Bitter Trail and Barbed Wire

by Elmer Kelton

  “The captain wouldn’t give Rooster a job.”

  “And you know why.”

  Vern Wheeler smiled. “Rooster’s all right. Folks just don’t understand him, is all.”

  “I understand him. He’s too shiftless to do honest work.”

  Vern Wheeler moved toward her, grinning. “Honey, I didn’t come here to talk about him.”

  He held his hands out, and she reached forward, taking them. At arm’s length they looked at each other.

  “Gosh, Paula,” he said admiringly, “you sure look pretty.” He took her into his arms. “Paula,” he said, “why don’t we just go and tell your dad about us? Tell him we want to get married.”

  “Vern, you know how Papa feels about things. He’s got his heart dead set on sending me off to school. He scrimped and saved for years. It would just about kill him.”

  “He’s bound to know about us, Paula.”

  “I guess he does, a little. He just doesn’t realize how serious it is between us. But give me time, and I’ll find some way to tell him.”

  “Tell him about the money I’m saving. It won’t be like you were just marrying some saddle bum. They’re still holding more than a year’s wages for me out at the R Cross. I haven’t taken a thing out of them except a little tobacco money and a few dollars for clothes.

  “I got my eye on a piece of land back yonder in the hills. It’s got a good spring on it, and good grass. A little longer, Paula, and I’ll be able to buy it, and the stock to go on it. You tell your dad you’ll be marrying a man who knows how to work and save and make his money count. We’ll amount to something one of these days.”

  “I know we will, Vern. Don’t you worry about Papa. Now you’d better go, before the gossips all get started.”

  “All right, Paula,” he said. “But one of these times I’ll take you with me.”

  He kissed her and walked out. She stood on the porch and blew him a kiss as he swung onto his nervous-eyed sorrel bronc. Showing off a little, he jabbed his thumbs into the bronc’s neck. The sorrel went pitching off down the street, Vern Wheeler laughing and waving back at Paula.

  Chris Hadley came walking up as Vern’s bronc eased down into a trot, his back still humped. Hadley stood at his front gate, frowning, watching the young cowboy disappear.

  “You’re home early, Papa,” Paula said in surprise as he walked into the small house. “I don’t have supper ready yet.”

  “Business wasn’t much, and I wasn’t feeling very good anyway,” he replied. He watched the girl worriedly as she put on an apron and moved into the kitchen. He followed her, leaning against the kitchen door.

  “Vern Wheeler was here, wasn’t he?” he asked.

  “He came by to see me.”

  “You let him in the house?”

  She paused. “Papa, we wouldn’t do anything we shouldn’t. You know that.”

  “I know, Paula, but some of the neighbors around here don’t. You’ve got to remember, you’re a saloonkeeper’s daughter. With some people it doesn’t matter whether you did anything wrong or not. The only thing they see is that you could have.”

  He walked over to the stove and checked the coffee pot. “Paula, I’m going to send you back where you can be with good people, like your mother’s folks were.”

  Impatience came into her voice. “I can remember them. When I was just a little girl, after Mother died, you took me back to see them. They wouldn’t have anything to do with us, not you or me either. They were too good for us, remember, Papa? Your family had lost its money, so we weren’t good enough.”

  “It wasn’t you they didn’t like, Paula, it was me. They didn’t want me to marry your mother. We ran off and got married anyway, and it turned out just the way they said it would. We drifted around from one sorry place to another. I dragged your mother down, just like they said.”

  “Did she ever complain, Papa?”

  “She wasn’t the kind who would. But I ruined her life. Now I want to make it up. I want you to have the things she never could have.”

  “Maybe they’re not the things I want.”

  Chris Hadley studied his daughter intently. “Paula, I know how it is when you’re young, but I want you to listen to me. Vern’s a good boy, I’ll grant you that, but look at him. Look at any of these people. Look at those women over on Oak Creek. Do you think I want you to wind up like them someday, washed out, worn out, all their hope and spirit gone? I’m not going to let it happen.” He shook his head. “Paula, I don’t want you to see him again, ever.”

