Sunday's Colt & Other Stories

by Randy D. Smith

  Dil was immediately concerned. “What makes you say that?”

  Driscoll looked a little sick. “You don’t have no money on this ride, do you?”

  Dil shook his head. “Come on, hombre. What makes you say that?”

  Driscoll turned back to the fence and leaned on the rail, pointing as he spoke. “He’s got his saddle too far back and his stirrups too long. He’s going to wedge into the saddle and try to muscle her down when he needs to use a light touch. He’s too wide-shouldered and top-heavy to stay on that mare the way he’s going to try to ride her. He’ll try to strong-arm her and that’s what she’s a-wanting. She’ll make three or four stiff legged jumps to jar his nuts loose, then do a wheel about on her back feet and send him a-flying. Just about the time he thinks he caught up with her, they’ll be a-going in different directions.”

  “And you could do better?” Dil asked.

  Driscoll didn’t answer so Red River Sam took the reins. “Damn right he can do better. There ain’t a man living that can stay a bronco or shave a steer better than this man. I’ve seen him make horses go into battle that were too poor to eat and then nurse them thirty more miles to the next fight with nothing more than an encouraging word and an ear rub. I’ve seen him ride the worst green broncos the Confederate cavalry had to offer and in less than an hour turn them over to a private, house broke and eating out of his hand. This is the best horseman that ever threw a leg over the cantle of a saddle. Even old General Forrest hisself said that Driscoll was the finest natural born cavalry rider and horse breaker in the entire Confederacy. God strike me dead if I didn’t hear the words myself.”

  Dil went wide-eyed. “Is that a fact?”

  “It is.”

  Dil turned to Driscoll. “Is that the truth of it?”

  Driscoll looked to his feet. “I ride a little.”

  Dil turned to watch Rattlesnake Jack gather the reins and put his foot in the stirrup. “We’ll see, by God. We’ll see.”

  Old Jack swung into the saddle, drew up his reins, and dug those sharpened spurs hilt deep into her flanks.

  “Why’d he want to do that for?” Ty Lee mumbled.

  The Black Queen hunkered down as Jack set his weight into the saddle, but when them spurs found their mark, she fare-thee-well exploded into a stiff-legged, bone-jarring, detonation of full-blown, head-down, broncobusting, gut-wrenching vaults. As powerful as Rattlesnake Jack was, he could no more keep her head high than drag a ton bull with a greased lasso. She made four leaps into the middle of the corral, growling, farting, and groaning with each surge of energy. Old Jack flopped like a rag doll as he tried to find her rhythm. It looked like he was just about to catch up when she wheeled about and launched old Jack into the sky. He hit the ground headfirst and shattered like a Christmas tree ornament as those sharpened spur rowels dug into his own back.

  True to form, the Black Queen wheeled about again and made for the wreck that used to be Jack. It took four men to drive her back and drag the remains of Jack to the corral fence. They shoved him through the space between the running poles and piled him neatly in some fresh horse apples on the far side. The entire affair had been a full-blown disaster.

  “Har. Har. Har.” Arky Blue laughed as the rest waited in silence to see if Jack would stir with life after they dug the dirt out of his mouth. “I guess that was about the worst ride I’ve ever seen. This was you boys’ ringer? Hell’s fire! My grandma coulda made a better showing.”

  Dil Towsen’s mouth fell open as he witnessed the catastrophe. He turned to Red River, his eyes wide with wonder. “Amazing! It was just as your man said it would be.”

  Red River nodded grimly and looked to Driscoll for an appraisal.

  “I thought he would do better than that,” Ty Lee whispered.

  As the men cornered the Black Queen and jerked Jack’s saddle, Arky Blue swaggered over to Dil Townsen. “Well, sir, I’ll tell you, I almost feel bad about taking your money. You boys ain’t the wranglers I heard you was. I guess I’ll need to head farther south to find a real vaquero to bring this mare to justice.”

  The men gulped as Dil counted out the money. Some of them had their life savings…meaning five or ten dollars…invested in that ride. But as bad as they hated losing the money, they hated Arky Blue’s digs and scurvy remarks even more.

