Panhandle

by Brett Cogburn

  We all saw it through to the vicious end, but that didn’t make it any better. What little personal effects the deceased had had were placed into a hole quickly scooped out at the bottom of the hanging tree and covered up. Quick wasn’t quick enough, and we all headed for our horses at the first chance. Cap held off a bit before leaving, and continued staring at the hanged men.

  “You want to keep that picture in your head so that it will never be an easy thing,” he said as he walked by me to his horse.

  “It’s a hell of a thing, Cap.” I meant every word of it.

  We rode out of there at a walk, and not a single man looked back. Billy and I rode alongside Cap.

  The Ranger turned to Billy. “That was quite a shot you made yesterday.”

  “Even a blind hog will find an acorn now and again,” Billy said.

  “What part of the country did you say you hailed from?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I sure think I ought to know you.” Cap had nothing else to say, and he looked straight ahead of him all the way to Ft. Sumner.

  Goodnight’s two hands met us on the edge of Ft. Sumner. They were riding east and stopped to palaver some. They claimed to have missed our bandits, but we told them not to worry. They asked why, and Cap told them there were a couple of saddles hanging on cottonwood limbs and two good catch ropes a half a day’s ride to the east. That was enough said.

  As far as I know, way out east of Ft. Sumner in a rare cottonwood wash, lie the bones of two outlaws. They might even still be hanging there, but I don’t know. We rode away from that place, and I haven’t ever been back.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  We had only recovered a little of our fortunes and were anxious to head east and find out the whereabouts of the other posse. Despite our hurry, we took the time to ride into Ft. Sumner for resupply, and so Cap could leave word of the abandoned sheep at Pete Maxwell’s trading post. The old fort was in fact a fort no longer, the military having left and sold everything years before. Maxwell’s enterprise now occupied the former post. It was a low-slung affair of several adobe buildings forming a rough plaza of sorts, surrounded by the settlement that had grown around it over the years.

  Cap went to Maxwell’s big house down by the river to palaver while the rest of us stood around under the shaded veranda of the old barracks and smacked our lips over a jug of tequila. None of us were especially fond of the sticky concoction, but it was the cheapest thing available.

  I looked to Billy reclining on a stack of salvaged lumber beneath the roof beside me, and then to the horde of tough-looking characters standing around and eyeing us with no love at all. Our posse had been under constant observation since we arrived. A mixed congregation of both Mexican and Anglo men with weapons bristling about their persons kept the vigil

  “Those old boys wear too many guns to hold honest jobs.” Billy nodded his head toward the nearest group of suspicious locals loitering across the plaza from us.

  “I’d bet you the government’s advertising for most of them.”

  “I believe you’re right. Posses do seem to make them nervous.” Billy flipped a cigarette butt out into the sunlight in the direction of our watchers. They didn’t even blink.

  I watched the scattering of Mexicans working for Maxwell going about their business timidly, making sure not to hang around too long, or to look anybody in the eye. They obviously saw trouble in the making and wanted no part of it.

  “There’s bound to be some good folks around here, but they seem overrun by the sort that’ll steal your horse just to welcome you to the Pecos Country,” I said.

  “Not just your horse. This bunch would peel you right down to your skin.”

  “Billy the Kid’s liable to be wandering around here. I hear he’s extra mean.”

  “I reckon we’d know him if we saw him. From all the talk about him I’d guess he’s bound to be exceptional.”

  “Well, I just hope old Cap can resist the temptation to hang New Mexico’s bandits.”

  “We’ve already got other irons in the fire.”

  H.B. sat down beside us with a sigh. “Billy’s right, I’ve had the drizzling shits for a hundred miles, and I’ve about scratched out what little hair I’ve got left.” He dabbed at the sweat on his balding forehead with a handkerchief while he fanned himself with his hat. “Let me tell you, you ain’t ever been truly worried unless your head’s broken out in itchy bumps.”

  Our lust for revenge was slowly being dampened by other concerns. Most of our posse consisted of men who should have still been with the roundup. Every one of us was probably returning east to be fired for leaving the herd, because none of us were on the payroll for racing horses and chasing outlaws. And H.B. had the loss of Wiren’s payroll to think about.

  In the course of one week we had managed to engage in licentious drinking and gambling on company time, embezzle company funds, and introduce vice and wanton behavior on to Indian lands. In our defense, the punitive expedition to New Mexico did result in the failure to save two innocent citizens, the hanging of two criminals without recourse to the courts, and the murder of fifty sheep and a dog. One could prejudicially argue that the murdered citizens weren’t all that “innocent,” and I doubted that anyone would question the hanging of a couple of murderers when there was such a thick supply to choose from. However, our assertion that the deceased sheep and the dog were somehow accessories to the crime was sure to be considered as of a dubious nature. The worst alkali water in West Texas couldn’t have given us as bad a case of the shits as the worries we had right then.

  Cap soon returned and we made ready for the long ride back to Mobeetie. We left the wagon and team with Maxwell and rode out with a puny sack of victuals to feed us, and a bait of corn for the horses. Our entire posse was thus equipped to travel over a hundred miles.

