Wheeler's Choice

by Jerry Buck

  “I was still a bairn, no more than fifteen at most. But I picked up my father’s sword and laid low his murderer. Aye, vengeance was mine. I barely escaped the banks of the Spey with my life. I made my way to the Hebrides and signed on a coasting ship as a cabin boy. In Bristol I got berth on an Indiaman, and I was at sea for the next three years. I changed ships a few times after that. That’s how I ended up at Galveston. A miller’s son and a seaman. I’d never been on a horse before, but I became a cowboy.”

  I said, “I reckon you did the right thing.”

  “Right, indeed! And I’d do it again!” He stopped, then said softly, “But it tears at a man’s soul. That it does.”

  I knew he was saying that he understood why I had to do what I was going to do. Four men had killed Abby. One was dead. Three to go.

  Later, my head still aching, I tried to grab a few hours’ sleep before my watch. I couldn’t put Angus’s story out of my mind. I kept thinking of my own story and how I came to reach Texas that first time so long ago. I recalled my long trek from Virginia to Louisville, where I met Robbie O’Bannion and the crew of Maid of Killarney. The ride down the Ohio and Mississippi on his keelboat was a wild and wonderful adventure that helped turn a lad into a man. I thought of the morning we fought off the pirates, then thought no more, and fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Three days earlier we had crossed the North Canadian, its banks lined with oaks, cottonwoods, and thickets of wild plum too green to pick. We waded across the shallow river into upland prairies and turned northwest toward Dodge City. Angus didn’t plan to cross the Cimarron until we got into Kansas.

  The Cimarron, with its pits of quicksand, was the last obstacle before Dodge. But Angus wasn’t a man to lay caution aside.

  “Keep a sharp eye out for hostiles,” he warned at breakfast. “Liable to be Comanche or Kiowa or Arapaho about. Maybe even Cheyenne.”

  Angus repeated the same order at breakfast every morning. And we kept a sharp lookout for marauding Indians.

  But all we saw were miles of rolling prairie and an occasional prairie-dog town. We skirted the borders of one town to avoid its holes. It took us half a day to leave it behind. Occasionally a little prairie dog perched on the edge of its hole and barked at us. Ginger was under strict orders from Angus to keep Caesar in the wagon.

  We were crossing a treeless plain. The Great American Desert, some called it. Ginger had loaded the cooney and the back of the wagon with firewood. But he still had to keep Horace busy scouting for buffalo chips. Even they were becoming scarce.

  The cattle grew fat on the tender young grass, and Angus allowed plenty of time for grazing. We stayed close to the North Canadian for a few days, then veered northward again.

  Kansas was just over the horizon. I would soon be able to tend to my unfinished business.

  I rode at left flank, eating dust every step of the way. A steady wind swirled dust around me and seemed to drive it into every pore. The hot summer sun bathed me in sweat. I was itchy and rubbed raw.

  That night I peeled off my clothes beside a stream. My body was streaked with dirt.

  Naked as a jaybird, I waded out, threw my arms wide, and flopped back into the cool water. I splashed happily in the water with several other cowhands, then grabbed the bar of soap I had beside my clothes.

  “I’m dirtier’n a hog farmer,” I said, lathering the soap on thick.

  “Lemme borry that soap when y’done,” said Daffern, who had settled in the water up to his chin.

  As Daffern scrubbed himself clean, he said, “Won’t be long. First thing I’m gonna do in Dodge is head fer a bathhouse and parboil myself in a hot tub for about three hours. Then I’m gonna put on some clean duds. And then I’m gonna splash on lots a bay rum. I tell ya, Ben, ain’t nothin’ like a little perfumy water to get the ladies excited. I’m gonna hit both sides of th’ Deadline—at once!”

  I said, “From what I know about the ladies in Dodge, the only thing that gets ’em excited is the smell of a crisp new greenback.”

  Daffern laughed. “Soon’s Mr. Finlay sells them ornery, critters onto some onsuspecting eastern dude, I’m gonna have me enough greenbacks to excite a lot of them soiled doves. Reckon I oughter have pret’ near a hunnert dollars after Mr. Finlay deducts fer my horse an’ ever-’thang.”

