Longhorn Country

by Tyler Hatch

  ‘What the hell’d you do that for?’ demanded Morgan of Blaine, anger flaring in him like a brush-fire, the old, knuckly fists clenching down at his sides.

  ‘Ask Lucas.’ Blaine stooped and picked up the jack knife with the broken blade. On the small metal oval let into the staghorn sideplates, the name ‘Alamo’ had been scratched. Blaine hefted it and put it in his pocket, plainly something to remember the dead trail boss by. He started down the steps and saw now that Lucas had a crooked smile on his lopsided face.

  He knew then that Lucas was glad he had taken that punch in front of Morgan: it could only put Blaine further in the Old Man’s black books.

  ‘He figures I hired the Injuns to hit our herd, Pa. Just to make him look bad, inept,’ Lucas said, as he swayed on his feet, watching Blaine walking away from the house. ‘See how much he hates us O’Days…?’

  Morgan grunted, watching Blaine, lips compressed. You could never tell with that damn breed! His face was as blank as a granite cliff … and he sure did hate the O’Days.

  ‘Best let me make the drive to San Antone, eh, Pa?’

  Morgan rounded on his son as he came up on to the porch, dabbing at a bleeding lower lip now.

  ‘No – Blaine can do it. Keep him out of my sight for a while.’

  ‘Aw, now listen, Pa! I still reckon he had somethin’ to do with the raid on that herd! You send him out on the trail and – and – well, hell, who knows what he might arrange! I mean, the White Creek Reservation is in that general direction and that’s where his tribe is.’

  ‘And you reckon you could handle a raid by Blaine’s Comanche friends? Even if he doesn’t go on the drive, he could still arrange a raid … right?’

  Lucas agreed it was probably right. ‘So why take the risk?’

  ‘The herd’s at risk whether he bosses it or not if what you’re thinkin’ is right – you got a man among the crew you can trust, really trust, I mean?’

  ‘Well – Waco’s done a few jobs for me before….’

  ‘Didn’t you send him down to Del Rio for somethin’ recently?’ Morgan asked, suddenly thoughtful.

  Lucas tried to keep his face blank. ‘Yeah – to pick up a pair of ridin’ boots I’d ordered from that Mex leatherworker down there – but, sure, Pa, I could send Waco along on the drive to keep an eye on things. Likely cost a few bucks….’

  ‘Pay him whatever he wants – It’ll come out of your share of the herd money.’ As Morgan swung back into the house, he flung over his shoulder to the stunned Lucas, ‘You’re the one with all the suspicions, right…?’

  ‘Yeah – right!’ gritted Lucas.

  But he didn’t say it out loud.

  Inside, Morgan poured himself a stiff whiskey, glancing at the old cottage wall clock and wincing: he was starting earlier and earlier. But, dammit, he seemed to have more worries recently, day by day, than he’d had the past ten years.

  And not the least of them was wondering if Blaine had found where Kitty was staying at that orphanage or whatever it was down there in Monterrey.

  He didn’t think Alamo would have broken his word not to tell where she was, but – well, Alamo was dead now and there was just no way of knowing.

  He sure couldn’t tell from anything Blaine said – or didn’t say.

  He tossed down the whiskey and immediately reached for the bottle again.

  Oh, Katy! Why did you have to saddle me with such a man as Blaine! He’s gonna be the ruination of me, I can feel it … I think I’ve known it for years!

  And there ain’t a damn thing I can do about it because I gave you my word I’d watch out for him … Now I gotta sit an’ watch him work off his hatred for me….

  There were almost four thousand head in the herd when they started out for San Antone, a distance of about two hundred miles – as the crow flies. By the time they followed a trail that would provide water and feed for the cattle, it would be more than two hundred fifty miles, or even closer to three hundred, depending on conditions found along the way.

  There hadn’t been much rain of late and Calico Benedict, the rider Blaine had sent to scout on ahead, came back with the not-so-good news that the planned route would take them through country in the grip of drought.

  ‘Some waterholes, Blaine,’ Calico allowed, a man about the breed’s age, but who had grown up in this country in a sod hut dug into a cutbank and could read the weather and topography like a book – except he couldn’t read anything written but his own name, when he laboriously printed it on any papers he couldn’t avoid signing.

