Destiny, Texas

by Brett Cogburn

“So you came here looking for horse killers?”

  “I came here because it was on your fence line. The top strand of your wire was cut, and I found a pair of pliers lying in the grass.”

  “This fence cutting is getting ridiculous.”

  Ranger Pike nodded. “Also found a whole mess of cartridge cases about a hundred yards on your side of the wire.”

  Gunn started to say something, but Papa cut him off. “Sounds like somebody got caught cutting wire.”

  “That’s plain enough and why I’m here,” Pike said. “Most of those cases were .44-40s, but one of you boys is packing bigger. Found a couple of these.”

  Pike held up a fat, short, bottlenecked brass case between his thumb and forefinger. It was a .45-75 hull, and the same as Gunn’s ’76 Winchester used. He cast a look at the rifle laid across Gunn’s knees.

  “Whose horse was it?” Papa asked.

  “Don’t know yet. What’s worse is I found a big splash of dried blood that I don’t think belonged to that horse.”

  “What can we do for you?”

  “Argyle, I’ve known you too long to beat around the bush, so don’t play cute with me. You know that was your boys shooting after they caught somebody cutting your fence.”

  “You here to arrest my hands for shooting that horse?”

  “I’m here to give you a warning. Word is that Prince Lowe got careless cleaning his gun and shot himself in the thigh. Like to have bled to death before the doctor got to him.”

  “A man ought to know how to handle a gun if he’s going to wear one. Maybe you ought to go clean it for him next time.”

  “Prince Lowe ain’t going to say what really happened to him, but I can read between the lines. Saddle was gone from that dead horse, so one of them most have rode back and fetched it. But I swear I’ve seen Prince riding a gray horse like the one we found.”

  “Prince Lowe ought to take better care of his horse.”

  “Texas won’t tolerate any more fence cutting. This night riding and pot-shooting is going to end. We don’t care who we have to take in.”

  “Tell that to Prince Lowe.”

  “I will, but I’m telling it to you, too. Me and this here man beside me wear the badges. You do not.”

  “I’d hate to get cross with the Rangers.”

  Pike glared at Papa. “Gotta new state law about fence cutting. Somebody cuts your fence, you tell us and we’ll handle it. Witnesses or not, no matter who’s to blame, I’m going to be highly displeasured the next time I have to ride out here because you boys have taken it into your head to play vigilante.”

  “We’ll yell out to you first thing,” Gunn said.

  Pike put his hand on his pistol holster and stretched a kink out of his hips. “Smirk all you want to, Gunn Dollarhyde, but you keep this up and I’m going to come back here. You don’t want me to come back here. I saved your life once, and I’d hate for you to keep pushing me.”

  “Light and sit, Pike,” Papa said. “No reason for all this bad medicine. How about we catch up on old times over a cup of coffee?”

  Pike shook his head. “No, I’ve got more miles to go, and these old bones don’t take the travel like they used to.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Pike pitched the empty rifle case at Gunn as he turned his horse. “Bet that gun kicks like a bitch.”

  I was standing to one side, having walked up as the Rangers rode in. Pike’s horse passed so close to me when he left that it brushed against me.

  “Good to see you, Captain Pike,” I said.

  “No captain to it. It’s Sergeant Pike now.”

  “Good to see you anyway.”

  Pike pulled up and looked down at me. “Are you still the praying sort?”

  “I pray some.”

  Pike looked back over his shoulder at Gunn. “Might be a good idea to pray for that brother of yours if you’ve got any say with the man upstairs. If ever I saw a neck born for hanging, it’s his.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Fourth of July, 1882

  The railroad finally came to Destiny—seventy miles of new tracks laid from Fort Worth. And in honor of that occasion, the town held a bronc busting competition and a picnic. Every hand on the ranch turned out to see the train and celebrate the holiday. There were horse races, a pie auction for the Methodist church, and overall one whale of a good time.

  I won the bronc riding contest, although I hate to sound like I’m bragging. I only mention it because it was one of those seldom, perfect days. I knew it from the instant I settled down in the saddle and they pulled the blindfold on that rank black horse I drew. From the first jump, I was right there square in the middle of him. I had my balance and I was in that perfect place were I belonged.

