“I don’t question a man’s honesty without cause,” Story said. “If the cows are unbranded and there’s a bill of sale, that’s as strong a claim as I’d want or expect.”
“They’ll be here at first light with forty head,” said Tom Allen. “Where did that bunch of cows come from that’s grazin’ along the river?”
“Russ Shadley and Mac Withers brought them,” Story said. “I hired them for the drive, and they’ve gone to rope more cows. Did you tell Hardin and his bunch we’re needing riders for the drive?”
“No,” said Allen, “I’m leavin’ that up to you. They’re a wild bunch, and not a one more than fifteen or sixteen.”
“I’ll look forward to meeting them,” Story said. “This is the frontier, and a hard land breeds men the equal of it.”
Lorna Flagg was accustomed to having her own way, if not through persuasion, then by tantrum. Her father, one of the town’s bankers, was affluent, socially prominent, and profoundly boring. When Lorna was sixteen, her mother had gone East for a visit and hadn’t bothered returning. Following Lorna’s encounter with Cal Snider, there was a stormy confrontation with her father, Amos Flagg.
“Calvin Snider is trash,” Flagg shouted, “and I wouldn’t have him in my office long enough to sweep the floor, assuming that he knows how.”
“He’s been to war,” said Lorna defiantly, “and he’s a man. I’ve wanted him since I was twelve, and I still do. Now he’s going away on a cattle drive.”
“Good riddance,” Flagg said. “Now perhaps you can begin conducting yourself like a young lady, instead of the town whore. You’re so much like your mother, I suppose I should be thankful you haven’t been sleeping with this . . . this stable hand.”
“How do you know I haven’t?” she taunted. “I fault my mother only for not taking me with her when she left. And you. You’re enjoying this damned government occupation, aren’t you? You’re a big, fat buzzard, feeding off the misery of others. Just two more months and I’ll be eighteen. Then, thank God, I can leave here, and you can’t stop me.”
“But until then,” Flagg said ominously, “I can take a razor strap to your backside.”
“You’ll have to take your pleasure some other way,” Lorna said. “You come after me with a strap or anything else, and I’ll scratch your eyes out.”
In her room the girl looked wistfully at a calendar. It was only the fourth day of February, and not until the fifth of April would she be eighteen. She untied the bandanna and counted the money she’d managed to save. She thought of Cal Snider. Suppose she followed him to Kansas, Missouri, or wherever this trail drive was going, and the stubborn cowboy still wouldn’t have her? Damn him, he refused to see her as anything but a gawky, freckled twelve-year-old. Angrily she ripped off her clothes, and standing before a mirror, regained her confidence. She’d show Cal Snider a thing or two. . . .
February 4, 1866. On the Brazos.
The day dawned gray and wet, the rain subsiding just long enough to take a new start. The Trinity ran muddier, deeper, wider. Wes Hardin and his companions rode in, driving the promised forty head of longhorns. Arch Rainey climbed down to the river and led the four young riders to camp. He then introduced them to Story, Bill Petty, and Coon Tails. Cal, Hitch, and Sandy Bill they apparently already knew. There was a prolonged silence as Nelson Story appraised the newcomers, and they seemed not in the least ill at ease. In fact, there was a cockiness about them, and Story liked that. Their horses, still saddled, grazed with the longhorns along the river.
“There’s coffee,” Story said. “You’re welcome to unsaddle your horses and dry out. I’ll want a bill of sale.”
“We get our money, you get the cows,” said Hardin shortly. “No more.”
“Wrong,” Story said, his eyes meeting Hardin’s. “I get the cows, along with a bill of sale, and you get your money. Anything less, and you ride out the way you rode in, taking your cows with you.”
Strangely enough, it was the Comanche—Quickenpaugh—who laughed. The others glared at him, and he seemed not to care. Hardin turned back to Story, and when he spoke, it was without emotion.
“If you got pencil and paper, I’ll write out a bill and sign it.”
Without comment Story took a stub of pencil and a notebook from his coat pocket. He turned to a blank page in the notebook, passing it and the pencil to Hardin. When he had completed and signed the bill of sale, Story read it. Satisfied, he drew out his wallet and from it took four hundred dollars. The eyes of Hardin’s companions followed the money as Hardin shoved the bills into a Levi’s pocket. Without a word he turned to go, his three riders following.
