Wheeler's Choice

by Jerry Buck

  I was in my office when I heard pounding on the stairs and Otis Rankin burst through the door.

  “Ben, a Ranger just rode into town!’’ he said breathlessly. “Come to see about the bank robbery.”

  I dropped the papers in my hands and asked, “Is he downstairs now?”

  “No, he ain’t got here yet. Somebody said he’s over at the Bluebonnet washing the trail dust outa his throat.”

  “First things first,” I said, grabbing my hat and coat. I followed Otis down the stairs into the bank.

  Asa Stanley’s oldest boy had been pressed into temporary duty as teller until Otis could find a permanent replacement. Jeremiah’s years of apprenticeship under his father had given him an aptitude for handling money. He was in the teller’s cage taking care of a customer as I walked through the bank to the front door. Jeremiah had a thatch of yellow hair that looked like a hayrick. I wondered how long before he’d be as bald as Asa.

  “I’ll go talk to him at the saloon,” I said. I was anxious to learn what he knew about the bank robbers and their whereabouts.

  “Be sure’n send him over here when you finish,” said Otis. “I want to talk to him proper like in my own bank.”

  I entered the batwing doors of the Bluebonnet and walked swiftly to the bar. Solomon Grace was drawing beer for three cowboys farther down the ornate bar. The Italian-made bar had come by ship as far as Galveston and then was hauled overland the rest of the way.

  Solomon give me a brief nod, which I returned.

  I turned my back to the bar and let my eyes grow accustomed to the dark, smoky interior after the brilliant sunshine outside. A group of ranchers sat at a table near the leaded windows at the front of the saloon. Most of the other tables were occupied by cardplayers.

  At the rear the Ranger sat alone at a table. His back was to a comer, and he could survey the entire saloon from his chair.

  “Don’t see you in here often, Mr. Wheeler,” Solomon said behind me. “What’ll it be?”

  I turned around and said, “Bottle of whiskey and two glasses.”

  He reached for a bottle on the shelf behind him.

  I said, “You know I got better taste than that, Solomon. I’ll take one of the bottles you keep under the bar.”

  Wordlessly he reached under the bar and brought up a new bottle. I plunked two dollars down on the bar, took the bottle and two glasses, and headed for the rear of the saloon.

  Solomon called after me, “You got change coming, Mr. Wheeler.” I ignored him.

  The Ranger’s eyes hat not left me since I entered, and he watched me closely as I approached the table.

  “Mind if I join you?” I said, displaying the bottle.

  “Who might you be?” he asked.

  “Name’s Ben Wheeler.”

  He continued to stare blankly. Then a light of recognition slowly crept into his eyes. “The lawyer fella,” he said finally. “Have a seat. Terrible sorry ’bout your tragedy.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I said, uncorking the bottle and pouring us each a drink. “You’re Ranger—?”

  “Thaddeus Moore,” he said. He accepted the drink and downed it in one gulp.

  “Now, that is good whiskey,” he declared. “Call me Thad. My friends do. Mmmm. Now, that is fine whiskey.” He poured himself another drink. “Don’t mind if I do. Stuff the barkeep gave me was rot-gut. Good fer nothin’ but wettin’ yer whistle.”

  “What do you know about the four men who robbed the bank?” I asked.

  Moore eyed me silently over his glass. He was a big, rawboned man with large gnarly hands and a weather-beaten face seamed with age and hard living. His drooping mustache and the hair showing beneath his hat were snow white. His silver badge—a circle and star—was pinned on the left breast of his vest. It was nearly concealed by his dusty black coat. From the rank smell that reached across the table and assaulted my nostrils, I guessed he hadn’t been near water for a week or two. Fact is, he looked like a man who didn’t have much acquaintance with either water or soap.

  He studied me for a moment longer and said, “Hear you used to marshal some up in Kansas. Reckon you might have run into Bill Smoot a time or two.”

  “A time or two,” I admitted. “I was on his trail the time he robbed the bank in Colchester. Him and Montana I know. It’s the Arkie named Bayliss and the tinhorn I want to know about.”