  Dil watched Arky fold his wad and give the surrounding crowd one of his toothy, haughty grins. “Pretty sad, gents. I guess that was just plain heartrending. Old pretty boy there has about as much grace in the saddle as an anvil.”

  Dil Townsen’s face looked like a freshly chiseled gravestone. As Arky turned to walk away, Dil asked, “You ain’t through, er you?”

  Arky held up in mid stride. “Now, that all depends. I figured you boys was cleaned out.”

  Dil leaned against the corral fence. “You got twenty-four hundred dollars there. You up to risking it on another ride?”

  Arky eyed Townsen carefully and smiled his sick, twisted best. “You got another rider that wants to take a toss?”

  Dil nodded. “I do. And I’ll bet my ranch against your poke at two-to-one.”

  There was an audible gasp from the crowd. The H-7 was a damned fine place; too fine to risk on this deal.

  Even Arky was taken aback. “Forty-eight hundred dollars? That I can’t manage.” He paused and thought out his finances. “I’ll go fifteen hundred at two-to-one…after I see your man, that is.”

  Dil Townsen turned and pointed a gnarled finger at Driscoll. “There he is.”

  Ty Lee shifted on his feet, straightened, and removed his hat like he was being introduced to a school marm.

  Arky’s eyes darted quickly to Townsen to check if he was serious. “Who’s he ride for?”

  “Both these boys ride for the H-7,” Townsen said bluntly.

  Red River and Ty Lee exchanged glances but held their composure.

  Arky nodded, struggling to accept the credibility of the claim. He gave the wretch closer inspection. Ty Lee was dressed in ragged, grimy Confederate gray. One of his boot toes was torn loose from its sole and the heels were so overrun that it was a wonder he could keep his balance. His filthy hat brim drooped about his ears and his black hair draped over his collar. He was scarecrow thin and he had the look of a drowned rat in a stock tank. “I don’t want to offend but is this feller healthy enough to get on the mare, let alone ride her?”

  Dil turned to Ty Lee and smiled. “Well, what about it? You up to riding this mare?”

  Ty Lee’s eyes hardened. “Yes, sir. I’d give her a go.”

  The crowd drew a breath in unison as it waited for Arky’s reply.

  Arky shook his head. “I don’t want any part of a killing. This feller ain’t up to it and I think we all know it.”

  Dil Townsen now had his turn to dig. “Must be that carpetbagger courage you were speaking of.”

  Arky Blue’s features hardened. “The hell you say. All right, I’ll put up the money against a quitclaim deed to your ranch. But, I want you to know that I don’t welch and would draw a damned fine line against a welcher.”

  Dil nodded grimly in spite of the offensive insinuation. “Let’s get a paper and write it up.”

  As pen and paper were gathered and the witnesses assembled round to watch the ceremony, Red River and Ty Lee waited by the corral fence.

  “Well, pard,” Red River said. “It looks like we got us a job offer. What do you think?”

  Ty Lee shook his head. “It’ll be all right. He seems straight enough.”

  “I hope you don’t think I talked out of turn. I mean, I never intended for you to risk your neck like this.”

  Ty Lee leaned over the rail and studied the Black Queen. “All those days of the war. How many good friends have we had to say goodbye to? This ain’t nothing no matter how it turns out.”

  Red River shook his head. “She could hurt ya, pard.”

  Ty Lee turned to get his saddle from his pony. “Tain’t nothing,” he said softly.

  The
wranglers saddled her up and got ready to hold her head so Ty Lee could get his foot in the stirrup. He waved them away, slipped his hand close to the bit shanks and held her nose next to his face. He spoke softly to her and gently rubbed his hand under her chin, kind of like a mother comforts her fretting babe. He and that mare stood there in the middle of that corral for nigh to five minutes talking and getting to know each other. Finally, Ty Lee smiled, spoke another soft word, and eased into the saddle.

  She took her four jumps and spun around. Ty Lee stayed with her. She tried it again. Ty Lee hung in a little tighter. She bucked her heart out for nigh on to twelve minutes and Ty Lee Driscoll clung to her back like he had been growed out of it. Old Ty Lee and that mare took on the appearance of a finely tuned New England glider as each part swayed in rhythm against the other. Witnesses to this day say that it was just about the prettiest thing they’d ever seen.

