Ralph Compton Big Jake's Last Drive

by Robert J. Randisi

  He had no other choice. There was no way he could look ahead to his remaining days until he got this done.

  * * *

  * * *

  He crossed into Indian Territory the next morning, and hoped he would have the same luck they’d had when they encountered Indians with the herd. Of course, this time he had very little to give them.

  He decided not to travel through as much Indian Territory as they had done with the herd. Instead he headed for the Texas Panhandle, which meant he didn’t have to ride through much of the territories. So by heading for Shamrock, Texas, he gave himself about fifty or sixty miles of Indian Territory to travel, which would probably take him two days if he didn’t push the sorrel.

  He didn’t want to push the horse, because there was no point in wearing him out. They’d get where they were going eventually. There was no great rush. He wanted them both to be in decent shape when they arrived near Three Rivers.

  He camped his second night in the territories, knowing that he would be crossing into Texas the next morning. What he hadn’t expected was to wake up and find that he had company . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  He did a breakfast of coffee and beans, and while he was eating it he heard the approaching horses. From the sound, he could tell they were not shod. That meant Indian ponies.

  He pulled his rifle closer, touched the pistol in his holster, and then continued eating as they approached.

  There were three of them and, once again, they were a mix of tribes. As they approached his camp he could see that two were Quapaw and one Osage. He certainly felt better having to deal with them than with Apaches or Comanches.

  He did his best to seem relaxed as he looked up at them.

  “We are hungry,” one of them said.

  “Step down, then,” Jake said. “I’ll put on some more beans.”

  The three braves slid off their ponies and walked to the fire.

  “No meat?” one asked as Jake emptied another can of beans into the pan.

  “Sure,” he said, “I can add some beef.”

  He took out some beef jerky and added it to the pan.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Uh,” the Indian grunted, which Jake took to mean yes.

  “I only have two cups,” he said. “You’ll have to share.”

  He dumped his own cup out, filled it and his second cup, then handed them across the fire to the braves. The two Quapaws shared one and the Osage drank his own. All three braves had rifles, which they laid down on the ground next to them.

  Once the beans and jerky were ready, he handed two plates across to the three braves, who once again shared. They picked the beef out with their fingers, then tipped the plates and shoveled the beans into their mouths with their hands.

  “More coffee,” one of the Quapaws said.

  “Sure.”

  Jake filled both cups again.

  While they drank, the Osage looked at Jake and said. “You trade?”

  “I don’t have anythin’ to trade,” he said. “Sorry. I’m only able to feed you.”

  The Osage looked at the sorrel.

  “Good horse,” he said. “You trade for pony.”

  “I can’t do that,” Jake said. “I need that horse to get where I’m goin’.”

  The three braves looked at each other. They handed their empty plates back to Jake.

  “Gun,” one of the Quapaw said. “You trade gun.”

  “Again,” Jake said, “I’m gonna need it where I’m goin’.”

  “You got more meat?” the Osage asked.

  “Sure,” Jake said, and handed over the rest of his beef jerky. He could pick up more at the first decent-sized town he came to, if not just waiting to get to Shamrock.

  One of the Quapaw walked to his horse and came back with a blanket.

  “This for food,” he said, holding the blanket out to Jake, who didn’t dare reject the offer.

  “Thank you,” he said, accepting the blanket.

  The three braves went back to their horses, mounted up, and rode away.

  A worn blanket for some beans and beef jerky. It didn’t sit right with Jake. He figured he’d have to be on the lookout these last few miles, before he crossed into Texas.

  He broke camp quickly, wanting to get on the move before the braves changed their minds and came back. After stomping out the fire, he saddled the sorrel and urged the animal into a gallop.

  * * *

  * * *

  He had only gone a few miles when he realized he was being followed. It had to be the three Indian braves he had shared breakfast with. He wondered why they would trail him, rather than try to rob him while they were in his camp. Maybe they hadn’t decided to rob him until after they had traded with him.

  He only had about another mile to go to get to Texas when he heard the galloping ponies behind him. Then there was a shot, which made the intentions of the three braves clear.

  Rather than stand and fight, he decided to outrun them with the sorrel. He dug his heels in and the horse leaped forward. It was nerve-wracking to have three Indians chasing him, screaming at the top of their lungs and firing wildly with rifles they didn’t know how to use. It was also invigorating, the way this sorrel was eating up the ground.

  He felt fairly sure if he beat the Indians to Texas, they wouldn’t follow him. It was one thing to rob white men riding through Indian Territory, but another to do it in Texas or Kansas. That would bring the army in, for sure.

  Hopefully, these three weren’t hotheads who would stay after him. If that was the case, he’d have to stop and fight them. He wasn’t afraid, he just didn’t want to take a chance on getting killed before he could kill Seaforth Bailey. After that, he would fight any would-be young gunnies or braves who wanted it.

