by Lou Bradshaw
The outlaw stepped back looking at Ben, it was as though he had just been slapped across the face. In reality, Ben hadn’t even raised his voice, but the man was intimidated. I think, he had just realized his own position in life, and that all nine dead rustlers didn’t amount to even one hardworking honest cowhand. It was like somebody had just lit his lamp and turned up his wick.
“Now, you boys don’t have to love each other, but anymore trouble out of any of you and you’ll all be walking on lead ropes behind the chuck wagon the rest of the way to Pueblo… the more trouble you cause, the more inclined I’ll be to make the whole damned bunch of you walk up those gallows steps.”
That was a mighty quiet bunch when Ben and I walked back to the chuck wagon for some coffee. We figured to be a little over thirty miles from the railhead, which would get us there in about three days. The last information we had said that the stock pens were several miles east of Pueblo. So we wouldn’t even have to drive the herd into town. We could skip it all together.
Ben sat there for a few minutes sipping absentmindedly at his coffee before he worked out his plan. “Max, why don’t you and young Tate ride on up to the rail head and get the lay of the land. Go to the drover’s inn and let it be known that we’re bringing in a herd within a few days. That’ll get the word to the stock buyers and the railroad, so they can have cattle cars ready. Of course that’s the buyer’s problem, but it’ll help ‘em out some to get a little advanced notice.”
“Sure,” I said, “Be happy to. It’ll do the boy good to get away from cattle, dust, and outlaws for a couple days.”
“We’ll move the herd north east about five miles out of Pueblo hoping to catch the stock pens and cattle buyers, so if there is anything I need to know, come on back with it. Otherwise, I’ll see you at the stock pens.”
That sounded good to me, and when I told Tate he was more than happy to head for town a couple of days early. We rode out the next morning and were in Pueblo the next evening. It was a bustling town with the new railroad money and new people coming in.
We found a tent hotel for ourselves and corral for our horses. When our animals were settled in, we hauled our gear to the hotel and stowed it. The hotel man told us where we could get a decent meal for our money and which saloons the cattle buyers frequented. It was all falling into place and I had a notion that we could relax a little.
The supper was adequate and the apple pie that topped it off was more than adequate. A full belly and long ride behind us made a man feel like an early visit to his cot and a good night’s sleep. But it had been a long dry trip and even a warm beer sounded like a good idea, so we took a stroll to one of the saloons the hotel man had recommended.
Surprisingly, the beer was chilled, so we had another. I told the barman that we were bringing up a herd, and he said he’d pass the word. Within ten minutes a rotund little fella in city clothes and a dusty narrow brimmed hat introduced himself as Yacob Vortz, cattle buyer. He handed me a printed card that read Jacob Wertz, Cattle Buyer.
“Ya,” he said, “Das vat I said, Yacob Vortz.” He was short and round with a pink face and spectacles. We had some fun joshing him about his accent, to which he said, “I haff nine accent… You haff ze accent.”
He was a good natured little fella and we hit it off well. I told him to expect about thirty five hundred cattle in good condition and carrying plenty of weight. He took on a glow that turned his pink little face even pinker. He said that he would certainly like to talk with Herr Blue.
I told him that we were moving out to the stock pens tomorrow and that the herd would be in within a couple of days. He walked away counting the money he planned to make. The season was still early and only a few herds had been through, so the price of beef in Chicago and points east was strong. It looked like everybody stood a chance to make some money, except maybe those rustlers and, of course, Bagley’s crew.
Tate and I took a turn around the saloon and eyed a few poker games, as much as I wanted to sit in just to keep my fingers exercised, I decided that I needed a good night’s sleep more than I needed exercise. So we turned in.
Our tent was small but adequate for what we needed. James T. Tate’s cot was on one side and mine on the other side, with about three feet in between them. I unrolled my bedroll and spread it out on the cot. I figured these tents were war surplus from the condition and the smell of them… they’d been around a while. There were twelve tents in all. They were lined up in four rows behind a larger tent which acted as an office and a common area where folks could sleep cheap on cots lined up on the dirt floor with a bunch of other cheap sleepers. At least it kept them out of the rain, which it was threatening to do.