  I stood to do much better. The trail hands were riding for thirty dollars a month and found. Zack, as wrangler, would get a little less. Chago and Crayler, at point, would get a little more. Ginger was the highest paid man on the drive at fifty dollars a month. His swamper, Horse, was the lowest paid. I wasn’t drawing any pay, but I had added forty-six head to the drive. They were mostly yearlings and calves. Still, they’d fetch a good price.

  It’d come to nearly a thousand dollars. The only time I’d ever held that much money in my hands was the time in Colchester when I rounded up a gang of bank robbers and returned the loot to the banker.

  I didn’t know what I’d do with that much money. I couldn’t spend it on Abby. She was gone. There was no pleasure in thinking about it.

  Actually, I did know what I’d do with it. I’d spend every last cent, if I had to, tracking down Bill Smoot, Kid Bayliss, and Jasper Rollins.

  Like I said, there was no pleasure in thinking about it.

  Angus brought in a deer at the noon stop. Horse had picked up some prairie chickens on his buffalo chip expeditions, so we prepared for a feast that night to celebrate our passage into Kansas the next day.

  “I bagged that buck in Kansas,” Angus said. “I was on a rise, and I could see all the way to the Cimarron. When I looked back, there he was. He was a beautiful sight.”

  I said, ‘‘If some Kansas sheriff comes along looking for him, I think we’ll have gotten rid of the evidence by tonight.”

  Burkhardt ambled over on horseback to admire the deer. “Ya dint see any buffalo, did ya, Mr. Finlay?” he asked. “Cain’t ’member last time I laid my teeth into buffalo steak.”

  “Don’t see buffalo like we used to,” Angus said. “I remember one drive we had to hold up pret’ near the whole day to let a buffalo herd go by. Musta been a million of them. Even had elk and antelope runnin’ with ’em. They covered the prairie from horizon to horizon, and still they kept on a-comin’. Only sight I ever seen made a Texas longhorn set up and take notice.”

  “It were an awesome sight, fer a fack,” said Burkhardt. “But ’twix Bill Cody an’ them hiders, they done whittled ’em down a mite.”

  Angus nodded. “Aye. So now the Injuns taken to raidin’ our herds instead.”

  Ginger, his derby set square on his head, toiled over the coals.

  He had several venison roasts and prairie chickens going at once, and he was frying venison steaks. Pies of red beans and dried apples cooled on the pull-down worktable. Every now and then Ginger brought an arm up to blot his sweating brow on the sleeve of his soiled woolen undershirt.

  “Horace,” Ginger said, “put more wood on th’ fire an’ open me another can a coffee.”

  Horse reached under the wagon, where Caesar lounged, and pulled a few sticks from the cooney.

  “Gettin’ mighty low on wood, Mr. Ginger,” he said.

  “You pickin’ bufferlo chips like I tol’ ya?”

  “Like you tol’ me, Mr. Ginger,” Horse said. “They be mighty scarce. Cow flops, too, Mr. Ginger. Dried ’uns, that is.”

  Horse put the wood on the fire, then stood back to watch Ginger. He sniffed the aroma of cooking venison and licked his lips.

  “Horace, you fergettin’ what else I tol’ you to do?” Ginger asked as he expertly flipped steaks with a long-handled fork.

  Horse removed his tattered Confederate forage cap and scratched his head. “I picked bufferlo chips like you said, Mr. Ginger. ’Cept I couldn’t find too many. An’ I put wood on the fire like you said.”

  “The coffee, Horace! The coffee!”

  Horse’s slack-jawed expression suddenly changed. “Oh, the coffee! L
ike you said!”

  He scampered into the wagon and came out with a can of Arbuckle’s finest. He opened the can and poured the beans into the grinder. He turned the wheel for a few minutes, then poured the grounds into the big pot. He filled it with water from the barrel strapped to the side of the wagon and placed it over the coals to boil.

  Horse held the peppermint stick in his hand. He glanced furtively at Ginger, who was turning steaks. He started to slip the candy into his pocket.

  “Horace!” Ginger scolded, his back to the swamper. “You had the last two sticks!”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered sheepishly.

  “Put it on th’ table,” Ginger said.

  Horse laid the candy on the table among the pies and retreated a few steps. He closely examined the back of Ginger’s head.