  “Here’s a little something to fortify the inner man.” Billy held a fresh bottle of cactus juice aloft for all of us to see.

  H.B. stopped his horse at the edge of the settlement and eyed the bottle doubtfully. “You just got one?”

  “I’d have gotten more, but Cap’s a stickler for discipline.”

  “Well, I’ve been worse supplied. All a man needs to travel in wild country is a few cartridges to shoot some game, a little salt to cook your meat, and some whiskey to shorten the miles.”

  “What about a good sense of direction? They say Goodnight can find water out here when nobody else can, and he’s never been lost,” I said.

  “Water, you say? I never touch the stuff.” He shivered and stuck out his tongue and made an awful face. “You and Goodnight can have your sense of direction, and I’ll take the whiskey. I remember when that know-it-all old windbag was wandering his ass all around this country Rangering after Comanches, and didn’t have a clue where he was most of the time. Just because he’s finally learned this country doesn’t mean he’s a homing pigeon or something. In my opinion, knowing where you’re at all the time is just damned unrealistic.”

  We traveled up the Pecos a bit and then cut northeast, arriving at Las Escarbadas by a slightly more northern route. From there, we angled to the north headed for Tascosa. The game was scarce and we went hungry for the most part. The liquor ran out as quickly as our food, and sober, we still managed to overshoot our route by twenty miles. We found the GMS headquarters on Tierra Blanca Creek and were provided there with some beef, but no whiskey. One of the hands informed us that the Army was camped at Sanborn Springs, and we continued north.

  The Army was gone when we got there, but the half of our posse we’d left at McClellan Creek was still in camp. They were glad to hear of our success in catching our bandits, but not near so happy to find out that we had recovered so little money. Colonel Andrews was nowhere to be seen, and we immediately asked his whereabouts. It turns out that they’d had just as an eventful, even if less successful, journey as we did.

  After our parting at McClellan Creek, they followed the outlaws’ trail up to and westwar
d along the Canadian River. Before they had gone too many miles they were greeted by a fusillade of gunfire. One of the Cheyenne scouts was wounded scouting a crossing of the Canadian. The posse took shelter on the river bank in a rare stand of timber and looked to return fire on the bandits they were sure had doubled back to ambush them.

  They soon recognized that the fire was too heavy to come from just three men. It turned out that the bandits had passed through the country telling all they met that the Cheyenne had left the reservation and were on the warpath, scalping every person they came across. A contingent of the Tascosa crowd, several riders from the LXs, Bar Cs, and the Quarter Circle Ts joined them to ride down and battle the native horde.

  The attackers held a position on the north side of the river in the gyp rock bluffs opposite the timber. Long-range shots were exchanged for about an hour, and then the U.S. Cavalry arrived to help our posse. At that point the war really broke out.

  The soldiers had been to the south, and upon hearing the gunfire they came up to join the fight. The commanding officer set up his men in a skirmish line behind the cover of the timber, and brought the two cannons he had with him forward. I guess the soldiers had arrived unseen by the party north of the river, because the first two rounds out of those field pieces surprised them greatly.

  The two rounds whistled across the river and struck smoke from the bluffs. Firing on that side ceased and men started running everywhere. Two more cannon rounds landed over there, and a good volley of concentrated rifle fire before those on the south realized that something was wrong. Those on the north had also come to a quick conclusion that it wasn’t Indians they were fighting.

  All firing ceased, and a few of those men on the north bank peeked their heads out of the gullies and rocks they were hiding behind to ask for a parley. The commanding officer and a small detail rode out and met them on the south bank. Soon, all parties involved joined the discussion whereby matters were attempted to be smoothed over.

  The Army and our posse were sorely vexed at having been fired upon in the course of their duties, while the attacking party of cowboys and Tascosa toughs were still a little put off by having artillery shells dropped on them. To complicate matters, the Cheyenne thought it had been a heap good fight, and were hard to get under control, much less convince that the fight was over. After much heated discussion, the attackers agreed to disband and ride back to whence they came, and the Army decided to escort the Cheyenne back to the reservation, lest similar misunderstandings happen again.

  All in all, the Battle of the Canadian counted none killed, two wounded, and several disgruntled men. The attackers left as they’d promised, no worse for their wear other than a bad case of shell shock and a scrape here and there. The Army started off down the river with the pack of happy Cheyenne who were ready to go home and recount the battle to their people. Our friends in the other half of our posse were left alone to chase the three bandits, who were probably long, long gone by then. Due to the excitement of the fight it was way up in the evening before anyone realized that Colonel Andrews was missing.

  Thinking their leader might have fallen in combat, a search of the battleground was quickly made. The colonel hadn’t left with the Army so he must have crossed the river and headed north or west. Some thought he must have gone to scout ahead for sign of the bandits, but things were so trampled on the north side of the river that no hint of him was found.

  The excitement of the fight was soon replaced by the depression of having such bad fortune befall their pursuit of the bandits. They had killed half a day of valuable time, and now their esteemed leader, a man of many admirable leadership qualities, none of which anyone could quite put a finger on, had disappeared. That gray melancholy that can come upon us without warning struck the party, and they sat in camp and brooded for two days until our arrival.