I dumped my saddle on the ground at the foot of my cot. Tate was so tired he almost didn’t get his saddle off his cot. He just sort of lay back and shoved it onto the ground. Within minutes of his head hitting the poor excuse for a pillow, he was asleep and snoring softly.
After tying up the flaps, I took off my boots and got undressed. Then I tucked my pistol up under my pillow, blew out the little stub of a candle that came with the tent. It only took me a second or two to pull my blankets over me and fall into that unknown zone between sleep and almost awake. That place where your mind is doing some mighty interesting things and having some fantastic adventures, but you would never be able to remember any of it if you were to try to capture the moment. Ahh… the human mind.
Somewhere between the time I closed my eyes and midnight, it began to rain. It woke me for a few seconds, but I wasn’t interested in the time so I didn’t bother striking a match to check my watch, I just listened to Tate snore softly in the next bunk and the light patter of raindrops on the canvas over my head. Several times I woke up to the sound of someone passing by our tent, presumably in route to their own tent. Once or twice I’d hear some spoken words, but for all the sense they made, they may as well remained unspoken.
The rain had stopped falling and people had stopped moving around. Tate continued to snore, and I slept. I don’t know how long I slept, but it couldn’t have been long before I heard sloshing of boots in the mud. “Damn.” I muttered, and thought to myself… Don’t these people ever go to bed? Aggravated, I rolled over with my face to the tent wall. That’s when I noticed that the sloshing had stopped right outside the tent flaps.
I was awake and had that Colt in my hand. The next thing I heard was one of the flap ties being cut. Whoever cut that little piece of rawhide had my full attention. I had my ears tuned in on the rustling at the entrance of the tent. I didn’t want to just take a shot at a faceless nameless intruder. After all, it could easily be some drunk at the wrong tent and unable to untie the thongs. But whoever it may be wasn’t going to get a whole lot of latitude.
There was a little more rustling. Then I heard the click of a hammer being drawn back slowly, and at the same instance a match flared. The match lighter couldn’t see anything but that match for an instant. But I could see a gun, a flame, and a face I didn’t recognize, so I shot the face. The other gun roared a split second after mine, and the impact of my bullet caused his shot to go through the back of the tent and probably through at least a couple more behind ours before it stuck in a building somewhere or in some unsuspecting citizen.
The face went away. I didn’t hear it splash in the mud because too many people were yelling and cussing, none better than Tate who was sitting up in his bunk raising hell. I lit a match and touched it to the candle wick. And went to the tent flap to see who I’d just shot.
There was someone stretched out spread eagle and face up in the mud. He didn’t look like he wanted to disturb anyone else’s sleep. So I blew out the candle and went back to my cot. Tate was still fussin’ and waving his pistol around. I told him to go back to sleep before I had to shoot someone else for keeping me awake. Ben would have gone out there in the mud to see if that fella was dead or alive or if he could help him. I knew where I’d shot that boy, so I knew his condition. Furthermore, I’m no
t near as nice a person as Ben Blue.
We were up at first light and we were hungry, so our second stop would be the eatin’ house up the street. Our first stop would be the tent hotel’s tent office. Coming out of our tent, I noted that hombre’s body wasn’t where I’d left it, so I reckoned that some good citizen had taken care of it. Which is just as well because I didn’t want to be trippin over it.
Walking through the back door of the big tent, imagine that… a tent with a door. We went on through the common area trying not to step on anyone who may have missed their cot and ended up on the dirt floor. When we reached the office, I asked the clerk, which wasn’t the same one who was there when we checked in, if he knew who that man was that got shot last night.
“Nossir, I ain’t never seen him before. He just come in here and asked where he could find Max Bell. So I told him you were in number eleven out back… He blowed a hole right through three tents and killed a milk cow… Now, who’s gonna pay for that?”
