by Jerry Buck
“Ed Crayler!” Ginger said between clenched teeth. “Turn that boy loose or I’m gonna split your head open like a watermelon!”
Crayler looked at the cook. Ginger raised the cleaver over his head. Crayler quickly released Dusty.
“One day, sonny boy,” Crayler hissed, “you ain’t gonna have ‘Daddy’ round to save yore hide.”
Ginger said, “One day I ain’t gonna say howdy. I’m just gonna lay this cleaver betwix yore ears.”
Crayler moved back a step. In a parting sally, he said, “Time for yore lollipop, sonny boy!”
He spun on his heels and left.
Chapter Eighteen
We camped for two days near Red River Station, waiting for the herds ahead of us to cross.
Ginger spent the time at Doan’s general store, restocking the chuck wagon. He traded newborn calves to some of the Montague County farmers for onions and potatoes. He also got a fresh supply of greens, although everybody except Angus, Zack, and myself spurned it as “rabbit food.”
The rest of us spent what little time Angus allowed us away from the herd at the tiny settlement’s one saloon, getting reacquainted with John Barleycorn. It was our last chance to blow off steam before the hazardous trek across the Indian Territory into Kansas.
Angus scouted the river all the way to the mouth of Fleetwood Branch and back, and watched as the other herds forded the river.
“I’ve crossed the Red many a time,” he said. “I know the best place from the year before. I know where the quicksand pits were the last time. But you can’t trust last year when it comes to a river. It’s a living thing, changing constantly.”
So, for two days Angus stood on the banks and watched the cowboys swim herds across to the Indian Territory. He didn’t mind the wait. Besides the chance to study the river, it gave him another opportunity to fatten the herd and rest his weary crew.
“It’ll take a month to cross the Indian Territory,” he announced at breakfast the day before we were to ford the river.
“That’s about as fast as you can push the cattle and men. And I’m going to push very hard. We got a lot of rivers to cross. God willing, none are in the flood stage. We got a lot of dangerous prairie to cross. Word is the Kiowas and Comanches are on the move. I hear a couple of herds got hit within the week. One lost two hundred head of beef. The other about half that.”
Angus sopped a biscuit in molasses and popped it into his mouth. “By the Almighty, I don’t intend to lose any steers to heathens!”
I lighted a cigar and sat back to enjoy the smoke with my coffee. I’d bought a fresh supply at Doan’s. “Suppose,” I said, “you have to part with a few head to buy peace with the hostiles?”
Angus looked at me with his hard blue eyes. Like flint, sparks seemed to fly from them. Finally he said, “Aye, but there’s a difference between what I choose to donate for a worthy cause and what a man wants to take from me at gunpoint.”
I sucked deep on my cigar, then blew out the white smoke. “That being the case, I could point out a few troublemakers I’ve spotted on the trail.”
Angus laughed and said, “Nae, you won’t be rid of them that easy. Troublemakers or not, they still bring a bonny price in Kansas.”
The local Texas Ranger was named Tom Worthy, and he had one of those keep-your-distance looks. He wasn’t an easy man to talk to. He was barrel-chested and bandy-legged, and although just into his thirties, he’d already lost most of his hair. His eyes almost disappeared as he squinted at me in the tiny one-room shack that was both his office and living quarters.
“You got some kind a warrant fer these desperadoes?” he asked suspiciously.
“No, I’m afraid not,” I said.
“Mebbe you oughta stop in to see the federal judge in Fort Smith. But I don’t reckon he kin help you if you ain’t some kind a lawman.”
“I carried a badge once,” I said.
“Don’t cut it now,’’ he said. “Don’t take kindly, either, to vigilantes or bounty hunters.”
I was starting to lose my temper, but I tried to keep it in check. I didn’t want to be clapped into jail by some overzealous protector of law and order.
I said, “I talked to Ranger Moore, and he told me the three of them crossed the Red—”
“I used to ride with Thad,” Worthy said. “He’s a mite windy.”
“—River and headed for Kansas.”
“That’s about what I heard, too,” he admitted.
