STANDOFF ON THE PRAIRIE
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Seaforth said. “The only way I can figure to settle this is for my men and me to take your herd.” The man shrugged. “It’s only fair.”
“You’re not takin’ our herd.”
“Are you going to stop us?” Seaforth asked.
“We are.”
“In case you can’t add,” Seaforth said to Chance, “you’re outnumbered two-to-one.”
“There’s a rifle pointed right at you, Major,” Jake said. “If you and your men try anythin’, you’ll be the first to die.”
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2020 by The Estate of Ralph Compton
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Ebook ISBN: 9780593102251
First Edition: June 2020
Printed in the United States of America
Cover art by Steve Atkinson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
The Immortal Cowboy
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
About the Author
THE IMMORTAL COWBOY
This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cowboy.” His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.
True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.
In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?
It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.
It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.
—Ralph Compton
CHAPTER ONE
The death rattle could be heard very clearly for the Texas trail drive by the 1880s. And more clearly than ever for Big Jake Motley.
Motley considered himself a broken-down old bronc buster and cowboy at fifty-five years old. And not only was he broken down, but the Big M spread that he had owned for over twenty-five years was also on its last legs. His acreage had been whittled down over the years by new outfits encroaching from both sides, either claiming land that he had mistakenly not filed deeds for, or buying large slices at a time when he had to sell parcels off to stay in business.
The main problem for Big Jake was that while he had always been a fine cowboy, he was a bad businessman. And where he once drove five to six thousand head of cattle from Texas to Kansas City, he was now down to his last six hundred head. And, terrible businessman that he was, he currently found himself with no hands for the drive. This meant riding into Brownsville, and other, smaller towns, to find men for hire. And they would have to be men willing to work for a lot less than was usual. In addition, he wasn’t going to be able to pay them until the drive was done and he was paid himself.
On this night he sat on his porch, smoking his pipe and staring out at what was left of his Big M spread. Usually, he enjoyed the feel of the Texas breeze on his face, the scent in his nostrils, but tonight it felt stagnant, and smelled of defeat.
He had managed to find a buyer for the ranch; the transaction would be completed just prior to Big Jake’s last drive. Once he and his men left with those last six hundred cows, he’d have no place to come back to. His life as a cattle rancher would be over, and Big Jake Motley did not know what his future held.
But he was sure of one thing. For this final drive he needed two men to help him assemble a crew. One of them he’d hopefully find in Brownsville, but the other was out there . . . somewhere . . . for him to locate.
The first man was his old partner, Chance McCandless. They were the same age, and McCandless had given up trail drives long ago. But Big Jake needed a man he could trust. He didn’t want anything to go wrong, and for that he needed an experienced, dependable trail boss—and that was Chance McCandless.
The second man he needed would act as his top hand, a position he had held many times before for Jake, but certainly not lately. He was Jo
sé Luis Diego—his name was much longer than that, but Jake had never been able to remember it all. In the end, Jake had always called him, simply, Taco.
Taco was one of the more valuable things Big Jake had lost over the years. He wasn’t sure what the Mex was doing these days, or where he was doing it, but he was hopeful that Taco would be willing and able to join him on this last venture.
He puffed on his pipe and continued to stare at what was certainly one of the last sunsets he’d see over the Big M, hoping that Chance and Taco would be able to help him through his last drive.
* * *
* * *
Chance McCandless stared at the cards in his hands. He had aces and eights. If he wasn’t mistaken, this was a bad omen, the hand Bill Hickok had been holding when he was shot to death from behind.
But McCandless didn’t believe in other people’s bad luck. He’d had plenty of his own, over the years, both good and bad. Now in his fifties, he had fallen on hard times. This was the reason he had recently been living across the Rio Grande from Brownsville, Texas, in Matamoros, Mexico. Most of his days were spent trying to turn what little money he had into more, playing poker. There weren’t many other ways for a broken-down ex-cowboy to make money. He couldn’t see himself clerking in a store, or swamping out a saloon.
“It’s to you, señor,” Hector Martinez said to him.
Martinez had dealt the hand and was the only player left after the other three—all also Mexicans—had dropped out. The Mexicans in Matamoros enjoyed attempting to take the gringo’s money.
Martinez had opened and drawn three cards. McCandless had been dealt the aces and eights, and had drawn one. He could have stood pat, trying to bluff the others into thinking he had a perfect hand already. Instead, he had made the one-card draw in an attempt to improve, and failed. Now he had to decide whether or not Martinez had improved. Having drawn three cards, the Mexican had better odds for improving his hand than McCandless did. At that moment, he could have been sitting on three-of-a-kind. But McCandless had too much money invested in the pot to fold. He even considered raising, but instead just said, “I call.”
Martinez laid his cards on the table with a big smile, revealing black rotted teeth surrounded by two gold ones.
“Three tens, señor.” He held up three fingers. “Tres.”
McCandless tossed his aces and eights on the table.
“Ah, señor,” Martinez said, “such a unlucky hand.”
“Yes,” McCandless said, standing and giving his last ten dollars a wistful look as Martinez raked in the pot, “yes, it is.”
As he left the cantina, Martinez called out, “Come back when you have more money, gringo.”
Their laughter echoed in his head long after he left the building. He had to find something soon, or he would likely starve—or end up swamping a saloon for drinks and hard-boiled eggs.
* * *
* * *
In the morning Big Jake rose and prepared himself a meager breakfast. While his wife was alive breakfast was a celebration. Abby would cover the table with platters of food—eggs, bacon, potatoes, some days flapjacks and biscuits—and very often they’d have some hands eat with them, or Chance and Taco. But since her death ten years ago, Big Jake’s meals had become more and more simple, and private. In fact, he could even trace the downward spiral of his life and ranch as having picked up speed at that point. He had pretty much been going downhill, toward an abyss, daily. Hopefully, she was waiting for him on the other side.
