by J. Lee Butts
Slipped down an alley to the livery and retrieved Beulah and my horse. Managed to get out of town alive, and hightailed it for Laredo. Hoped my good luck would hold and that the chuckleheads from Cuero, like Tiger Jim, had seen the last of Eli Gault. But it was wishful thinking on my part. It's been my experience that when events start going bad, nothing but blood can stop them.
Late the next afternoon, I reined up on a rise east of the San Antonio River. Low, scrub-covered country rolled back toward Cuero. Pulled my long glass, and quickly spotted rising dust some miles away. Figured Ranger Tiger Jim Becker had managed to raise a posse, and that the angry mob intended to hang me from the nearest mesquite tree at the earliest possible opportunity.
Watched the pale powder rise for about ten minutes, then decided the posse was traveling at a pretty good clip, and would most likely have me under their guns by the next morning. Started right that very moment searching for a good place to lay an ambush. Firmly believed I would likely have to kill a few in order to turn the loosely constituted group of farmers and shopkeepers back toward hearth and home. Tiger Jim, however, posed another problem altogether.
Crossed the shallow river and found a rocky hill that gave me a great range of fire. Determined I would wait till my pursuers got to the west side with me, and then open up on them. Reasoned as how wranglers and shopkeepers don't have much real fight in them. Figured if I got lucky enough to put one or two of those boys down, the rest would retreat.
Found the perfect spot to hide. Forted up behind a pile of covering boulders and laid out both my Winchesters, along with plenty of shells. Had to wait almost two hours before I detected movement on the far side of the river. Watched them through the long glass.
Counted nine men. Appeared to me as though more than half the party had no inclination to continue their pursuit across the river. But after some considerable discussion, a feller with droopy mustaches, who wore a huge palm-leaf hat and faded bib-front shirt, led the party across. Thought to drop him right off. Felt he was most likely the famed Texas Ranger, Tiger Jim Becker. His plan of attack complicated my earlier ideas. Decided I couldn't wait for everyone to cross over, if I wanted to get him out of the way first.
Waited till Becker's horse set foot on my side of the river before I fired my first shot. Winchester boomed, and sent rattling echoes up and down the river. Unfortunately, the Ranger's clumsy beast stumbled, and I hit the second feller's animal dead center. Thought to myself, damned if you aren't one lucky son of a bitch, Tiger Jim.
Floundering beast caused just enough confusion in the posse for me to put death-dealing shots in two of the fellers behind Tiger Jim. Wounded at least three others before their panicked compadres managed to hide themselves behind trees and rocks along the San Antonio's rough bank.
Lots of befuddled yelling back and forth as the fractured posse tried to figure out where the shots originated. Heard one feller yell, "Butch and Greeley are dead, Jim. We've got others what are badly wounded."
Spotted the feller doing the yelling, and put a blistering shot through his sugar-loaf sombrero—hard to miss a target that big. Had hoped to nick some of the head inside, but I hurried my shot. Only damaged the silly goober's hat. His fellow sons of bitches cussed me for all they were worth. Torrent of the bluest language imaginable surged up the hill and washed over me like the overflow from a flash flood. Set me to laughing. Knew them boys were whipped and more than ready to give up the fight.
But one of them must have spied the gun smoke coming from my hidey-hole. Hot lead started falling around me like hailstones during a thunderstorm. Blasting went on for a good twenty minutes. I sent them back as good as I got. Even managed to hit another of the stupid jackasses when he jumped up and made a run for Tiger Jim's position. Ranger had concealed himself behind a cottonwood that would have hid a stagecoach. Situation got considerable quiet after the runner went down.
Something close to half an hour must have passed with little movement and no gunfire leveled in my direction. I could hear the posse members yelling back and forth, but the wind had begun to swirl and it became harder to grasp exactly what they said at times. Most of them seemed of the opinion that they'd suffered heavily and might need to turn back to Cuero before some of their wounded passed on.
Finally, heard shouting I could make out. "Mr. Moon, this is Ranger Tiger Jim Becker speaking. You've done went and shot the hell out of my posse. We've got several dead. A number of others are wounded. Let us take our leave and I promise to give you a five-day head start before resuming the search."
