“He sold him two mules. Ange and Rhoda.”
“But he paid you, right?” Pearlie asked.
“Yeah,” Smoke said with a chuckle. “He paid me seventy dollars.”
“That’s about what one horse cost, and we’re takin’ ’im two hundred,” Pearlie said.
“Because he is buying so many, I’m going to let him have them at sixty dollars a head.”
“Still, that’s.” Pearlie closed his eyes and started figuring.
“Twelve thousand dollars,” Cal said, quickly.
“Show-off. I was cipherin’ up to it.”
“When do we leave?” Cal asked.
“As soon as we can get our stock gathered, and our chuck and hoodlum wagons ready. I’d say we should be ready by Monday morning.”
“You mean we’re not going to take ’em by train?” Cal asked. “That would be a lot faster.”
“I expect it would, seeing that it’s three days by train, and at least thirty days by trail drive. But, it would take at least thirty-five cars, and that would cost seventy-two hundred dollars. We can drive them down for less than twenty-two hundred, and that includes paying forty and found for the wranglers.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean. How many men do you think we’ll need?” Pearlie asked.
“I’d say at least four more, beside us. That would give us five men by day, and two riding nighthawk.”
“Who are you going to get to drive the wagons?” Cal wanted to know.
“Sally is going to drive the chuck wagon,” Smoke said.
“That means you’ll be doin’ the cookin’, don’t it?” Cal asked with a wide grin.
“Doesn’t it,” Sally corrected, always the teacher. “And yes, I will be driving the chuck wagon.”
“That’ll be good, you doin’ the cookin’. At least I know we’ll eat real good.”
“You’ll eat well,” Sally said.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s what I’m countin’ on.”
Sally sighed. “Never mind.”
“Who’ll be drivin’ the hoodlum wagon?” Pearlie asked.
“I haven’t decided on who to ask to drive the hoodlum wagon,” Smoke said.
“What about having Old Mo drive it?” Pearlie suggested.
“He’s too old,” Cal said. “Why, he must be near seventy.”
“You want to tell him that?” Smoke asked.
“What? You want me to tell that old man that he’s too old? No, sir, I ain’t about to do that.”
Smoke chuckled. “I didn’t think so. I think Mo will be perfect for the job.”
Old Mo’s real name was Arnold Morris, and he lived in one of the line shacks on Sugarloaf Ranch. Mostly retired, he earned his keep by riding fence line. He had come west in 1846, and since that time had supported himself in various occupations. He had trapped beaver, hunted buffalo for the expanding railroads, scouted for the army, rode the outlaw trail for a while, and wore a deputy’s badge. More recently he had been a cowboy and a horse wrangler. He was a taciturn man who spoke little. Everyone referred to him as Old Mo, but when they were talking face-to-face with him, they called him Mo.
“May as well,” Old Mo replied when Smoke asked if he would like to come along. “Ain’t never been to Texas.”
Smoke put the word out among his hands that he was looking for four men to go with them on the drive down to Texas. He got four eager volunteers.
At twenty, Walt Bizzel was the youngest. He was also the fastest, having won the annual Fourth of July Big Rock footrace the last two years.
Don Pratt was only a little older. He was starting out on the wrong path, until Sheriff Monty Carson took a hand. Instead of putting him in jail, he brought him out to Sugarloaf to see if Smoke would take him on. Smoke did, and Don had been a good hand ever since.
Fred Stone and Vernon Mathis were former soldiers who had served their time honorably, and when discharged, decided to stay in the West, winding up at Sugarloaf Ranch, working for Smoke.
“You’re all going to get your regular pay,” Smoke said. “And a hundred dollars apiece for making the drive.”
“Yahoo!” Walt said.
“Now, before we go any further, I need to ask all of you: Is there any reason why you can’t go to Texas? Is there any paper out on any of you that some aggressive Texas sheriff might know about and pay us a visit?”
“I never done none of my, uh, business down in Texas,” Don said.
Old Mo didn’t answer, but he had already told Smoke that he had never been there before.
“All right, get everything you need to take and load it into the hoodlum wagon. Choose three riding horses you are comfortable with. You’ve got the weekend off, but be ready to leave Monday morning.”
“Uh, can we have some of the money now so’s we can go into town and buy a few things we might need?” Don asked.
“I’ll give you fifty dollars now, and the other fifty when we deliver the livestock.”
The four young men smiled; Old Mo simply nodded.
“I don’t know about you boys, but I’m goin’ into town,” Walt said.
Webb, Texas
It was a Sunday morning and most of those who weren’t sleeping off a Saturday-night drunk were gathered in the Fellowship Church. Nobody knew what denomination the church was, there were only sixty-eight people in the entire town, not enough to argue over such details.
The little community of Webb was about ten miles north of the Mexican border, and T. B. Keno and his army of bandits approached the town from the south. When he held up his hand to stop his men, they could hear the congregation singing through the open windows of the church:
O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home.
“There is no bank in this town, Coronel. What have we come to steal?”
“Whiskey,” Keno replied with a broad smile.
