André LeBeau had spent a cheerless Christmas day, his only companion a bottle of bourbon whiskey. Now, the day after Christmas, he waited outside Jason Brawn’s office. Hung over, he was in dire need of a drink, but he dared not face Brawn while drinking or drunk. He sensed—in fact, knew—he was about to be handed an ultimatum, insofar as Priscilla was concerned. If the girl failed to live up to the promises he had made, then he would be held accountable for that formidable collection of IOUs Jason Brawn held. So deep had LeBeau sunk in his morbid thoughts, Brawn’s secretary had trouble getting his attention.
“Mr. LeBeau,” she said impatiently, “you may go in now.”
LeBeau stepped into the office, closed the door, and waited. Brawn looked up, nodded to a chair, and LeBeau sat down. Brawn continued to move papers about on his desk, letting LeBeau wait. But LeBeau didn’t care. He staggered under a burden far greater than anything Jason Brawn might lay on him. He had sacked Emily’s trust fund to get Bradley Montaigne off his back. Now he was faced with the fearful task of replacing the money he had taken from the trust. Years ago, Emily’s father had set up the trust. While he’d believed in LeBeau, trusted him, Emily’s mother never had. LeBeau was fearful the old woman would discover his treachery and crucify him. She would get a copy of the annual statement that went out on September 30, allowing him less than nine months to raise $25,000! He was startled back to reality when Brawn slammed his fist down on the desk.
“Damn it, LeBeau, pay attention when I’m speaking to you!”
LeBeau swallowed hard and said nothing, knowing the tirade was coming.
“I’ve been patient and discreet, LeBeau. Too patient, and too discreet. I’m going to be blunt enough, so even you can understand. I’m prepared to trade you fifty-five thousand dollars in gambling debts for Priscilla’s hand. October first, 1866, LeBeau. That’s the day you play out your string, one way or the other. But I’m a generous man; you have several options. The first, and the one I prefer, is that Priscilla and I announce our engagement, the marriage to take place on Christmas Day. Your other option is to simply pay your gambling debts. No more IOUs, LeBeau.”
“Thank God you’re a generous man,” said LeBeau bitterly. “Suppose I don’t deliver Priscilla or the money?”
“LeBeau,” said Brawn, with an evil smile, “you underestimate my resourcefulness. I too have a pair of options, and you aren’t going to like them. One of them is to send the committee around to teach you the error of your ways. Then—if you’re still alive—I’ll see that your disgraceful activities during the recent war are exposed. Given that much information, it won’t be too difficult for the Federals to figure out who shotgunned John Mathewson.”
Livid with rage, it was a moment before LeBeau could speak at all, and then in almost a whisper.
“I paid,” hissed LeBeau. “Montaigne said I owed twenty-five thousand, and I paid in full. That was to free me from your devilish scheme. As for killing Mathewson, I had nothing to do with that, and you know it.”
“It seems Mr. Montaigne made a mistake in the accounts,” said Brawn. “The twenty-five thousand you’ve paid is only about half what you owe. I might overlook that, LeBeau, as a favor to my father-in-law. Of course, I know you didn’t kill Mathewson, but he was investigating the illegal activities in which you’ve been involved. Who would have had a better motive than you, the scoundrel who masterminded the smuggling scheme?”
“You double-crossing son of a bitch,” shouted LeBeau, “before I’d force Priscilla to marry you, I’d as soon be dead and in Hell.”
“That,” said Brawn, “can be arranged.”
Priscilla was shown into Harvey Roberts’s office. She found the big man kindly, sympathetic, and a good listener. She told him everything she knew, much that she suspected, and concluded with her investigation. Finally she came to the purpose of her visit.
“Mr. Roberts, I believe Ten’s father, Jesse Chisholm, may be here soon. Could you—would you—arrange for me to…talk to him?”
