The blood call lasted a good half hour. Around and around Big Blue and the four cows walked, until they had satisfied the primal urge that compelled them to express their grief. Then, as abruptly as it started, the cries ended, and the longhorns stood as docile as lambs.
“If I had not seen it with my own eyes,” Pitney said, “I would not believe it.”
“Animals do lots of things we wouldn’t think they do,” the foreman commented. “Ever seen an earwig kill a spider? Or does fight by boxin’ with their front hooves?”
“I admit I am not versed in wildlife or their habits,” Pitney confessed. “The closest I came is the bird-watching I did as a youngster. I enjoyed sitting and listening to songbirds warble their delightful sounds.”
“I like wrens,” Owen said. “They’re small but feisty.”
“Just when I reckon I’ve heard everythin’. So you’re a bird lover?” Lon had come up unnoticed, and was grinning like a cat that had just swallowed one of Owen’s wrens. “And here we mistook you for a cowman. Wait until the boys at the Bar 40 hear this.”
“You wouldn’t,” Owen said. “I’ll be up to my neck in wren feathers.”
“To say nothin’ of all the naked wrens flyin’ around,” Lon said.
Slim and Cleveland were shooing the longhorns away from Brownie so Benedito could get to work. The butchering took another half hour. Benedito was a master. He knew exactly where to cut, knew which pieces to keep and which might be laced with venom. At one point he sliced off a square of raw meat and studied it quizzically. Then he stuck the end of the slice in his mouth, sucked a few times, spat in distaste, and threw the piece away.
“Be careful,” Cleveland said. “If you die, we’re liable to starve.”
Eventually they were under way. The rest of the day was uneventful. The same with the day after, and the day after that. But on the following morning they came to the Nueces River and paralleled it to where the river changed course and bent its watery way to the southwest. They crossed at a ford used by nearly all the herds on the Western Trail.
Owen had been worried the longhorns would balk. Cattle often did when it came to moving water. They would refuse to enter or bolt like a pack of hounds were on their heels. But much to his amazement, the red cow, Emily, marched into the Nueces River as if it were her private bath and struck out for the other side. Not to be outdone by a cow, Big Blue forded, too, and since wherever he went, the rest of the cows went, in short order all the longhorns stood dripping wet on the other side.
“That was painless,” Lon remarked.
“There are plenty more rivers,” Owen reminded him.
Streams, too. The very next morning they struck a swiftly flowing narrow watercourse with high banks. Emily came to the top of the near bank and stopped. Whether it was the drop or the rush of water, she would not descend, even when Lon encouraged her with a whoop and his rope. “Danged stubborn lunkhead!” he fumed.
Owen rode up the bank to help but Emily would no more budge for the two of them than she had for just one. “Let’s rope her and drag her across,” he proposed.
“She’s liable to kick,” Lon warned.
“We have to show her who’s boss.”
Help came from an unforeseen quarter. Intent on Emily, neither noticed Big Blue until the bull strolled by as if he were on a Sunday jaunt. Lowering his haunches, Big Blue slid to the bottom as neatly as you please, then waded across.
If cows could look fit to be tied, Emily certainly did. She snorted and went down the bank much too fast, resulting in a giant splash that drenched her from nose to tail. Undaunted, she crossed with her head held high and, once out of the water, stopped next to Big Blue and shook herself, treating him to a shower.
Lon laughed and exclaimed, “Damn me if that cow doesn’t make me think of the last gal I courted!”
With Emily across, Cleopatra, Lily, and Mary were anxious to catch up, and soon they were strung out in their usual formation. Owen and Pitney fell to discussing the state of the cattle industry.
A couple of miles from the stream, Lon Chalmers drew rein. Motioning, he shouted, “You best come see this. It could mean trouble.”
Owen clucked to his mount and trotted to the spot. He leaned down. The short hairs at the nape of his neck prickled, and he remarked, “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“I was hopin’ for later,” Lon said.
Clearly imprinted in the dirt where there could be no mistaking its maker was a human footprint. But not the print of a boot or a shoe.