Stifling the urge to grab his tie hand drag him across the desk, I just said, “The damned fool who told that fella where to find me.” With that, we walked out the front door.
Tate and I had a good breakfast, but all I could think about was why that night shooter was wanting to kill me, and how did he even know I was in town. I didn’t get a good look at the man and what I saw didn’t register. There must be at least a hundred poor poker players out there who were not too fond of me because I’d left them just a bit poorer. But that didn’t account for a drygulching. Anybody who may have lost that much money gambling with me wouldn’t have been a virgin. If I’d gotten that deep into their bank account… well, they’d all been grown men and they knew the risks. I’ve left more than one card game because some fool was either too drunk or too green to know when he was over his head. Anyway, none of it made much sense. So I decided to see the town marshal when we finished our breakfast.
Marshal McCollum was a friendly but business like sort, who had his hands full with the town full up with railroad people and their camp followers. The track layers were a hard working, hard drinking, and hard playing lot. But they didn’t cause near the trouble that the camp followers caused. Those who trailed the railroad’s progress across the country, were in some cases, no better than the scum of any big city. They cheated, robbed, knifed and shot many a track layer… and that was just the whores. The real pain came from the men.
I told the marshal who I was and what had happened, and asked him if he knew the man and anything about him.
“Yeah, I got a flyer on him a couple a weeks back. His name’s Gullik from over in Kansas… He was some sort of low life drifter with no bottom level to him. It didn’t matter how lowdown the crime was, it wasn’t too lowdown for him. Since you didn’t know him, chances are that somebody put him on your trail for a little bit of money…. He only had a twenty dollar gold piece on him and some loose change… Looks like someone was lookin for a bargain…. You got any enemies that you know of?”
“None that I know of in these parts or at least I don’t think so.” I told him.
“Well,” he said, “I’d take it kindly if you’d kinda keep your head down while you’re in town. I don’t need anymore killin’s than are necessary, if you know what I mean.”
I knew what he meant and told him. “Marshal, I understand, and we’ll be moving out to the holding area this morning. We’ve got a large herd coming up the trail, and they’ll be here in a couple of days. We’re just the advance party… kinda lookin things over to see what we should expect.
That brought a smile to his face because it meant we were out of his jurisdiction and shouldn’t be a bit of trouble to him. He also told me that they had a real nice drover’s inn out there and a couple of saloons and eating places.
He was right happy to see us go and shook our hands. It’s a nice feeling to bring that kind of joy to a man.
We walked on back to pick up our gear. There wasn’t anyone at the desk, which was okay since we’d paid up till noon, and we’d be long gone before that. When we reached the tent, a saddle came out of the flap followed by my saddle bags. I took the thong off my sixgun and put my hand on the butt of it. Tate did the same.
The next time that flap moved we had two Colts pointing to the chest of the hotel clerk. There was another man behind him who turned about the shade of a burned down camp fire… all ashen gray. “Somebody better tell me what the hell you two think you’re doin with our gear… and you better tell me quick… Start talkin’!” Nobody said anything. The second man set my Winchester and Tate’s saddle bags on my cot. He was getting over his initial shock.
Finally he cleared his throat straightened to his full height, which was about five ten and cleared his throat again. “We, Sir are confiscating your gear and holding it until you pay for the damages to this tent and the other two.” He said in a quivering voice.
“And you are?” I asked, motioning to the second man with the barrel of my gun.
“Robert Barons, owner of this establishment.”
“Well, Mr. Robert Barons, entrepreneur, I was disturbed from my sleep last night by a man whom I didn’t know, but he wanted to shoot me, and your idiot clerk told him which tent I was in… Without getting out of that bed I shot that man at the bridge of his nose while I was half asleep and in near pitch darkness. I’m wide awake right now and the lighting is perfect…. So I’d suggest you and this dimwit start picking up our gear and cleaning the mud off it. And then stack if nicely on the cots before I get really mad.”