  Gunn won second prize, and might have beat me if I hadn’t’ve drawn a tougher horse. Thirty cowboys entered, and it says something about Gunn, that he could outride them all with not but one arm. But Gunn was a top hand. He might be too hotheaded and hard-handed to train a good horse, but nobody ever said he couldn’t ride the hair off one.

  Papa rarely went into Destiny anymore, but even he was smiling big and telling us that the $D had the best hands in Texas. We laughed our way down to the new depot house to see the train come in. A pretty big crowd was on the landing to do the same thing. It wasn’t like anyone had never seen a train, but the arrival of the railroad was a pretty big deal. It made Destiny feel like a real town and like it was going places.

  “You wait till next year, and we’ll see who gets bragging rights.” Gunn slapped me hard between the shoulder blades. There was already the slight smell of liquor on his breath.

  I hefted the trophy saddle that I had won on my shoulder to remind him of it. There was a little brass plate nailed to the back of the cantle with a place to engrave my name. I was about to respond with some wisecrack of my own when I saw his attention was already elsewhere. His expression had changed in an instant.

  Papa had the same look on his face.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Gunn said. “Look what the dogs drug up.”

  Hamish stepped down from the forward-most passenger car and looked across the dock at us. It was better than ten years since I had seen him last, but I would have known him anywhere, even in that fancy suit and hat. Oh yes, he looked older, and the smooth, clean face I had once known now sported a mustache and a long set of sideburns. But it was him in the flesh. Anyone looking on could have spotted him for a Dollarhyde at once.

  I started to call out to him, but he and Gunn were staring at each other so intently that saying anything would have felt like interrupting them. Gunn was the first to move, crossing the space between them in four long strides.

  “Good to see you, brother,” Hamish said.

  “Is that all you’ve got to say?” Gunn asked.

  Hamish stared at Gunn for a few seconds longer, and then held out his hand. “It’s been a long time.”

  Gunn shook his brother’s hand as if they were only old acquaintances. I knew them too good, and shouldn’t have expected more. Long and tall and as fine-looking men as you will ever see. Both of them, the spitting image of their father; both of them marked by him in more than their looks. They could have been identical twins, except for the fact that Gunn was blond and Hamish was as dark headed as an Indian. Crazy stubborn.

  “Didn’t expect this,” Gunn said. “What? Two or three letters since you’ve been gone?”

  “You probably had to get someone to read them to you,” Hamish said, unable to hide the grin slowly building across his face.

  Before either of them could say anything else, a young lady stepped down beside Hamish and wrapped both hands about his elbow. She was wearing the fanciest dress I ever saw and a short top hat with a veil down the back of it and some kind of downy, purple feather plumed about the crown. She looked at Gunn and smiled like she had known him all her life.

  “So this is the brother?” she asked.

  “This is Gunn.”

&
nbsp; “Pleased to meet you Miss . . . ?”

  “It’s Missus,” Hamish said.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s Missus Dollarhyde. I’d like you to meet my wife,” Hamish said. “Gunn, meet Tiffany. Tiffany, meet my brother Gunn.”

  She held out a lace-gloved hand and Gunn took it as daintily as if he knew a thing about manners. “At your service, ma’am.”

  She laughed. “My, my. You didn’t tell me he was so handsome.”

  “Keep your eye on him. He puts on a good act,” Hamish said.

  “And who’s this dashing cowboy staring at you as if he knows you?” Her eyes latched on to me. “Is this the other legendary and long-lost brother?”

  “That’s Joseph in the flesh.”

  “Does he always carry a saddle around?”

  “He’s looking for a horse to steal,” Gunn said.

  “And is he always so shy?”

  Hamish laughed. “There was a time when we thought he might be a mute.”

  I set my saddle down, rubbed my palms on my pants legs, and took her hand. “Pardon these two, if you will. Joseph Dollarhyde.”