“I can and will arrange it, Priscilla. From what you’ve told me of the impact Ten’s had on you, I believe Jesse will welcome a meeting with you. I have known Jesse Chisholm for many years. While I don’t know your young man that well, I was impressed with him. I thought enough of him that I couldn’t allow this ugly incident to pass without Jesse being aware of it. So I wrote him a letter, sending a copy of the newspaper account, along with the posse’s sworn statement that Ten had been killed. I have received an answer to my letter, and have been asked to keep in confidence the information sent me. But knowing Chisholm as I do, and knowing your feelings for Ten, I believe Jesse would want you to read that letter. Would you like to?”
“Oh, yes,” she cried. “Please!”
The letter was brief, and Priscilla read it through tears.
Dear Harvey:
I’m obliged to you. I know nothing about this. Ten will have to explain it. He left here bound for Texas, to gather a herd of wild longhorns. When I received your letter, I telegraphed Washington and had them wire the field officers in charge of occupational forces in Texas. Ten was in Nacogdoches in early November. He is alive, and for his sake, I ask you to keep this in strictest confidence. I won’t have another shipment for you until the middle of January. We’ll talk then. Again, on Ten’s behalf, much obliged.
Jesse
“Thank God,” said Priscilla. “He’s gathering a herd, and that means he’ll be driving them somewhere, instead of coming back here. Please, when Mr. Chisholm gets here, arrange for me to talk to him.”
“That I will,” said Roberts. “January fifteenth is on Sunday; come here the next morning. If he’s not on that steamboat, he’ll make the next one.”
Once Chris was able to ride, they redoubled their efforts. Beginning the third week in January, they had more than a thousand longhorns in their holding pen.
“Let’s build a herd of fifteen hundred,” said Ten. “We’ll lose some on the drive. From now on the pair of us securing the camp and doing the branding will have to be especially watchful. The herd’s gettin’ big enough to arouse the interest of Tomlin and his bunch.”
The next morning, while Wes and Lou were branding longhorns, Bodie Tomlin rode in. He ignored Wes, looking directly at Lou.
“I brought you a message from your daddy,” he said.
“He can ride,” said Lou. “If he’s got anything to say to me, let him say it himself. I want nothing to do with you.”
“Time’s comin’ when you won’t have a choice, girlie,” said Tomlin, with an evil laugh. “Your daddy’s some concerned, you an’ your sister layin’ out with four men. He wants the both of you back at the house.”
“He told you our secret,” said Lou, “and it’s you that wants us back at the house. You and that scruffy bunch of coyotes you ride with. Me and Chris, we like it here.”
“You’ve delivered your message, Tomlin,” said Wes. “Now ride.”
“Kid,” said Tomlin, “you’d best get whatever good out of her you can, ’cause you ain’t got much time. Me an’ the boys, we got plans for the two of ’em.”
Wes froze, his hand on the butt of his Colt. Tomlin had him covered, the pistol cocked. Tomlin laughed.
“You’re slow, boy. My old granny could outdraw you, left-handed. I could of shot you dead twice. Next time, I will.”
He holstered the Colt, contemptuously turned his back and rode out. Wes stood there, his head down, his face flaming red. Lou had her rifle cocked and was aiming for Tomlin’s broad back when Wes snatched the weapon away.
“No,” he said. “You can’t shoot a man in the back.”
“He walks on his hind legs like a man,” snapped Lou, “but he’s a lowdown, sneaking coyote. You’re goin’ to be sorry you didn’t let me shoot him.”
They spent a miserable day trying to ignore each other. When the rest of the outfit rode in, Lou told them what Tomlin had said. She didn’t tell them Tomlin had drawn on Wes, and Wes said nothing. After supper Ten caug
ht Lou away from the others and spoke to her.
“You didn’t tell us everything, did you?”
“I told you what Tomlin told me,” she said, refusing to look at him.
“Wes is cowering like a whipped dog. What took place between him and Bodie Tomlin?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I will,” said Ten. “With Tomlin’s bunch after us, this is no time to have differences among ourselves.”
He found Wes, his back to a cottonwood, staring into the river.
“Lou didn’t tell it all,” said Ten. “Why don’t you tell me the rest of it?”