  ‘Grass?’

  ‘Brown, mostly – short-stalk, too.’

  Lucky Kinnane, in on the conversation, said, ‘We got a couple spare buckboards, Blaine – We could load one with hay and feed and a couple salt-licks to help us out.’

  ‘OK, Lucky. Good idea – set some men gathering hay, but not ones going on the drive.’

  Lucky grinned. ‘The boys’ll love that, playin’ sodbuster.’

  Blaine headed for the barn to check out the condition of the buckboards, mentally choosing the horses he would use to pull the vehicle he picked as being the best of the two. The trail drive was going to cost more than Lucas had estimated so he went to see the man and told him Calico’s news and Lucky’s plan with the hay.

  ‘Hell, Benedict’s a worry-wort! Waco was out along that trail not long ago when he rode a chore for me. He never said nothing about dried-up creeks or short grass.’

  ‘Calico knows the country between here and San Antone. Better than Waco – or you and me.’

  ‘I’d take Waco’s word….’

  ‘Then take it. But there’s been no rain so I’m taking the spare feed.’

  Lucas glared as Blaine went about whatever business he had in mind, then hurried to see Morgan, painting a different picture for his father.

  ‘He wants to take that hay along, Pa! You just think what a wagon-load of hay, suddenly bursting into flame at night, would do to a nervous trail herd—’

  Morgan, hung-over from his drinking, was worried, and barely able to think. But he shook his head and said in phlegmy tones, ‘No, Blaine’s not like that – he – he’s workin’ off what he figures he owes me. Stoppin’ me gettin’ top price for the herd can’t be in his plans. It’d work against what he’s tryin’ to do.’ He added uncertainly, ‘Whatever that is….’

  ‘Well – I still think he’d take any chance that’d pull us down, Pa – he’s an Injun, for Chrissakes! They never forgive a hurt, and Blaine was hurt plenty….’

  Morgan was too irritable to be bothered with details and theories. He waved an angry arm at his son. ‘Just let him ready the herd the way he wants! And quit botherin’ me with all these damn notions you have! I know you’ve always hated his guts, been jealous of him, thinkin’ I favoured him over you.’

  ‘Well, that’s sure true!’

  ‘Ah! You’re weak, Lucas. Weak and penny-pinchin’ and jealous – and just plain miserable! I think you’re even glad I disowned your sister! Now, get the hell outta here – I don’t want to talk to you right now!’

  Lucas went but he was fuming: to his warped way of thinking, Blaine had won yet another round!

  But the son of a bitch would pay for it this time! By hell he would!

  The large herd spread out once they cleared the big canyons.

  The riders were mostly from Broken Wheel but some also from Bexley’s Double B and Hurd’s Twisted Horseshoe, small ranches which had cattle in with Morgan’s drive.

  The trail men were kept busy holding them in some semblance of order but it was pretty easy work at this stage. The cows had full bellies and had slaked their thirsts before setting out. Some would rather have slept it off under a shady tree but in general they moved willingly enough. Blaine headed them round to the south, skirting Brackettville and heading across towards Uvalde and the mining country.

  Waco, Lucas O’Day’s man, was a good enough cowboy, a tall, solid ranny in his mid-thirties with a rugged face and a pair of
tiny eyes that made most folk think of a pig. But it was the look in those same eyes that prevented anyone but a damn fool from saying so out loud. Word had it that a couple of wranglers Waco had been drinking with in a bar in Bisbee, Arizona, started to feel their liquor and began making hog-snorting noises. The story claimed both were buried just outside the town and each crude sapling cross on the graves had a pig’s head impaled upon it.

  Someone, a little later, noted there were two notches cut into the butt of Waco’s Colt .45.

  Those notches stopped a lot of men wrangling with Waco. Blaine had no argument with the man, though – he did his chores well enough and kept mostly to himself. Fernando, who had come along to drive the wagon-load of hay, claimed it was because no one wanted to inadvertently tread on Waco’s toes. Giving him a wide berth seemed the best way of avoiding this.