But living his life was ingrained in him, and giving up had never been an option. Hence the sale of the ranch and the planned last trail drive. When all of that was finally done, this part of his life would be as well, and he would be free to move on.
After breakfast he went outside and walked to the barn. Inside, where there were once thirty or forty horses, there were now two—one to pull his buckboard, and one saddle mount. That was another thing new hands would have to deal with: supplying their own mounts.
He walked his horse out and saddled it next to the empty corral; the dirt floor had long since ceased to be kicked up by hooves. The wind had blown away any remnants of tracks long ago, and there was now a smooth surface of undisturbed dirt.
Big Jake mounted his nine-year-old steeldust. He could tell that he would also need to get himself a new mount for the trail drive. He just hoped his old bones would be able to stand the rigors of such a ride. It had been years since he had gone on a drive himself, leaving it to younger men to get the herd where it needed to go, allowing his top hand or foreman to pick up the payments, and trusting them to bring it back.
His last good foreman had been Jessup Coleman, a man he employed and trusted for sixteen years, until he died in the saddle one day. The doctor said his heart simply gave out and that, for a man not yet fifty, he had the constitution of someone much older.
“He literally worked himself to death,” the doctor told Jake, who knew the implication was that he had driven his foreman to death.
Since then he’d had several foremen and top hands, until they each moved on to greener pastures.
Chance McCandless had once told Jake, “You’re lettin’ this place die beneath you, Jake, and you with it.” That was when Chance left, saying, “I ain’t gonna watch you do it, and I ain’t gonna wither away with you.” He only hoped his old friend would sign back on when he heard what the plan was.
But before he could sign Chance McCandless up for the drive, he had to find him. And the same was true for Taco. Once both men were with him, he knew he would be able to pick up the rest that were needed. But that all had to happen soon, as the cattle were ready to go, and he needed to get them to market in top condition if he hoped to get the best price.
So first things first, a ride into Brownsville to see if anyone there had seen Chance McCandless recently.
* * *
* * *
Brownsville had a colorful history. The town was the site of the first battle of the Mexican-American War, and the final battle of the Civil War. Yet with its storied past, it had yet to grow beyond its existence as a border town. Directly across the Rio Grande was Matamoros, Mexico’s own version of Brownsville. It, too, had been the site of many battles of different wars, ranging from the Mexican Revolution, to the Texas Revolution, the Civil War, and the French Intervention.
As Big Jake Motley rode into Brownsville he drew the eyes of the locals, who had not seen him in town in some time. He even had a deal with the mercantile to deliver supplies to him every month so he wouldn’t have to come to town. Once respected by the citizens of Brownsville, he was now nothing more than a curiosity to them.
Jake did not exchange looks, nods, or pleasantries with any of the people he rode past. He simply kept his eyes looking straight ahead. His wife, Abby, had been the one who made the friends, and invited people to the ranch, and when she died that had all simply stopped. Oh, some of his neighbors had made attempts to keep in touch, but it soon became apparent that Big Jake Motley couldn’t be bothered, so folks just gave up.
Now here he was, riding right down Brownsville’s main street, big as life.
He knew what they were thinking.
For the love of God, why?
CHAPTER TWO
Big Jake rode into Brownsville with definite destinations in mind. There were two people he was sure would know where he could find Chance McCandless.
First he reined in his horse in front of the sheriff’s office. He had known Sheriff Ogden Smith—who folks called O.G.—ever since he first assumed the job twelve years before, while the Big M was still a going concern.
He looped the horse’s reins around a hitching post, stepped up onto the boardwalk, and entered the sheriff’s office.
O. G. Smith looked up from his desk with his customary scowl, but brightened when he saw who was coming in the door.
“Well, s
onofabitch,” O.G. said, “what the hell are you doin’ off the reservation?”
The lawman was ten years younger and half a head taller than Jake. The scowl he wore had arrived during his first year in office, and grown increasingly worse year after year. These days it was enough to make people knock at his door before entering—except for old friends. But Jake could see O.G.’s taste for vivid colors in clothes hadn’t changed. The blue of his shirt was enough to hurt the eyes, along with the red bandanna around his neck. Abby had tried her best for years, but could never break Jake of his habit of wearing brown.
He stood up, came out from behind his desk, and shook Jake’s hand. It had been a while since Jake had felt that vise-like grip. He pulled his hand away and flexed his fingers.
“Take it easy, O.G.,” he said. “I’m an old man with brittle bones.”
“Well then, sit them bones down and tell me what brings you to town,” O.G. said, returning to his chair. It creaked beneath his weight, but held.
“I’m lookin’ for—”
“What the hell is wrong with my manners?” O.G. suddenly exploded, coming out of his chair again. “Want some coffee?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Don’t know what’s wrong with me,” O.G. said, walking to the potbellied stove in the corner and pouring two mugs of coffee. “It’s probably because I get no visitors in here.”
He walked back, handed Jake a cup, and then sat back down, putting his cup on the desk.
It had been a while since Jake had sampled O.G.’s coffee. He sipped it and grimaced.
“You’ve gotten better,” he said.
“That’s good to hear,” O.G. said. “I couldn’t be sure because I’m the only one who drinks it. Okay, okay, I won’t interrupt you again. What’s on your mind?”
“I’m looking for Chance.”
“McCandless?”
“Yes.”
Ralph Compton Big Jake's Last Drive Page 1