  He continued to let the sorrel have his head. They put enough distance between themselves and the Indians that he couldn’t hear them screaming, and they had stopped shooting because he was out of range.

  And then he was in Texas . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  He slowed the sorrel, but didn’t stop riding until they had reached Shamrock.

  It was a small town, not much going on as he rode in. The sorrel had cooled down some from his run, but Jake wanted to get him cooled down a bit more. Then he wanted to get himself fed before they continued on. He doubted that two Quapaw Indians and one Osage would follow him into town.

  He was dismounting in front of a café on the main street when a man approached him. The badge on his chest was tarnished, with no shine to it. The man wearing it was much the same.

  “Howdy,” the man said.

  “Afternoon, Sheriff.”

  “Looks like you just rode in.”

  “I did.”

  “From where?”

  “Indian Territory,” Jake said. “I had a few braves on my trail, and had to outrun them or outfight them.”

  “If you don’t mind me askin’,” the middle-aged lawman said, “which did you do?”

  “I outran them.”

  “That’s a good-lookin’ sorrel,” the sheriff said. “My name’s Sheriff Bart Jefferies.”

  Jake frowned, but the sheriff spoke again before he could say anything.

  “Don’t even try,” Jefferies said, “you never heard of me. No reason you should. Nothin’ much ever happens here in Shamrock, but we do get some trouble ridin’ in from the territories every once in a while.”

  “Not from me,” Jake said. “I doubt those braves actually followed me into Texas.”

  “That’s good to hear,” the lawman said. “And there’s nobody else on your trail?”

  “I’m not wanted, if that’s what you mean. I just spent two months drivin’ a herd from Brownsville to Dodge City, and now I’m heade
d back.” It wasn’t exactly true. He wasn’t going all the way back to Brownsville, just as far as Three Rivers, but there was no reason for the lawman to know that.

  “A herd?” Jefferies said. “I thought all the drives from Texas dried up.”

  “They have,” Jake said. “I’m sure mine was the last one. At least, it was my last.”

  “And you paid off your men in Dodge?”

  “All of ’em,” Jake said. “So you see, there’s nobody on my trail at all.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me askin’,” Sheriff Jefferies said. “I usually check with strangers when they ride into town. Any idea how long you’ll be stayin’?”

  “Long enough for my horse to have a blow, and for me to have a steak and pick up a few supplies. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  “I ain’t runnin’ you out, you know,” Jefferies said.

  “That’s okay, Sheriff,” Jake said. “I never had any intention of stayin’ in a hotel. I’ll probably be sleepin’ under the stars all the way.”

  “Well, they do a good steak right in there,” the lawman said, with a nod. “It’s called Sarah’s Café. And down the street is a general store. Should have whatever you’re lookin’ for.”

  “Good to know,” Jake said. “I was hopin’ I wouldn’t have to look around.”

  The lawman touched the brim of his hat and said, “You enjoy your meal now.”

  “I will.”

  He left the sheriff standing there and went inside.

  * * *

  * * *

  Over a steak, he had to admit it felt good to be back in Texas. He’d had no idea what he was going to do, where he was going to go after he and Chance delivered the herd. Now he knew Texas was in his blood, even if he no longer had a home there.

  By the time he finished his meal he figured his horse had enough time to rest.

  As he stepped outside the café, he knew he’d have more conversations like the one he’d had with the sheriff if he continued to stop in towns. Thankfully he had only one stop to make in Shamrock and that was to replace the food he’d lost by feeding the Indians. From then on out he figured to stay on the trail for days at a time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  From Shamrock to Abilene, west of Fort Worth, was a week of campsites and sparse meals of beef jerky and beans, washed down with strong trail coffee. Rather than ride into Fort Worth, he avoided the hustle and bustle of the larger town and opted to stop in Abilene to restock.

  Abilene was small but busy, probably due to some spillover from the nearby larger town. It was the first town he had stopped in since Shamrock, but his goal was the same. A short respite for the sorrel and a good, hot meal for himself. He felt that the condition of his broken-down old bones was improving, but he still needed a decent meal every so often.

  There were more choices than there had been in his previous stop. He was determined to stay away from saloons, as they were often places where trouble simmered and eventually boiled over. He also ignored some of the larger eateries on the town’s main street, and eventually found one that appealed to him. It was small, but as he dismounted, the smells coming from it were mouthwatering.

  He tied the sorrel off and went inside. Apparently, the place was not a popular location for lunch, as there were plenty of tables available. After a week of beef jerky, Jake went for a chicken lunch, and enjoyed it. When he paid his bill and stepped outside, he found two men standing by his horse. One was older, in his forties, built thick in the middle. The other one might have been his son.

  “This yours?” one asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Nice animal.”

  “Thanks.”

  “New in town?” the other asked.

  “Just passin’ through,” Jake said. “Figured to have a meal, pick up some supplies, and move on. You the law?”

