Return to Red River

by Johnny D. Boggs

“We started at night, Joe,” Mathew said. “Finished at dawn. ‘Glorious as all get-out.’ Remember, Joe. That’s what you said. After it was all over. ‘Glorious as all get-out.’ Yes, sir. Hell of a story. You always could tell some great stories. It certainly was, Joe. It most certainly was.”

  He returned his hat to cover the wet mop that was his hair. Glorious? Far from it. It had been ugly, brutal, vicious. They had given no quarter.

  And he, Mathew Garth, had ordered it. Screaming to ride all of those Indians down, that dead Indians wouldn’t spread the word, wouldn’t sneak up on them and swipe a beef or two. He remembered Buster McGee and the lance that had gone through his sides, and how the bloody point and feathered ends held up both of the dead man’s arms. No one had been able to pull the lance out of the poor cowboy, forcing Cherry Valance and Groot Nadine to break off the ends and bury Buster with wood and likely some feathers and maybe a few brass tacks in his lungs.

  Mathew wondered if that fight had been what had truly hardened him. Maybe that’s when he saw how close he truly was to Thomas Dunson, how much alike they were.

  A coyote yipped. A bit early, for it was midday by then, and the sun, the wind, and the remnants of the fire turned this part of Indian Territory into a blast furnace. He looked south, wondering about A. C. Thompson, and the cattle herds behind Thompson. Had the fire reached them, sent their beeves running? They would have to skirt around the fire’s path, for longhorns and horses needed to graze, and there would be nothing to eat here till next spring.

  He wondered if this fire would mark an end to the Chisholm Trail’s Cut-Off to Dodge City.

  Again, he looked at Joe Nambel’s remains.

  He had not told Reata or Lightning to bring a shovel. Or Thomas Dunson’s Bible.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  They killed Bradley Rush while he was pouring coffee. The bullet caught him in the throat and sent him flying backward, where he crashed against the rear wheel of Groot’s Studebaker, the back of his head smashing against the boxing with a sickening thud.

  Yago Noguerra had been pulling on his boots after replacing his filthy socks. They shot him twice. The first bullet caught him in the stomach, and he fell backward, rolled over onto his side, and pushed himself on hands and knees, coughing, praying in Spanish, and spitting out blood before the second bullet slammed into the top of his head.

  Groot was reaching for his shotgun, but tripped, yelling in pain and grasping at the plaster cast that had been blackened with dirt and soot and grime. Laredo Downs reached for his pistol, only to realize that he still wore his long johns. Some cowhands slept in their clothes, but Laredo never could sleep like that. And he had left his spare clothes back in his war bag back at camp the previous night. The fire had come up on them too quickly, and all his clothes had been, everyone assumed, burned by now. He stopped, froze, spread his arms away from his sides as he yelled, “No, Tom. Don’t!”

  Tess echoed Laredo’s warning.

  Yet Tom Garth was diving for the Winchester in the scabbard of his saddle, lying on the ground, drying out along with the saddle blanket. A bullet caught him in the shoulder. Another carved a ditch across the inside of his left thigh. He crashed to the ground, came up, kept crawling, pain masking his face, reaching out with his good arm for the carbine.

  That’s when Tess dived and knocked him down. She rolled on top of him as he cried and cursed, and she looked up at the men walking into their camp.

  “Don’t,” she pleaded. “Please.” She almost hated herself for begging.

  The white man laughed.

  “Don’t you fret yourself to death, Tess of the River. I might have need of young Garth directly.” He turned his revolver, already cocked, and aimed it at Groot.

  “Cookie. If you don’t stop that racket, you won’t be feelin’ that bum leg of yours no more.”

  Groot bit back the agony. Joey Corinth, keeping his hands above his head, carefully moved toward the cook and knelt beside him.

  “That’s good,” Jess Teveler said. “That’s real good.” He pulled a silk bandanna from his back pocket and tossed it to Tess. “There. Plug one of the boy’s holes with that. Then I reckon you best rip off part of that dress of yourn to patch up the other hole in your boy. And after that, fry us up some bacon. With biscuits. You, ma’am. I don’t want that belly-cheater nowheres near no knife or hot grease or nothin’.”

  * * *

  They herded those out with the herd into camp. No Sabe, John Meeker Jr., and Teeler Lacey looked surprised, worried, but none were bleeding. And none wore any weapons.