“What else you heard?”
Worthy studied me for a moment before answering.
“They killed yore wife?”
I nodded.
“Most likely the Kid,” he said. “I tangled with him once near Texarkana. Shoulda kilt him when I had the chance.”
“The Kid pulled the trigger,” I said, “but the rest were in on it.”
“I reckon so. Only thing I heared was Smoot’s a mite active again in Kansas and Missouri. Robbed a train. You ridin’ north with a herd, mos’ likely you’ll find him in Kansas.”
“Kansas is a big state.”
Worthy smiled for the first time. “Yeah, but Smoot makes a lotta noise.”
That night we whooped it up for the last time in the saloon. We were due to cross at daybreak.
We left two men on guard to see that our herd didn’t mingle with the herds coming up behind us to wait their turn at the river.
Ginger, as always, stayed in camp, but he had a jug. He was a solitary drinker. He shunned the companionship of sharing drinks and swapping stories. On such nights, Horse, who had never tasted liquor in his twenty-seven years, sat by silently. When Ginger fell into a stupor, Horse tucked him into his blanket roll. Afterward Horse crawled into the cooney and fell fast asleep.
Zack Freeman also stayed behind. He had to look after the horses. But, more importantly, he would not be welcomed in the saloon. In fact, the black man would be risking his life if he walked through the doors. Zack wasn’t much of a drinking man, but Angus saw that he had a bottle of the sour mash bourbon he favored. It was one of the few times Angus allowed whiskey in camp.
Daffern surveyed the close interior of the saloon and said above the din, “It ain’t much of a saloon, but I reckon it’ll have to do until we get to Dodge.”
He was right. It wasn’t much of a saloon. It was a slapped-together affair of adobe brick and green pine boards. It had a dirt floor, and the bar was nothing but planks laid across whiskey barrels. Not only was it noisy, but its smoky interior was hot and airless.
The quality of its whiskey was no better.
“I’ve seen worse,” said Alamo.
“And I’ve seen better,” said Daffern.
I was standing beside Dusty, who was nursing a lukewarm beer, when Crayler elbowed his way to the bar.
“Barkeep,” he said, “I want whiskey.” He looked at Dusty. “And my little friend here will have sarsaparilla—iffen you serve chil’run in this here man’s bar.”
Dusty started to protest, but Crayler cut him short.
Thumping the youth hard on the chest, he said, “I doan take sass from you, sonny boy. You doan pull yore weight on the drive, an’ you ain’t got none to throw round here. Yore big daddy ain’t here with his meat cleaver. ”
Dusty started to protest again. This time I stopped him.
Facing Crayler, I said, “I’m getting awfully tired of you. I don’t like the way you bully people you think can’t fight back.”
Along the bar the drinkers started moving back. Those who had not heard my soft-spoken words were warned by others. Crayler and I had the bar to ourselves. Even the barkeep moved back to a safe distance.
I said, “Crayler, I’m going to tell you this one time, so you damn well better remember it. I don’t take kindly to your kind. You push Dusty around—or anyone else—and I’m going to take it real personal. You won’t get off as easy as the last time you crossed me.”
I kept my right hand free, ready to go for my gun. But I doubted there’d be any nee
d for it. When Crayler looked at me briefly, his squint eye almost closed, I could see there would be no need for it. He would never draw on a man familiar with the ways of a gun.
He turned his eyes away and started to leave.
I grabbed him by his leather vest and pulled him back. My face was only inches away from his. I said, “There is nothing more contemptible than a bully. In case you don’t understand me, I’m talking about you, Crayler. Now, get outa my sight! You remember what I told you—or by God you’ll answer for it!”
Crayler couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I didn’t like shaming a man in front of the men he worked with, but Crayler set my teeth on edge. Besides, I knew Crayler wasn’t a man to stay shamed. Or to remember a lesson. He would be up to his old tricks in a few days.
I was surprised when the other cowboys patted me on the back. Daffern bought me a drink. Thurman said, “That son of a bitch had it comin’!” Pete Claymore said, “Damn, it’s about time somebody taken on Crayler!”