  “Seems like you took good care of Montana Smith,” Moore said over his drink. “Wal, anyway, that bunch rode down from Kansas. Reckon things was getting too hot for ’em. The Arkie’s name is Alvin Bayliss. Calls hisself Kid Bayliss. He ain’t no more’n a whelp, but he’s a mean ’un. He lit outa Fort Smith two, three years ago and hitched up with Smoot. Fancies hisself a shootist. I reckon he is. They got a rope waitin’ fer him in Arkansas and another’n in Kansas. Lak I said, he’s a mean ’un.”

  He gulped down another glass of whiskey. I didn’t have to wonder anymore why his huge nose was reddened by broken veins.

  “You got the other’n right,” he said. “He’s a tinhorn fer sure, and a no ’count polecat at that. Name a Jasper Rollins. Spends more time stealing at the gamin’ tables than he do with a gun. But he ties up with Smoot now and agin. Most times he works the Kansas trail towns fleecin’ cowpokes outa their hard-earned cash. Dodge City, mostly. Come winter, he’s on the riverboats, tryin’ a separate ranchers and cotton planters from their pocketbooks.

  “Been known to stop some in Nar’lins workin’ on the sports. Kinda sallow-lookin’ fella from all that time indoors. Word I hear is he got caught usin’ a sleeve holdout in a card game up in Kansas and killed a man. Reckon he figgered to take a little vacation in Texas until things cooled off.”

  “Kid Bayliss and Jasper Rollins,” I repeated. “I’ll remember those names.”

  “I ’spect you will,” said Moore.

  “You got any idea where they are now?”

  “They lit outa Texas, that’s fer sure. Bunch answerin’ their description crossed th’ Red River six days after th’ bank robbery. Reckon they back in their old haunts in Kansas by now. Mebbe Dodge. Cattle trail ends in Dodge now. Allus been a wild place, but I hear it’s wilder’n ever. If I wuz a bettin’ man, I’d lay my money on Dodge.”

  I shifted in my chair, preparing to leave. “Thanks for the information, Thad,” I said. “By the way, Otis Rankin’s waiting for you over in the bank.”

  Moore poured another glassful. “You kin tell ’im I’ll be there directly. Thanky kindly for the whiskey. Man builds up a powerful thirst on th’ trail.”

  I got up to leave.

  “I might have a few questions for you,” Moore said. “Where kin I find you?”

  “In Kansas,” I said. “I’m riding north.”

  I walked over to Asa Stanley’s hardware store and plunked down seventeen dollars for the Colt Cavalry Model I had killed Montana Smith with. The new Peacemakers were faster, more dependable, and more accurate than the old cap-and-ball pistols I was used to.

  Asa didn’t want to take my money, but I insisted. Then he wanted to throw in the belt and holster, but I told him I had one that was well worn and suited me just fine.

  He pointed out the new belts had loops for extra cartridges. He put the belt and the two boxes of cartridges on the counter.

  This time, he insisted.

  The next morning I rode over to the Lazy A and asked Angus if he would sign me on for the cattle drive. I said I’d do it for nothing, since I’d be bringing along my own small herd.

  “Kinda sudden, ain’t it?” Angus said. “But you know you’re always welcome. For a lawyer, you’re a mighty fine trail hand.”

  Angus shifted in his saddle, tugged at his mustache and asked, “This mean you had a change of heart about chasing them men?”

  I said, “Angus, let’s just say I got reason to get to Kansas. And riding with three thousand head of cattle is as good a way to get there as any. ”

  “Aye,” Angus said. After a moment, he added, “And it at
tracts a lot less attention to a man.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I rode right swing as the long drive curved between a little roundtop hill on the east and a stand of blackjack oaks on the west.

  Angus had galloped miles ahead after the nooning to look for water and a campground to bed the cattle down for the night.

  Chago Duran and Ed Crayler rode pointer at the head of the column of cattle. They had veered the longhorns toward the north and Red River Station, where we would cross into Indian Territory. We would make the Red River, our first difficult river ford, in about another week. The muddy, reddish Brazos was behind us.

  Dust kicked up by the cattle’s steel-sharp hooves blew over me in billowing clouds. I pulled my bandanna up over my face, but the fine dust seeped through and irritated my nose. Still, it wasn’t as bad as some of them had it. The day before I had been at left flank, and for three days before that had taken my turn at drag. At the rear of the drive, which was strung out like a lank rope across a mile of rolling prairie, the dust had been thick enough to plow.