  “Where’s Lightning?” Jess Teveler directed the question at Tom, who leaned against his bedroll.

  “Looking for Mathew,” Tess fired back from the fire.

  “I asked him.” Teveler sipped coffee.

  “Pa’ll . . . be . . . He’ll kill . . .” Tom lay against the bedroll. Tess swore.

  “Easy. I don’t take bein’ cussed by men or tramps from Memphis.”

  “Shut your filthy trap, Teveler.”

  The gun came out of the holster, the hammer cocked, and the barrel trained on Groot Nadine. “Cookie,” Teveler said, “I don’t need you at all. Remember that before you speak to me again.”

  Tess turned the bacon. Teveler had left the three Chickasaws riding around the herd and remuda. Now she understood why the Indians were so far from Chickasaw country. They had no intention of bartering for a toll for the cattle. Jess Teveler had probably guessed that Mathew would not pay a tribute, and even if he had, they still would have set the prairie ablaze.

  In addition to the three Indians, four men rode with him. Two were cowboys, from their looks, who had been riding the grub line for months. Two were gunmen. They reminded her of the men who had ridden with Dunson all those years ago when they had arrived at Tess’s camp. Only worse. She glanced at the body of Bradley Rush. He had been one of Dunson’s hired guns. He had changed his ways. Had been a good hand on the drive. And he had died, with a bullet that had broken his neck. He had died, probably not knowing why, or how.

  At least the cowboys had dragged Rush and the poor young vaquero under the wagon, covered the bodies with blankets. One of the killers had even made the sign of the cross over the two men.

  “You say Garth was lookin’ for somebody,” Teveler asked.

  “I didn’t say,” Tess replied.

  “All right.” Teveler’s head went up and down, and he grinned. “Be a shame if he got cooked like that bacon you’re burnin’.” He laughed. “That was one hot fire. Huge. Didn’t think it would burn that much. But that sure helps our cause.”

  “Your cause?” Tess pulled the skillet off the fire.

  “My cause. Your cattle.”

  She knew that. She just wanted to hear him say it.

  Two horses whinnied, and Tess rose. So did Jess Teveler. They watched as Lightning and Reata rode into camp. On one horse. Riding double. She knew what it meant and breathed easier.

  They had found Mathew, who had taken one of the horses and gone after Joe Nambel. Mathew was still alive.

  She frowned. Or . . . had they found Joe Nambel alive, and Nambel had borrowed the horse to look . . . ?

  It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was staying alive. Keeping Tom alive.

  Tess pressed her lips tightly. She looked around, but the only weapon she had was the skillet and a fork. One of the saddle tramps stood behind her. She heard the metallic click as he cocked his revolver.

  “Nice and easy, folks,” Teveler said. “Just let ’em ride in easy. We’s just visitin’. Let ’em think that. I don’t want no more bloodshed.” He chuckled. “On account that I ain’t sure those longhorns won’t run again. Figured they was too tired when we come a-callin’. But now . . . shut the hell up.”

  Reata loped the horse into camp, and Lightning swung down. Then, Tom yelled, “Reata. It’s Teveler! Kill him.”

  Tess held her breath. She knew the black man had been chasing Jess Teveler. She knew . . . or thought
she knew . . .

  Reata swung from his horse, pushed back his hat, and laughed.

  “I know that, boy.” The burly ex–buffalo soldier nodded at Teveler, who returned the smile. “How’s things, Jess?”

  Standing in the center of camp, noticing Tom and his bandages for the first time, Lightning Garth looked completely baffled.

  * * *

  It made sense, now. Reata had been with that posse in Comanche that was chasing Teveler, but he had actually been working with, or maybe for, the outlaw. Make sure the posse didn’t get too close, or put himself in a position to warn Teveler. Then he trailed the herd and when the time became right, rode in to camp and got himself a job. All the while planning this . . . this . . . this . . .

  Tess spit.

  “Where’s your pa, Lightning?” Teveler asked.

  He started to answer, then put his hand on the butt of his revolver.

  “You don’t want to do that, Lightnin’.” Reata pressed the barrel of the revolver he had drawn into Lightning’s spine. “You got a friend in Jess Teveler, Lightnin’. A real good friend.” With his free hand, the old soldier reached over and lifted Lightning’s. 44 from the holster. He pitched the Smith & Wesson behind him and answered the question Teveler had thrown at Lightning.