“Why not?” said Wes. “It can’t get any worse. Lou looked up to me like I was a man. This mornin’ she saw me for what I am. A still wet-behind-the-ears kid, tryin’ to be somethin’ I’m not, an’ likely can never be.”
“Lou didn’t say that. Those are your words, and you won’t be worth a damn to anybody, not even yourself, until you shuck that notion. With Tomlin threatening us, we can’t afford to lose you. Now talk!”
Eyes averted, his head down, Wes began to talk. When he had finished, he looked up, and Ten was touched by the misery in his eyes.
“You came out of Mississippi not knowin’ how to use a rope,” said Ten, “and now you can build and throw a loop as well as any of us. How fast you can draw and fire a Colt depends on you. On your reflexes, and your willingness to practice. I can get you started, but you’re going to have to want it bad enough to work at it. Do you?”
“Help me,” said Wes, getting to his feet, “and I’ll show you how bad I want it. I’m ready to start now.”
“Unload the Colt,” said Ten. “Every day, every spare minute, practice gettin’ your iron out and on the target. When you throw it on your target, do it like pointin’ your finger. When you’re slick enough at gettin’ your Colt out an’ ready, I’ll show you a trick an old-time outlaw taught me, and you’ll be ready to burn some powder.”
Night after night, long after the others had rolled in their blankets, Wes worked with his Colt. He wore the holster on his left hip, his Colt butt forward for a cross-hand draw. Ten watched approvingly as Wes became more and more skillful at getting the Colt into action lightning fast.
“You’re fast enough and slick enough at gettin’ the iron in action,” Ten said, “but that can only get you killed if you don’t hit what you’re shootin’ at. We’ll start with these.”
In his hand there were six large brown acorns. He held his gun hand out palm down and placed one of the acorns on the back of the hand. Slowly, he raised the gun hand shoulder high, then tilted it enough for the acorn to roll off. His hand a blur of motion, he drew and blasted the acorn to bits before it hit the ground.
“Good God!” Wes gasped, in awe.
“You might want to practice some dry shootin’,” Ten said, “until you’re comfortable with the trick.”
Wes kept at it for two weeks, using so much ammunition that Ten was about to call a halt to the practice, when Wes finally shattered one of the acorns.
“Once you’re able to hit what you’re shootin’ at,” Ten said, “you need to practice shootin’ from different positions. You should be able to shoot belly-down or flat on your back, and to draw on a man who’s got the drop on you. A man who has you covered won’t expect you to draw, and that gives you a slight edge. Never throw yourself backward or belly-down, because he has only to drop the muzzle of his iron. Always fall to right or left, drawing as you go. That forces the other man to shift his weapon, gainin’ you maybe half a second.”
Finally the time came for a test. From a deck of cards Ten took the ace of hearts, and with a bit of rosin, positioned it chest high on a pine.
“Load five shells,” said Ten, “and back off fifty paces.”
Ten watched with pride as Wes drew with blinding speed, emptying the Colt with a drumroll of sound. All five slugs had centered the card, leaving a jagged hole that could be covered with a two-bit piece….
February was unusually mild, the wind balmy, the sun warm. In camp, Wes and Lou had been branding longhorns all morning.
“I’m so sweaty and dirty,” said Lou, “I’m tempted to get in the water for a few minutes. In that bunch of willows down yonder, nobody could see me.”
“No,” said Wes, “it’s too risky.”
Even as he spoke, a covey of birds dipped down beyond the willows and were immediately up and away.
“Somebody’s down there,” said Wes. “Stay here, and keep your rifle handy.”
