Longhorn Country

by Tyler Hatch

  Her fingers tightened on his hand and her eyes glistened. ‘And he thought you weren’t a good enough man to be allowed to take a courting interest in me!’

  ‘He’s a father, Kitty – wants the best for his daughter. You can savvy that.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so, but – well, it’s Dad’s outlook, and Lucas’s, too, I guess. Just because you have Indian blood in you through no fault of your own…. Oh, it becomes too tangled to keep on, Blaine! I admire you for what you’re doing, even though I think you’re foolish at the same time.’

  ‘I’m glad I found you again, Kit – you seem really happy here.’

  ‘I am –’ She frowned slightly, looking a bit uncomfortable. ‘Blaine – I – I’m staying here. This is worthwhile work, something I want to do. It would please me if you’d visit whenever you can, but I just want to make it clear that – we—’

  He pressed her hand and stood up, almost smiling. ‘It’s enough that I know you’re safe and happy and that I can see you from time time – Morg’s right, you know. I’m not good enough for you. I have nothing to offer you right now. But I’ll make something of myself eventually. I know ranching pretty well and by the time I’m clear of Morg I don’t doubt I’ll know it a whole heap better. Then I’ll start one of my own – I aim to gather some mavericks when I have the time and I know where I can keep ’em so I’ll have the start of a herd of my own…. Nothing says I can’t do that or sell the cows myself and put away the cash…. Just so long as I keep working at squaring-up with Morg.’

  ‘That’s a tremendous job to take on, Blaine!’

  ‘I can do it.’ He looked steadily at her with his one eye. ‘Specially if I have some – incentive.’

  She flushed and lowered her gaze. ‘Blaine, I already told you …’

  ‘I know. You’re content here. Well, maybe you won’t be forever – and I’ll be waiting….’

  She shook her head briefly. ‘Blaine, I can’t – promise anything like that! I – just – can’t.’

  ‘I know – but just remember anyway – I’ll be around whenever you need me. Anytime.’

  Her eyes were wet now and she even made a half-gesture as if she would throw her arms around him but didn’t. He saw the pulse throbbing in her neck and knew her heart was hammering.

  That was good enough for him: his words had moved her and because of her present position she was fighting not to let her emotions get the upper hand.

  For now, it was just ‘Howdy and Adios!’

  But there would come a time – he knew it.

  Sooner or later, they would be together.

  Alamo Ames was talking with some of Don Miguel’s vaqueros when Blaine rode back from the Mission Seguridad, trailed a brown-cloaked Father forking a weary looking burro. Alamo broke off his conversation and hurried out to meet Blaine, nodded and bypassed him, calling to the priest.

  ‘Best hurry, padre – I think he’s on his last.’

  Two of the vaqueros hurried to the priest and almost pulled him bodily from the burro. Then they practically carried him into the big glaring-white hacienda. Blaine swung down easily.

  ‘The Don’s going fast?’

  Alamo nodded. ‘The priest’ll be lucky if he gets to the bedside in time.’ Ames shifted his eyes over Blaine’s usual unreadable face. ‘Deliver them Jerseys OK?’

  ‘Sure – A Sister Angelica took ’em off my hands.’

  Ames shifted weight from one foot to the other. ‘And…?’

  ‘I had a mighty refreshing drink of lemon and lime – served to me by Sister Maria de Gracia.’

  ‘Ah! So you met the young sister, uh?’

  ‘Yeah – she’s not a nun, not even a novice. Just a volunteer helper – seems quite content.’

  Ames studied him carefully. ‘Think she’ll stay there?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Kind of a pity – a good-lookin’ gal like that, hidin’ her beauty under that drab old habit. Almost like she’s – goin’ to waste.’

  ‘Don’t see it that way. She’s doing what she wants and is mighty happy about it. Good way to be.’

  ‘Uh-huh … Well, guess there’s nothin’ to keep us here any longer. We’ll head ’em out in the mornin’. OK with you?’

  Blaine nodded and as Alamo started to turn away, he said, ‘Thanks, amigo.’

  Alamo just grunted and called to the remaining vaqueros. ‘Hey, amigos – Let’s get the ganados ready for the trail, eh? When we reach the Rio, the drinks are on me, OK?’