  “Garth’s back yonder, six miles. A creek stopped the fire on the northwest side. You didn’t tell me you planned on burning the whole damned country, Jess. I didn’t want to get baked.”

  “You didn’t.” Teveler chuckled.

  “Well, Garth borrowed the kid’s horse,” Reata said. “Went into the charred-over country lookin’ for a saddle tramp named Nambel.”

  “That right, boy?” Teveler asked.

  “I don’t know,” Lightning answered.

  Teveler laughed harder. “That’s right, Lightnin’. You don’t know. You don’t know at all. But I do. Mathew Garth—”

  “No!” Tess screamed. “Don’t.”

  “Shut up. Your own ma didn’t even—”

  “Lightning,” Tess cried out. “You have to listen to—”

  “Shut that gal up, Creede.”

  The cowhand put a gauntleted hand over Tess’s mouth and wrapped a strong arm over her midsection, lifting her off her feet, pulling her back. Lightning started for him, but Reata again stopped him with the gun in his back.

  “Just listen to Jess Teveler, kid,” the black man whispered.

  “That ain’t your ma, boy,” Teveler said. “And Mathew Garth ain’t your pa.”

  And Teveler told Lightning Garth everything. That his mother had been some hussy named Edna. Poor Edna’s husband had died a hero wearing the gray and fighting alongside General Patrick Cleburne, but the old rebel hadn’t been Lightning’s father, either. Because in Memphis, well, some women didn’t have much of a choice.

  Tears streamed down Tess Millay’s face.

  “Nobody knows who your pa was,” Teveler said. “Hell, for all we know, it could’ve been Reata there. Or Creede.”

  “No, boss,” the saddle tramp said. “Never been to Memphis.”

  Teveler told other stories, about Memphis and The Donegal. About the Boar’s Head and the River Palace. He said that Mathew Garth was nothing but a cattle thief who had stolen a herd from his own foster father and had, in more ways than one, been responsible for Thomas Dunson’s death. Most of the blame, though, Teveler put right on the woman crying, struggling against Creede’s iron grip.

  “She nudged Cherry Valance’s gun hand,” Teveler said. “Right when he was drawin’ on Dunson. Valance had been aimin’ to wing the big cattleman, but instead, the bullet hit him in the middle. So Dunson killed Valance. Well . . . it was actually Tess there who killed Valance with that little nudge. And that nudge also killed Dunson. That’s the woman who lied to you, who told you she was your ma. She done it so she could get Dunson’s ranch.”

  That was a lie. Oh, she had hit Cherry Valance as he drew his revolver, but that had been for Dunson. No, she had done that for Mathew Garth, even though he was nowhere near the wagon train by that time. Cherry Valance had no equal when it came to pistol-fighting. He could have killed Mathew Garth, and he would have killed Dunson. Instead, Dunson was only wounded, and Cherry Valance was dead. Dunson could have lived, too, had he shown any sense, not insisted on traveling in the back of a Conestoga from Abilene and across the Red River.

  Lightning no longer looked like the cowboy he had become. He stood there, face pale, a frightened kid. Confused. Not sure of anything.

  “Now . . .” Teveler lowered his voice. “Here’s what I want to ask you, Lightning. You think a mother like that, a cattle thief like your dad. You think they care one whit for a bastard child like you? You ain’t even their blood. They’d toss you away like the core of an apple.” He pointed to Tom, lying unconscious, tossing and turning, sweating, maybe bleeding to death, dying. “That’s their blood, boy. That’s who’d get the ranch with Tess and Garth lying six feet under.”

  Teveler nodded at Creede, who released his grip on Tess.

  She fell to her knees and looked up, reaching out for Lightning, trying to say something. But all she could do was just cry.

  “My God,” Lightning said. “It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s . . . Oh, hell, it’s true. Ain’t it? Ain’t it, Ma? Ain’t it?”

  “I . . .” It was all Tess could choke out.

  “Remember,” Reata whispered, “who got the new boots in Spanish Fort.”

  Lightning straightened, stared at Reata, then at Tom, and briefly at Jess Teveler before his eyes locked on his mother’s . . . or who he once thought was his mother.

  “What is it,” he said after a long moment, “that you want from me?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “So,” Jess Teveler said, “here’s the deal: You can come with me and Lightnin’, and after we sell these cattle in Caldwell, you’ll make a whole lot more money than you ever dreamed you could. Won’t be no thirty a month, that’s for certain.”