Hollered back, "Why should I agree to such a deal, Ranger? Got you boys under my guns, and can probably kill every single one of you. Might take a day or two, but I've got plenty of time."
An uneasy quiet descended for a minute or so. Then Tiger Jim came back with, "Men are suffering down here. You're bound to have a little Christian mercy in some small corner of your murderous black soul, Mr. Moon. Allow me to lead my living friends back to town for proper care, and I promise to deal with your sorry ass at a later date."
Well, that one really set me to laughing. Guess my response must have unnerved ole Tiger Jim. He went to cussing me for all he was worth. But being as how he'd tickled my funny bone some, and being as how I wanted to be on my way, I hollered down at him, "Take 'em home, Jim. Promise to hold my fire and will bind you to yours of a five-day lead. But be advised, I will kill you when next we meet."
Last thing he said was, "Being as how you've already put my brother in the ground, I look forward to that God-sent day with great anticipation, sir."
Took the remaining fellers who could still boast of good health a spell to gather up their wounded, get loaded, and start back for Cuero. Tiger Jim brought up the rear of his fractured group. I watched until he got to the east side of the San Antonio. Beaten Ranger whirled his dun horse around and shook a gloved fist at me. Jumped up on the rock I hid behind and waved like he was the prodigal son returning home to the open arms of a grateful brother.
Must've really made him mad. He hopped down, kicked rocks into the water, shook his fist some more, and yelled something I couldn't make out. Put on quite a display. Got me to thinking maybe ole Tiger Jim wasn't the kind to make idle threats. Figured I'd better make the best of my five-day head start and burn leather.
For the first time since I'd taken a shovel to Pa's evil noggin, I had an uneasy feeling about the future. Never had worried much about staying alive before Tiger Jim showed up in my life. Think I spent every waking moment from that day till we met again worrying about the bastard. Knew for damned certain when we locked eyes somewhere down the road, I would have to be steady, fast, and accurate, or the man would kill me deader'n a rotted fence post.
Couldn't think of a good way to simply disappear. But then, God stepped in and rescued me again. Happened just outside the tiny village of Beeville. Ran across a branch of the Chisholm Trail, and right into the open arms of Amos Bloodsworth.
13
"Damn near five hundred head drowned."
On the third day after Tiger Jim and I parted company, I reined up on a small rise. Threw a leg over my saddle horn and watched them roll across the countryside like a living wave—thousands of longhorn cattle. That hair-covered ocean took so much time to pass, I climbed down, spread my blanket on the ground under a friendly live oak, and rolled a cigarette.
Cowboy riding flank spotted me and kicked over for a minute to visit. Pulled a dust-covered bandanna away from his sweaty face and said, "Mind if I enjoy your shade for a few seconds, mister?"
Waved him to the coolest spot under the tree. "Not a bit. Help yourself."
He fished tobacco and papers from a battered leather vest, and soon joined me in a relaxing smoke. "Where do you boys hail from?" I asked.
"Casa Blanca. 'Bout fifty miles east of Laredo. Mr. Amos Bloodsworth runs these ornery beasts under the Lazy B brand down that way. He's got three thousand head in this bunch. We're pushin' for the railhead in Dodge."
The depth of my
ignorance of cows, cattle drives, and such led to the next question. "How long will it take?"
He scratched his chin, took a drag on the hand-rolled, and said, "Depending of how the weather goes, barring any major accidents, and whether or not we have trouble with Injuns or cattle raiders, should make 'er in three months—give or take a week or two here and there."
Flabbergasted, I said, "Three months? Sweet Jesus, didn't have any idea a drive would take that long."
"Never been out on one of these dances, I take it."
"You take it right, amigo. I've wanted to try my hand at one, but the opportunity never came up. Besides, doubt I have the skills necessary for such work."
He laughed. "Don't need much in the way of skill to push these poor dumb critters. Just have to take your time. Don't want to urge 'em along too fast."
"Why not?"
"Well, faster they move, the more weight they lose. You've gotta let 'em find their own pace—ten, maybe twelve miles a day."
Spotted the drag riders bringing up the end of the herd and grabbed my blanket. "Nice talking with you. Kinda wish I could go along to Dodge."