“Just a minute, Hardin,” Story said.
The four of them turned, suspicious, hands near the butts of their Colts.
“We’ll be here another month or so,” said Story. “When you’ve gathered some more cows, I’ll buy them. I’m hiring cowboys for the long drive north. Men. Men with the bark on.”
The four said nothing, making their way carefully down the embankment to their horses.
“Hell,” said Tom Allen, “the Indian’s the most civilized of the bunch. You reckon they’ll join the drive?”
“Maybe not the Comanche,” said Story, “but the others will.”
“Damn right they will.” Coon Tails laughed. “Way you put it to ’em, they’ll git to thinkin’ on it an’ figger you don’t think they got the sand. The Injun knows who an’ what he is, but the others is jist itchin’ t’show the world what malo hombres they be.”
“They’ll be ropin’ more cows too,” said Bill Petty. “That’ll give ’em a reason for ridin’ back.”
“We want them roping more longhorns,” Story said, “and as many others as are willing, such as Shadley and Withers. Time is our enemy. With more and more Texans taking herds up the trail, eventually there’ll be little or no graze.”
“With the two hundred head Wolfington’s promised, and with what we already have, that’s two hundred and seventy,” said Bill Petty. “Not bad for the first couple of days.”
“We won’t do that well every day,” Story said, “and it’s a far cry from the herd we need. We still have most of the day ahead of us. Unless somebody’s got a better idea, we might as well split up into the same teams we had yesterday. Cal, we’re depending on you, Arch, and Hitch. Can you lead us to some more cows?”
“I don’t know of any dead-sure sales,” said Cal, “but there’s plenty of small ranchers that ain’t got enough cows for a drive, even if they had the money.”
“Last fall,” Hitch said, “a dozen of the little spreads throwed their cows together and come up with fifteen hundred head. Amongst them, they managed enough grub and riders to get the herd to Sedalia. There’s a bunch of others aimin’ to do the same thing this spring.”
“That’s driving the price up,” said Story. “When I first heard of the wild Texas longhorns, they were going for two or three dollars a head.”
“But that combinin’ herds for a drive ain’t caught on everywhere,” Arch said. “I’d say we got a better chance of buyin’ cows if we ride farther south, toward Waco. ’Course we don’t know nobody there, and we’d just be takin’ pot luck.”
“Then we’ll need a third pack mule,” said Story. “We’ll split up into three teams and take enough grub for a week. That means we can’t start until tomorrow. I’ll take one mule with me, buy another in town, and load them both with grub.”
“I’m almighty tired of hunkerin’ in camp,” Coon Tails said.
“I can understand that,” said Story, “but I need a man in camp with a quick eye and a quicker gun. Nobody in the outfit’s more qualified than you.”
“By God, that’s right,” the old mountain man cackled. “Jist go on an’ hunt yer cows. T’won’t nothin’ nor nobody bother the camp whilst yer gone.”
Loading a mule with its packsaddle, Story headed for Fort Worth. The rain slashed in from the northwest, and the fierce wind snatched at Story’s thonged-down hat.
“Hoss,” said Story, “I’ve never seen so much rain, but I’m not complaining. On the high plains all this would be snow, and it’d be neck deep by now.”
It came against the wind, and Story felt the slug rip through the crown of his hat before he heard the faint sound of the shot. Story had his Henry rifle out of the boot when the second shot came, and it wasn’t even close. But there was a scream from the mule, and the animal reared, fighting the lead rope. Story loosed the rope and dismounted. Resting the Henry across his saddle, he blasted four shots into the swirling gray curtain of rain. The storm at his back, he waited in vain for a muzzle flash, for return fire. But there was none, and he pondered the motive of a bushwhacker who had tried to kill him with visibility so limited. He poked his thumb through the hole in the crown of his hat. Whoever the bastard was, he was no slouch with a rifle. Story found the mule, his back to the storm, drifting. There was a burn along the animal’s left flank that still oozed blood. When he returned to camp he would attend to the wound, applying sulfur salve.