  Lightning looked around, wondering. He felt numb from it all. All his life had been a lie. He couldn’t even look at his . . . no . . . she wasn’t his mother.

  “Caldwell?” Laredo Downs snorted. “They ain’t shippin’ herds out of Caldwell no more. It got civilized last year.”

  “They is for me. Man I know worked it all out. Him and me got it all figured, you see. But you ain’t goin’ with us, old man. I wouldn’t be caught dead ridin’ with a man wearin’ nothin’ but his unmentionables.”

  Even the Chickasaws laughed at that.

  “Well,” Teveler said. “What about it?”

  To Lightning’s surprise, and even more to Jess Teveler’s, the cattle-stealing Mexican named No Sabe merely shook his head.

  “Damned fool greaser,” Reata said.

  Teveler shook his head. “Guess there ain’t much point in askin’ you, is there?”

  Teeler Lacey spit tobacco juice.

  “What I figured,” Teveler said, and turned to John Meeker Jr.

  “How much money?” Meeker asked nervously.

  “Way I figure, if the steers bring thirty a head, we’ll pay all of you two thousand each. And if the prices are higher . . . ? Well, ride with me and you’ll be wealthy men.”

  Meeker licked his lips. At length, he nodded.

  “Boy?” Teveler asked.

  “Go on, kid,” Groot told Joey Corinth. “They’ll kill you if you stay.”

  “But . . .”

  “Go on.”

  And Joey Corinth stepped away from Groot’s Studebaker.

  “Well,” Teveler said. “That ’bout does it, don’t it?” He moved to Tess. “Except for you, lady. You’ll be comin’ with us. You and your real son.” He turned toward Lacey and Laredo. “Case you boys think about tryin’ somethin’ foolish.”

  Lightning didn’t like that at all. His stomach twisted. He wanted to be shut of the green-eyed liar and the self-righteous Tom Garth, whom he had always looked upon as his kid brother. He didn’t need any reminders that he
was a low-down nobody. But he said nothing.

  “Reata.”

  Lightning turned as Jess Teveler walked to the big black man. “Fetch Mr. Garth back to camp, boy. Then catch up with us.” The old buffalo soldier nodded, mounted his horse, and loped off toward the southeast.

  “You gonna kill these men?” Lightning heard himself ask.

  Grinning, Teveler strode across the camp and put his right arm around Lightning, pulling him close. “No need, Lightning. I ain’t cold-blooded or a liar. Not like some you’ve knowed.” He shot a glance at Tess Millay and laughed. “No, you see, the fire we set. That burned better than even I predicted. Any herds won’t be comin’ this way. They’ll have to cut around, pick up the trail farther west. So ain’t nobody gonna come across these folks for a spell. And afoot, they ain’t goin’ far. By the time someone finds ’em and if they gets foolish enough to try to catch up with us, we’ll be rich and havin’ us a high ol’ time down in Mexico, spendin’ money like we’s a Carnegie or a banker . . . or . . . a Mathew Garth.”

  As Teveler moved away, Lightning watched the Indians lift Tom and load him into the chuck wagon through the opening in the front. Tess Millay climbed into the Studebaker to be with her son—her only son—and Teveler ordered Meeker to drive the Studebaker. They had strapped all the weapons onto one of the mules, and the cowhand named Creede led it out of camp.

  Joey Corinth pushed the remuda north. The Studebaker rolled. The Indians went to the rear of the herd as they began getting the longhorns up, bawling, moving slowly.

  Lightning swung into the saddle and started off toward the drag.

  “Lightnin’.”

  He turned in the saddle and saw Jess Teveler waving him over. “Drag’s for tenderfeet, sonny. Come on up with me. At the point.”

  Lightning turned his horse. He did not look back at No Sabe, Groot, Teeler Lacey, Laredo Downs . . . or the two dead cowboys covered with blankets.

  * * *

  A flour sack was not a fitting bandage, but it was the best, cleanest, closest thing to one in Groot’s lumbering Studebaker. Tess changed the dressing on Tom’s shoulder. That was the troublesome wound. The ditch in his leg had been clean enough, a grazing wound, deep, painful, but easy enough to treat. But the bullet remained in her son’s shoulder, and if he lived to see Caldwell—Tess didn’t know exactly how far they were from the Kansas border town—lead poisoning would likely have already set in.