Everybody wanted to tell Crayler off, but everybody was waiting for the next man to do it.
The only unhappy cowboy was Dusty. I let him mope for a while, then steered him to a comer table.
“Doan need nobody to fight my fights,” he protested, keeping his head down. “I ain’t no baby.”
“No, you sure ain’t,” I said. “You’re damn near a growed man, and you do a man’s job. Angus Finlay would never abide a man who didn’t know his job or who slacked.”
“I kin ride as good as any man.”
“That’s a fact,” I said. “You can rope like a buckaroo, and if ever a man was bom with cow sense, it was you.”
He looked up and his face brightened.
“But you still got some growing up to do,” I said. “And you still got a lot of learning ahead of you.”
“Mr. Finlay said the drive would make a man of me.”
“He’s right. It will.”
“Then I kin fight my own fights.”
I didn’t answer him directly. I said, “Dusty, I seen pride kill more men than any other reason. They got provoked into something they couldn’t handle, and their pride wouldn’t let ’em ease out of it. When a man gets his pride up, his common sense goes out the window.”
“You sayin’ I shouldn’t stand up to Mr. Crayler?”
“I’m saying you shouldn’t let your pride speak for you. Crayler was trying to provoke you into going for your gun. If it goes to gunplay, you wouldn’t live to see the sunrise. You haven’t got the experience, but it’s going to come. When I was your age, I worked on a ranch down near Corpus Christi. I was just like you, full of piss and vinegar. But I wouldn’t be here today if I hadn’t had somebody looking out for me until I learned to take care of myself. It don’t shame a boy to have somebody teaching him the ropes and looking after him.”
Dusty smiled and took a gulp of beer. “That means you gonna learn me the ropes, Mr. Wheeler?”
“I couldn’t ask for a better pupil,” I said.
Chapter Nineteen
Old Stag was reluctant to enter the water.
He twisted his big, woolly head around obstinately. The bell tied to his neck clanked in protest.
a“Let’s get this big swimmin’ on! ” ordered Angus, who stood to one side with the Texas cattle inspectors.
Chago swatted the stubborn steer’s rump with his riata. The beast refused to budge. Behind Old Stag, Boomer and three thousand head of cattle watched with wild, apprehensive eyes. The cattle started to bunch up because the cowboys in the rear, unaware of the holdup, kept prodding the herd forward.
Crayler, his horse poised to plunge into the water with the first of the herd, spit on the ground. “Damn Mex!’’ he swore. “Cain’t even git a critter into the water.’’
Alamo rode into the midst of the cattle at the river’s edge and swung his hat wildly from side to side.
“Heeeee yaaaaaah!’’ he yelled. “Git along!’’ He whistled shrilly between his teeth. The first movement was detected among the reluctant cattle.
A lumbering red steer, its horns reaching nearly five feet across, shoved his way to the front and stepped boldly into the river. He sank in until all that was visible were his woolly head, bulging eyes, flaring nostrils, and those magnificent horns.
He swam strongly for the other shore.
Old Stag watched the upstart for a minute, then plunged in. There was no holding them back after that. The river filled with cattle, churning the muddy water, protesting loudly, and heading for the opposite bank.
“By golly,” cried Angus, “he shamed Old Stag into it!”
As an afterthought, he bellowed, “Mark that steer! We got more rivers to cross!” From his horseback headquarters, Angus issued a series of orders as the crossing proceeded.
The inspectors, tally sheets in hand, stood in the shade of a grove of cottonwood trees and watched the crossing closely.
They examined the road brand, looking for cattle that didn’t belong in the herd. They were looking for stolen cattle. But many herds picked up strays on the drive, so they were also checking to see that they had been properly branded.
Earlier a couple of gents claiming to be trail cutters had appeared and said they were going to cut out the strays. Angus took exception to that, so they offered to settle for fifty dollars each. Angus took even more exception to that. The two gents left in a hurry, lucky that they weren’t horsewhipped first.