  “Us? Naw, we’re just appreciative of good horseflesh,” the first man said. “I got a ranch outside of town, and raise horses.” He touched the sorrel’s neck. “This one sure is nice.”

  “Again,” Jake said, “thanks.”

  “You wouldn’t be interested in sellin’ him, wouldja?” the man asked.

  “Afraid not,” Jake said. “Just bought him myself a couple of weeks ago.”

  “You don’t look like the type to drift,” the man said.

  “Had a ranch for a long time down around Brownsville,” Jake said.

  “That a fact? I pretty much know who most of the big ranchers are in Texas. My name’s Dan Paxton, this is my son, Joe.”

  “Glad to meetja,” Jake said. “Jake Motley.”

  “I knew it!” Paxton said, snapping his fingers. “Big Jake Motley, right? The Big M?”

  “Used to be the Big M,” Jake said. “I don’t know what the new owner is callin’ it, these days.” That wasn’t quite true, but the truth didn’t much matter, at this point.

  “You just have a meal in there?” Paxton asked.

  “I did. It was okay.”

  “Like I said, you don’t look like you’re driftin’.”

  “I’m not,” Jake said. “Drove my last herd to Dodge, and now I’ve got some business back around Three Rivers way.”

  “I tell you what,” Paxton said. “Why don’t you let me show you some hospitality? A good meal, a comfortable bed, and you can get started again in the mornin’.”

  “Why would you do that?” Jake asked.

  “I like men who know horses,” Paxton said. “And you have a reputation for knowing horses and cattle.”

  “Didn’t know I had any reputation left,” Jake said.

  “I don’t know what’s goin’ on in your life,” Paxton said, “but the Big M used to be known in Texas, and so did Big Jake Motley, but everybody falls on hard times somewhere along the line. Lemme just show you some appreciation.”

  Paxton’s son, Joe, hadn’t said a word yet, but now he commented, “Give this fine animal a night off.”

  Jake took a deep breath. He could use a night in a real bed.

  “Okay, Mr. Paxton,” he said, “I accept your invitation.”

  “The name’s Dan,” Paxton said, extending his hand.

  * * *

  * * *

  The Paxtons were in town to pick up some supplies, so Jake walked over to the general store with them.

  “We’re buildin’ another corral,” Paxton told Jake. “And my wife gave me a list. She’s a helluva cook.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Jake said. “I’ve gotta pick up a few things myself.”

  “Save your money,” Paxton said. “We’ll outfit ya tomorrow before you leave.”

  So Jake stood by while the Paxtons made their purchases, helped them load their buckboard, and then followed them from town to the Paxton Ranch.

  When they reached the ranch it reminded Jake a lot of the earlier days of the Big M, when it was still growing. There was a two-story house he was sure Paxton had built himself, a large, new-looking barn with a corral in front, and a few hands working some horses.

  “Do you have any cattle?” Jake asked.

  “No,” Joe Paxton said, “what Pa does is raise horses, pure and simple. That’s our business.”

  The Paxtons drove their buckboard right into the barn, and a few of the men came trotting over.

  “Get this stuff unloaded,” Dan ordered, stepping down from the seat. “This is Mr. Jake Motley. Take care of his horse, and treat him well.”

  Jake could tell that Dan Paxton was a good man with horses, because he referred to the sorrel as “him” and not “it.” Only dedicated horsemen did that.

  “Come on, Jake,” Paxton said. “We’ll go up to the house and I’ll introduce you to my missus. Joe, get one of the men to bring Ma her supplies.”

  “Right, Pa.”

  Jake collected his saddlebags
from his horse and followed Paxton.

  “Any other kids, Dan?” Jake asked as they walked.

  “No, just Joe. But he’s a good one. You?”

  “We never had any,” Jake said.

  “And your wife? Is she waitin’ in Brownsville for you?”

  “She died some years back,” Jake said. “Things went downhill from there.”

  “I’m sorry,” Paxton said. “I didn’t know.”

  When they reached the house a handsome, middle-aged woman came out onto the porch to greet them. She wore a simple blue dress that reminded Jake of the kind Abby used to make for herself. Suddenly he wasn’t so sure this was such a good idea.

  “Jenny, this is Big Jake Motley, from South Texas,” Paxton said. “Used to own and run the Big M down there. He was passin’ through and I invited him to eat with us and spend the night.”

  “You must be ridin’ a fine horse, Mr. Motley,” she said. “My husband enjoys people who know horses. Welcome. Please come in.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Where’s Joe?” she asked as they entered the house.

  “He’s seein’ to your supplies,” Paxton said. “Probably puttin’ them in the kitchen as we speak.”

  The house had obviously been furnished to the lady of the house’s taste—frilly and clean—and, thankfully, did not remind Jake of Abby’s preferences. Jenny Paxton’s taste was more girlish than Abby’s had ever been. Jake had input into what went into the house, probably more so than Dan Paxton did.