He nodded. "Bueno, I think that's a good idea."
The truth was that we'd know every head we saw that day. A man working cattle develops a memory for them--and the crowd they run with, so when we started back we had more than twenty head for our ride. It took some doing, like always, but it helped that they were headed back to their home range ... even though their range was nowhere as good as what we were leaving.
Riding gives a man time to think and to look. A man riding wild country has busy eyes if he hopes to stay alive, but a cowhand has them naturally. He learns to spot trouble before he comes close to it, and his eyes can pick out a bogged steer or one with screwworms. A good horse will smell screwworms when a man can't see the steer for the brush, and he will locate cattle where a man can't see them.
It was hot, dusty riding, and the black flies hung about us in a swarm. We picked up two three-year-old steers on the drive back. They just saw our cattle and joined up, as cattle will, and Fuentes and me, knowing they would be spooky, kept clear of them.
We were almost back to the line-shack when we saw a rider.
"Ah!" Fuentes grinned. "Now you will see her!"
"Her?"
He gestured at the rider. "The major's daughter. Be careful, senor. Sometimes she thinks she is the major."
She came riding toward us on as pretty a gray gelding as you ever saw, riding sidesaddle on something I'd never seen before, a black patent-leather saddle. She wore a kind of riding habit in checkered black and white--a fine check--and a black hat, black polished boots and a white blouse.
She gave me a quick glance that missed nothing, I'd guess, and then nodded to Fuentes. "How are you, Tony?" She glanced at the cattle. "Any T Bar T stuff in there?"
"No, senorita, only Stirrup-Iron and Spur."
"Mind if I have a look?"
"Of course not, senorita."
"Just don't spook those two speckled three-year-olds," I suggested. "They're edgy."
She threw me a glance that would have cut a wide swath at haying time. "I've seen cattle before!"
She rode around our gather, studying them, and mostly they paid her no mind. Then she cut in close to those steers and they taken one quick look at the sun shining off that patent-leather sidesaddle and they taken off, and it took some hot fast work by Tony an' me to hold our bunch together.
I pulled in close to her. "Ma'am, you go tell your papa to wipe behind your ears before you come out on the grass again, will you?"
Her face went white, and she took a cut at my face with her quirt. It was one of those woven horsehair-handled quirts in green and red, a pretty thing. But when she cut at my face with it, I just threw up my hand, caught the quirt and jerked it out of her hand.
She had a temper, that one did. She lost hold of the quirt, but she didn't stop. She grabbed for her rifle in its scabbard, and I pushed my horse alongside hers and put my hand over the butt of the gun so she couldn't draw it.
"Just take it easy," I said coolly. "You wouldn't shoot a man over something like this, would you?"
"Who the hell said I wouldn't?" she flared.
"You'd better also tell your papa to wash your mouth out with soap," I said. "That's no word for a lady to use."
She was sashaying around, trying to get away from me, but that little bay I was riding knew its business and was staying right close to her gray gelding. For three or four minutes we kicked up dust, sidling around on the prairie until she saw it was no use.
Maybe she cooled down a little. I don't rightly know, but she called over to Fuentes, who was sitting his saddle watching. "Fuentes, come and get this man away from me."
Tony walked his horse over and said, "I do not want you to shoot him, senorita. He is my compadre."
"I'll say this for you," I said. "You may have the devil of a temper, but you sure are pretty."
Her eyes narrowed a little. "The major will have you hung for this," she told me, "if the boys don't get to you sooner."
"Why don't you fight your own battles?" I asked. "You're a big girl now. No need to call on your papa to help you, or the big boys at the ranch."
"Stop calling him my papa!" she said angrily. "He's 'the Major!' "
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, "I didn't know he was still in the army."
"He's not in the army!"
"Then he isn't a major, is he? I mean, he's a used-to-be major, maybe?"
She didn't know what to say to that. Defensively, she said, "He's the major! And he was a major ... in the Civil War!"