  “Such a mannerly bunch,” she said, still holding on to my hand. “I must say I’m a tad disappointed. After so many of Hamish’s tales of the Texas frontier I expected to see wild men and buffalo herds the instant I stepped off the train.”

  “You shake off this ugly mug you’ve got hanging on your arm and I’ll give you the grand tour,” Gunn said.

  “I have barely got off the train and you’re already trying to steal my wife,” Hamish said.

  “I just don’t want her to be disappointed. A man has to live up to his reputation.” Gunn stepped in between the two of them.

  Hamish’s expression changed. With Gunn out of the way he saw Papa and Juanita standing against the depot wall. The staring match between him and Papa lasted even longer than the one between him and Gunn. This time, it was Hamish who had to make the first move.

  “Papa.” Hamish offered his hand.

  Papa didn’t answer him or take his hand, but Juanita quickly stepped forward and hugged Hamish.

  “You look so handsome,” she said. “El guapo.”

  Hamish held her at arm’s length. “You’re as pretty as ever and I swear you haven’t aged a day.”

  Juanita blushed and ducked her head. Papa cleared his throat and she quickly leaned back against him.

  Hamish held out his hand again to Papa. “What’s done is done.”

  “Not in my books. You stole from me. Quit me when I was counting on you.”

  “You don’t think that. I never stole anything in my life.”

  “Argyle!” Juanita hissed under her breath and gave a quick nod of her chin at Tiffany, waiting behind Hamish and watching it all.

  Papa straightened himself and stood a little taller. Slowly, he reached out and took his son’s hand. “Welcome back.”

  An awkward quiet settled over us.

  “Excuse me.” Tiffany stepped up beside Hamish. “May I be introduced?”

  “Forgive me, dear. This is my father, Argyle. Papa, this is my wife, Tiffany.”

  I never would have guessed Papa could do anything to surprise me. He was consistent if he was anything, and after all the years I thought I had a bit of a handle on him. But you never know.

  Papa bowed slightly and doffed his hat in a wide sweep of one hand like I had heard about in the old days, but a practice so far outdated that it should have made him look silly. Instead, he pulled it off in a way that somehow made him look the grand gentleman instead of an old, dried-up cattleman.

  “My pleasure, ma’am.” Papa always had a strong Southern accent, but for some reason it poured out extra strong and as thick as cane syrup. “I see that my son has a fine eye for beauty.”

  “Why thank you, sir. You flatter me.” Tiffany blushed. “Hamish, you never told me that your family were such charmers.”

  “Do I detect a bit of New England in your accent?” Papa asked.

  “Connecticut, Mr. Dollarhyde.”

  “Let me introduce you to my wife, Juanita.”

  Juanita and Tiffany shared a quick hug.

  “I see that you, too, have an eye for beauty, Mr. Dollarhyde,” Tiffany said.

  “Call me Argyle.”

  “What say we all go get a bite to eat?” Gunn asked. “My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”

  “Now you see my real brother,” Hamish said. “Such delicate turns of phrase.”

  “What brings you back, Hamish?” Papa asked. The smile that he had put on for Tiffany was gone.

  Hamish straightened his coat front. “Fort Worth is booming. I thought I might hang my shingle out there and see if I could do some business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  Hamish seemed reluctant to say.

  “He’s a lawyer, Mr. Dollarhyde,” Tiffany said, clutching Hamish’s arm again. “A very good one.”

  “I worked for Tiffany’s father’s firm for five years,” Hamish said.

  “Uh-oh. This isn’t going to be pretty.” Gunn took Tiffany by the arm and whisked her away, throwing back over his shoulder at me, “See to her bags, my good man. Papa and Hamish might be still arguing come tomorrow morning.”

  “Lawyer, huh?” Papa asked after Gunn and Tiffany were gone. “Never thought I would raise one of those.”

