By the Horns

by Ralph Compton

  “I didn’t even know you carried that thing.”

  “This, and a shotgun in the wagon. It would be a big surprise to a Comanche, sí?” Benedito gazed toward the woods. “Or whoever is out there now.”

  Owen gave orders that the fire be maintained all night. He sent Lon and Slim out to gather fuel to last them.

  The woods were deathly still. The wind had died, the coyotes were quiet. The two cowboys left their rifles behind so their arms were free to carry limbs. Hands on their revolvers, they roved about under the trees. Now and again their spurs would jingle lightly, and about the fourth or fifth time Slim glanced down in irritation and said, “I wish we had thought to take them off.”

  “If they’re spyin’ on us, they know where we are anyway,” Lon said. “I half hope they jump us. It will be their last time.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Slim replied. “You can unlimber that smoke wagon and put three holes into a man before he so much as blinks. I’m lucky if I can hit the broad side of a barn.”

  “All it takes is practice.”

  “Horse feathers. I could practice from now until doomsday and not be half as good as you. It takes a knack and I don’t have it.” Slim glanced at Chalmers. “I heard about what you did down in Mexico with Mr. Bartholomew. Four bandits, they say, done so quick, they were dead before they touched their hardware.”

  “One did,” Lon said.

  “See? Damnation. If you hadn’t become a cowboy, I bet you’d be as famous as John Wesley Hardin or Ben Thompson.”

  “Or dead.”

  Slim began gathering wood. Lon stood watchful as a hawk, his lightning right hand always on his Colt. When Slim had an armful, he clasped the dead branches firmly with his left arm and drew his revolver with his right. Then it was Lon’s turn to collect fuel. When he had as much as he could carry, they backed toward the clearing.

  They were almost to it when something moved deep in the trees. Instantly, Lon’s Colt was out and pointed and the hammer gave a distinct click.

  “What is it?” Slim whispered in dread.

  “Hush, you infant,” Lon scolded. They waited in breathless anticipation of a war whoop or the twang of a bowstring or the blast of a shot, but silence continued to lay over the woods like a mantle. After a few minutes Lon nodded at Slim. “Keep goin’. I’ll cover you.”

  Slim didn’t argue. He was no gun hand. His whole life was cows, and if it were up to him, he would never be put in a situation where he had to take a human life, white or red. Some of the other hands liked to joke that he was too tenderhearted for his own good because he was fond of calves and puppies and always treated women with the utmost respect, but he let their jests go in one ear and bounce out again. He could not change who he was.

  Owen saw them backing toward the fire and darted to their side, his rifle to his shoulder. “Did you see something?”

  “Something,” Lon said.

  “It could have been a deer,” Slim speculated.

  Lon shot the lanky puncher a hard look. “Or a Comanche.”

  They settled in for the night. Owen and Lon lay on their backs with their rifles at their sides. Slim and Cleveland would wake them at one a.m. Pitney spread his blankets close to the fire and was about to lie down when Lon asked him what he was doing.

  “Turning in. What does it look like?”

  “Sleep in the flames, why don’t you.”

  Perplexed, Pitney sat up. “I like to be warm.”

  “Do you like bein’ dead? Because if there are red-skins skulkin’ about, and they take it into their heads to exterminate us, the first one they shoot will be the British dandy lyin’ near to the fire where they can see him as plain as day.”

  “Oh,” Pitney said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “It’s the little things that can get us bucked out in gore,” Lon warned. “Try to put yourself in their moccasins and not do anything that makes it easy for them to slit your throat.”

  Pitney moved his blankets out of the ring of firelight.

  Over under the wagon, where he always slept, Benedito was already snoring. He was always the first to turn in so he could always be the first to awake in the morning. His sombrero was pulled low over his face, and fluttered with each loud breath he took.

  Big Blue and the cows were dozing. The bull seemed to fill half the clearing, he was so huge. His horns shone like twin swords.

  As had become her habit, Emily lay close to him, their backs nearly brushing. Lily, Cleopatra, and Mary lay in a cluster of their own.

  The camp quieted. More snores broke the stillness, mixed with the occasional jangle of Slim’s and Cleveland’s spurs.