  5

  The Oak Creek section had always been considered some of the sorriest rangeland in Postoak County. Its grass was stemmy and lacking in strength. The country had a tendency to go to scrub brush, which didn’t leave a lot of room for grass in the first place. In the days when no one had ranged this country but Captain Rinehart, most of his cattle had kept out of the Oak Creek section of their own will. Only a few scattering cows of the bunch-quitter type stayed down there much. There were cattle like that, just as there were that kind of men.

  But the section had one thing in its favor, the creek itself. Water was always a big consideration in West Texas, where rainfall came only when it got good and ready and could never be depended upon.

  So when the farmers began to move in, they started locating on Oak Creek. At first there was resistance on the part of some of the cowmen. A few of the earliest farmers took the hint and moved out again. But as time went on, it became obvious that the farmers couldn’t be squeezed out forever.

  Captain Andrew Rinehart circulated the word, and the farmers were allowed to settle along Oak Creek. If there had to be farmers, then it was better that they be concentrated in one place than to have them bringing in the Texas Rangers and scattering all over the county, breaking up the rangeland, the captain said. Besides, there were some advantages to having a few farmers around. Cowmen could buy hay from them, and vegetables and butter and the like. When the farm work wasn’t pressing too hard, the ranchers could hire the farmers to do the menial jobs that most of their cowhands scorned doing.

  Only one farmer had broken the pattern. Without a word to anybody, without even a tip of the hat to Captain Rinehart, Noah Wheeler had bought land scrip for four sections right in the middle of the best rangeland and moved his family out from East Texas.

  There had been some bitter talk about it. Fuller Quinn, angry-faced ranchman on Wagonrim Creek, was in favor of riding over there in force and burning the farmer out before he could get himself fairly settled. “Let that nester squat there and he’ll attract others. They’ll crowd us right off the grass!”

  Actually, Quinn was doing more crowding than anybody. He had built up his herd of Longhorns until it was too big for the range he controlled. He let them spill over into his neighbors’ country, let them trample across the planted fields along Oak Creek. The one thing about which he was careful was that his line riders keep them turned well back from Captain Rinehart’s country.

  Unexpectedly, and without any explanation, Captain Rinehart had vetoed action against Noah Wheeler. “If any other farmers start looking over his way, we can quietly discourage them,” he said. “But Wheeler will stay where he is.”

  So they’d left Wheeler alone, and some of the cowmen had come to like him. Wheeler was no ordinary squatter. He had a far-reaching way of looking beyond things as they were now and seeing how they could be. He had turned some of the cowmen into good customers for the feed he raised. A stockman himself, he had sold many of them on the idea of improving their beef by using better breeds of bulls.

  But one thing hadn’t changed. The other farmers had stayed on Oak Creek. There, more or less congregated, they could turn back most of the stray cattle which worked in from the open ranges around them. True, when the crops were good, some of Fuller Quinn’s cattle always seemed to find their way into the best fields. Nobody ever caught Quinn or his men drifting them in there, and there probably wasn’t much a farmer could have done about it if
he had. Still, it was a constant source of irritation that a good stand of corn might be ruined in a hurry if the farmer was not eternally vigilant.

  So it was that Doug Monahan had received expressions of interest from several Oak Creek farmers even before he had started the ill-fated fencing job for Gordon Finch.

  “Slick wire and brush enclosures just won’t turn them cattle when they’re hungry,” complained Foster Lodge. “It’s got so I have to chase three or four Quinn heifers out of my oat patch every mornin’. I’d like to try a little of that there bobwire, if the price was right.”

  “I’ll make it right,” Monahan had promised. “Just as soon as I finish this job for Finch, I’ll be over.”

  The Finch job had finished abruptly. Now, this sharply cool winter morning, Doug Monahan was on his way a-horseback toward Oak Creek. Short, burly Stub Bailey rode beside him to point the way.

  “That yonder’s Lodge’s place,” Bailey said finally as they splashed their horses across cold Oak Creek. “I expect Lodge is about the best farmer there is along the crick here. But he don’t hold a candle to Noah Wheeler, even at that.”

