Behind the Iron
Page 30
“John Leer’s got quite a place here. But he don’t keep real hours. It’s open when it’s needed most. Otherwise, he closes up.”
“Catches some shut-eye?”
The man laughed.
“Hardly. He’s got a half dozen floozies in as many bawdy houses, or so the rumor goes. Servicing all of them takes up his spare time.”
“You figuring on waiting long for him to get back?”
The man pushed his hat back and looked over at Mac. He spat on the boardwalk, repositioned himself precariously in the chair, and crossed his arms over his chest before answering.
“Depends. I’m hunting for cowboys. The boss man sends me out to recruit for a drive. I come here to find who’s drunkest. They’re usually the most likely to agree to the lousy wages and a trip long enough to guarantee saddle sores on your butt.”
“You might come here and make such an appealing pitch, but I suspect you offer top dollar.” Mac tensed when a rider galloped past. The man wore a plaid shirt and jeans. He relaxed. Not a bounty hunter.
“You’re the type I’m looking for. Real smart fellow, you are. My trail boss wouldn’t want a drunk working for him, and the boss man was a teetotaler. His wife’s one of them temperance women. More ’n that, she’s one of them suffer-ay-jets, they call ‘em. Can’t say I cotton much to going without a snort now and then, and giving women the vote like up in Wyoming’s just wrong but—”
“But out on the trail nobody drinks. The cook keeps the whiskey, for medicinal purposes only.”
“You been on a drive?”
“Along the Shawnee Trail.” Mac’s mind raced. Losing himself among a new crew driving cattle would solve most of his problems.
“That’s not the way the Circle Arrow herd’s headed. We’re pushing west along the Goodnight-Loving Trail.”
“Don’t know it,” Mac admitted.
“Don’t matter. Mister Flowers has been along it enough times that he can ride it blindfolded.”
“Flowers?”
“Hiram Flowers, the best damned trail boss in Texas. Or so I’m told, since I’ve only worked for a half dozen in my day.” The man rocked forward and thrust out his hand. “My name’s Cletus Grant. I do the chores Mister Flowers don’t like.”
“Finding trail hands is one of them?” Mac asked as he clasped the man’s hand.
“He doesn’t stray far from the Circle Arrow.”
“What’s that mean?” Mac shifted so his hand rested on his gun when another rider came down the street. He went cold inside when he remembered he hadn’t reloaded. Truth to tell, all his spare ammunition was in his saddlebags, on his horse left somewhere behind another saloon in Hell’s Half Acre.
When the rider rode on after seeing the Comique was shuttered, Mac tried to mask his move by shifting in the chair. He almost toppled over.
He covered by asking, “You said the Circle Arrow owner was a teetotaler. He fall off the wagon?”
“His missus wouldn’t ever allow that, no, sir. He upped and died six months back, in spite of his missus telling him not to catch that fever. Old Zeke Sullivan should have listened that time. About the only time he didn’t do as she told him.” Cletus spat again, wiped his mouth, and asked, “You looking for a job?”
“I’m a piss-poor cowboy, but there’s no better chuckwagon cook in all of Texas. Or so I’m told, since I’ve only worked for the Rolling J in my day.”
Cletus Grant’s expression turned blank for a moment, then he laughed.
“You got a sharp wit about you, son. I don’t know that Mister Flowers is looking for a cook, but he does need trail hands. Why don’t me and you mosey on out to the Circle Arrow and palaver a mite about the chance you’d ride with us to Santa Fe?”
“That where the herd’s destined?”
“Might be all the way to Denver. It depends on what the market’s like over in New Mexico Territory.”
“That’s fair enough. I might be willing to go all the way to Denver since I’ve never been there but heard good things about the town.”
Cletus spat and shook his head sadly.
“Too damn many miners there looking to get rich by pulling skull-sized gold nuggets out the hills. The real money comes in selling them picks, shovels . . . and beeves.”
“Which is what the Circle Arrow intends,” Mac said. “That suits me.” He thrust out his hand for another shake to seal the deal, but Cletus held back this time.
“I can’t hire you. Mister Flowers is the one what has to do that.” The man looked up and down the street, then rocked forward so all four legs hit the boardwalk. One was an inch shy of keeping the chair level. When Cletus stood, his limp matched the uneven chair. He leaned heavily on his right leg. “Let’s get on out to the ranch so’s he can talk with you. I don’t see much in the way of promising recruits.”
Mac mounted and trotted alongside Cletus. The man’s horse was a fine-looking gelding, well kept and eager to run. From the way the horse under him responded, Mac thought it would die within a mile, trying to keep pace.
“Yup,” Cletus said, noticing Mac’s interest. “The Circle Arrow has the best damned horses. Mister Flowers says it pays off in the long run having the best. We don’t lose as many cattle—or drovers.”
“That’s good counsel. There’re too many ways of dying on the trail without worrying about your horse dying under you.” Mac thought a moment, then asked, “What’s the trail like? The Goodnight-Loving?”
“The parts that don’t kill you will make you wish you were dead. Drought and desert, Injuns and horse thieves, disease and despair.”
“But the pay’s good,” Mac said, knowing the man tested him. “And if I’m cooking, the food will be even better.”
“You got a wit about you, son. Let’s hope it’s not just half a one.” Cletus picked up the gait, forcing Mac to bring his horse to a canter.
As he did so, he looked behind and saw two of the black-coated riders slowly making their way down the street. One pointed in Mac’s direction but the other shook his head and sent them down a cross street. Being with Cletus Grant might just have saved him. The bounty hunters thought he was alone. That had to be the answer to them not coming to question them about one of their gang getting shot down.
The thought made Mac touch his S&W again. Empty. He kept reminding himself of that. The saddle sheath lacked a rifle, too. If they caught up and a fight ensued, and he couldn’t bite them, he was out of luck.
“You got a curious grin on your face,” Cletus said. “What’s so funny?”
“Drought and desert, Indians and—”
“I get the drift. And I wasn’t joking about them. The trail’s decent enough, but the dangers are real.”
“Nothing like what I’m leaving behind,” Mac said. That got a frown from Cletus, but he didn’t press the matter. That suited Mac. He didn’t want to lie to the man.
Not yet. Not unless it became necessary to escape the killers Pierre Leclerc had set on his trail.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the series Preacher, the First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter, Flintlock, Those Jensen Boys!, Savage Texas, Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man, and The Family Jensen. His thrillers include Tyranny, Stand Your Ground, Suicide Mission, and Black Friday.
Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.
Being the all-around assistant, typist, researcher, and fact-checker to one of the most popular western authors of all time, J. A. JOHNSTONE learned from the master, Uncle William W. Johnstone.
The elder Johnstone began tutoring J.A. at an early age. After-school hours were often spent retyping manuscripts or researching his massive American Western History library as well as the more modern wars and conflicts. J.A. worked hard—and learned.
“Every day with Bill was an adventure story in itself. Bill taught me all he could about the art of storytelling. ‘Keep the historic
al facts accurate,’ he would say. ‘Remember the readers—and as your grandfather once told me, I am telling you now: Be the best J. A. Johnstone you can be.’”