  To himself, he said, “I cain’t see ’em, but I know Mr. Ginger’s got eyes in th’ back a his haid. They gotta be there sum’ers.”

  Chago and Alamo came off guard at suppertime. They spooned beans onto their plates, piled it high with biscuits, and received a thick, juicy venison steak from Ginger. Roasted venison and the stewing chickens awaited them for seconds.

  They sat down in the grass by me and dug into their victuals.

  “That is a toothsome steak,” Alamo said between bites.

  “Muy delicioso,” said Chago.

  “Reckon we’ll eat our next supper in Kansas,” said Alamo. “I won’t be sorry to see this drive end. I’m ready to bend my elbow—”

  Alamo suddenly stopped, and with a twist of his head, he directed our attention to the chuck wagon.

  Crayler confronted Ginger with his filled plate in one hand and the peppermint stick in the other.

  Ginger, wielding a butcher knife, ordered, “Put that back where you found it or I’ll chop yore fingers off!”

  “Savin’ it for yer little pet?” Crayler sneered. “Mebbe somebody else got a sweet tooth, too.”

  “Mebbe somebody’s gonna be missin’ a few fingers, too!” Ginger warned.

  Crayler looked around to assure himself that Angus had not returned from the herd. Emboldened, he said, “Reckon I’ll keep it.”

  I was happy that Dusty was on guard with the herd and not in the middle of another fracas with Crayler. I’d warned Crayler, but I didn’t fancy having to shoot a man over a piece of candy.

  Ginger drew his knife back. Crayler retreated a step, set his plate on the ground, and took a stance with his hand on the butt of his gun.

  “Crayler, I’m warnin’ you!” Ginger barked.

  “You allus warnin’ me!”

  Behind Crayler, Caesar darted out from under the wagon and snatched the steak from the plate.

  Crayler saw the flash of yellow fur out of the comer of his eye. He whirled, drew his Remington .44, and clubbed the dog across the rump.

  Caesar let out a squeal of pain and dropped the steak.

  “You son of a bitch!” Ginger swore.

  He charged Crayler with the butcher knife raised.

  But Caesar, enraged and snarling, turned and sank his fangs into Crayler’s leg just above his boot. Crayler cried out in anger.

  Chago, Alamo, and I were on our feet, supper forgotten.

  Chago said in a hoarse whisper, “The herd!”

  Alamo said, “They gonna stampede the herd surer’n hell!”

  “We better get to our horses,” I said.

  We had not moved five feet before the sound of a gunshot split the night air.

  Crayler had shot Caesar in the head.

  I looked back as I ran toward the remuda. I saw Crayler and Ginger struggling on the ground.

  But there was no time for that. The herd was off and running!

  Every man not already on horseback was at the remuda. The horses were nervous and milled about. Zack tried to calm them, but several ran off.

  Beside the remuda, I saw a hundred or more longhorns thunder toward the camp.

  I hurriedly threw a blanket onto the mount’s back, hefted the saddle, and pulled the latigo tight. In almost the same motion, I threw myself into the saddle and sped off after the rampaging cattle.

  It was noon the next day before we got the herd back together.

  The cattle had scattered in a dozen directions. Half of them had run into Kansas, as if they knew the way to market. Some ran back the way we had come from, as if they also knew the way to market and didn’t want to go there. Others went east and west.

  The bunch I had spied at the start of the stampede had roared right into camp. They narrowly missed the wagon, but they demolished Ginger’s pull-down worktable and sent pots and pans flying.

  The cattle had run themselves to exhaustion long before the Big Dipper showed midnight. But the problem was finding them in the moonless darkness.

  When the first pink showed in the eastern sky, Pete Claymore and I spotted a shadowy mass on the distant prairie. We rounded up about three hundred cows grazing contentedly on the tender grass.

  Sometimes we found only a single cow munching on the rolling plain. One by one and in small bunches, we drove them toward the main herd across the border in Kansas.

  Angus, speechless with fury, sent us to ride in ever-widening circles until we had found every last beast.

  Satisfied at last that we had found all the cattle we were going to find, Angus asked me to ride back to the old camp with him.