  Ahead of me Chago dropped back, looking like a ghostly rider emerging from a fog. He rode close to me so I could hear him over the rumble of cracking hooves and ankle joints and the rattle of colliding horns.

  “Amigo,” he said quietly, lest he alarm the jittery cattle. “How ees it back here?”

  “They been bunching up some,” I said, “but I got ’em pretty well spread out now. Not as bad as keeping ’em spaced at flank.”

  “Bueno. They bunch up, they get too hot.”

  My job was to keep the long brown ribbon of beef moving toward market and to see that they kept far enough apart to stay reasonably cool. If they got too hot, it melted the fat right out of the beef.

  “You leave Alamo on point?” I asked.

  “Si. Good man. He learn fast.”

  “I guess he can use the experience. Hard to find a good pointer.”

  We had eleven cowboys riding herd on the cattle, forming a box around the drive. Chago and Crayler rode at the head of the cattle at point. They were Angus’s most experienced and trusted cowhands. Riding between them were Boomer and Old Stag. Those two old trail-wise steers, with bells around their necks, had led every herd Angus had driven to Kansas.

  Halfway back, on each side, were the two swing riders. Near the end of the herd two cowboys rode flank on either side of the cattle. Finally, at the end of the herd came three riders at drag. They kept the back corners together, prodded the slowpokes, and ate dust. It was the only place on the drive, far from the sharp ears of the trail boss, where a rider felt it safe to curse freely without fear of a fine.

  The last two riders ranged the entire length of the drive. They lent a hand where it was needed and spelled a cowboy in an emergency. Angus usually had his next most trusted hands on that job, Alamo Rehnquist and Pete Claymore. He wanted them to pick up as much experience on point as they could.

  The rest of us rotated among swing, flank, and drag.

  I had been on a few drives before, admittedly before the war, and had ridden point. But Angus was not a man to grant privileges merely on friendship, nor did I want any. I was only along for the one drive. I wanted to pull my own weight. The last thing I wanted was to cause any hard feelings by knocking an experienced cowhand out of his rightly earned position.

  Chago, still riding beside me, said good-naturedly, “Do not spoil your appetite eating dust. Ginger will have a fine supper waiting for us in an hour or two.”

  I looked up at the sun. It hovered over the western horizon. Time to ease up on the cattle and let them drift out and graze until we reached the campground.

  “A little tequila to wash the dust down would do nicely right now,” I said.

  “Si. I can taste the fiery liquid in my throat even now. But”—he shrugged—“you know Señor Finlay.”

  I laughed. “I sure do. Old Angus practically runs a branch of the Bluebonnet back at the Lazy A. But once he’s on the drive he’s got his own temperance union.”

  Actually, Angus’s strict rules weren’t whims. A drunken cowboy was a menace to himself, his horse, the cattle, and his fellow hands. Gambling often led to hard feelings, and it was tough enough keeping up morale on a three-month drive that consisted mostly of backbreaking work, sore muscles, sweat, heat, dust, and little sleep.

  Angus also fined any cowboy he heard swearing, but with Angus usually ranging far ahead of the herd, that was a much-abused rule. There was hardly anybody on the drive who didn’t air his lungs once in a while. The older hands believed swearing took the strain off the liver. The younger ones cursed to prove their manhood. And there was just something about a stubborn steer that provoked a man to let fly a blue streak.

  Besides, every cowboy knew that when we reached market he could let off steam to his heart’s content.

  “Time to let the cattle graze,” Chago said as he galloped off to return to point.

  I swung into the line of the herd, gently waving my hat in my hand to separate the cows. My horse walked slowly beside them, and I kept my movements slow to avoid spooking the cattle. Behind me, at flank, I could see Amos Thurman working the cattle out so they could munch at the long green grass as they walked slowly along.

  The three weeks since we had left the Lazy A had been relatively peaceful. We had not had a serious stampede. Our toughest time came in the first two weeks, before the cattle were road broke.

  We had to constantly fight the cows’ natural instinct to turn back to their native feeding ground. Several times small groups at the rear of the drive had broken off and stampeded for home. It was tough, tense work keeping the other beeves from joining them. We spent many hours waving our hats and snapping our slickers to turn the ornery critters back to rejoin the herd.