  Lodge’s place was smaller but neat and well kept, even as Noah Wheeler’s had been. Grubbed-up brush ringed his fields, giving the whole thing some appearance of a bird’s nest. Doug thought that was where the word nester came from. Lodge had a good set of pens for his work and milk stock. It struck Monahan that these pens were patterned after those of Noah Wheeler.

  “They all copy Wheeler, don’t they?” he said.

  “You see a man doing the right kind of a job, you’re foolish if you don’t model after him some.”

  Foster Lodge still lived in the original dugout he had carved back into a hillside. A sign of improving times was that he now had a tin covering over the original sod roof. It would turn the water, where the sod never did. There was a fairly new lean-to, built of lumber, probably raised for propriety when the children began to grow up.

  Lodge heard the barking of his dogs and met Doug and Stub at the door. “Come in, come in. Too cool to stand around outside. Did all my chores and hustled myself back in here where it’s warm.”

  A castiron cook stove threw welcome heat. Dry mesquite stumps and roots were piled in a box behind the stove, along with axe-cut dry mesquite limbs.

  Mrs. Lodge, a thin, morose woman who acted as if she resented the company, came out and poured them some coffee. Lodge avoided the sharp cut of her eyes. Doug figured she had him buffaloed. Like too many others, she probably had resented leaving security and the small comforts somewhere farther east to try to build something better out here in a raw new land. He was glad when she retreated into the lean-to room and closed the door.

  Doug said, “I came to see if you’re still interested in having some fence built. We’re not busy now. We could start any time.”

  Lodge made no sign that he knew what had happened to the Finch job. He hadn’t been to town, Doug guessed.

  “Well, yes I am,” Lodge said. “I’ve talked with some of my neighbors. We been thinkin’ we might all have some fence built and share the cost where we can share a fence.”

  “It would sure save you a lot of damage from stray cattle.”

  Lodge frowned. “Right there’s the only hitch, Monahan. All of us own a little livestock, too—milk cows, work horses and mules, a few beef critters. Some of the boys don’t quite trust this bobwire. If it cuts up some of Fuller Quinn’s strays, so much the better. But they’re afraid it might cut up our own stock, too.”

  “It won’t,” Doug assured him, “not after they get used to it.”

  “I don’t know,” Lodge commented doubtfully. “It’s mean-lookin’ stuff. They’re goin’ to have to see proof, I’m afraid, before they’ll go through with it.”

  Monahan chewed his lip, thinking darkly. How could he show them proof when there wasn’t a barbed wire fence anywhere around? Then he remembered an exhibition he had seen in San Antonio.

  “I believe I can prove it to where it’ll satisfy all of you,” he said. “Would you be willing to gamble a few head of cattle on it?”

  Lodge frowned. “Gamble? Well now, I’m not a rich man. I ain’t got enough livestock to go gamblin’ with them.”

  “Then I’ll do the gambling,” Doug said. “I’ll guarantee to pay you for any cattle that get crippled or cut up bad.”

  “What do you figure on doing?”

  “I’ll pick out a spot someplace on the creek here, where everybody can see it. I’ll put up a good-sized barbed wire corral and turn cattle into it. You’ll see how quick they learn what the wire’s there for.” He studied Foster Lodge. “If it proves out all right, and you men are satisfied that it won’t hurt your stock, will you contract with me to build the fence?”

  Lodge thoughtfully rubbed his jaw. “Personally, I’d go along with it. I think I can speak for the others. You give the boys a good show and you’ve got yourself a job, Monahan.”

  * * *

  CAPTAIN ANDREW RINEHART swung stiffly down from his big gray horse and stood a moment holding on to the horn, steadying himself. He was bone-tired after a full day in the saddle. This weariness made him angry at himself, for he used to ride all day and half the night without tiring so.

  “Need some help, Captain?” Archer Spann had walked up behind him, leading his own horse.

  “No, thank you,” Rinehart said firmly.