  When we informed them of the colonel’s participation in the robbery, the color came back to their faces, and they were ready to fight again. Our only chance lay in going to Tascosa in search of the colonel. Our sister posse, eager to make up for the failure of not having hanged anyone yet, led the charge across the Canadian. None of the horses were up to a long run, and we had to settle for a slow walk to Tascosa.

  The colonel, it seems, had avoided the settlement, possibly having gone west along the Ft. Smith road. Cap had thought it unwise to split the party again, considering the events thus far, and we took up residence in one of the saloons to work things out. Cap volunteered to go to Denver via Las Vegas, New Mexico, and keep a lookout for Andrews and his gang. He advised the rest of us to return to our work. He would contact us should he need our help.

  Our horses were played out, and we were without funds except for the little money we had recovered. Decisions would have to be made before further pursuit of outlaws could be funded. A long meeting was held right then and there to settle the matter of finances.

  There were bound to be far more claimants to the money than there was money to go around. Many people who had suffered monetary losses on the Sweetwater were not even present to petition our meeting. Several arguments were presented over the course of a couple of hours. Determined to come to a just and amicable decision, we stuck to it, only adjourning the meeting a few times to allot funds for refreshments.

  Finally, we decided that there wasn’t much to go around, and anyone who had lost their money should have had enough gumption to go after it. All parties not present were thus barred from financial settlement. There were twenty-five men present, not counting Cap Arrington, who had no financial interest in the outcome, having been smart enough not to gamble. According to the claims of those present, three hundred dollars, minus the purchase of some drinks, didn’t begin to pay back losses. There was no way of knowing who had bet what, and each man had to be taken at his word. It seems, however, that every man present was a high-roller, and had bet the ranch on the outcome of the race.

  H.B. was known to have one of the largest losses, and Billy was recognized with him by his portion of the race stakes, which was a larger bet than anyone else claimed. Most of us somewhat agreed that the two of them should split the money, but they refused. We five Lazy F hands offered to eat our wages for two months to let H.B. make up for the loss of the payroll Wiren had given him.

  It was further agreed that Billy would take only fifty dollars for his losses, being deserving of a large share due to his ownership of the winning animal in the race, but not wanting to hog all the money. Another fifty dollars was to go to Cap to fund his trip to Denver. This act was looked upon as having some small value as an investment should he capture the bandits and get the rest of our money back. The remaining hundred or so dollars was divided equally among twenty-four men. I remember getting about four dollars for my part.

  Cap wasted no time in procuring a fresh horse and riding for Las Vegas. We were left to our own accord, none the richer, but a little wiser. It was nightfall before we managed to round everyone up to start back to Mobeetie. Then it was decided that it would be better to lie over for the night in town and get an early start in the morning. We did stay the night in Tascosa, but we failed to get an early start. I don’t guess we had gotten any wiser.

  Fortune had put a little jingling money back in our pockets, but the dives of Tascosa managed to get most of that before the night was through. I had to loan Andy a dollar to have his horse shod the next morning, and I borrowed that from Billy, who had to dig to come up with the amount. It seems that our financial lot in life was always to follow a predetermined course of misfortune and bankruptcy.

  It takes no short amount of time to ready and outfit such a large group. We had managed to put our purses together and come up with the price of a few bottles of whiskey sold to us at a volume discount by one of the earlier rising saloonkeepers in town. He must have been determined to see us leave broke to have given us such a bargain. After I had tasted the whiskey I decided that we had overpaid.

  It was a prompt and punctual noon when we l
eft Tascosa. I remember the approximate time because the sun was making my head hurt.

  Andy rode up alongside me, and he didn’t look like he was feeling as dapper as he tried to let on. He was sweating pure rotgut, and his eyes were bloodshot and sagging. He offered me a drink from one of the bottles. “This’ll chase the wolf out of your head.”

  “No thanks, I believe I’ve had enough.” I was too sick to consider curing a hangover by getting drunk all over again.

  “You’ve gotta be tougher than that. Hang’n rattle, cowboy.” He offered me the bottle again.

  “You can go to Hell. I ain’t got the stomach for it.”

  I heard somebody retching, and looked down the trail behind me. Two of our party were off their horses and emptying their guts in the grass. Andy’s face turned a shade paler and he fought down a gag as he quickly rode ahead. Even Billy looked like something the cat drug in, and didn’t have a word to say except to grumble something incoherent every now and then. It seemed I wasn’t the only one without the stomach for it that morning.

  Only H.B. seemed no worse for the wear. He rode up beside me with a grin on his face, and looking fresh as a daisy, if slightly drunk. “You youngsters are sure soft. Maybe we’d best stop and eat a bite. I’ve been thinking about food all morning. What I’d really like to have is some fresh, raw buffalo liver to sink my teeth into.”

  I tried not to listen.

  “Indians taught me that. There’s nothing better than biting into a big raw liver with a little gall juice poured over it, unless it’s a good batch of boiled cabbage, or maybe some of that German kraut. All I’ve got to do is think about it and I can get a whiff of that strong smell of cabbage cooking.”

  I bailed off my horse at the side of the trail and let him go ahead. I never did like liver or cabbage.