  Now Blaine hauled his sorrel alongside Waco’s shaggy roan and told him to ride on ahead with Lucky and pick a good place for a night stop. The man simply nodded, spurred away to where Kinnane sat his mount under a tree, waiting, and then both rode on ahead and disappeared over a low ridge.

  Campbell from Twisted Horseshoe, supposedly a part-owner with Martin Hurd of the small but growing spread, reined up alongside Blaine.

  ‘Country’s dry but not as bad as I thought – keep this up and it’ll be a breeze gettin’ to San Antone.’

  ‘Lot of miles to travel yet, Cam.’

  ‘Long as we get our bunch of five hundred in safely, I’ll be happy.’

  Campbell rode off and Blaine watched him go: another one thinking only of himself … wait till it came time to share costs of the hay and extra feed … well, he’d worry about that when it happened….

  It was a good night camp and the grass was sweet, though the big herd had reduced it to stubble by sunup and, a couple hours later, three irate ranchers came spurring in, complaining.

  ‘You goddamn trail drivers!’ snarled a man about fifty with faded red hair hanging to his shoulders. ‘We ain’t seen any of you for years! Don’t figure you’re gonna start up again, stealin’ our grass!’

  ‘Open range, mister – check your survey maps and you’ll find this is all Public Road through here.’

  ‘That so?’ The redhead squinted at Blaine. ‘Breed, ain’t you? Well, let me talk to the trail boss—’

  ‘You’re talking to him. ‘

  ‘Judas! What kinda white man puts a breed in charge of his cows?’ The redhead’s companions growled their outrage, too. ‘A one-eyed one at that!’

  The man’s friends laughed but Blaine simply sat more easily in the saddle and slapped his right hand against his thigh, close to his holstered six gun. ‘I’ll tell you his name – it’s Morgan O’Day of Broken Wheel – and I’m his adopted son, Blaine—’

  He watched, deadpan, as the colour drained from all three faces. The redhead swallowed, looked at his companions who seemed ready to turn their horses and ride off.

  ‘But I’m the one here,’ Blaine added quietly, ‘so I’m the one you deal with – now, where were we …?’

  The redhead spat. ‘Forget it – I’ve heard about you. Morg O’Day, too. But he don’t usually drive his cows across our range.’

  ‘Public range, remember, Red? I just told you: go check your survey maps and see – now go do that and we’ll forget the whole thing….’

  Red was happy enough with that and so were his pards, but he was reluctant to show it – until Blaine sighed and lifted his hand to his gun butt. Then he wheeled his mount and galloped off after the others.

  Waco, coming up slowly, staring at Blaine, said quietly, ‘Facin’ down three hardcases like them ranchers took some doin’….’

  ‘I noticed you were just waiting to jump in and lend a hand,’ Blaine said and Waco flushed for he had had no such intention. ‘Go help Fernie haul in some wood for a big fire – think I heard wolves in those trees yonder.’

  ‘Gatherin’ firewood ain’t my job!’

  ‘It is when I tell you it is – you want to go back to Broken Wheel? I can tell you to do that, too.’

  Waco didn’t want to leave this herd yet – he’d been paid half his money already by Lucas and he aimed to collect the other half as well. He jerked his horse’s head around savagely and spurred after Fernando who was swinging along, whistling, an axe over his shoulder, making for the line of timber.

  Up around Uvalde, the grass thinned drastically and the naked red convolutions of the hills were hard on the eyes. The herd travelled down on the flats but even here they could smell the dust raised by the hopeful miners honeycombing the hillsides with shafts and tunnels.

  It was hot and dusty, men, horses and cows were all parched. Then Calico rode back to say the water-holes he had checked out previously had shrunk considerably, but there was likely enough to water the herd if they did it in small, tight groups, keeping the main herd out of sight of the water over a rise.

  This worked well enough although the water was of low quality. But it kept the herd slogging along and a couple of days later, staying south of Hondo, they came to the usually deep-flowing White Creek. But the water was way down and some cattle bogged on the crossing, though they only lost three.

  ‘Gonna be drier up around San Antone,’ said Blaine to Kinnane a day later. He knew this part of the country: the Comanche Reservation was not far away, back in the hills. ‘And they’re mighty thirsty – if they get a sniff of water anywhere they’ll be damn impossible to stop.’

