Ralph Compton Big Jake's Last Drive

by Robert J. Randisi

  “You should be able to find two like that in Brownsville,” Chance said.

  “I hope so.”

  “How much are you gonna pay?”

  “I’ll offer the two new waddies twenty-five a week. Desi and Taco I’ll give forty. You’ll get fifty, although I’d like to give you more.”

  “You said somethin’ about a percentage.”

  “That, too, but I wanna pay you—”

  “I’ll just take the percentage, Jake,” Chance said. “Just worry about payin’ the boys.”

  “Okay, Chance, we’ll do it that way.”

  “How many horses you wanna have along?”

  “Three horses a man, I think.”

  “Six hands, that’s eighteen. The four of us have our own, so you have to buy fourteen. You got the money for those horses and the supplies?”

  Jake sat back in his chair.

  “I’ve gotta go to the bank and meet my buyer. He’ll pay me for the ranch, then I’ll pay the bank what I owe in mortgage and loans. What’s left over should cover the bills for this drive.”

  “How much are you lookin’ to sell the herd for?”

  “I’m hoping for at least fifteen dollars a head. We’re startin’ with six hundred head, and I’m gonna try not to lose too many of those along the way.”

  “Gotta lose some,” Chance pointed out. “Even if it’s just the ones we eat.”

  “I’m countin’ on you and Taco to watch out for the herd, and watch over the other hands.”

  “Want me to come to town with you?” Chance asked.

  “Might as well,” he said. “We’ll take Taco and Desi, too. We can all eat, find our last two hands, buy the supplies and horses, and go to the bank. But that’ll all be tomorrow.”

  “And what about the cook and chuckwagon?” Chance asked.

  “I’ve got a coupla ideas,” Jake said. “Maybe you do, too?”

  “I can think of a few names, hopefully they’re still around.”

  “We’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “What about eatin’ tonight?” Chance asked. “You gonna cook?”

  Jake made a face and said, “I was kinda hopin’ you would.”

  “Let’s see if either one of our Mexican vaqueros can ride a stove.”

  * * *

  * * *

  As it turned out, Desi could cook. He looked at what Jake had in his root cellar and managed to make a meal out of it for the four of them.

  “That was pretty good, Desi,” Chance said, sitting back in his chair. “Maybe we should make you the cook on the drive.”

  “Oh, señor,” Desi said, “I appreciate the offer, but Desi is a vaquero, not a cook.”

  “That’s okay, Desi,” Jake said. “I’m lookin’ for a cook who has his own chuckwagon. It’ll cut down on my expenses.”

  “Oh, but señor, I know just the person,” Desi said, looking at Taco. “Cousin, what about Carlito?”

  “Who’s Carlito?” Jake asked.

  “Another cousin,” Taco said thoughtfully. “Sí, he might be your man.”

  Jake wasn’t sure he wanted another Mexican on the drive, let alone making him the cook.

  “Can he cook American?” Jake asked.

  “Sí, he can cook anythin’, señor,” Desi said.

  Jake looked to the older cousin, Taco, for the final word.

  “Would he do it, Taco? And does he have his own wagon?”

  “Sí, señor,” Taco said, “you would only need to buy the supplies.”

  “Okay,” Jake said, “Chance and me, we’re goin’ into Brownsville tomorrow to find two more hands and do some other business. How far would you have to ride back into Mexico to get your cousin?”

  “Not far, señor,” Taco said. “We could all be back here by tomorrow night—with the wagon.”

  Jake looked at Chance.

  “Sounds doable, Jake,” he said. “And when we hire two more waddies from Brownsville, we’ll still outnumber these Mex rascals.”

  “All right, then,” Jake said, “let’s do it.”

  “Sí, señor,” Desi said, standing. “And I will clean up here.”

  “Let it go, Desi,” Jake said. “Chance and me’ll clean up. You and Taco turn in. I want you to get an early start tomorrow mornin’.”

  “As you wish, jefe,” Desi said.

  Taco and Desi left the house to go back to the bunkhouse. Jake and Chance cleaned off the table, but left the dishes piled in the kitchen. They went back to the table to share some coffee.

  “It’s a small price to pay,” Chance said, “havin’ a Mexican cook, if he’s got his own chuckwagon.”

  “I shoulda asked Taco if we had to buy him a team of mules to pull it.”

  “Seems to me a fella who’s got his own wagon would also have his own team.”

  “Sounds right,” Jake said.

  “You wanna split up tomorrow?” Chance asked. “You go to the bank, and I’ll go and look at some horses?”

  “We might as well split the chores,” Jake said. “Then we can look for two hands together.”

  “I’ll ask the hostler at the livery if he knows anybody lookin’ for work,” Chance suggested.

  “Good idea. If not him, then some bartender is gonna know.”

  Chance sat back in his chair and looked around the dining room. There was a large cabinet filled with china he knew Abby loved, and they were seated at a long dining room table she had had delivered from St. Louis.

  “Whadaya gonna do with all this stuff?” he asked. “The furniture and all.”