The track had been made by a moccasin.
13
Chips
Sweet Sally could talk. She could talk from dawn until dusk, and talk twice as much from dusk until midnight. She talked every minute of the day, about everything under the sun. Her three traveling companions had never heard anyone talk so much. The first day out of Whiskey Flats they marveled at her ceaseless chatter. The second day out, they wished she would give their ears a rest. By the third day, two of them were ready to shoot her.
They had stolen a horse for Sweet Sally to ride. Not from anyone in town, but from a settler who lived half a mile out. Luke Deal knew the man kept several horses in a small corral. It was ridiculously easy for him to slip in and help himself, but there wasn’t much to help himself to. Two were so old they were candidates for glue. Another was a swayback. Luke chose a big bay with white stockings and an oddly cropped tail.
Sweet Sally had assured them she could ride. She had not said anything about being able to climb on a horse unaided. She tried, but she was simply much too big to pull herself up. So Deal, Grutt, and Bronk gave her a boost.
As she dangled her huge legs down either side, the bay nickered and looked back at her. Somehow the animal did not seem pleased.
Since the settler kept his saddles inside, Sweet Sally had to go without. She told them she did not mind, that it was better for her to ride bareback. “Saddles chafe my soft skin something awful. They aren’t made for beauties my size. It’s tough being a giantess in a world of pygmies.”
“If you ate less, maybe you wouldn’t have so much trouble,” Grutt could not resist commenting.
“You’re one of those who figure I must stuff myself every waking second? Is that it?” Sweet Sally sniffed at the insult. “For your information, I have a delicate condition. A doctor said so. There’s something wrong with me inside. Something I was born with. When you look at me, you see a cute little chipmunk trapped in the body of a buffalo.”
“It’s a good thing all chipmunks ain’t like you, or there wouldn’t be room for any other critters.”
“That wasn’t nice,” Sweet Sally said stiffly. “If you expect me to travel with you, you must be gentlemen.”
“We’ll try, ma’am,” Bronk said. “But we’re a mite rusty at bein’ nice.”
“I’m patient. I have a lot of wonderful qualities. You can’t judge someone by how they look. It’s what’s inside that counts.”
“What you are inside is mostly fat,” Luke Deal said.
Sweet Sally glared. “That is exactly the sort of rudeness I will not put up with. Make up your minds right this moment. Either you be nice or you won’t have me for a traveling companion.”
“Lady, I never wanted you for company in the first place,” Luke declared.
“What can it hurt us to be nice to her?” Bronk asked.
“She promised us free pokes, remember?” Grutt brought up.
Luke Deal surprised them more than they had ever been surprised by smiling warmly and saying, “You’re right, boys. What was I thinkin’?” He turned to Sally. “You have my word, ma’am, we will treat you as you deserve. Anyone who insults you must answer to me.”
“That’s better. Shows what a woman’s influence can do. We could rule the world if we weren’t always scratching each other’s eyes out.”
“Women rule the world?” Grutt laughed. “Where do you come up with these notions of yours?”
“Men rule i
t now. It’s only fair us females have a turn.”
“Some ruler I am,” Grutt said. “A horse, a saddle, and ten dollars to my name.”
“I didn’t mean all men are Turkish sultans, with chests of gold and gems and harems of a thousand women or more,” Sweet Sally said.
Bronk whistled softly. “I don’t know as I could handle that many. Just one usually gives me more headaches than I can take.”
“I wouldn’t mind a hundred or so,” Grutt said, “so long as they were all young and pretty and waited on me hand and foot. How about you, Luke?”
“Women are only good for one thing.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, mister,” Sweet Sally said. “Females have all kinds of uses. We tend you when you’re sick, mend you when you’re hurt. We keep you warm at night. We sew your clothes. We darn your damn socks. We do all that and more, and what do we get for it? Treated like dirt, mostly.”
Now here it was, five days since they stole the horse, and they were riding north in single file, Luke Deal in the lead, then Grutt, Sweet Sally, and Bronk. It was the middle of a sunny morning. Birds were singing, and all was right with the world for Sally Fitzsimmons.