Motioning his men forward, they rode on into town, then stopped in the square. There were only four business buildings in town, the saloon, a mercantile store, a feed and seed store, and a blacksmith’s shop.
“Go into the saloon and the store,” Keno ordered some of the men. “Take all that you can carry. There is no hurry, we will keep the people busy.”
As eight men ran into the saloon and the mercantile, Keno took the rest of his brigade down to the church, which sat at the end of the street. He spread them around all four sides of the church, and once they were all in position, he gave the order to fire.
Inside the church, the forty-nine people who had actually attended services this morning were so engaged in singing the hymn that none were aware that the church had been surrounded. Then, over the sound of the organ, and the forty-nine voices, came the explosive roar of gunfire, several guns firing at the same time. The windows came crashing down as bullets whipped across the nave, plunging into bodies.
The organist was one of the first hit, and she fell across the keyboard, causing one last, loud, discordant note to compete with the sound of shooting and screaming.
“Get down!”
The preacher was a veteran of the Civil War, and he had the presence of mind to look after his flock. “Everyone, down on the floor!”
The preacher’s warning shout saved many others, but not him. In order to make certain that everyone got down, he remained on his feet a moment too long, and a bullet hit him in the side of his head.
Not one parishioner had a gun with him. This was, after all, a church service, and why would anyone need a gun during a church service?
After several seconds of shooting, the front doors opened, and six armed men came in. There was silence now, except for the moans of the wounded, and the cries of the bereaved.
“Good morning, my friends,” Keno said in heavily accented English. “I do hope you haven’t taken up the collection yet. Because that’s what we are going to do. I’m going to pass the plate around, and I do want you t
o be generous.”
“Who are you?” someone asked.
“Soy el Coronel Taurino Bustamante Keno. Learn this name, for one day I will be president of Mexico.”
As the plate was passed, the living and the injured began to put money in it, passing it over the bodies of those who had been killed.
“Do not pass by the dead. They too must contribute. Take the money from their pockets.”
When all the money was collected, Keno walked to the front of the church, and crossed himself. Then he turned with a demonic smile on his face.
“Remember the words of the Lord, how He said it is more blessed to give than to receive,” he said.
“Coronel, the men have gathered,” one of Keno’s men said, stepping in through the front door.
“Then we must go. Adios.”
Keno stepped out through the front door and a second later there were three flaming torches tossed inside. Those who were still alive shouted in alarm and some of the uninjured moved quickly to extinguish the blazes.
Chapter Six
Sugarloaf Ranch
Sally prepared an early breakfast on Monday morning and the drive got under way as soon as everyone had eaten. They drove the horses right through the middle of Big Rock, and because most of the citizens of the town were aware of the drive, they had turned out to watch. The horses were well under control, but there were quite a few of them, so they made quite a sight as they practically filled the street from side to side.
Most of the citizens were standing on the boardwalks, and they shouted good-natured jabs at the company as they passed through.
“Look who’s driving the chuck wagon! Hello, Miz Sally. Don’t you go lettin’ any o’ them boys go hungry, now.”
“Ha! There’s Old Mo drivin’ the hoodlum wagon. Old Mo, ain’t you little old for this?”
Neither Sally nor Old Mo replied to any of the shouts, but several of the wranglers called back, and the good-natured ribbing continued until they were clear of the town.
The hoodlum wagon carried extra saddles and tack, canvas, ammunition, blankets, and tools. As soon as they were out of town, the chuck wagon and hoodlum wagon went on ahead of the herd.
While on the move, one of the cowboys would be riding as point man ahead of the herd, scouting for water and graze. Flankers rode on either side of the herd, keeping them moving, while one man rode drag, meaning the rear. This was the least desirable position because the cowboy who rode drag had to swallow all the dust.
It was up to Sally and Old Mo to determine where they would spend the night, and they did so, making forty miles on the first day, and finding a place alongside Elk Creek. Here, they would set up camp and get supper started for the wranglers.
Although Old Mo didn’t do any of the cooking, he did help by gathering wood and starting the fire and bringing water from a nearby creek to keep the water barrel filled.
Supper was cooked over an open fire and the food was served from the tailgate. “My oh my, Miz Jensen, iffen you’re goin’ to cook like that for this entire drive, I’m goin’ to get so fat none of my horses will be able to carry me,” Walt said.
“I’m glad you appreciate my cooking,” Sally said.
“It’s a lot better ’n what Muley can do,” Walt said, referring to the cook back at the ranch.
“All right, boys, time to put out the nighthawks,” Smoke said. “Pearlie, you and I will take it until midnight. Any volunteers for midnight till dawn?”
“I’ll do it,” Cal said. “Walt, you want to take it with me?”
“All right,” Walt replied.
Smoke didn’t have to take nighthawk; he was the boss and he could just order it done. But he didn’t mind it that much because it was quiet and he would be alone, since Pearlie would be on the other side of the herd. And the first half of nighthawk, until midnight, was always the easiest shift.