  We found Ginger and Horse patching up the rear of the chuck wagon with a piece of canvas. Ginger muttered incoherently as he lashed a rope over the makeshift cover.

  From horseback Angus silently surveyed the damage. Then his eyes fell upon the mangled remains of a body some distance behind the wagon.

  “That Crayler?” Angus asked as we dismounted.

  Ginger looked back briefly, then continued his work. After a moment, he answered, “What’s left of ’im. Got hisself tromped.”

  Very quietly, he added, “Good riddance, I say.”

  I heard the final words, but I’m not sure that Angus understood them. He shot a questioning glance at Ginger, but decided not to pursue the matter.

  “Foolishness!” Angus swore angrily. He stood staring off into the distance.

  “A man killed because of pure tomfoolery! There’s no sense to it! Grown men fightin’ over a piece of candy! And that dog of yours didn’t help matters, Ginger! You agreed he’d be no trouble if I let you bring him on the drive. I swear, I’m tempted to run him off.”

  Ginger said nothing, but he attacked the rope with renewed vigor.

  Horse, who had kept his eyes to the ground during Angus’s outburst, sneaked a look at me. Then he looked off to one side of the wagon. I stepped around to see where he was looking and saw a small, freshly dug grave.

  Angus came up beside me. He realized instantly that it was Caesar’s grave. For once I saw Angus at a loss for words.

  I picked up the shovel leaning against the wagon wheel and began shoveling the hard dirt beside Crayler’s remains. I dug deep enough to keep the wolves and coyotes from getting to the body.

  “Horse,” I said, “bring me Crayler’s kit.”

  I spread the tarp and quilts between the body and the grave. I used the shovel to turn the body onto the blanket roll. It was an awful mess. The flies were already swarming. I choked back the bile rising in my throat.

  As I turned the body over, something glinted in the sun and caught my eye. It was the broken blade of Ginger’s butcher knife sticking out from Crayler’s ribs.

  I quickly pulled the blanket over it, and Horse and I lowered the body into the grave by the ends of the blanket roll.

  Angus took his Bible from his saddlebag and stood at the head of the grave and read several chapters. He ended with a prayer, and I filled the grave.

  I said nothing about the knife. I didn’t know what could be gained by calling it to Angus’s attention. Crayler had been a swaggering bully who was bound to get his comeuppance sooner or later. He provoked the fight with Ginger, and he had killed the only l
iving creature Ginger loved.

  I grasped Angus by the elbow and steered him over to the other grave.

  Angus looked at me in disbelief.

  In an aside that Ginger couldn’t hear, he said, “You expect me to read the Bible over a dog’s grave? That’s blasphemy.”

  I whispered, “You got nothing to lose and a lot to gain.”

  Angus continued to stare at me as though I had taken leave of my senses.

  I said softly, “The way Ginger’s carrying on, he may never cook another meal for the Lazy A. I can think of ten ranches that’d snap him up in a minute.”

  “I—!” Before Angus could protest, I added, “You want to lose the best cook a trail boss ever had? You lose Ginger, Angus, and how long you think you’d keep Alamo and Daffern and Pete? Or any of the others?”

  He opened his mouth again. “Humor the man,” I said.

  Angus sighed and opened his Bible. “I still say it’s blasphemy.” He leaned closer and said, “Tell a living soul about this and I will skin you alive!”

  I signaled to Ginger and Horse to join us.

  Angus let the crew rest the remainder of the day. He also wanted the herd to put back on some of the pounds run off in the stampede.

  Crayler’s death left an opening at point. Angus broached die subject to me, and I quickly recommended Alamo for the job. I had a feeling he was considering me for the job as incentive to ride back to Texas with him.

  But I had other matters to attend to when we reached Dodge City.

  “Alamo’s your man,” I said. “He’s experienced and he’s dependable.”

  Angus agreed that Alamo had earned it, and he knew he would need an experienced man for next year.

  I winked at Angus and said, “Besides, now that Ginger’s staying on, I think you got a good chance of keeping Alamo.”

  Angus looked at me and wagged a finger. “Just one word.”

  We forded the Cimarron in the morning and moved into a plain thick with grass, goldenrod, sunflowers, and trees with green balls of Osage oranges too bitter for man or beast.

  Dodge City lay straight ahead.