  Suddenly, she quit. We’re not talking a run out, mind you. She just plain quit and stood in the middle of that corral like a Jersey cow waiting for the milk stool and the bucket.

  There was dead calm in the crowd as Ty Lee eased himself to the ground. He gave the mare a pat on the neck, jerked the saddle, and walked to the corral fence.

  “Poetry. Pure poetry,” Dil Townsen whispered.

  Arky Blue looked like he just swallowed a plug of chew whole. He turned to walk away.

  “What do you want for her?” Townsen asked.

  “She’s your horse,” Arky Blue said. “He rode her fair and square. I’m cleaned out and she has no more value to me.” He mounted up and rode away, never to be seen in Williamson County, or Texas for that matter, again.

  Townsen counted out the original losses to his partners and kept the profits for himself. When it was over he turned to Red River and Ty Lee. “You boys got a job on the H-7 as long as there is such. Take the mare, Driscoll. She’s yourn.”

  Ty Lee nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Townsen. You say she’s mine to do with as I like?”

  “Yes, sir. Now let’s get you boys a well-deserved steak dinner.”

  Ty Lee opened the corral gate and gathered the Black Queen’s halter rope. He led her into the open and slipped the halter. “Go on. Get!” he said.

  The mare took off into the mesquite at a dead run and without a backward glance.

  Sam watched it all a-grinning and said nothing.

  Ty Lee looked at his partner and smiled. “Her war is over too.”

  Red River Sam nodded and pulled his hat close over his eyes. “Let’s go eat that steak.”

  The Murder Steer

  The cowpuncher was watching his bacon fry in his camp skillet nigh on to sundown when the youngster returned from checking the picket line. The youngster seemed unsettled as he nestled down next to his saddle on the far side of the fire.

  “What’s your problem?” the puncher asked. “You look like you just seen a spirit.”

  The kid shook his mop. “I guess maybe I did. It was the dangdest thing I ever saw. I guess my eyes were playing tricks on me.”

  The puncher poured coffee into the youngster’s tin cup. “Go on. Amuse me. Spit it out.”

  The kid took the cup and set it down quickly, spilling a quarter on the ground. “Damn! That’s hot! I was checking the horses like you said when I heard a movement in the brush back yonder. I gave a look-see and a big old lineback steer shook out of the mesquite. The thing is I thought I saw a crude, haired-over brand running clear along his side. I ain’t for certain but I think it said MURDER.” He shook his head again. “Heck, it was probably just the coming night playing tricks on my eyes. Nobody would scar up a critter like that.”

  The puncher held out his hand. “Give me your plate. This bacon’s ready for eatin’. It was a black steer with white running along his back and belly white running a quarter up his flanks. One horn is turned slightly down and he’s got some age on him.”

  “Can’t say for certain. He was black and white but I was too busy reading his brand to notice much else.”

  “Son, you just got yourself a look at the Murder steer. There ain’t a handful of men living that can make that claim. Some say it’s a sign of good luck and a feller is blessed for seeing it. Others claim it to be a warning from the devil and you better be damned careful of your ways for a spell. Either way, you’re one of a very few.” He handed the plate of bacon with a ration of pintos over to the youngster.

  “Thank you, kindly,” the youngster said as he admired the crisp back fat and wild onions on his plate. “What the tarnation is a Murder steer?”

  The puncher poured himself a fresh cup and fished a strip from his skillet. “You want the whole story or just a bit?”

  The kid lounged back against his saddle. “It’s early. Spin me the whole yarn.”

  “It was twenty years ago, back before they disbanded the Western Battalion of the Rangers. All this country hereabouts was open range with four of the big outfits sharing it. It weren’t good for nothing just like today so the outfits kept outriders along the fringes to keep the cactus boomers pushed back on home range. This here country of rocky red hills and scrub mesquite was hard on cattle and cowboys to boot. The boomers would go wild and many a wrangler broke his neck or got laid up proper trying to lasso them. They called this scrub Worthless Mesa and it was a general agreement that anybody with any gumption would be too proud to claim it. Still, cattle drift and every green-up each of the outfits would send in riders to gather the winter strays and sort them out. Main camp for all the outfits was Red Box cause it was the only canyon where water springs from the rocky ledges. It was a natural tank for the linebacks to come for water and a natural box canyon was an easy spot to hold them for the sortin’. Heck, if fellers used their heads, a fair majority of them critters would catch themselves in dry times just a-coming for a drink.