  Judging by the grins and shouted remarks in Spanish that brought much laughter, it was definitely ‘OK’ with the Mexicans.

  They pulled out as the first rays of the sun crept above the cordillera and stretched long shadows across the coolness of the land. The riders savoured this cool for they knew once the sun lifted properly into the sky, the sweat would pour from their bodies like water squeezed from a sponge.

  A thousand head of sleek longhorns that had been nurtured with the patience and consideration only a solicitous – and indulgent – Spanish cattle-breeder could afford. Don Miguel had practically given them away – he sure had made a fine attempt at foiling his grasping kinfolk and Alamo was glad they would be a long way from here and safely back in the States when the fur started to fly once the old hidalgo’s will was read and the assets were totalled up.

  They had eight men from the rancho and they knew their job. Blaine felt kind of superfluous on the drive but Alamo only grinned.

  ‘The longhorns only speak Spanish down this way – these boys know ’em by name, practically, so we’ll let ’em run things and just tag along for the ride.’

  Blaine nodded but he was a man who liked to earn his keep, no matter who was providing it.

  ‘You must have your knife pretty deep into old Morg by now, eh?’

  Blaine frowned. ‘You mean I hate him hard?’

  ‘Hell, no one blames you – I mean, losin’ an eye’s not exactly like gettin’ a busted nose or a few loose teeth. He knew what Hardesty and Rendell were like when he turned ’em loose on you.’

  ‘Well, he was mighty riled, ’cause he thought I was the one spoiled Kitty.’

  Alamo frowned. ‘You sound like you – almost like you – figure it was OK what he did.’

  ‘Hell, no, but I can savvy why he did it.’

  ‘OK, but you must still hate his guts.’

  ‘He did a lot for me, Alamo – I’d’ve grown up with the Comanche if he hadn’t taken me in.’

  Alamo kept silent for a little while then sighed, nodding. ‘Yeah – well, I guess that’s you, Blaine. You aim to be free of him, but only after you figure you’ve squared away what he’s done for you over the years. There has to be some cold hatred in there somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll do things my way,’ Blaine said shortly and Alamo shrugged.

  ‘Like always. But you sure got some queer notions of obligations. Anyone else would figure losin’ an eye wiped out any debt to a man like Morg O’Day.’ No reply from Blaine and Alamo murmured, ‘But, I oughta know by now that you ain’t any ordinary man….’

  And that was proved soon enough.

  Just two days later when they reached the Rio.

  The herd was halfway across the ford just south of El Salto Vado, splashing through the shallow, yellowish water without fuss, for they had travelled contentedly with good graze along the trail from San Nicolas, when a bunch of screaming, painted Indians came sweeping out of the timber on the American side, shooting wildly.

  From behind, on the Mexican side, another group of Indians rode out of the heat-cracked boulders like the flickering black tongue of a striking snake.

  The herd – and the riders – were caught between two fast-closing jaws of a murderous pincer.

  Blaine was already across on American soil and he slid his rifle out of its scabbard and turned to shout to the nearest vaqueros. There were four of them and they were already scattering, riding around the herd on the edge closest to the marauders.

  Blaine
breathed a sigh of relief: these men, for all their fancy rigs and clothes, their lazy style of riding herd, were fighting men and prepared to protect the cattle. That made things a hell of a lot easier he figured, throwing his Winchester to his left shoulder and sighting swiftly.

  Lead whined overhead and he heard the thunk of a bullet taking a steer in the side, even saw the puff of dust as the animal lurched and began to bellow. Arrows zipped through the air and one that stuck in his saddle just beneath the horn he saw had a knapped flint tip. Wild men, then – likely up from the Madres to the south, half-starved, just waiting for a herd to use the ford….

  It wasn’t until a long time later that he realized this ford hadn’t been used as a cattle crossing for a couple of years. Mostly it was freighters with their wagons and pack-mule trains who used the ford now. Most cattle were driven to the Gulf ports like Vera Cruz and then shipped to market on waiting sailing vessels.

  But the Indians swept in determinedly and his rifle hammered methodically as he worked lever and trigger, moving the smoking barrel a little each time, selecting his target.