Wes drew his Colt and ran along the riverbank, using low-hanging underbrush and willows for cover. He wanted to reach the heavy growth of willows ahead of the intruder, but discovered he was too late. A slug sang through the willows just inches above his head, and so thick was the underbrush, Wes still had no target. He drew up, hunkered down, and waited. He would force the other man to make a move. A light wind rustled the leaves, but there was no other sound. Wes was sure the stranger had left his horse beyond their fence, so that left him afoot, and he couldn’t retreat without making some sound. When it came, it was the snapping of a twig. Finally, on the farthest bank of the river, Wes caught what might have been the crown of a man’s hat. His adversary was crawling along the bank, using underbrush for cover, trying to get back to his horse. Wes fired three times into the brush, and a dirty gray hat skittered down the bank and into the water. There was a rustling sound behind him, and Wes threw himself to the right, away from the river. He ended up on his belly, his cocked Colt practically in Lou’s frightened face.
“By God,” he hissed, “I told you to stay in camp. I almost shot you!”
She said nothing, and he turned away in disgust. He worked his way upriver, back the way he had come, until the water was shallow enough for him to cross. Keeping his head down and using the underbrush for cover, he crept along the bank until he was near the point where the shooting had taken place. Finally he could see the sole and heel of a boot, and he found his man facedown, but Wes moved on. When he had traveled a hundred yards without seeing or hearing anybody, he then concluded the man had been alone. He made his way back upriver to the man he’d shot. Lou stood on the opposite bank of the river, looking doubtfully at him.
“Come on across,” said Wes, “and take a look at this hombre.”
“That was a foolish thing,” she said when she reached him, “and I feel terrible.”
“Not near as terrible as I’d feel if I’d shot you,” said Wes. He rolled the dead man over so they could see his face. “Do you know him?”
“I don’t know his name,” said Lou, “but I’ve seen him. He’s one of the Tomlin gang. What are we going to do with him?”
“For now,” said Wes, “we leave him where he is. His horse too. We’re not sure he was alone, although I saw nobody else. He just about had to be here on Tomlin’s orders, and that means they’ll come looking for him. We’d best leave off branding and keep a close watch. When Ten and the others get here, we’ll decide what to do. I reckon I’ve just kicked over the beehive and we’re goin’ to have to fight.”
On a good day, the X-Diamond riders roped, hogtied, and penned sixteen wild longhorns. Even after the brutes had struggled for half a day, thrashing themselves to exhaustion, it was no easy task getting them behind a fence. Since they were never sure how ornery a long-horn was going to be, or how long it might take to pen the animal, they stopped their gather at noon. Starting with the longhorns that had been hog-tied the longest, they began the arduous drive to the holding pen. Some days it took them most of the afternoon to get the morning’s gather penned. Following the shooting, Wes and Lou had less than an hour to wait for the rest of the outfit to ride in with their first longhorns. Ten’s reaction to the shooting surprised them all.
“Good shootin’, Wes,” he said. “Now they’ll have to come after us, instead of back-shootin’ us one or two at a time, and we’ll be ready for them. Since we’ve opened the ball, we’ll make them dance to our fiddler. Wes, you and Lou r
ide back with Marty and Chris, and bring in the other four longhorns. Hern, you and me are goin’ to find this dead man’s horse, rope him across the saddle, and send him back to Tomlin.”
“That’ll blow things to hell an’ gone,” said Marty.
“I aim for it to,” said Ten. “Once we bring in the last of today’s gather, we won’t ride out again. Not until Tomlin’s finished. With two of us in camp, and the rest scattered through the brakes, they can back-shoot us one at a time. They’re one man down, so now it’s six of us and six of them. Our only chance is to force them to come after us while we’re all together.”
Marty, Chris, Wes, and Lou rode out. Ten and Herndon started downriver. Curious, they stopped in the willows for a look at the dead man.
“Look at that,” said Herndon. “Wes put two slugs in this hombre and didn’t get a scratch.”
“Prime shooting,” said Ten. “Wes has been through the fire.”
They found the horse—a roan—and led it to the willows. The nervous animal shied at the smell of death, and it was all Herndon could do to hold him. Ten slung the body across the saddle, and using the dead man’s lariat, roped his hands and feet together, under the belly of the horse. Ten let down the rails at the upper end of the canyon, and Herndon slapped the roan on the flank. Already skittish, the animal lit out in a gallop.
The Chisholm Trail Page 18