’s Amelia?”

  “Tired out, last time I saw her, and still grievin’ some. But she’s in a safe place, and she’ll be all right.”

  Tom said, “You’re really goin’ to keep the wagons comin’, are you?”

  “Just as sure as you’re standin’ there.”

  “Then there wasn’t any use for the Union troops to come in, was there? Dad and all those others, they died for nothin’.”

  Somberly Frio replied, “It looks that way.”

  Tom’s face clouded. “I warn you, Frio, we don’t intend to leave it like that. One way or another, we intend to stop you!”

  For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes, neither man yielding. Frio said, “We won’t be stopped. Don’t try, Tom. I don’t want to have to bury you!”