  “I’m sure you share none of the blame, and we can’t all be perfect.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Not one damned bit, Papa. What say we catch up to Gunn and my wife, and you can chastise me over lunch?”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Hamish’s homecoming lasted long into the afternoon. New stories were told and old stories rehashed. Good times, as if Hamish never left, and as if life were as easy and slow as that hot afternoon. Papa set aside his difficulties with Hamish and talked as if a new man. He seemed captivated by Hamish’s lovely young wife, and I noticed that they were often holding side conversations of their own. Papa may have poked fun of Hamish for his love of books, but he too was a well-read man and had traveled much when younger. He and Tiffany spoke of New York and Paris—the Paris over in France and not the one in Texas—while Hamish and Gunn told stories from their youth in Alabama.

  What knew I of plantations, riverboats, or what the newspapers were saying about the Cuban revolution? What knew I of Harvard and Boston elites and the latest fashions worn on the streets of a place so far away and foreign that I couldn’t even imagine it? The longer they talked and the longer they laughed, the more lost I felt. Happy, yes, but nobody wanted to hear me talk about horses and cattle, or range conditions, or the coyote pup I had found and dug from its den the fall before to raise as a pet. Had I mentioned the funny feeling I got when I smelled a good wet wind blowing on the front of a spring storm, or how I liked the sound of the creak of saddle leather and the smell of horse sweat and wood smoke, all of them would have looked at me like I was daft. Not Gunn, maybe, but even he seemed almost a stranger to me in that moment.

  They were all talking about things and places I’d never been or never knew, and reliving early times of which I was no part. Seeing them together was more than I ever hoped, but I sat to the side, listening more than speaking, feeling almost an outsider in my own family.

  Juanita seemed almost as removed as I did, but twice I saw Tiffany notice that and make an effort to bring her into the conversation by asking questions of her. Juanita, the poor campesino and the widow of a vaquero who never owned more than his rope and his saddle, had a class of her own. She smiled like royalty and acted as if she understood everything that was being said. Maybe she understood more than I thought. She was always wise.

  I don’t know if any of them noticed when I slipped out of the restaurant. At least no one called after me.

  It was almost dusk, and only a few families were left on the picnic grounds. Many were saddling horses or harnessing teams to return home. The gentlefolk were weary from a long
day, but the young bachelors of the county were just getting going. Destiny now had three saloons, and the product they sold had the cowboys and farmer boys more than ready to celebrate the night away. A group of them had gone down to the edge of town, and I could hear them banging away with their pistols at an old anvil they had set on a tree stump. A dog tore by me at a dead run. Some of the kids had torn down a string of bunting and used it to tie a string of firecrackers to its tail.

  I originally intended to go to the livery and check on my horse, but found myself wandering aimlessly down the street. I had nearly walked the length of it when I saw a shadow standing next to the big mound of buffalo bones at the edge of town. It was Cindy standing there, watching the fireworks somebody was launching into the air. I hadn’t laid eyes on her in a long time.

  “Hello, Joseph,” she said when she noticed me.

  “Hello, Cindy.” I stared up at the looming mound of bones, glowing pale and ghostly under the fireworks exploding overhead. Various bone gatherers hauled them in from the prairie by the wagonload to sell to buyers who shipped them back East to make them into fertilizer or such. I wondered if those bone gatherers felt like grave robbers. Riding along and seeing one of those white bones sticking out of the grass felt to me like looking at a monument.

  “The fireworks are pretty, aren’t they?” she asked.

  I knew she was giving me that impatient frown, even though it had grown too dark for me to see her good. For some reason, I usually frustrated her.

  “You haven’t been around to see me in almost two years,” she said.

  “Why, you’re a . . .”

  “Married woman?” She laughed. “And that means we still can’t be friends? Lord knows I could use someone to talk to sometimes. You aren’t much for talking, but at least you’re usually a good listener.”

  I looked over my shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, Goggle Eye ate too much watermelon and went to bed early.”

  I couldn’t believe she called him that. Everybody in town called him by that nickname behind his back, but I wouldn’t have thought his wife would, no matter how funny his eyes looked. I wasn’t the only one who had been shocked when she decided to marry him. True, he had a going business in town selling dry goods and shoes, but he didn’t seem the kind to attract a woman’s attention. The times I was around him, I found him a slovenly man, with his shirt always half-untucked, breathing through his mouth while he listened to what you wanted, and grunting when he could instead of talking to answer you.