by Jerry Buck
The cattle, smelling water, rushed eagerly for the creek at the bottom of a rise. The cowhands worked together to keep the cattle from pushing and crowding as each drank its fill.
We moved the cattle just beyond the creek and rode them into a compact herd off the trail. There was plenty of grass, and they ate with a strong appetite.
Chapter Sixteen
Chago and Crayler ate first, as was their due as pointers.
Neither spoke to the other except when absolutely necessary. Each took his plate and sat far from the other. Crayler to show his contempt for Chago’s exotic foreignness, and Chago to show his contempt for Crayler’s bigotry and cowardice.
Zack set up the remuda by the chuck wagon. Dusty, being the greenest of the greenhorns, held the end of a rope stretched from a wagon wheel as one boundary. The horses were used to the routine, although a few bent on wandering were hobbled by Zack. Once they were assembled, Dusty lowered the rope.
I was unsaddling my horse and putting him in the remuda when I heard Crayler’s loud voice from the other side of the wagon.
“Now you take settin’ up a remuda, that’s nigger work,” Crayler said.
As I came around the wagon, I saw Chago eyeing Crayler with hatred. Crayler avoided any direct confrontation with Chago. He feared the proud young Mexican, although he called him a “greaser” behind his back. Chago kept his distance and temper out of loyalty to Angus.
Zack and Dusty had their plates out for Ginger to fill.
Crayler, sitting by his empty plate, called, “Hey, Ginger! Got any chitlins for them two darkies?” He laughed at his own crude jest. “Mebbe a mess a greens, too! Them niggers taken to rabbit food.”
Zack, long used to absorbing punishment, said nothing.
Dusty said, “You got a big mouth, Mr. Crayler!”
“Mebbe you’d like to do somethin’ about it, sonny boy,” Crayler taunted.
When he got no answer, he added, “Naw, I thought not. You still wet behind th’ ears, boy. Yore mama know where you at?”
Chago casually took out his gun, checked to see that it was fully loaded, spun the cylinder, and dropped it back into his holster. The gesture was not lost on Crayler. His squint eye almost closed, he anxiously sought a new diversion. The ugly red scar on his cheek was still a reminder of his behavior at the line shack.
Caesar came loping along and stopped in front of Crayler. He sniffed at his plate for any leftovers. Crayler drew back an arm menacingly.
“Git away from me, ya lousy mutt!” he snarled. “Damned dog ain’t got no business on a cattle drive nohow.”
Very slowly Ginger picked up his meat cleaver and took a step toward Crayler.
Angus stepped into the firelight from nowhere and said, “Ed, you know my rules about cussin’. That’s twenty-five cents cornin’ outa your wages when we get to Kansas.”
Ginger set down the cleaver and spooned food into Zack’s plate.
“Twenty-five cents?” Crayler protested. “I only said one word, Mr. Finlay.”
“Two words. In my book, nigger’s a cuss word, too.”
Crayler remained silent. He lowered his eyes, and as he shuffled off, he murmured, “Jes’ funnin’. Dint mean no harm.”
By the time I grabbed a tin plate and some eating irons, Tom Kelly and Pete Claymore were scraping their plates. Tom and Pete had first night watch. In a few minutes they’d saddle their night mounts and take up their stations riding slowly around the herd in opposite directions. Soon we’d hear their soft crooning to the cattle.
Ford Burkhardt, a bowlegged bantamweight only a couple of years older than Dusty, stood in front of me holding out his plate. “I’m so hungry I could eat a saddle,” he said. “Whatcha got tonight, Ginger?”
“You want a menu, go to a restaurant,” Ginger said sourly. He dumped stew and beans into Burkhardt’s plate.
“Pecos strawberries again?” Burkhardt said in mock disappointment. Despite the derisive term, the cowboys ravenously ate the beans Ginger had cooked over a slow fire and seasoned with dry salt pork.
I silently held out my plate for Ginger to fill. I grabbed a handful of sourdough biscuits he had baked in a Dutch oven and spooned dry fruit onto my plate. I filled my tin cup with steaming black coffee and found a grassy spot to sit cross-legged and eat.
I had the ten-to-twelve watch. I doubted that I’d get much sleep until I was relieved. And very little after that, because we would rise before dawn to get the cattle watered and grazed and on the drive again.