  Jake hesitated before answering. He wasn’t sure how his friend would take what he was about to say.

  “I’m sellin’ the place as is, Chance,” he said finally.

  “All Abby’s stuff?” Chance asked.

  “The buyer’s young wife loves it all,” Jake said, “and I agreed to just leave it be. I mean, what the hell would I do with all of it if I don’t have a house to put it in?”

  “I guess you got a point,” Chance said.

  “I’m convinced she wouldn’t mind,” Jake said.

  “I think you’re right,” Chance said. “Why not let some other young bride enjoy it all.”

  Jake noticed his friend’s eyes still roaming around the room.

  “You wanna sweeten that coffee with a little whiskey?” he asked.

  “I do,” Chance said, licking his lips, “but . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Jake said. He got up, went to the front room, took a bottle of whiskey out of his desk drawer, and carried it back to the dining room.

  “Tonight we can have it,” he said, pouring some into each of their coffee cups, “but once we start the drive, no whiskey for anybody.”

  “That sounds fair,” Chance said.

  So fair, in fact, that once the coffee was gone, they continued to pour whiskey into their cups.

  “I think that’s enough,” Jake finally said. “Let’s turn in, and clean the kitchen tomorrow before we go to town.”

  Chance gave the half-full whiskey bottle a wistful look before Jake whisked it away and put it back in his desk drawer—which he locked.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In the morning Jake rose before Chance, went into the kitchen, and cleaned it, because Abby would have turned over in her grave if he didn’t. When somebody knocked on the door it turned out to be Taco and Desi, to tell him they were heading out.

  “I’m glad you stopped here first,” Jake said. “I don’t need to buy your cousin a team of mules, do I?”

  “He will have his own, jefe,” Desi assured him.

  “And are you sure he’ll come along?” Jake asked.

  “It is either that,” Taco said, “or stay home with his fat wife and ten children.”

  “He will come,” Desi said, a
nd both cousins laughed.

  As they turned and left, Jake closed the front doors, and Chance came down the stairs.

  “Who was that?”

  “Taco and Desi,” Jake said. “They’re on their way.”

  Chance was scowling and squinting, probably both because of a headache.

  “We got any coffee?”

  “I thought we’d have breakfast in town,” Jake said. “Whadaya say?”

  “Let’s get a move on,” Chance replied. “I need coffee.”

  They went to the barn, saddled up, and headed to Brownsville.

  * * *

  * * *

  Big Jake Motley and Chance McCandless riding back into Brownsville was enough to draw looks on the street. For Jake, it was his second day in town. For Chance, his first day in years. These two men were well known on sight in Brownsville, but no one was thrilled to see them, just curious. What were they doing in town after all this time? And why were they together again when everyone knew that Chance had left the Big M?

  Jake reined in his horse in front of the bank, followed by Chance.

  “Let’s get breakfast across the street,” Jake said, “then you can go down to the livery stable on Market Street. He’ll have the best horses.”

  They walked across the street to the Borderline Café and entered. Many of the tables were occupied, and the patrons looked up from their plates to see who was coming in. When they saw Jake and Chance, some of them stared, some quickly looked away.

  “What’s your reputation in town, these days?” Chance asked.

  “I’m crotchety,” Jake said, “and not lookin’ to make any new friends.”

  “I can tell.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve been across the border for so long, I don’t think these people know me anymore.”

  “You’re bein’ modest.”

  A tall man with a dirty white apron came over and said, “Mr. Motley, Mr. McCandless, it’s been a long time.”

  “You still serve food, don’tcha?” Jake asked.

  “Oh yes, sir.”

  “Well then, we’ll take a table with a little privacy.”

  “Sure, sure, gents,” the man said. “This way.”

  “I see what you mean,” Chance said as they followed the waiter. “Crotchety.”

  They sat at a table that had only one other occupied table near it. The two men there looked over, recognized the pair, and then put their heads together.

  Jake and Chance gave their order to the waiter before he withdrew. They wanted their food and coffee quickly.

  “I knew I hadn’t been here in a while, but when’s the last time you were in town?”

  “I was here yesterday,” Jake said, “but before that . . . I don’t know. Months.”

  “These folks seem real curious about us,” Chance said.

  “I . . . sort of withdrew after Abby died,” Jake said. “Stayed to myself.”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, you didn’t stay around very long.”

  “If I had,” Chance said, “we woulda killed each other, Jake. We needed that time apart.”

  “And now we need this last drive,” Jake said.

  “When it’s over,” Chance said, “we’ll know how much we needed it. I told you, I ain’t been ridin’ much lately. My butt’s already sore from bein’ in the saddle yesterday and today.”

  “You’ll get your seat back, Chance.”

  “What about you?” Chance asked. “You been ridin’?”

  “Yeah,” Jake said, “I had to ride to get that herd together. I couldn’t trust the men I had. About the only thing good about them was they could do what they were told, but I couldn’t trust them to work on their own.”

  “Okay, but ridin’ on your land is a lot different from ridin’ to Dodge.”

  “We’re gonna find out just how much we can take,” Jake said.