  Four horses went down with their riders who floundered in the river. Blaine cut across instantly and saw two vaqueros had the same notion. Between them, they drove a bunch close to forty steers into the shallows where the Indians were desperately trying to wade ashore. They all went down screaming under the hoofs or on the ends of the raking horns.

  Blaine didn’t wait to see the results. He swerved the sorrel, triggering his remaining shots in the rifle, sheathed the weapon and palmed up his six gun just as a painted, screaming face appeared right in front of him. The tomahawk whistled past his ear and he felt the jar as the hard knuckles of the brown hand wrapped around the handle hit the side of his neck. The Colt bucked in his hand, the barrel buried an inch deep into the leathery hide of the Indian. The blast blew the man clear off his horse and Blaine kicked it away, wheeled aside from a thrust with a lance and shot the man who wielded it somewhere in the face. The Indian swayed violently but managed somehow to stay in the saddle, riding away from the fight.

  The river was churning, mud and froth tinged with red. The cattle’s mournful bellows almost drowned out the war whoops and the crash of gunfire. It certainly overwhelmed Alamo’s cursing as his horse blundered between two steers and, even as the trail boss yanked the horse’s head up hard with his reins, he felt the horn slip into the heaving chest of his mount.

  The horse started to go down and Alamo frantically kicked his boots free of the stirrups, actually jumped nimbly up on to the saddle and launched himself over the backs of the cattle. There were three lines of steers and he almost made it. His boot touched one and he used its instinctive humping to propel him on to the next to last line.

  But the animals were wet with sweat and river water and a little blood on this particular steer. His boot slipped and if he yelled it wasn’t heard above the bellowing and shooting.

  Alamo slid out of sight between the lurching, shoving, crushing steers, slipped right down to where a tangled sea of legs thrashed and ripped up the river bottom.

  The water in that area suddenly turned deep red.

  Blaine had his rifle out again now, lean body twisting this way and that in the saddle: the Indians were trying to come up to him on his blind side. He had a two-handed grip on the hot barrel and he smashed it into the faces of two attackers, missed a third and, hanging on to his mount’s neck, rowelled wildly, leaving it to the sorrel to crash a way through.

  The horse made it, neck bleeding, a slash of hide showing in a red lightning bolt on its right rump. Blaine straightened, holding the rifle in one hand, loosing off his last two shots in his Colt as a man charged in.

  He didn’t see if he hit target or not, kneeing the panting horse around instantly, yelling hoarsely to a pair of vaqueros, as he signalled frantically what he wanted them to do. They caught on immediately, joined him in a shallow arc and rammed their mounts into the flowing side of the brawling herd, shooting and yelling and kicking.

  The steers, wild-eyed, frantic, attacked from all sides, veered away from their latest tormentors and started along the edge of the river on the American side. Blaine and his riders paced them, driving them on in stampede – straight at a bunched line of waiting Indians. These warriors had had the job of standing by, waiting for their fellow braves to drive the cowboys towards them where they could be cut down in a hail of withering fire.

  Instead, all they saw was a wall of giant, snorting cows coming like demons from hell, horns glinting in the sun, some tipped with blood. They turned to run and Blaine and his vaqueros fired again and again. The herd smashed into the trailing riders, pulping them into the gravelly ground. Others screamed in terror and plunged back into the deeper part of the river, swimming their mounts desperately for the Mexican bank.

  It was all over in another three minutes, the survivors of the raiders now all on the Mexican side, still riding, wanting to put as much distance between themselves and the devil herd as possible.

  The men were wet and muddy and bloody and generally dishevelled but all stopped to fully reload their guns before a head-count was taken.

  ‘Dos hombres muerta,’ one man reported to Blaine who was looking around for Alamo, but couldn’t see him anywhere – two men dead, the Mexican was telling him.

  Another quick search found four other vaqueros were wounded and then a man farther along the bank called, ‘Señor! Tres hombres – muerta!’ Three dead now….

  The man pointed and Blaine rode back swiftly.

  Even before he reached the huddle of bloody, torn rags half trampled into the mud, he knew he had found Alamo Ames.