"Well, good for him. I knew a couple of them, up north. There was one used to clerk in a hotel where I stayed, and then I punched cows with a colonel up Wyoming way. Nice fellas, both of them."
My face was smooth, my voice bland. Suddenly she said, "I don't think I like you!"
"Yes, ma'am," I said politely, "I gathered that. When a girl comes after me with a quirt ... well, I sort of get the feeling she doesn't care for me. I'd say that wasn't really the romantic approach."
"Romance?" Her tone was withering. "Withyou ?"
"Oh, no, ma'am!Please ! Don't talk about romance with me! I'm just a drifting cowboy! Why, I'd never even think of romance with a daughter of the major!"
I paused. "Anyway, I never start courting a girl the first time I see her. Maybe the second time. Of course, that depends on the girl.
"You--" I canted my head on one side. "Well, maybe the third time ... or the fourth. Yes, I think so. The fourth time."
She swung her horse around, glaring at me. "You! You're impossible! Just wait! Just you wait!"
She dashed away, spurring her horse. Fuentes pushed his sombrero back on his head and looked woeful. "I think you are in big trouble, amigo. This one ... she does not like you, I think."
"I think, too," I said. "Let's get on with the cattle."
The two three-year-olds were gone, and neither of us were of a mind to follow or try to recover them. Besides, they'd be skittish now, and we'd be lucky to even get close.
We drifted along behind our cattle. Several times I thought I heard movement in the brush, as though the young ones were following along, but soon we were out on the open plain and they did not appear.
So she was the major's daughter? The one Roger Balch was supposed to be trying to round up ... or so the talk went. Well, he could have her.
Still, she was pretty. Even when she was mad, she was pretty--very pretty. I chuckled. And she had been mad.
We bunched the cattle in a corral and bedded down for the night.
"Those steers," I suggested, "maybe they'll come up during the night."
Fuentes shrugged, and then he said, "It is Friday tomorrow."
"There's one most ever week," I said.
"On Saturday there is a, what you call it, social at the schoolhouse."
"A box social?" I asked skeptically.
"Si... and I think of these cattle that they need to be with the herd. They will be restless and they might get away ... somehow. It is in my mind that we should drive them in."
"Well," I agreed thoughtfully, "I do think they should be with their kinfolk. Of course, while we're over yonder we might's well stop by and see how they run that social affair."
"Bueno,"Fuentes agreed seriously. "And you will see a dozen, maybe two dozen head of the finest looking girls in Texas."
"And that's pretty fine lookin' by any man's standards," I agreed. "You been to these box socials before? Here, I mean?"
"Often ... whenever there is one."
"Who makes the best box?"
He shrugged. "Ann Timberly ... the major's daughter."
"Next best?"
"Maybe Dake Wilson's daughter ... maybe China Benn."
"China Benn? That's a girl?"
He kissed his fingers. "Ah! And such a girl!"
"She and Ann Timberly friends?"
"Friends?But no, senor! The major's daughter does not like her! Not one little bit! China is too ... too ..." he made gestures to indicate a rather astonishing figure.
"Good!" I said. "I know whose box I'm bidding for."
Fuentes just looked at me and shook his head. "You are a fool, a very great fool, but I think I shall enjoy this social."
He paused. "China Benn is beautiful. She is also the girl Kurt Floyd likes."
"If she's as pretty as you say, there must be a lot of men who like her."
His smile was tolerant of my ignorance. "Not as long as she is Kurt's girl." We were making camp in the lee of a low hill, a little way from the corral. We were hoping those steers would come up during the night, and they might ... if we weren't too close. "Floyd ismucho grande , amigo. How you say? He isbig ! He is also strong. He does not fight with a gun, like a gentleman, but with his fists. We Texans do not like to fight with fists. It is what we call 'dog-fighting,' you see?"
"You're a Texan? I thought you were from California?"
He shrugged. "When I am in Texas, I am a Texan. On the other side of the border I am a Mexican. It is political, you see?"
"All right, I see your point. Has this Floyd ever really beaten anyone?"