  About one a.m., Slim woke Owen and Lon. Arching his skinny back, he yawned and said sleepily, “All yours. Things have been quiet.”

  “Not a sign of Indians or anything else,” Cleveland added. “Other than a hoot owl.”

  “Could be we’re worried over nothin’,” Owen said. “Could be the owner of that moccasin and his friends if he has any are miles away.”

  Lon cradled his Winchester in the crook of his left elbow. “Could be cows can fly.”

  “If they are out there, why haven’t they done anything yet?” Cleveland asked him.

  “Indians aren’t stupid. They don’t want to die any more than you do. They won’t light the wick until they’re damn sure they can kill us without us killin’ them.”

  “Maybe they are waitin’ until mornin’,” Cleveland said. “Some tribes don’t like to fight at night, I hear. It’s supposed to be bad medicine or some such silliness.”

  Owen was wiping dust from the barrel of his rifle. “Their medicine is no sillier than a white man carryin’ a rabbit’s foot.”

  “It’s more like a religion, isn’t it?” Cleveland said. “Something to do with their Great Spirit or Great Mystery or whatever they call it.”

  “Hokum,” Slim said. “Red bunk. I don’t set store by any of it.”

  “They do,” Lon said, “and that’s what counts.” He strode toward the perimeter.

  Slim turned to Owen. “What has him as techy as a teased snake?”

  “He gets like this when he’s on edge. Bein’ shot and nearly dyin’ will do that,” Owen said. “He’s on the prod, all horns and rattles, and I wouldn’t want to be those Indians if they try to rub us out.”

  But the rest of the night was uneventful. The cows and the horses rested undisturbed. Owen stood watch over the north half of the clearing, Lon prowled like a restless panther about the south half.

  The sky was still dark when Benedito stirred. His sombrero had slid off and the first thing he did was put it back on. He crawled on hands and knees out from under the wagon and slowly uncurled. He shook himself a few times against the morning chill, then went to the Dutch stove. For breakfast it would be eggs, bacon, and toast. The eggs were in a flour sack. Before leaving the Bar 40 Benedito had poured the flour into a pot, then carefully refilled the sack, adding as many eggs as was safe. Eggs were easily broken, and the flour served as a cushion.

  Soon the stove was hot. Benedito cut strips from the heavily salted slab of bacon and placed them flat in a buttered pan. Only when one side of the bacon was nicely brown did he break eggs open over another pan and place buttered bread in a third. He already knew how the punchers liked theirs done: Owen always wanted his eggs scrambled, Lon and Slim liked theirs over easy, Cleveland liked his yokes hard and the whites well done. The Englishman did not like eggs. He usually ate only a couple of biscuits for breakfast. Benedito would never say so to Pitney’s face, but the man from the other side of the world had the appetite of a bird.

  Slim, surprisingly enough, was the biggest eater of them all. His stomach was a bottomless well. Benedito continually marveled at how much the cowboy could eat, yet Slim never gained a pound. Which irked Benedito. He had to watch how much he ate or his large belly would be even larger.

  The cowboys always took a few minutes after breakfast to relax, to sip coffee and let th
eir food digest. But today the four had rifles at their sides, and while they gave the impression they were relaxed and at ease, a closer scrutiny revealed the tenseness in their postures and the wary darting of their eyes.

  Dawn broke. A golden crescent framed the tangle of brush bordering the far side of the creek. The longhorns were all standing except Big Blue, who was usually the last to rise.

  “Do you still expect trouble?” Alfred Pitney inquired.

  “Any minute now,” Owen answered. “If it’s Indians, they’ll move on us before we ride out.”

  “It’s Indians,” Cleveland said.

  “You’re startin’ to sound like Lon.” Owen grinned. “Always lookin’ for storm clouds when it might not even rain.”

  “There’s a storm cloud now,” Cleveland said softly, and pointed.

  Owen, Lon, and Slim whirled, Lon’s Colt flashing in the morning light. Alfred Pitney nearly dropped his cup. Benedito dived his hand under his serape but did not draw the machete.