Amos Thurman, resting his back against a wagon wheel, pulled a harmonica out of a shirt pocket. He tapped it several times against his palm and began playing the mournful strains of “Red River Valley.”
Angus, a plate in one hand and a cup in the other, sat down beside me.
“Crayler’s the most experienced hand I got,” Angus said wearily. “He’s got almost as much cow sense as a cuttin’ horse. But he’s sure pushin’ me to the edge. Man was raised on sour milk. I got half a mind to pay him off at Red River Station.”
I shoveled a handful of raisins into my mouth, then took a bite of dried apple. As I chewed, I asked, “Getting pretty close to the Nations. What you figure, another week?”
Angus nodded. “Six, seven days, if we don’t have a stampede. And if the weather holds.”
I said, “Four weeks to cross the Nations. Another two, three weeks to get to Dodge. They moved the Spanish tick quarantine again. Dodge is as good a place as any to start looking. Don’t matter. I’ll find ’em.”
“Kinda hopin’ hard work’d sweat that notion outa ya.”
“Ain’t much else to think about, Angus. They killed Abby, and they’re going to answer for it. That’s the size of it.”
Angus took a long swig of coffee. “You’re a stubborn man, Ben.” He was silent for several minutes as he ate. Finally he said, “I admire a stubborn man. One myself.” He wolfed the rest of his food down and got to his feet. “I got work to do. Ain’t much rest on a cattle drive.”
I dug my blanket roll out of the wagon. Horse cleaned the tin plates and utensils we had dumped into the wrecking pan. Ginger studied the sky for a while. Then he picked up the wagon tongue and pointed it toward the North Star. In the morning it would show us due north.
Several cowboys puffed on hand-rolled quirleys. The smell of the burning tobacco mingled with that of the fire and supper.
I spread my blanket roll, hoping I could get a few winks before watch.
Amos played “Goodbye, Old Paint,” then launched into “Green Grow the Lilacs.”
That’s the last thing I remembered until I heard someone softly calling my name. I stirred and heard my name again. It was time for my night watch. A cowboy always woke his relief by calling his name. He never touched a sleeping cowboy, lest he come up with a gun in his hand.
I’d slept in my clothes, so I was ready to go after a wake-up cup of some of Ginger’s awesome coffee.
I found my night mount in the bright moonlight. I patted her and spoke a few soothing words into her ear as I threw on a blanket and saddle. I pulled the latigo tight and mounted.
Bill Daffern and I had the ten-to-midnight watch. I rode clockwise and he rode counterclockwise. Bill had a fine Irish tenor voice, and he softly crooned “The Old Chisholm Trail.”
Now, I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Still, I did the best I could with “The Horse Wrangler” and “Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie.” The cows never complained, but when my voice got too flat I switched to humming. The cattle found it reassuring, so that was all that mattered.
Most of the herd was lying down, chewing cuds, and blowing. A few still munched on grass.
I kept one eye on the herd and the other on the lookout for marauders. Under the nearly full moon I could see the herd clearly and watched for any sign of a stampede.
Bill and I passed twice each round. Each time we exchanged a few words.
“Quiet night.”
“Yup. Any sign of coyotes?”
The longhorns, encouraged by the bright moon, began to rise and browse. Some only changed positions and sank immediately to their knees and resettled themselves. The cattle yawned and browsed. I yawned, too. I pulled out a piece of dried apple I had tucked into a pocket. It gave me something to graze on.
I studied the night sky. The Big Dipper was due west of the North Star and hanging down. The next time I passed Bill, I said, “Time to hit the sack.”
Bill nodded, and I rode off to wake our relief.
I didn’t need a lullaby. I was asleep the instant my head hit the blanket roll.
Chapter Seventeen
“Grub pi-i-i-l-le!”
My eyes snapped open. It was still dark, but the sun, below the horizon, had turned the eastern sky a bright pink. I sat up and pulled my boots on.
“Git up, you lazy critters!” Ginger barked. “Get up and greet the day, or I’m gonna dump this mess a grub for the coyotes to fight over.”
The men around me stirred and sat up. I strapped on my gunbelt, set my hat on my head, and rolled up my bedroll. With the smell of frying bacon and coffee filling my senses, I walked down to the creek to splash cold water on my face.