“Hear that robin? Isn’t it beautiful? He’s singing because he’s in love and his sweetheart is sitting on the nest. Soon their little blue eggs will hatch and they will take their young ones under their wing and be one happy family until winter when they fly off to wherever robins go to, and next year the same pair will be back to build a new nest and start all over again.”
“That’s a thrush,” Luke Deal said.
“Are you sure? Well, thrushes have nests, too, don’t they? And sing when they’re happy?”
“Birds do a lot of silly things.”
Sweet Sally shifted her weight. The bay broke stride but recovered. “You’re sure a surly cuss, you know that? How come? Were you born with so much acid in your system, the only way you can get it out is by spitting at folks?”
“When I spit at you, you’ll know it,” Luke informed her.
“Oh. You’re one of those men who thinks he’s better than everyone else. Who looks down his nose at the rest of the human race because they don’t measure up to how he thinks they ought to be.”
“I don’t give a damn what others do. It’s me I look after. I learned at an early age this world is dog eat dog, and I don’t aim to be eaten.”
“There are a lot of bad folks, sure,” Sweet Sally said, “but there are a lot of good ones, too. Like those Bar 40 boys who saved me from that bunch of Mexican bandits.”
“I’ve been meanin’ to ask about that,” Luke Deal said. “Tell me more.”
Sweet Sally related how she ended up with Paco Ramirez. “Serves me right for not staying north of the border where I belong. I’m not much on Mexican lingo, and haggling over pokes was tiresome.”
Grutt perked up his ears and said, “Speakin’ of pokes, I recollect you mentionin’ free ones if we brought you with us.”
“That I did,” Sweet Sally said.
“So when does the pokin’ commence? It’s been a while since I did any and I have a powerful itch.”
Bronk said gruffly, “Don’t rush her. It’s enough she said she would. When she’s ready, she’s ready.”
“Listen to you,” Grutt retorted. “Since when did you become a saint? You want to poke her as much as me. You told me so.”
“Enough about pokin’,” Bronk said.
But Sweet Sally had not had enough. She jabbed her heels against the bay to bring it up near Luke Deal. “How about you? You never say a word about me spreading my legs.”
“Spread them all you want. I won’t graze.”
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like girls? I admit I may not be the best-looking. But I keep myself fairly clean, and I can do things that will curl your toes.”
Pulling his hat brim lower, Luke said, “There is another way to curl toes.”
“I never heard of it,” Sweet Sally responded. She regarded him thoughtfully for a while, the quietest she had been since the start, then said, “At last I think I have you figured out.”
“That’s important to you, is it, figurin’ me out?”
“I’m female. Females like to know why things are the way they are. That includes the mean people they meet. So, yeah, you have me curious.”
Luke Deal chuckled. “Remember what curiosity did to that cat.”
“Do you want to hear or not? If I’m wrong, tell me, and I won’t ever bring it up again.”
“Like hell you won’t,” Luke said. “As you keep remindin’ us, you’re female.”
Now it was Sweet Sally who chortled. “See? You can be nice when you put your mind to it.” She paused. “All right. Here goes. I think the reason you’re such a surly cuss is because you have a chip on your shoulder. Not the everyday kind of chip most people have because they can’t understand why we’re born only to die, but a giant chip, a chip that eats at you every second of the day.”
Luke deigned to look at her. “I’m impressed. You’re not the stupid slug I took you for.”
“There you go again, being mean for being mean’s sake,” Sweet Sally chided. “A fat body doesn’t mean a fat mind.”
“We’ll carve that on your headstone.”
“Quit acting so nasty. No one is as cold-blooded as you make yourself out to be. Hell, even Paco Ramirez had a streak of human deep down inside.”
“I’m not some greaser,” Luke Deal said. “But you’re right about the chip. I admit it. I’ve had something eatin’ at me since I was twelve. That was when my folks died.”
“What killed them?”