  There were five of them. Two were an old man and woman, wrinkled and stoop-shouldered, an ancient warrior and his wife. The other three looked enough like the old pair to be their children or their grandchildren. All were bones and sagging skin. Their eyes were dark sockets, their cheeks hollow. The old man smiled, showing mostly gums where a full mouth of teeth had once been. They wore worn, frayed buck-skins, and moccasins that had been stitched and re-stitched to mend holes. Only one was armed, a young one with a bone-handled knife at his waist. The bone handle was cracked.

  “Good Lord!” Alfred Pitney declared. “They’re scarecrows!”

  “They look sickly to me,” Slim said. “You don’t reckon it’s catchin’, do you?”

  Owen walked toward them. He held his right hand in front of him with the first two fingers pointed at the sky and moved his hand as high as his head. “We are friendly,” he said. “Do you speak English?”

  Their blank looks demonstrated they did not.

  “What can we do for you?” Owen inquired, and gestured to get his point across. “What is it you want?”

  The old warrior pointed a bony finger toward the Dutch stove. He placed his hand on his stomach and rubbed it in a circle while moving his mouth as if he were eating.

  “They’re hungry,” Cleveland said.

  “They’re starved,” Lon amended. “They can’t hunt much with just a knife.”

  Owen said over his shoulder, “Benedito, rustle up a sack we can spare. Fill it with whatever is left of the sourdough and our breakfast leavin’s and anything else you can think of.”

  “Sí, señor. Pronto.”

  The Indians watched hungrily as the cook scurried to comply. Drool dribbled over the old man’s lower lip when Benedito brought the sack over. He accepted it gratefully, his eyes misting, then raised an arm in gratitude or salute, said a word to the others, and the five of them trudged off into the woods as silently as the wraiths they resembled.

  For a while no one spoke. Then a horse whinnied, breaking the spell.

  “All that worryin’ we did,” Owen said.

  Lon Chalmers shook his head and sighed. “Does anyone else feel as ridiculous as me?”

  “What will happen to them?” Pitney asked.

  “The same thing that happens to all of us,” Lon said, “only odds are they’ll die sooner than we do.”

  15

  Tail Wags Dog

  A miracle occurred. Something so extraordinary, Luke Deal, Grutt, and Bronk were stunned: Sweet Sally did not say a word for two days after the deaths of the cowboys. Not a single, solitary word. When Luke or Grutt or Bronk spoke to her, she ignored them. She treated them as if they did not exist.

  A great sadness had come over her. A sadness that shielded her from their taunts and crude jokes and insults. She did not care what they said. She did not care what they did.

  Sweet Sally’s sadness was tinged with fear. She had not considered herself in any danger until Deal proved otherwise by coldly, brutally shooting the two young men. Her glib tongue had put her in peril. Now she regretted persuading Deal to bring her along.

  By nature, Sally was one of those who always looked for the best in people and tended to overlook the bad. She liked people, truly liked them. From her fondness stemmed her belief that deep down inside of every human being, no matter how evil they might appear to be, was a shred of goodness. Paco Ramirez had been a prime example. To the world at large he was a bandit, a murderer, a thief, and a rustler. But he had treated her with kindness, and never once hurt her out of spite or just to hurt her for hurting’s sake.

  Sally recollected someone telling her once that there was an exception to every rule. Luke Deal was the exception to hers. The more she came to know him, the more they talked and the more she saw of him, the more convinced she became that he was the first and only truly evil person she had ever met.

  He did not care about anyone or anything. Not so much as a drop of the milk of human kindness was to be found anywhere in him. He was empty inside. Where most people had a heart and a soul, he had emptiness. It was as if he were hollow, as if all kindness and consideration had been drained out of him, or eaten out, devoured by whatever inner demons had caused him to become as he was.

  He would kill anyone or anything without being provoked. He killed just to kill. When the deed was done he showed no regret or sadistic joy, no emotion of any kind. To him, killing people was no different than killing bugs or birds or anything else. Killing was killing, and he did it as casually as most folks put on clothes, or breathed.