As Smoke rode around the horses, most of whom were asleep while standing in place, he felt a sense of peace with himself. He had gotten his mother and father buried together, he knew, now, that Janey had straightened out and was living a good life before she died, and there were no unfinished tasks hanging over him. The night breeze was refreshing, and the sounds of the night creatures, relaxing. He wouldn’t trade this for anything in the world.
“Everything quiet?” Sally asked just after midnight, as Smoke bedded down beside her.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I was already awake.”
“That’s not good, Sally, you need your sleep. You have to get up before any of us to fix breakfast.”
“I guess there was just too much on my mind for this first day.”
“Everything is quiet,” Smoke said. He leaned over to kiss her. “Go to sleep now.”
The next morning breakfast was cooked and served from the tailgate of the wagon, just as supper had been the night before. Sally made several extra biscuits and cooked extra bacon. The men grabbed two biscuit and bacon sandwiches apiece, wrapped them up in cloth, and stuck them down into their saddlebags. That would be their lunch.
That established the pattern for the next several days, with an ample breakfast and supper being served in camp, while lunch was generally taken in the saddle.
After breakfast on each day of the drive, Sally and Old Mo would load up their respective wagons and go on ahead of the wranglers by approximately forty miles, covering the distance in about eight hours. There they would search out a place that provided forage and water for the horses, as well as a place that was suitable for the night’s encampment.
“You don’t talk much, do you, Mr. Morris?” Sally asked one afternoon as the two of them sat waiting for the herd to catch up.
“Talkin’ ain’t my strongest thing,” Old Mo said.
“You knew Smoke’s friend Preacher, didn’t you?”
“I knowed Preacher. Can’t say me ’n’ him was ever close, ’cause we warn’t. But I knowed him all right. I knowed him, Grizzly Adams, Kit Carson, Jim Bridger, and lots more. They was all decent men, good men, all of ’em.”
“How come a handsome man like you has never married?” Sally asked, smiling to show that she was teasing.
“I was married oncet. Married, ’n’ had me a boy.”
Old Mo’s answer surprised Sally.
“You were? I’ve never heard that. Was it to a beautiful Indian maiden? I know that a lot of you old-timers did take Indian wives. Preacher did.”
“No, Sara Sue was a white woman. She died in 1846.”
“Oh,” Sally said, sorry now that she had steered the conversation into what could be unpleasant memories. “I’m sorry that I brought it up.”
“No need to be sorry. It ain’t like I don’t remember unless someone reminds me. It’s purty much always on my mind. What Sara Sue done was, she starved to death. Her ’n’ my boy both.”
“Good heavens! Starved to death?”
“Was a lot of ’em starved to death that winter. Me, Sara Sue, and little Johnny come west with a wagon party in 1846. What happened was the wagons got snowbound in the Truckee Pass up in the Sierra Nevada mountains. We couldn’t go ahead ’n’ we couldn’t come back. And all the while we was stuck there, the snow just kept on a-fallin’. I ain’t never seen as much snow before, ’n’ I ain’t never seen so much since. We got stuck there ’n’ soon, we run out of food. Then folks started into dyin’ from starvation.
“We had started out for California to find us some land to farm. But, by the time I got out of that there pass, I wasn’t lookin’ to farm no more. I’d pure lost my taste for it. And truth to tell, I had near ’bout lost my taste for livin’.”
“You’re . . . you’re talking about the Donner party expedition, aren’t you, Mr. Morris?”
Old Mo nodded for an answer.
Sally wished she had not opened this conversation. She knew about the Donner party, and the extreme conditions they had faced. She reached over to put her hand on Old Mo’s shoulder. “I’m
sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m terribly sorry.”
“Until you’ve been there, you don’t never have no idea what a person will do to survive,” Old Mo said.
They were both silent for a long moment before Old Mo spoke again. “I’ll, uh, go get us some more wood.”
Old Mo got up then, and walked toward a scraggly line of trees. Sally felt her eyes well with tears, and she felt a lump in her throat. She knew that the survivors were forced into cannibalism in order to survive. And she wondered, but would never ask, if Old Mo had been faced with that terrible choice.
“Smoke, did you know that Mr. Morris was a part of the Donner party when they got snowed in, in the pass?”
“I knew.”
“Do you think, Lord, I hate to even ask this question, but I must. Do you think . . .”
“Do I think it became necessary for Old Mo to eat his own wife and child to survive?”
“Thanks for asking the question for me, so I wouldn’t have to.”
“I’ve wondered about that myself,” Smoke said. “He has never said one way or the other. But, he may have. I know that something haunts him.”
“If we were ever in a situation like that, and I had died, and the only way you could save yourself, I would want you to do that.”
Smoke shook his head. “No, there is no way I could ever do that. Don’t even think such a thing.”
“Why not?”
“Do you have to ask?”
“Think about it, Smoke,” Sally said. “If you had to do something like that, I would be a part of you, forever.”
Smoke was quiet for a long moment, and when he did speak, it wasn’t a direct reply.
“Good night, Sally. I love you.”
Sally knew that it was a painful and difficult subject, so she didn’t pursue it.
“Good night.”
The Wide Loop
Terror of the Mountain Man Page 5