  Angus, acting as his own trail boss, rode at the head. Most days we didn’t see him for hours at a time. He scouted far ahead, looking for water, selecting the noon stops, finding the right campgrounds with sweet water and plenty of grass.

  I never asked Angus why he was his own ramrod. But I suspected it was partly out of his own parsimonious nature and partly because he enjoyed it so much.

  A trail boss was like a general moving an army across the land. It required courage, resourcefulness, strength, brains, and a hell of a lot of experience. All of which Angus had to spare. The secret of success lay in finding grass and water, with water being the most important. Nobody was better at it than Angus.

  The cook wagon, carrying Ginger and Horse, also stayed far ahead of the drive. They stopped twice a day, for the noon meal and for supper.

  The wagon, pulled by a brace of mules Ginger had named Sorry and Sinful, had been copied from the original made by Angus’s old friend, Charlie Goodnight. Our blanket rolls, rifles, slickers, axle grease, and sacks of flour, sugar, salt, beans, onions, potatoes, and whatnot went on the wagon protected by the canvas cover. On the side hung a huge water barrel and on the other a toolbox. Slung beneath the wagon was a rawhide cooney to hold the firewood.

  But the most important part, at the rear, was the chuck box.

  The chuck box had a dozen drawers and cubbyholes that were revealed when the lid was swung down to form a worktable. Secreted in those drawers and cubbyholes was a wonderland of everything Ginger needed to fill our stomachs, patch our wounds, or sew on a loose button.

  Ginger could also satisfy a cowboy’s craving for a chaw of tobaccy or the fillings of a quirley to go with a cup of coffee strong enough to melt a shootin’ iron.

  Rattling in the boot beneath the chuck box were an assortment of skillets, Dutch ovens, and the paraphernalia of cookery.

  The chuck wagon also carried the trail drive’s only bottle of whiskey. Or, at least, the only known bottle. It was strictly for medicinal purposes. I’ve heard it said that after a month of enforced abstinence on the trail some cowboys have been known to offer a bare leg to a sidewinder.

  Caesar trotted along beside the wagon, sometimes veering off to chase a rabbit.
Occasionally he hopped onto the wagon to sit beside Ginger, or he settled in the back for a snooze. Angus tolerated the presence of a dog, which could easily spook the cattle, only on Ginger’s solemn oath that Caesar would behave himself.

  Behind the chuck wagon, and off to one side, came Zack Freeman driving a remuda of sixty horses. Most of them were stocky mustang ponies with plenty of cow sense. Zack kept them far enough ahead so that the spirited animals wouldn’t frighten the herd, yet close enough so that a fresh mount was readily available when needed.

  The isolation seemed to suit the former slave turned wrangler just fine. It kept him away from the taunts of the cowboys, who took to bigotry as easily as they took to horses. The men respected Zack’s ability with a horse. No one questioned that he was the best breaker on the ranch. Still, no one wanted to sit down and eat with him.

  The tall, bony, swaybacked longhorns moved slowly. They stopped frequently to chew at the grass. I prodded them now and again to keep them moving, and I watched that they didn’t drift too far from the line of the drive. Their big heads dipped often to bite off the tall grass. Their horns flashed in the sun. Every now and then one cracked against another, producing a sharp report. They were used to the sound and were rarely startled by it.

  Occasionally, too, a lumbering beast raised its head like a suspicious sentinel. Her eyes grew wilder and her nostrils flared as she sought the smell of water. I watched closely for any sign of trouble, but after a moment the cow would dip her head for another mouthful of grass.

  We left the blackjacks behind and moved onto an expanse of rolling prairie. The green grass was dotted with patches of bluebonnets and yellow blossoms of wild mustard. Stunted mesquite trees thrust out young, lacy foliage.

  I could feel the restlessness of the cattle as they grew eager for water. It would be dark in another hour or two. We had to get the cattle watered and bedded down before we lost the light.

  Far ahead, on the highest ground, Angus turned his horse broadside to us. He raised his hat and circled it over his head. Each rider passed on the signal to camp until it reached the men at drag. It was a welcome sign to the weary, hungry cowboys.