“Not what. Who. We lived in east Texas on a farm. My pa broke his back day after day but we were always dirt poor. Barely had enough to eat. One shirt to wear, only on Sundays, and one pair of britches, patched so many places they looked like a quilt. Shoes were somethin’ we dreamed about.”
“There are a lot of poor people in this world,” Sweet Sally said. “Yet they don’t carry the big chip you do.”
“There’s more to my story,” Luke said, and under his hat brim his features had become severely hard, his lips pressed thin. His jaw muscles twitched. “My pa was a good man. As decent as they come. He took us all to church on Sunday and always gave of the little we had. He could read, and when he tucked us in at night, he would read from the Bible. My favorite was the part about Samson.”
“Wasn’t he the one with the long hair? Who poked a gal by the name of Delilah?”
“That’s the one. But I liked him because he was the best killer in the whole Bible. Killed a thousand soldiers with the jawbone of an ass. Killed another six thousand when he brought a temple down on their heads.”
“Of all the hombres in the Good Book, you liked him most? What about Adam and Moses and that Joseph character and all the rest whose names I can’t remember?”
“They weren’t killers.”
“You were a boy. What did you know of killing? Sounds to me like you are making this up.”
“You would think that,” Luke said harshly. “But no, I’m bein’ honest for once. I’m tellin’ you things not even Grutt and Bronk know. As to why I liked him, maybe it was the seed of things to come.”
“Now you’ve lost me.”
“Seeds. Farmers plant them to grow crops. Might be you have heard of them.”
Sweet Sally snickered. “So you’re sayin’ at the tender age of, what, ten years old, the seed to kill was planted in you?”
Luke Deal shrugged.
“Lordy, men do come up with the most ridiculous nonsense. But go on with your tale. I want to hear about the chip.”
“When I was twelve, some men came to our farm. It was the year after the war. A lot of hate was left over. A lot of killin’ was done. These men, they had fought for the South, and when they came back, their homes had been taken out from under them by Yankee land grabbers.”
“It was a terrible time.”
“My pa hadn’t fo
ught in the war. He refused to take sides. He always said as how we were one country and we should work out our squabbles without bloodshed.”
“Your pa was wise,” Sweet Sally said.
“My pa was a fool. He didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. He told those Rebs that the South should never have broke from the Union. That all the blood spilled was for nothin’.” Luke Deal laughed bitterly. “Then he told them that they had brought the loss of their homesteads down on their own heads.”
“Oh my.”
“They didn’t take kindly to the insult. One of them pulled his revolver and hit my pa across the head. Pa fell, and when Ma rushed to help him, another of those Johnny Rebs hit her with a jug. He only meant to knock her out, I reckon, but the jug broke and part of it stuck in her head, above her ear, and the next I knew, my ma was lyin’ there in a puddle of her blood, as dead as dead can be.”
Sweet Sally reached out an arm but could not quite touch him. “You poor baby. No wonder you carry a chip.”
“I’m not done. There were four of us kids, all boys. I was the second oldest. We were scared, and we didn’t know what to do. Then I heard one of the Rebs sayin’ as how they couldn’t leave witnesses, and another Reb with a red beard, he pulled out his hogleg and shot my pa in the head.”
“Surely they didn’t hurt you kids?”
“I’m gettin’ to that. One of the Rebs wanted to let us live but the other three said it had to be done. My brother Zeb, who was barely a year younger than me, he ran to where my pa’s rifle was leanin’ in the corner, and a Reb shot him in the back. My oldest brother, Sam, he ran for the bedroom but they shot him down, too.”
“If you’d rather not talk about it,” Sweet Sally said, “I’ll understand.”
Luke Deal did not seem to hear her. “That left me and my last brother. We were scared to death. The Reb who didn’t want us harmed ran between us and his friends, yellin’ there had been enough killin’. It gave my brother and me time to get to the bedroom and the chest of drawers where my pa kept an old pistol loaded in case of an Indian attack. I took the pistol and I shot the first Reb who came in the door. It was the big one with the red beard. I blew off part of his face. I shot the second Reb in the chest and he howled like a painter so I shot him again and down he went on top of the one with the red beard.”
By the Horns Page 15