He leaned over and locked me in a squinty gaze. "Oh, you can. We lost a man just six days from the ranch. Poor son of a bitch got bit by the damnedest rattlesnake I've ever seen. As big around as ole Cookie's skinny leg, and almost six feet long. Kilt poor Junior Jefferies deader'n the doorknob on a Kansas City whorehouse so quick, none of us could believe it."
I hated snakes and couldn't help asking, "Merciful Father. How'd he get bit?"
"Poor bastard bent down to pick up his bedroll one morning. Snake must have been sleepin' under the blanket somewheres. Jumped all of five feet and bit Junior on the side of his neck." He pointed to a spot under his left ear. "We had to pry that snake off' n him. Boy died in less than an hour. He'd only seen seventeen summers. Sorry-assed shame if you ask me."
Tied the bedroll behind my saddle and got mounted again. Was about to pull away when he said, "I'll take you to Mr. Bloodsworth, if you'd like. Sure he'll hire you. Any hand's always better'n none, or a dead one. Won't take long to learn cowboy'n for any man who can ride. Hell, I'll teach you."
"Well, I can ride, but my talent doesn't really involve horses or cows."
He appeared confused. "What exactly is your talent, sir?"
"Guns," I said, "and the deadly use of them."
He pushed a frazzled straw hat to the back of his head, stared at the weapons on my hip and across my belly. "Well, that's even better'n bein' able to ride and rope where we're goin'. Once we get to the north side of the Red, might need a man of your abilities. What's your name?"
"Eli Gault."
"Well, Eli, Mr. Bloodsworth is gonna love havin' you along for the ride. Come with me."
Amos Bloodsworth had more than a little in common with a grizzly bear. He lumbered my direction when I climbed down next to the chuck wagon, and checked me over like his next meal had just arrived in camp.
He pawed at a hair-covered chin and glanced at my guide. "See you've done went and found a stray, Boots."
Boots motioned my direction. "Mr. Bloodsworth, this here's Eli Gault." The Casa Blanca rancher removed a battered glove and offered a paw for me to shake.
Boots grabbed a pair of empty cups. Handed me a full tin of the hot stump juice and spoke as he poured. "Yessir. Being as how Junior went under, thought you might want to talk with this feller, Mr. Bloodsworth. He's possessed of a talent I think you might find interestin'."
Bloodsworth's gaze shifted back to me. Made me feel like a two-headed chicken in a traveling sideshow. "What talent might that be, stranger?" I thought him mighty formal, being as we were at least fifty miles from the nearest town.
"As I told Boots, guns. And the deadly use of them."
"Guns?"
"Yes indeed. I'm hell on wheels with pistols in my hands—about as good as it gets."
Bloodsworth laid heavily muscled arms that strained at the seams on a cotton work shirt across his chest, kind of leaned back on his heels, and eyeballed me. "Is that a fact? You're that good, huh?"
"Would you like a demonstration?" He'd stepped on more than a few of my toes. Guess my answer came out a shade on the crotchety side.
"No. No. Don't need you to take no test. You say it's so, I believe you, son." Cupped his chin with the palm of the hand I shook, and gave me another thorough looking-over. "Wuz just wonderin' if you're on the run by any chance."
Smiled at him and said, "Could be. My personal problems shouldn't matter one way or the other to anyone here. I can be extremely helpful if trouble arises along the trail. Hostiles, cattle raiders, thieves, killers, or miscreants of any kind give you a problem, and you'll be pleased to have me along."
"Ever done any cowboyin' before, Eli? Been on any trail drives? Know anything about cattle?"
"To be absolutely truthful, I'd have to answer no to all of your questions. But I can do this." Poured the coffee out of my cup and tossed it into the dust about fifteen feet in front of me. Had my guns drawn, cocked, and ready to fire—so fast Bloodsworth almost passed out.
In a panic, the rancher motioned with both hands for me to hold off. He hissed, "Don't fire them pistols, son, please. We'd have to chase this herd all the way to Fort Worth before they stopped. You can show me how good a shot you are later."
Did one of Cutter's fancy spins, and returned my pistols to their holsters. "Does that mean I'm hired?"
"You're hired. Thirty dollars a month and found is the usual for a run-of-the-mill cowboy. I'll pay you the same, but will raise it to fifty if your special talents are ever needed. That acceptable?"