  “You’re tired. I can unsaddle for you.”

  With a flare of impatience the captain replied, “I’ve always saddled and unsaddled my own horses. I see no need to change that now.”

  He loosened the girth and slid the saddle and blanket off the gray’s back, letting them ease to the ground. He patted the horse on the neck. The captain had always loved horses. Especially gray horses. That was all he rode anymore. There was something about a gray horse that gave a man stature.

  He pulled the bridle off and watched the horse turn away. The gray walked across the broad corral, nose to the ground. When he found a place that suited him, he dropped down, hind legs first, and rolled in the dust. This was a sight that had always been restful to the captain. Out of ancient habit he counted the rolls. One, two, three. A horse is worth a hundred dollars for every time he rolls over, the old saying went. Three hundred dollars.

  I couldn’t roll over once anymore, he thought. I’m not worth much.

  “Anything else that needs doing tonight?” Archer Spann asked.

  “Nothing, thank you,” the captain said, jerked back to reality. He hoisted his saddle up onto a wooden rack, placing the blanket on top of it to dry the sweat out. He watched Spann walking away from the barn, and he felt a momentary regret for having spoken so sharply to his foreman.

  Spann was quiet and coldly efficient. There was nothing in the way of ranch work that he couldn’t do, and do better than anyone else on the payroll. He would get it done quickly and well, with little lost motion, or emotion. Just as the captain himself had done in his younger days. With others, Spann was sometimes harsh, even overbearing. He had little patience with other men’s errors, and he seldom made one of his own.

  He had an inner, relentless drive that the captain had seen in few men. Occasionally, without warning, Spann could burst into sudden violence, as he had done that day at Monahan’s fencing camp.

  The captain had instantly regretted that killing. If anybody had needed killing, it had been Gordon Finch, a land-hungry coward who had tried to use someone else to take for him what he lacked the guts to take for himself. Doug Monahan, the captain was convinced now, had been no more than a victim of circumstance. There had been a time, the next day, when the captain would have been willing to make restitution, if it could have been done quietly and honorably.

  Now it had gone too far. However innocently Monahan had wandered into this situation, he had now set himself up against Rinehart. From now on, he could only be regarded as an enemy.

  Darkness was drawing down over Rinehart’s ranch headquarters, and with it c
ame the sharp chill of the late-winter night. Rinehart drew his coat tightly around him. Even the cold bothered him more than it used to. Rheumatism had set up a dull ache in his shoulder, where he had stopped an arrow in a fight with the Comanches way back yonder, while he was a Ranger.

  Rinehart wearily climbed the wooden steps to his high front porch. His boots clumped heavily, the spurs jingling sharply in the cold night air. He pushed open the door of the big rock house, and he heard Sarah call, “Is that you, Andrew?”

  She always asked that, every time he came in. It had been the same for forty years. With Sarah, it was a manner of greeting rather than an actual question. She had never failed to greet him at the door in the good young years.

  Now she was ailing and often had to remain in her bed. Age was catching up with Sarah, too. But she was never too sick to call out to him as he came in. He dreaded the day he would walk into this big old house and not hear that voice.

  Automatically he removed his hat. The ranch might be the captain’s, but the house was his wife’s. He walked into the bedroom and saw her lying there in the gloom.

  “You’re awfully late, Andrew,” she scolded, but her voice was soft with affection.

  “It’s so dark in here,” he said. “Why didn’t you have Josefa light the lamp?” He struck a match and lighted the wick, clamping the shining glass chimney back into place.

  “Dusk,” she said. “It’s restful to tired eyes.”

  She reached out and touched his hand. The captain sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at her. It angered him somehow that he could do nothing for her. He had always been a strong man. All his life, what he had wanted to do, he did. What he wanted to have, he took. When he spoke, men moved. His power had been great.

  Yet now he had no power to help this woman he loved. Sometimes she was up and about for two or three weeks at a time. Then she would be down again, weak and helpless as a child. Lately he had begun to consider how life would be without her. It was an empty and terrible thing to contemplate.