Nearby was a scattering of graves of cowboys who had died attempting to cross the river.
A tangle of brush along the riverbank was caught in the roots of trees half in the water and half out. The next flood, tearing at the riverbank, would sweep some of the trees downstream. Driftwood was caught in some of the trees higher than a man’s head, testimony to past floods.
We broke camp at daybreak that day and drove the herd straightaway to the fording site Angus had selected.
We stowed our boots, gunbelts, and unnecessary clothing in the wagon, and Ginger took it across on the ferry. A few cowboys stripped down to a pair of pants, myself included, and some rode bareback to keep their saddles dry. Not only would the extra gear weigh us down, but no one wanted to get it wet.
Ginger and Horse rode on to set up camp at the site Angus had pointed out the day before.
Chago and Crayler escorted the vanguard across. Alamo and Pete waded in and swam their horses about thirty yards downstream to head off any cows carried away by the current.
The first cows, sleekly wet and shiny in the morning brightness, clambered up the opposite bank. There Thurman and Daffern waited to drive them out of the way. Prentiss kept them moving toward the campsite.
On the Texas shore, Dusty, Tom Kelly, and Ford Burkhardt drove the cattle forward at a slow pace. Angus wanted no more than fifty cows in the water at a time.
I held my horse midstream, slightly upriver from the herd. I was clad in just a pair of pants. The stirrups felt strange to my bare feet. I hadn’t ridden barefoot since I was a kid, and then it had been without a saddle.
“Look out behind you!” Angus shouted from the shore.
I was so intent on watching the cattle I didn’t hear him at first. He shouted the warning again and called my name.
I turned to see a tree trunk drifting slowly toward me. I kicked my bare heels into the pony’s flank and pulled sharply on the bridle. She swam around the piece of flotsam. It was so waterlogged it barely broke the surface. Several branches stuck out from it.
I grabbed a stout branch, and, urging my horse forward, tried to tow the trunk to shore. It might well have still been rooted in the ground.
The drifting tree pulled me in one direction, and my horse carried me in another. I released my grip before I was jerked out of the saddle.
“It’s coming, boys!” I warned.
The current sent the trunk in among the cattle and threw them into a panic.
The orderly crossing operation collapsed.
The cattle swam in all directions. Som
e circled back toward the Texas shore, where they became entangled with oncoming cows that had not seen the tree. But they smelled the fear, and they, too, panicked. Others turned and swam downstream. A few tried to swim against the current.
Several cows were caught by underwater snags of the drifting tree trunk and brayed their distress.
On the Texas shore the cattle kept coming, adding to the confused mass thrashing about in the river. Over the frightened cries of the cattle, I heard Angus bark orders to stop them. But on they came, as unstoppable as an avalanche.
I plunged in among the milling cows, ducking horns and hoping I wouldn’t be unhorsed and fall beneath their churning hooves.
Chago and Alamo worked tirelessly beside me. I caught glimpses of Crayler and Pete prodding the cattle on the downstream side.
We pulled the animals around by their horns. We grabbed their long tails and twisted them around in the right direction.
Alamo stood up on his horse’s back and leaped onto the back of a nearby steer. He settled down on it, leaned forward, and grabbed the horns. He bulldogged the animal’s head around and headed it toward the opposite bank.
“Heeeee yaaaaah!” He yelled his lungs out. The cow swam strongly toward the shore. Other cattle began to follow in its wake.
By backbreaking work and foolhardy effort, we got the cattle straightened out. We were scratched and bruised, but we hardly noticed it in the excitement.
A few beeves drifted far downstream. All we could do was hope they’d make shore.
When the last cow climbed up the bank into Indian Territory, we stayed in the river to help Zack get the remuda across. It was a picnic compared to the perilous hours we had spent in the water with the steers.
Ginger had set up camp three miles from the river. It was midafternoon by the time the last of the cattle reached there. Angus wanted the herd rested after the trauma of the river crossing. We would set out at the crack of dawn for Beaver Creek. It would be easy traveling over the high, rolling plain.