  The waiter came, then, with their plates and coffee. Chance greedily drank his first cup and poured another. Only then did he take his first bite of eggs. Jake noticed his friend was sweating.

  “How bad is it, Chance?”

  “What?”

  “How bad was the drinkin’?” Jake asked. “When I found you . . . was that usual?”

  “It was pretty bad,” Chance said, “but don’t worry. I’ll be okay. I just gotta get through these next few days.”

  Jake was hoping he hadn’t made a mistake by pulling his old friend in on this job. The drinking, the shape he was in, Chance could end up being a problem rather than a help. But in their prime, Jake had never known a more reliable man in the saddle. He just hoped they both had this one last drive in them.

  He stopped worrying about it and began to eat.

  * * *

  * * *

  After breakfast they paid their bill and stepped outside, ignoring the curious looks. Jake hadn’t realized what a stranger he’d become in town until now. The bank, right across the street, had opened for business.

  “My buyer should be in there, waitin’ for me,” Jake said.

  “The deal is made, right?” Chance asked. “It’s just a matter of paperwork?”

  “Yeah,” Jake said, “but you know how I am about paperwork.”

  “Just sign on the dotted line, Jake,” Chance said, “and get it over with.”

  “Good advice,” Jake said. “Get us some good horses, Chance, at a fair price. Then come and get me. By then I should have the cash.”

  “I’ll do that,” Chance said. “See you in a while.”

  Chance headed off down the street to the livery while Jake crossed to the bank.

  * * *

  * * *

  The buyer was waiting in the bank manager’s office when Jake arrived.

  “Come on in, Jake,” Ben Caplock, the manager, said. “Everything’s ready for your signature.”

  Jake followed the well-dressed, barrel-chested manager into his office. There was one other man there, his buyer, Edwin Forest. The manager closed the door.

  “We’ll have plenty of privacy,” he said, sitting behind his desk.

  Jake sat next to the buyer, asking, “Your wife’s not here?”

  The man looked at him and smiled. His Eastern-cut suit was out of place here in the West, but the young man had assured Jake that he and his wife were committed to becoming Westerners.

  “Laura’s quite excited about this, and is already shopping for items that she wants to add to what’s already in the house. I don’t quite understand it, but . . .” He shrugged.

  “I’m sure you’re also committed to making the necessary repairs to the property,” the manager said.

  “Oh, indeed,” Forest said, “but I am more concerned with the outside. The inside will be entirely up to her.”

  “I know what that’s like,” Jake assured him.

  Forest smiled. He and his wife were more than twenty years younger than Jake. They might even have been the age Jake and Abby were when they built the Big M.

  “Here are the papers,” Ben Caplock said, pushing the documents over to Jake’s side of the desk. “Mr. Forest has already signed.”

  Jake leaned forward, saw the younger man’s flourishing signature on all the papers.

  Caplock held up another slip of paper.

  “You sign and this bank draft is yours,” he said.

  “Have you already taken what I owe your bank?” Jake asked.

  “Not at all,” Caplock said. “This is the entire amount Mr. Forest is paying you for your ranch. When you and he have completed your transaction, you and I can discuss ours.”

  Jake nodded, leaned forward, picked up the pen, dipped it into the ink, and signed in three places.

  “I’ll take those,” Caplock said, retrieving the documents, “and this
is yours.” He handed Jake the bank draft.

  Jake accepted it and nodded his approval when he saw the amount.

  Edwin Forest stood up and extended his hand to Jake.

  “Thank you for this, Mr. Motley,” he said as they shook. “You’ve made my wife a very happy woman.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I hope you don’t mind, but my first act as new owner will be to change the name of the ranch.”

  “That’s your right.”

  Forest turned and shook hands with the bank manager, who handed him a copy of the documents.

  “We will make sure the rest of these are filed properly,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  Forest started for the door.

  “If you don’t mind . . .” Jake said.

  “Yes?” Forest turned at the door.

  “What will you be naming the ranch?”

  Forest smiled.

  “We’re simply going to call it ‘Laura.’ It has a Southern feel to it, doesn’t it?”

  “But . . . you’re not Southern,” Jake said.

  “Laura is,” Forest said. “Her family is from Atlanta. Thank you again, gents.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Caplock said, rising and quickly walking to the door. “I’ll be right back, Jake.” Both men left.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As Caplock reentered his office moments later, he was surprised to see Jake Motley still sitting there with the bank draft in his hands, staring.

  “That’s a lot of money, Jake,” Caplock said.

  “Yeah, it is, Ben,” Jake said. “Too bad I can’t keep it all.”

  “But you can,” Caplock said, seating himself behind his desk. “You don’t need to cover all your debts now. You can make payments—”

  “I’ve been makin’ payments for years,” Jake said. “I’m tired of it. Besides, I don’t have any idea if I’m gonna be comin’ back from this trail drive.”

  “You expect to die?”

  “I might,” Jake said. “I’m a worn-out old cuss. I might die on the trail. But even if I don’t, what reason would I have to come back here?”