Tate piped up and put his two cents into the discussion, “Max, just you lookit all these raggety holes in this tent. Why you can barely see the bullet hole with all these others. I’ll bet I could get some ol’ lady with a needle and thread in here and have them bullet holes fixed in less than a half hour… an probably wouldn’t cost more’n twenty five cents…. But I ain’t gonna do it… I think I’ll just git my rope and throw a loop around that main pole in the big tent an’ pull the whole shebang down.”
“That sounds like a real good idea, Tater.” I told him. When Robert Barons quit babbling and pleading, I had him and that jackass clerk cleaning our gear and carrying those forty pound saddles to the corral for us. Like I said I’m not near as nice as Ben Blue.
We left the tent hotel intact, and left Robert Barons thankful that he still had all his organs, and none of them were leaking. The idea of him holding upwards of two hundred dollars worth of gear, for less than a dollar’s worth of damages, made my blood boil. But I doubt if he’ll pull that stunt again.
We made a stop at the post office to pick up any mail for any of the crew. Leaving with two letters for Ben and one for me, we were on our way out to the pens and holding area. As I stepped into the stirrup and pulled myself up into the saddle, I caught a glimpse of someone ducking into a store across the street. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about a gent going into a store, but this was a ladies store with frillies and fancies in the window.
A banker or even a store clerk might go in to pick up something that his wife needed, but a rancher or a cowhand wouldn’t go in through the front door to pick up a pot of gold. And the fella I saw go in there wasn’t any banker or preacher or store clerk. He was big, roughly dressed, and totally out of place.
Chapter 15
Well well well, so John Slack made his way to Pueblo, did he? That explains a lot. I’d venture to say that John didn’t get what he paid Gullik for… he got nothing. This would change my immediate plans.
A couple blocks away we came to a general store and I pulled up and went in. I came out in a few minutes with some extra grub and two boxes of ammunition. I gave the grub to Tate and half a box of .44s. He looked at me funny and I said, “Let’s go.”
A little ways from town, where the main road turns toward town, I stopped. “Tate,” I said, “I saw John Slack duck into a lady’s fixin’s shop back there… and I’ll wager that Bagley isn’t far away…. I need you to take that horse of yours and get ba
ck down the road toward the herd… Tell Ben that Slack’s in Pueblo, so ride cautious. Tell him about the shooting last night and the cattle buyer, Jacob Wertz. Also tell him to come directly to the holding area east of Pueblo… I’ll be waiting there. And please keep an eye out for Injuns. We’ve been watchin’ out for them for better than a hundred miles, so don’t let up now.”
He started to turn his mount and head south, when I stopped him. “Take these to Ben.” I said, holding out two envelopes, “Now ride, cowboy, ride.”
Tate was learning. These weeks on the trail with the herd and the trouble had aged him and cured him. He was five years older in his thinking than that day I met him in that cantina. He was already a man physically back then, but he was a man mentally now. He was no longer a brash young buck rushing down the road to collect an easy payday by shooting someone because there was a price on the man’s head. And besides all that, he was a pretty good cook.
I know Ben liked him, he’d become Ben’s go to guy. He was probably the most respected and trusted among the men, second only to Jesus. Tate is a pleasure to ride with, but I suspect that when this herd is delivered, we’ll part ways. I can’t see him as a gambler or part of that society that spend their nights in saloons, gambling halls, and brothels. Well, maybe the brothels.
Anyway, like so many men I meet along the trail, they come into my life, and they pass out of my life, and there are some that I’m happy to see leave. Some, I’ve insisted they leave.
I rode on out to the stock loading area, which wasn’t more than a couple of miles from where I’d left Tate. It was like we had been told. There was a small prairie town built up around the pens. It wasn’t much more than eight or ten buildings and most of them belonged to the railroad. There were a pair of saloons, a few eating places, and a nice big new drover’s inn. It was calling itself the Drovers Lodge… I think of a lodge as an Indian dwelling, but if they want to call it that, then who am I to argue.