"There was One-Thumb Tom, there was George Simpson ... a hard fight, that one. There was Bunky Green . .. only two punches, I think."
"You will introduce me to China?"
"Of a certainty. Then I shall stand back and watch. It will be so sad ... you are so young! To see one so young demolished. Well, so be it."
"If you were a true friend," I suggested, "you'd offer to fight him while I get away with the girl."
"Of course. And I am a true friend. Up until I introduce you to China Benn ... Then I shall be an observer, amigo, a spectator, an interested spectator, if you will, but a spectator only. Any man who endeavors to court China Benn in the presence of Kurt Floyd needs only sympathy."
"In the morning then," I said, "we will drive those steers to the home ranch. We will bathe, wash behind the ears, brush the dust from our boots and join the rush to ... where is this fandango, anyway?"
He chuckled. "At Rock Springs Schoolhouse. And Rock Springs Schoolhouse is on the Balch and Saddler range, and Kurt Floyd is the Balch and Saddler blacksmith. And remember this, amigo. You will get no sympathy from the major's daughter. She detests China Benn."
"I remember now. You told me that before. Now I wonder how I ever forgot!"
Chapter 7
Henry Rossiter went with Barby Ann in a buckboard with Ben Roper and Danny--Fuentes and me riding a-horseback alongside.
The Schoolhouse was built on a low knoll with the spring from which it took its name about twenty-five yards off. There must have been a dozen rigs around the place, mostly buckboards, but there was one Dearborn wagon, a surrey and an army ambulance among them.
As for riding stock, there looked to be forty or fifty horses under saddle. I wouldn't have believed there were that many people in the country but, as I was to discover, it was just like other western communities and some of the folks had been riding all day to get there. Parties, dances and box dinners were rare enough to draw a crowd at any time.
Saddler was just pulling up. On the seat beside him was a thin, tired-looking woman whom I discovered was his wife. Also beside him, a lean but heavy-shouldered man was dismounting. "Klaus," Fuentes whispered. "He gets forty a month."
When opportunity offered, I glanced at him. He was no one I knew, but he was wearing a gun and, unless I was mistaken, had another under his coat but tucked behind his belt.
Somebody was tuning up a fiddle, and there was a smell of coffee on the air. Suddenly, somebody said, "Here comes the major!"
He came in a surrey, spanking new, polished and elegant, surrounded by six riders. In the surrey itself were Ann, beautifully but modestly gowned, and the man who had to be the major ... tall, square-shouldered, immaculate in every sense.
He stepped down, then helped his daughter to the ground. With them was another couple, equally well-dressed, but whose faces I could not see in the dim light. I knew none of the riders with them, but they were well set-up, square-shouldered men with the look of the cavalry about them.
Standing back in the shadows as I was, Arm Timberly could not see me as she went in, and I was just as pleased. I'd dug out an expensively tailored black broadcloth suit I had, and was wearing my Sunday-go-to-meetin' boots, polished and fine. I also wore a white shirt and a black string tie.
Ann was beautiful. No getting around it, she was beautiful and composed, and as she swept into the schoolhouse you had no doubt that Somebody had arrived. Her manner, I decided, would have been neither more nor less had she been entering the finest home in Charleston, Richmond or Philadelphia.
Yet she was only in the door when somebody let out a whoop in the near distance and there was a rush of hoofs. A buckboard wheeled up, coming in at a dead run and skidding to a halt with horses rearing. And as the buckboard halted, a man leaped from a horse and caught the driver as she dropped from her seat.
The man caught her and swung her around before putting her down, but immediately, and without looking back at either man or rig, she strode for the door.
I caught a glimpse of dark auburn hair, of green, somewhat slanted eyes, a few freckles over a lovely nose, and I heard somebody inside say, "Here's China!"
She swept into the schoolhouse, only a step behind Ann Timberly, and I followed, pushing among the crowd, taking my time. Somebody, I noticed, was caring for her team, but the big man who had lifted her from the buckboard was right behind me.
As he started to push me aside, I said over my shoulder, "Take it easy. She'll still be there when you get there."