The call of a meadowlark came from a thicket near the water.
I poured myself a cup of coffee, yawned, and took a sip of the scalding liquid.
Ginger pulled sourdough out of his keg by the handful. He slapped it onto a board, worked in salt and lard, dropped in raisins, and kneaded the dough. He cut the biscuits with a tin cup. He placed the biscuits in a Dutch oven set on the glowing coals and heaped more coals on the lid.
“Horace!” he growled. “Stop standin’ round like an idjit and grab a bucket and get me some water from th’ crick!”
Horse jumped and took off for the creek as though a pack of howling wolves was snapping at his heels.
Angus, always the first man up, had already eaten and was on horseback supervising the last night watch in getting the cattle watered.
Caesar watched from his perch on the seat of the chuck wagon as Ginger served Crayler and Chago first. Crayler eyed the hound as he took a fistful of biscuits and poured molasses into his plate. The dog bared his teeth.
“Hey, Ginger, you gonna make some red bean pie tonight?” Burkhardt asked eagerly. “Man, my mouth’s sure waterin’ for some a yore red bean pie.”
Ginger eyes him scornfully. “I was thinkin’ on it,” he said, “but you just changed my mind.”
Burkhardt’s face dropped.
Ginger opened a can of Arbuckle’s coffee and took out the peppermint stick packed inside and put it in an apron pocket.
Burkhardt mumbled under his breath, “Prolly gonna save the candy fer his dawg.”
Ginger looked up sharply. “You say somethin’, cowboy?”
“Uh, I said them biscuits look dawg-gone good.”
Ginger was an object of great speculation among the cowboys. We knew his name was George Pittman, and that was about it. We also knew he was the best damn ranch cook, bar none. His son-of-a-bitch stew was second to none. His red bean pie was known to have lured a top cowhand from another ranch. He knew his beans and onions, but whatever else he knew, he kept to himself.
He kept the men’s stomachs satisfied, but he was not a man to be trifled with. He was as handy with a gun as he was with a meat cleaver, and he was apt to grab up either one if a man gave him offense. Every man steered clear of offending Ginger, although Crayler’s grudge against Caesar was as close as any man ever got.
There was general agreement among the cowboys that if ever a man killed Ginger he would be lynched on the spot.
No man knew where Ginger came from, and no one dared ask. I doubt that any man had ever seen Ginger without a shirt or his long underwear. They were as ever-present as his derby and red suspenders. Still a few men swore they had seen sailor’s tattoos on his arms. Ginger did roll a bit when he walked, but that was a gait peculiar to both sailors and cowboys.
No one questioned Ginger about his origin, the sea, or anything else. Not only was it range etiquette never to inquire about a man’s background, but in Ginger’s case it could lead to punishment a man could feel in his taste buds and growling stomach.
Once, on a roundup, the rumor started that Ginger had killed a man and that’s why he left the sea. If that rumor ever reached Ginger’s ears, he never acknowledged it.
The only cowboy on the drive Ginger seemed to tolerate was Dusty. The way he showed it was by not snarling at Dusty as much as he did at the rest of us. He also occasionally rewarded Dusty with the peppermint stick that came in the can of Arbuckle’s coffee.
The only affection he ever displayed was toward Caesar, a dog as surly and as unpleasant as his master. Every man gave Caesar a wide berth, except Dusty. Caesar was sometimes seen trotting along after Dusty, his tail wagging. That didn’t escape the notice of Ginger. Which might explain his tolerance of the green young cowhand.
I chewed bacon and sopped the light, fluffy raisin biscuits in molasses. The other men around me ate with silent dedication.
Bill Daffern stifled a yawn and took a big swig of strong black coffee in the hope it would wake him up.
“Man,” Bill said, “I ain’t missed this much sleep since that time we delivered a herd to Newton. I swear I dint go to bed for a week. Wal,” he said, grinning, “I did go to bed, but not to sleep.”
“That the time you almost had to marry that prairie dove?” Amos asked, taking a tobacco sack from his shirt pocket and rolling a quirley.
“Naw, that was in Abilene three years ago.”
“I remember that,” said Alamo. “She went to Wild Bill Hickok his-self and swore you’d promised to marry her.”