Story rode on toward town, the Henry across his saddle, cocked and ready. If the bushwhacker tried again and came close enough to be a threat, he would likely be near enough for Story to see the muzzle flash. But Nelson Story rode unmolested into Fort Worth, and it seemed like darkness was approaching. Lamps flickered dimly behind closed windows and through partially open doors. Story had dismounted before the York and Draper livery barn when five riders trotted their horses along the street. They had entered town only minutes behind him. The fifth rider had a horse on a lead rope with an ominous canvas-wrapped bundle lashed to the saddle. Conscious of its macabre burden, the led horse was skittish, fighting the rope. On the off side a pair of boots dangled from beneath the canvas wrap. As the five drew closer, Story recognized the lead rider as the belligerent sheriff, Lot Higgins.
“Hold it,” Higgins shouted, drawing his Colt. “Stay where ya are.”
Story remained where he was, and when the five had dismounted, Higgins again spoke.
“Raise yer hands,” Higgins said, “an’ keep ’em up till I say you can let ’em down. Danvers, have a look at his saddle gun. Now, mister, you jist turn around, keepin’ yer hands up. I aim to take a look at them Colts. Lift the tail of her coat.”
“You expect a lot of a man with both his hands in the air,” said Story angrily.
One of the sheriff’s men laughed, and Higgins turned on him with a snarl.
“You findin’ all this so damn funny, Elmo, git over there and break them pistols, see if they been fired. Danvers, what about the saddle gun?”
“Four loads gone,” Danvers said.
“Wal, now,” said Higgins, turning to Story, “mind tellin’ us what—or who—you been shootin’ at out on the prairie in a pourin’ rain?”
“Somebody fired at me,” Story said, “and I fired back.”
“By God,” said Higgins, “I never seen a hombre with so many folks after his hide. You got any proof you was shot at, besides yer word?”
“A hole in the crown of my hat and a nasty burn on my mule’s flank,” Story said. “Unless you figure that was caused by wind and rain.”
“Don’t git smart with me, pilgrim. I’m the sheriff, they’s a dead man on the led hoss, an’ till somebody better comes along, the only suspect I got is you. I can throw you in the juzgado an’ keep you there.”
“His pistols ain’t been fired,” Elmo said. “Does he get ’em back?”
“Shut up, Elmo,” said Higgins. “I’ll tell you what to do an’ when to do it.”
“Sheriff,” Story said, “if it’s not asking too much, who is the hombre you’re accusing me of killing?”
“Sol Abrahms,” said Higgins. “The government-appointed tax collector.”
“Sheriff,” Story said patiently, “I’m from Montana Territory, here to buy Texas longhorns. Today I’m in town only to get another pack mule and more grub. What possible reason would I have for shooting your federally appointed tax collector?”
“He’s right,” said one of the sheriff’s men. “It don’t make no sense. We might as well let him go.”
“When I want advice,” Higgins snapped, “I’ll ask fer it.”
“It’s good advice,” said Story, “and you’d better take it. Otherwise, I’ll hire a lawyer, demand a trial by jury, and make you prove me guilty.”
Higgins had talked himself into a position from which there was no graceful escape. Several of his men, including Elmo, were grinning behind his back. Higgins had but one choice, and he turned back to Story with a growl.
“Git on about yer business.”
Higgins mounted, the others following, except Elmo. He winked at Story, returned his pistols butts first, mounted his horse and rode after the others. Story went on into the livery barn and bought a third mule. On his way to the mercantile, he rode past the Cattleman’s Bank just in time to meet Lorna Flagg emerging from it.
“Mr. Story.”
Leading his mules, Story trotted his horse as near the boardwalk as he could. He found it difficult to believe that Cal Snider had shown no interest in this girl, and he was more than a little certain that she had hailed him for information about Cal. There was a protective roof over the entrance to the bank, and Story dismounted, thankful for the temporary shelter from the storm. He tipped his hat to Lorna and waited for her to speak. She did, not beating around the bush.
“Mr. Story, please tell Cal I’d like for him to ride in to see me before . . . before he leaves Texas.”
“I’ll tell him,” Story said uncomfortably, “but he told me after that last meeting with you, he wasn’t coming to town again.”