Smiled when I said, "Sounds fine to me, sir." We sealed the bargain with spit and a handshake.
He pointed a lazy finger at my guide. "Boots will take you in tow. Teach you as much as you're able to learn about bein' a cowhand. Can stow your gear in the chuck wagon or leave it on your mule. Probably better if you stowed it—easier on the mule anyway. Grab a plate. Cook's just about got meat and beans ready."
Figured taking a job with the Lazy B served a good purpose. Nowhere else to hide out came to mind. Besides, stringing along with Bloodsworth's drive offered me a fine way to cover my trail, and perhaps keep Tiger Jim from finding me. The pay was of no consequence. An oilskin wrapper inside my saddlebag covered more than ten thousand dollars I'd saved from my roguish travels as a gambler. And so, as simple as pie, that's the way I happened to become a cowhand headed for Dodge City, Kansas—and, more important, how a reputation finally caught up with me.
After supper that first afternoon, Boots came to me with a stack of well-used clothing and a saddle that had seen better days. He dropped them beside me. "Fancy suit of clothes you're wearing just won't do out here, Eli. Got some of the boys to chip in a few things that'll make the work a lot easier. Be sure to wear the chaps and gloves, even if you can't use anything else I brought. Brush can cut right through a pair of canvas pants. Gloves'll save your hands."
"What about my animals, Boots?"
He hitched a thumb at the cook. "I checked with Cookie. You can tie 'em to the back of the chuck wagon during the day, or run 'em in our remuda. Don't mean no disrespect, but your horse is pretty much useless for the kinda work we do. Have to ride one of our cow ponies. Your saddle's a shade on the fancy side, too. Way too heavy." He toed at the one he'd brought. "This ole Denver's almost worn out, but not quite. Better if you use it. They's a long, hard day comin' tomorrow, Eli. Best get some sleep if you can. The cook'll have us up and around at first light."
The next few weeks remain in my memory as an agonizing blur of bone-jarring hard work, damned little sleep, and constant attention from Boots McGraw. Hardest lesson I had to learn involved staying horsed on one of those cow ponies. Damned animals could change directions so fast, I got thrown about a dozen times before finally adjusting to their speed and skill.
Second toughest involved a roping technique called the head-and-heel catch. Didn't have too much trouble
with the head, but heelin' proved almost as mysterious to me as the origins of the universe. Good way to lose a thumb real fast, too.
But eventually, all the pieces of the cowboy puzzle began to fall into place. By the time we reached Fort Worth, I'd worked every position in the drive formation—point, swing, flank, and drag. Worst of it was riding drag. Wouldn't recommend the job to anyone as a way to make a living. Longest, dustiest days I've spent in my entire life involved riding drag for the Lazy B.
Mr. Bloodsworth bedded his herd down a little west of Fort Worth. Said he couldn't afford the cost of keeping them penned in the Fort Worth stockyards.
He gathered the crew, once we had everything under control, and said, "Have a schedule written out on this here piece of paper, boys. I'll post it on the chuck wagon. Half of you can visit Hell's Half Acre today, half tomorrow. Then we'll push for the Red River. Git whatever drinkin' and whorin' you've got in mind done on your trip to the Acre. I want everyone on his toes when we get to the Red. Never know just what kind of pickle might present itself at the crossing."
Since I had no understanding of the difficulties we might soon face, popped off and said, "What kind of problems do you mean, Mr. Bloodsworth?"
Sounded to me as though he relished answering the question. Got the impression our boss felt an obligation to prepare those, like me, who'd never had to move a herd across a major river before.
Reminded me of my pa getting ginned up for a sermon when he started with, "Could be easy, Eli. Nothin' to it. Might even wade 'em across that unpredictable stream with no trouble a-tall. Seen it go that way many a time before. Then again, could be like a few years ago when the Red flooded. More'n forty thousand head from a dozen different ranches bunched up on this side waitin' to cross."
Old cowboy named Prentiss Taylor, who looked as ancient as my used-up saddle, chimed in with, "Wuz there for that 'un, Mr. Bloodsworth. Worst day of my life wuz when the crossin' finally started. Ain't never seen such a boogered-up mess in my entire life. Hell, I thought more'n a time or three I wuzn't gonna live out the day."