  Calico had brought the news that the waterholes he had scouted were now no more than bogs.

  ‘Not gonna be able to risk givin’ ’em a drink here, Blaine,’ Kinnane said.

  ‘No, some are bound to smell the wet mud and they charge in there, they’ll be up to their bellies in nothin’ flat and we’ll end up shootin’ ’em.’

  Blaine had seen this kind of thing happen before. There was only one thing to do – but his decision to keep driving the herd on through the night so as to be well clear of the muddy waterholes come morning was not a popular one.

  Keeping so many cows on the move in pitch darkness was no easy matter and it meant every man, including the cook and Fernando, had to take his turn at riding herd.

  ‘Oughta get extra pay for this!’ Waco growled and some of the others who, most likely hadn’t thought about that aspect until it was mentioned, grumbled their agreement. ‘By hell, we oughta!’

  Waco hoped this further attempt of his to stir up trouble and unrest would get back to Lucas – he might be able to squeeze a few extra dollars out of him, too, if he pulled off his other part of the chore successfuly. He looked around at the bunched men drinking coffee and eating cold-cuts and jerked beef: tonight Blaine didn’t want a fire at all. The cows were too spooked from the long, dry trail and now to be pushed on when they figured to rest … Anything could happen when they were in this kind of mood.

  And it did.

  About two in the morning they rested a spell, the scent of green leaves coming from somewhere up ahead which might mean water. The cattle, perversely, didn’t want to stop now after smelling the trees and the riders were having a tough job trying to keep them bunched.

  ‘Don’t let ’em break!’ Blaine called, working the sorrel after two steers that were trying to make a run for it. He slapped one across the eyes with his coiled lariat and kicked the other hard behind the ear, turning both back into the edges of the main herd. Panting, sweating, he called, ‘Ah, we’re gonna wear ourselves out trying to hold ’em, dammit!’

  There was a lot of riding and shouting and no one could say where another was exactly – just shadows, moving swiftly against the stars. The night was humid which might mean that a storm was brewing. Blaine thought he had glimpsed a flare of light running along the horizon earlier, but it had been on his right side and by the time he had fully turned to check, it had gone.

  So no one saw Waco fire the hay wagon with a weary, sleeping Fernando in the driver’s seat, allowing the tired team to make its own pace
and direction as he nodded and swayed with the jerky rhythm of the over-loaded vehicle.

  The first Fernando knew of it was when the flames leapt ten feet high and Waco, just a dark figure, hauled him roughly out of the driving seat, still mostly asleep, and smashed him brutally into the ground. The team hit the traces with a jarring slam as Waco threw some burning hay onto their backs and then it was too late.

  Someone yelled so frantically his voice cracked high and panicky like a child’s, ‘Stam – peeeeede!’

  The fiery wagon was bouncing in amongst the cattle now and they exploded all over the plains, horns raking at riders’ mounts and each other, bellowing and bawling in fear, eyes rolling whitely, hoofs raising a thunder that shook the earth, loose red dust blinding the riders as they tried to regain control.

  But the herd was loose now and ripping the night apart like a burlap curtain, intermittently lit by the wagonload of fire which, eventually, crashed onto its side and spread a river of flames into the rear of the herd.

  Nothing could stop them now.

  And over the general commotion, Blaine heard someone yell wildly, panicky,

  ‘Hell almighty! Injuns! Dozens of ’em. Injuns! Injuns….!’

  CHAPTER 10

  FRAME-UP

  There were Indians, all right, just visible as some raced to get behind the herd and were lit by the dying flames of the hay wagon.

  No one noticed if they wore any paint or not, but they were letting loose with their war-whoops and riding as if they were part of the night wind. Some held rifles, others lances, and others bows and arrows.

  A gun or two hammered as they swept in on the herd and bows twanged as arrows drove into plunging, snorting steers that barely resembled the compliant animals that had been driven up from Broken Wheel only days earlier. With rolled-back whites of eyes and horn tips catching fugitive flashes of light, wet mucus flying from distended nostrils and heads tossing, big bodies gyrating acrobatically, they resembled some of the beasts in the wildest imaginings of artists who liked to portray Hell as men could expect to find it.