  The biggest outfit was the Slash Nine and as usual they sent the most men cause they would end up with the most cattle when it was all said and done. That year the Nine bunch was run by a range foreman named Blu Packett. Now, old Blu was a cocky sort of gent with an eye for the ladies and a weakness for the spotted pasteboards. He was something of a gent favoring concho chullas and nearly always sporting a black bib shirt and fancy Mexican sombrero for a sky shade. Most men thought fairly high of him if he weren’t in the jug and busting a string of losing hands. When old Blu was a-drinking and gambling he could get plum spiteful and he was known to hold a grudge.

  The next biggest outfit was the Arrow run by Arnold Hernandez, a half Mexican gent whose mama was a German immigrant girl who’d taken up with his daddy and was disowned by her family for her foolishness. Everybody called him Arny and his ancestors were land granted this whole end of the plateau before the rebellion, but the best Arny could do was manage a scrub outfit running a poor water range between the Nine and the Broken Bar Cross. He was a quiet sort they say, but more like a deceitful bronc that yearns to take a bite out of you when your back’s turned or you’re distracted from remembering his temperament. You can never tell what a Mexican is really thinking and Hernandez had just enough beaner in him to be that sort. He didn’t pack no handgun but carried a six-inch, double-edged Arkansas toothpick in his belt.

  The Broken Bar Cross wasn’t much of an outfit and it didn’t last long after this affair. Its owner, Doc Freisen, got found out with a running iron in his saddlebag and a herd of fresh brand-altered boomers a few months later. A hemp necktie ended the Cross’s business dealings that next morning. But that was a few months after this story and the outfit was represented by a lunger called Four-Bit and three other hard-case, grub line riders. They were there to get the boss’s share of his rightfuls and a little more if possible, but not much else. They was generally a sorry lot by most accounts.

  The other outfit of note was Dil Townsen’s H Bar Seven. Dil was long in the tooth by that time so he sent his two prize vaqueros, Red River Sam Bonnet and Ty Lee Driscoll and their pack of hounds, to do the judging and sorting for the outfit. He only sent
two wranglers because he knew he was sending the best. Red River Sam was a colorful sport who could shake out a gut line better than most any man and he had Townsen’s complete trust. Driscoll was a lame-between-the-ears scarecrow but could ride anything a man could saddle, fair wind or foul. He was the gent who rode down the Black Queen back in ’66 and did the Pecos Drift in four days when the best any other rider could manage was five and a bit. Probably no better horseman ever gathered his boot in a stirrup, but Ty Lee was dumb as a post and needed some guidance to find his way to breakfast, even on a good day. Totally devoted to Driscoll were five of the nastiest, green tick bit, mean-natured, inbred hounds ever assembled in Texas. No man in camp had the courage to turn his back on any of them as he might just as well turn his back on a rabid skunk or a vengeful Comanche. The only security they had was that those curs loved fighting cattle and each other so much more that they seldom got around to going after anything else. Still, a man kept his six-gun handy if he was afoot and the pack was near.

  It was Townsen’s turn to supply the grub wagon. The camp cook for that round up was a Bar Seven nigger by the name of Candle Corn. I’ve heard many a story about Corn. He had a mighty temper and a butcher’s blade to match but he was the best cook and finest camp doctor, or Psalm reader, whichever was most appropriate, to ever line out a chuck. He was famous throughout the plateau and a fine friend of many a cowhand, as long as you didn’t bitch about his biscuits or steal none of his apple pie fixins. Then your life was in your own hands cause nobody crossed Candle about grub fixin’ or camp running. Nobody knows for sure how many jammed fingers he lopped off, broken bones he set, stitches he took, haircuts he gave, or boils he lanced during his Dutch oven years. For all intents and purposes it was Candle Corn who ran the show concerning everything that wasn’t cow bones and hide. He allowed card playing at his fire but he didn’t tolerate no whisky drinking until it was time to break camp and head for home. Then he’d likely take a swig or two himself in the spirit of a farewell celebration.