“Was that Wild Bill?” Daffern asked. “I don’t recollect. My memory’s a little fuzzy.”
Alamo guffawed loudly. “Wal, mine ain’t. You pert near killed your pony lightin’ a shuck for Texas.”
Burkhardt said, “Hey, Ben. You was marshal up in Kansas fer a spell. How’d you handle this Irish lover?”
“Jail, I reckon.” I paused. “For his own protection.”
“Yeah,” said Alamo. “Some a them calico queens carry Arkansas toothpicks.”
“Take yore gizzard right out,” added Burkhardt.
“Laugh, you mangy lot,” Daffern said, “but when we get to Dodge I’ll drink any man under the table. And I’ll have a cowboy queen on each arm!”
“Double reason to get you in trouble,” said Alamo.
The talk around the camp fire frequently returned to the end of the trail. No matter in what direction the conversation began, thoughts of bellying up to the bar with a fistful of dollars always intruded.
Somebody could complain about the lack of sleep, for instance. And Bill Daffern was likely to say, “You’ll stay ’wake longer’n this once we get to Dodge, and you’ll call it fun.”
“You been there?” asked Thurman.
“Once. Two, three years ago. Queen of the Cowtowns, they call it. Used ta call it Buffalo City. Got more painted cats than Abilene ever thought about. They got nineteen saloons in Dodge. Mueller’s, the Alhambra, Long Branch, Alamo. Place growin’ so fast they still got tents.”
“Every cowtown’s got an Alamo Saloon,” said Thurman.
“Yeah,” said Daffern. “Wait’ll you see Chalkley Beeson’s Saratoga. Old Chalk’s got hisself an orchestra. You can dance till your boots fall off.”
Pete Claymore said. “I think my boots ’bout ready to fall off right now.”
Crayler, who had been eyeing Daffern with a surly expression, said, “Daffern, you worsen a damn Mex thinkin’ on pleasures.”
Daffern laughed. “Trouble with you, Ed, is you think on th’ hardships. Turn a man’s milk sour. I think on them pleasure palaces on the Arkansas just waitin’ for this old boy from Texas.”
Crayler sneered. “Wal, you figger on reachin’ them pleasure palaces, you stay outa my way.”
Daffern did not change his amiable expression. His voice stayed even. “I guess my ears playin’ tricks on me,” he said. “Them sounded like threatenin’ words. And here I ain’t no Mex or nigger or no greenhorn.”
Crayler dropped the bridle he was holding and stood facing Daffern with one hand on the butt of his gun. “You sayin’ I’m yella?”
Daffern, still smiling, replied, “I’m sayin’ anytime you feel like takin’ on a real man, I’ll be here.”
Crayler stared at Daffern, a thin rail of a man with a shock of light brown hair, rosy cheeks, and laugh lines around his eyes. He was a man just barely into his twenties. He returned his gaze until Crayler slowly picked up the bridle and walked off.
Crayler never seemed to benefit from any of his experiences. Even after he was shamed, he was back at it again. Picking at it, picking at it, like a man with a sore that wouldn’t stop itching.
His frequent target was Dusty, and it took very little to set him off.
“I want to learn to handle a forty-four like a real shootist,” Dusty said one day at breakfast. “You reckon you can learn me?”
There was a loud guffaw from behind me. Crayler, clad only in dingy woolen underwear, was shaving himself at a mirror propped on a wheel of the chuck wagon. He worked the razor carefully around the scar on his cheek.
Crayler, lather still on his face, said, “A shootist? Mebbe you kin hit a tin can on a fence post, sonny boy, but a tin can don’t shoot back. Somebody shoot back, you’d pee in yore pants.”
Dusty furiously charged at Crayler. “That’s a dastardly lie! You take that back.”
“Fack’s a fack,” said Crayler, wiping his razor.
“Ain’t neither no fack!” Dusty fumed.
Dusty swung from the ground. His fist connected squarely with Crayler’s jaw. The big man dropped his razor and staggered back against the wagon wheel. He shook his head, then rushed the wiry little cowboy. He wrapped his bearlike arms around Dusty and squeezed the breath out of him.
I was on my feet and running toward them, but Ginger got there first. He had the meat cleaver in his hand and fire in his eyes. Caesar, crouching low, bared his fangs and growled menacingly.