  CHAPTER 9

  WELCOME BACK

  Morgan O’Day looked down at the pile of gear on the end of his porch. A battered saddle with rifle sheath attached and the scratched, dented Henry rammed into it; a pair of spurs with the chrome plating coming off and one rowel badly bent; a few faded and patched work clothes in a weather-stained warbag, a threadbare blanket roll, a dented canteen and a pair of scuffed riding boots, worn over badly on the left heel. A jack knife with a broken blade point and a few coins sat in the middle of a crumpled kerchief.

  O’Day lifted his gaze to Blaine leaning against a porch upright lighting a freshly-made cigarette. ‘That’s all Alamo left?’ Blaine nodded and O’Day shook his head. ‘After all those years – where you bury him?’

  ‘Cemetery at Del Rio – I told the sawbones there to send the bill for patching-up the vaqueros to you.’

  Morgan’s eyes pinched down, but it was Lucas who said, tone clipped, ‘Big of you! They’re Santiago’s men.’

  ‘He loaned ’em to us – besides he’s likely dead by now.’

  ‘Then his Estate can pay the bill – Goddamnit, Blaine, we’re not responsible for every damn Mex who takes a bullet in an Indian raid!’

  ‘I’ll pay their bills,’ Morgan said, sounding reluctant but uncomfortable under Blaine’s hard stare.

  ‘Aw, Pa, we don’t have to! We’re under no obligation to …’

  ‘It’s settled. Move on, Lucas – how many head did we lose, Blaine?’

  ‘Twenty-seven, counting the six we had to shoot because of broken legs or horn gashes.’

  ‘Goddlemighty!’ breathed Lucas in disgust. ‘We find a great chance to boost our herds cheaply and now you go and lose us nearly thirty head on a short trail drive like that!’

  ‘Out of half a thousand,’ Blaine said curtly.

  ‘Just the same.’ Lucas took on a sly look as he glanced at his father. ‘Pa – that crossing at El Salto hasn’t been used for cattle for a few years now. It’s cheaper for the Mexes to drive to the Gulf and ship out by sea – Freighters use the crossing but I can’t recollect the last time they got hit, because the Army usually gives ’em escort.’

  They waited for Lucas to continue and there were beads of sweat on his face now. His eyes seemed to flick to Blaine and away again quickly, almost of their own accord.

&n
bsp; ‘Well, seems to me that the first time in years a herd of really prime beef uses that crossin’ it gets hit by Injuns – and we have here a man who’s half-Comanche and has one helluva grudge against the O’Days….’

  He didn’t say more, knew there was no need. Blaine hadn’t missed a drag on his cigarette or moved an inch. His stare nailed Lucas where he stood and made the man clearly uneasy, but he wouldn’t look away even though the strain made his eyes water.

  ‘Blaine?’ asked Morgan tightly.

  ‘They were renegade Apaches. From the Madres, I’d guess, where they been hiding out – reckon they were hungry enough to try for prime beeves, so it wouldn’t cost anyone much to have ’em hit a herd using the crossing.’

  ‘How much did it cost you?’ sneered Lucas.

  ‘Not a dime – I didn’t hire ’em. But someone did.’

  ‘Naturally!’

  But Morgan frowned. ‘You sound sure of that, Blaine.’

  Blaine felt in his vest pocket, flipped a glinting coin towards Morg. The old man fumbled and dropped it but Lucas slowly picked it up, examining it as he handed it back to his father.

  ‘Double eagle, Pa – current date, too, so it ain’t some old one the Injun was carrying.’ Lucas glanced at Blaine. ‘You did find it on one of the dead Apaches, I guess…?’

  Blaine nodded. ‘Four more, too, but I gave a couple to the vaqueros, used the rest to bury Alamo.’

  ‘So someone paid for that raid,’ Morgan said, turning the gold coin between his fingers. ‘A hundred dollars. A fortune to renegade bucks.’

  ‘If they could find somewhere to spend it – not too many trading posts or stores in the Sierra Madres.’

  ‘Only got your guess that that’s where they were from. Could’ve made themselves look that way.’ Lucas shrugged. ‘Well, Pa, if he denies he paid it, your guess is as good as mine. Who did sick ’em onto our herd?’

  Blaine moved so fast and silently that neither man was quite sure what had happened – least of all Lucas who found hismelf sitting in the dust at the foot of the porch steps, nursing a throbbing jaw, blinking in an attempt to settle his vision.