He looked down at me. Now I am two inches over six feet and weigh usually about an even one-ninety, although my weight is often judged to be less, but beside this man I was a shadow. He was at least four or five inches taller, and he weighed a good fifty pounds more. And he was not used to anybody standing in his way.
He looked again, and started to push me aside. I was half-facing him now and as he stepped quickly forward, my instep lifted under his moving ankle and lifted the leg high. Off-balance, he tottered and started to fall. It needed only a slight move toward him to keep him off-balance. He fell with a thud, and instantly I bent over him. "Sorry. Can I help you?"
He stared up at me, uncertain as to just what had happened, but I was looking very serious and apologetic, so he accepted my hand and I helped him up. "Slipped," he muttered. "I must've slipped."
"We all do that occasionally," I said, "if we've had one too many."
"Now, see here!" he broke in. "I haven't been--"
But I slipped away into the crowd and walked down the length of the room. As I reached the end I turned and found myself looking into the eyes of China Benn. She was across the room but she was looking at me, suddenly, seriously, as if wondering what manner of man I was.
Fuentes moved over beside me. "What happened, amigo?"
"He was shoving too hard," I said, "and I guess he slipped."
Fuentes took out a cigar. His eyes were bright with amusement. "You live dangerously, amigo. Is it wise?"
On a long table at the end of the room were stacked the box lunches the girls had packed, their names carefully hidden. It was simple enough. A box would be held up by an auctioneer and the bidding would begin, the box going to the highest bidder. And the buyer of the box would then eat dinner with the girl who prepared it.
Naturally, there was a good deal of conniving going on. Some of the girls always succeeded in tipping off the men they wished to buy their boxes as to just which ones they were. Knowing this, other cowhands, ranchers or storekeepers from the town would sometimes deliberately bid up a box to raise more money ... the proceeds always going for some worthy cause ... or simply to worry the man who wanted the box.
There was also a good deal of pride in having one's box bring a high price.
Fuentes whispered, "The biggest bids will be for the major's daughter or China Benn, although there's a plump blonde over by the door who'll do pretty well ... And some of the older women h
ave the best dinners."
The room was crowded. The desks and chairs had been taken out and stored in the barn for the evening, and the benches pulled back along the walls. A number of the men usually spent most of the evening outside, just talking. There were a good many youngsters of all ages running around underfoot, probably having more fun than any of us.
The girls seated themselves on the benches, some of them surrounded by friends. Barby Ann came in, looking frail, pale and lovely. She looked quickly around. For Roger Balch, no doubt.
A small, pretty girl came in, a girl with large dark eyes wearing a somewhat faded but painfully neat gingham dress. She was, I realized after a second look, really not that pretty. Some might have thought she was quite plain, yet there was something about her, some inner spark of strength that appealed.
"Who is that?" I asked Fuentes.
He shrugged. "I never saw her before. Seems to be alone."
Looking around, my eyes met those of Ann Timberly. Deliberately, she turned her back on me. I chuckled, feeling suddenly better.
Everybody here knew everybody else, apparently. At least, most of them knew each other. Only a few knew me.
Balch came in suddenly, with Saddler and his wife beside him, and a slender, wolfish man whom I knew instantly. Why had not the name struck me when it was first mentioned by Fuentes?
Ingerman ... one of Balch's men, and a gunman. Did he know me? I doubted it, although I had seen him in Pioche and again in Silver City. Ingerman was no working cowhand. He could do the work, and would, but only when he was drawing fighting wages. Balch and Saddler evidently meant business.
It needed only a few minutes of standing around and watching to see that the belles of the evening were Ann Timberly and China Benn, and if there was to be high bidding for boxes they would be the chief rivals. As for me, I was out for fun, as well as to show Ann Timberly that there were other girls about.
Fuentes had drifted off with some Mexican girls he knew, and Ben Roper was having a drink with some friends. So I was alone, just standing there, looking the crowd over, and I could see some of them looking me over, too.
the Man from the Broken Hills (1975) Page 5