  Sweet Sally was sure it had to do with the brutal deaths of his parents. That day, something in Luke Deal had forever changed. All trace of human feeling had been erased and replaced by something so hideous, so vile, it changed a small boy into a monster.

  The second day of her silent treatment they were winding along a track between two settlements when they stopped at midday to briefly rest their horses. Sweet Sally found a convenient log and wearily sat down. She was tired of riding. She was not built for it. Her legs were sore. Her backside was tender. She wanted to stop at the next settlement and get a room for a few days and do nothing but eat and sleep and take long hot baths and eat some more.

  A shadow fell across her and Sweet Sally glanced up. She nearly gave a start. But she had learned long ago to master her expression so it did not give away her true thoughts and feelings. A woman had to be adept at hiding her true self when dealing with men.

  Luke Deal had his thumbs hooked in his belt. Those gray eyes of his were as icy as a mountain glacier and as empty of emotion as a tomb. “Enough is enough.”

  Sweet Sally did not say anything.

  “Grutt and Bronk are upset that you won’t talk to them, and I don’t aim to listen to them bellyache about it the rest of the day. So start talkin’, and start talkin’ now.”

  Sally smiled. The silent treatment always had an effect. It was one of the most powerful weapons in her personal arsenal.

  “I reckon you didn’t hear me.” Luke Deal drew his Remington and touched the muzzle to her forehead. “Start talkin’ or have your brains splattered all over creation. Your choice.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  Deal smirked and replaced the revolver with a flourish. “That’s better. I don’t care what you say so long as Grutt and Bronk stop gripin’. I didn’t bring you along to make my life miserable.”

  Sweet Sally took advantage of the opening. “Why did you agree to bring me along? Sure, I begged you, but it certainly wasn’t out of the goodness of your heart.”

  “I have plans for you, cow.”

  “Please spare me the insults.” Sally fought down a rising surge of fear. “What sort of plans? I’d like to hear.”

  “I bet you would.” Luke’s contempt was transparent. “But I’ll keep them a secret a while yet. I wouldn’t want you to get any ideas.”

  “Ideas about what?” Sweet Sally pressed him. “Come on. Be reasonable. Haven’t I treated all of you
nicely? Haven’t I given Bronk and Grutt their pokes without complaining about how they could both use a bath and a clean set of clothes? Have I ever once said anything mean to you?”

  “Is all that supposed to impress me?” Luke retorted. “Is it supposed to make me think you’re special? You’re a whore. A common, good-for-nothin’ piece of trash. You give your body to anyone who wants a nibble.” Luke spat at her feet. “You’re a worthless wretch. The hombre who puts windows in your skull will be doin’ the rest of the world a favor.”

  Sweet Sally felt a cold wind blow over her. Yet, oddly, the trees were still. “You can’t go on as you are.”

  “You’re still tryin’ to figure me out, aren’t you? Fair enough. I’m the curious one now. What have you learned?”

  “You need a woman, Luke.”

  Laughter burst from Luke Deal like water over a falls. He laughed and laughed and then laughed some more, and when he stopped, he looked at her in disbelief. “You’re loco. Do you know that?”

  “I mean it. You need someone good in your life. You need someone to teach you how to live again.”

  Again Deal laughed, then put a hand to his side and choked back more. “I had no idea you could be so comical. You’re worth your weight in gold.”

  “What’s so funny about what I just said?” Sweet Sally refused to be intimidated. “I’m right and you know it.”

  “Of course you are. You’re a woman. Women are always right.” Deal snorted and smacked his leg.

  “Spare me your disrespect, if you don’t mind.” Sally had opened a crack in him and she was going to keep prying at his shell. She patted the log. “Sit down. Talk a spell. It can’t hurt you any.”

  Luke glanced toward where Grutt and Bronk were seated in the shade near the horses. “For a minute or two,” he said, and deposited himself on the log just beyond her reach. He folded his hands on his knees and looked at her expectantly. “Well? Let’s hear the rest of your silliness.”

  “Is it silly to be kind to people? To care enough about them that you want to help them?”

  “You don’t care about me. You don’t care about any man. To you, men are like toothpicks. They have their use, then you throw them aside.”