“Oh, damn him and his Texas pride,” she said. “It’s not my fault my daddy’s a highfalutin, stingy old banker who—”
“Lorna,” said Amos Flagg from the bank’s doorway, “I’ll not have you consorting with riffraff. Come inside immediately.”
“I won’t,” Lorna said defiantly. “Mr. Story, you tell Cal if he won’t come to see me, then I’ll ride out to see him. I know where the camp is, and—”
Amos Flagg grabbed her arm, but Lorna broke free, tearing the sleeve of her shirt. Flagg swung his right fist and it smashed into Lorna’s jaw just below her left ear. The girl was lifted bodily off the boardwalk and splashed into the muddy street on her back. Furious at such blatant brutality, Story snatched a fistful of the portly banker’s boiled shirt and laid a thundering right on the arrogant man’s chin. Flagg somersaulted over a hitch rail, flopped belly down in the mud and lay there snuffling and grunting like a hog. Story was helping a dazed Lorna to her feet when Amos Flagg sat up. He wiped the mud off his mouth and began cursing Story.
“You cow-nursing bastard,” he bawled, “I’ll see you in prison. I’ll have you locked in irons and thrown in Huntsville to rot.”
But there had been a witness to the shameful scene. Emma Baird, owner of the dressmaker’s shop across the street, waded the mud until she stood facing Amos Flagg. Emma was a slender gray-haired woman who couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds, soaking wet. But when she spoke, it was with such withering contempt, even the furious old man flinched.
“Amos Flagg, you’re a filthy, contemptible beast. I saw you strike that child, and what you got wasn’t nearly what you deserve.” With that, she turned to Lorna and Nelson Story, and it was to Story whom she spoke.
“I saw it all. Bless you, Mister . . .”
“Story. Nelson Story.”
“I’m Emma Baird. I saw what you did, and God bless you for being man enough to do it. If that old fool goes to the law—Lot Higgins, God help us—then you come to me. I’ll tell the truth of what happened. Lorna, are you all right, child?”
“I’m all right,” Lorna said. “It was no worse than I’ve had before. Thank you,” she said, turning to Story. “You will give Cal my message, won’t you?”
“Yes,” said Story, “I’ll give it to him. But will you be safe here?”
“Ye
s,” Lorna said. “Emma saw what he did, and I can go to her if I have to. I’ll be eighteen in two more months, and then I can go away. I thought I . . . Cal . . . please tell him I need to see him, but he must not come to the bank. He’ll know where to find me.”
Amos Flagg had gotten to his feet and stumbled back into the bank. Emma Baird had returned to her little shop, and Nelson Story watched Lorna hurry along the boardwalk, unmindful of the storm. Story rode on to the mercantile, and despite Lorna’s assurances, he was concerned for her. There was something about the girl—a strength of character—that appealed to him, and he found himself wishing Cal wasn’t so hell-bent on washing his hands of her. There was more to this situation than met the eye, for Lorna had said, “. . . he’ll know where to find me.”
But Story needn’t have been concerned for Lorna Flagg’s safety. She returned to the house, to the seclusion of the room that was hers, stripping off the torn shirt, the muddy Levi’s, the sodden boots. She poured water from a porcelain pitcher into a matching basin and washed the mud from her hair. That done, she bathed the mud from her body and stood naked before the long mirror attached to her closet door, studying the nasty bruise that had already begun to purple her jaw. How many times had he hit her, hurt her? She had lost count, but she had never pleaded with him, nor had he ever seen her cry. But Amos Flagg was a vindictive man, and she had little doubt that he would find a way to make her suffer, if she permitted it. Reaching a decision, not even bothering to dress, she went to the room that had been her mother’s. She lifted the mattress. Resting on the springs was a pistol. A .31 caliber Colt. She removed it, pressing the coolness of its muzzle to the painful bruise on her jaw. She broke the Colt, found it was still fully loaded, and took it to her room. She placed the weapon under her pillow with a silent vow that Amos Flagg had beaten her for the last time. . . .
4
It was near dark when Story returned to the camp on the Brazos with his loaded mules. Cal, Hitch, Arch, and Coon Tails climbed down the embankment to the river, preparing to unload the mules.
The Virginia City Trail Page 5