Good Man - Bad Enemy

by Gary Church

  Johnny smiled and said, “John, if they’ve got enough energy left, after a day of riding trail, to ride two hours in the night, find some entertainment, and then ride two hours back in the dark, well, sir, I reckon we oughta let ’em. Besides that, I doubt any one of ’em has more than a dollar or two in his pocket.”

  Christie laughed heartily. “I agree,” he said.

  Johnny hesitated a moment, then he decided to ask about the man whose smile didn’t reach his eyes. “John,” he began, “I don’t mean to pry, but the fellow who calls himself Cal…” He hesitated.

  Christie looked at him. “He giving you trouble?” he asked.

  “No, not at all,” replied Johnny. “Seems to be a loner is all.”

  Looking thoughtful, Christie said, “Well, come to think of it, he’s the only one not referred to me or brought along by a friend. He rode out one day, said he heard we were hiring, said he was an experienced cow man.”

  “He’s doing fine,” said Johnny. “I just like to know the men a little.”

  Christie smiled. “Yes,” he said, “I reckon that’s your military experience.” With that, Christie nodded, turned his horse, and rode off.

  Three days later, the herd began to make its way across the Colorado River. Shouts and dust filled the air, but the bellowing, snorting, fearful longhorns made so much noise, the cowboy’s shouts couldn’t be heard, except by their horses and the longhorns close by.

  The herd was across, and B.R. and Jace were bringing up the rear, pushing the stragglers, when a young spotted bull that had proven to be very stubborn turned and headed back toward the river. Jace gave chase, branches slapping into his chaps and low branches threatening to knock him off his mount, as he cursed the animal that was charging farther and farther from the main herd. Breaking into a clearing, Jace got his lariat over the bull’s horns and hauled him around. “Got you!” exclaimed the cowboy.

  But something caught Jace’s eye—movement down at the river. Was that someone hollering? His horse was experienced in handing beeves, so Jace looped the rope around the saddle horn and swung off, the horse backing a little to keep the rope taut. Walking a short distance, Jace was able to see a wagon sitting in the middle of the river. He could see people in the wagon, and two mules pulling it, struggling. It was stuck.

  “Hey, there!” shouted Jace, his hands cupped at his mouth. The driver looked at him. “I’ll be back to help in a bit!”

  The driver waved, and Jace headed back to his horse. He wrangled the troublesome bull back to the formation, where, catching the scent of a heifer, he pushed into the herd. Jace turned and headed back to see if he could help the folks with their stuck wagon.

  Riding into the river, Jace tied his lariat to the front brace between the mules and urged his horse forward. Nothing happened at first, and then the wagon began to move, its wheels finding purchase below the soft mud on the bottom. “Yaaa!” yelled Jace, hoping to energize the mules as well as his horse. The wagon rolled through and, finally, out of the water.

  Once the wagon was on solid ground, Jace rode back and dismounted to free his rope from the wagon’s brace. He wasn’t paying much mind to the people. His mind was on getting back to the herd before some of the stragglers wandered off. Pulling his rope free, he turned and came face to face with a girl. She had walked up and stood behind him without him noticing. She smiled.

  It took Jace a moment to react. He reached up and removed his hat. “Ma’am,” he said.

  She stood there, smiling, or perhaps grimacing—her eyes squinted, and her lips pressed together, her face crunched up. “Well, aren’t you handy,” she said.

  Jace looked at her. A bonnet covered her head and was tied under her chin. The girl had a round face and large brown eyes. Younger, but not far from Jace’s age, she was wearing a shapeless, white cotton dress that extended down to the top of her boots.

  Jace put his hat on his head. “I guess I better be getting on back to my position,” he said awkwardly.

  “Thank you, young man!” said a woman’s voice from the wagon seat.

  Jace looked over and up to see an older woman holding the mules’ reins, while two young boys peered out from inside the wagon. Nodding, Jace turned, walked back to his horse, and mounted. Glancing back as he turned toward the herd, he saw the girl still standing there, watching him. She raised a hand, and Jace nodded his head as he spurred the horse.

  That evening, Jace told B.R. about pulling the wagon out of the river. “No man, huh?” said B.R.

  “Didn’t see one,” responded Jace.

  “So many men died in the war. It’s… I don’t know… it’s against nature or something.”

  Jace looked at B.R. He thought about how they had served together, both just kids. But they had grown up fast when the dying started. It wasn’t just the battles—disease took so many. Now, thought Jace, he and B.R. were closer than brothers.

  THIRTEEN

  Six men sat at a table in a saloon across from the Trinity River in Fort Worth, Texas, sipping beers and whiskey. Two chewed, two smoked. Four were obviously cowboys. Dust, worn boots, and hats stained with sweat and rain marked them. The other two men looked out of place in the group. One was a young man, his face unmarked by life or time, whose clothes were clean and pressed, his boots shined, his hat clean and expensive. It was his hooded eyes that one noticed if they looked at the man. He appeared as though he might fall asleep at any second. Next to him sat a tall man wearing a linen suit, a vest, and tie. His boots were clean and shined. A large cigar protruded from under a large, black, neatly trimmed mustache.

  “Why do people turn to crime?” said the well-dressed man to the group. “Any number of reasons, but really, at the heart of it is money. The chance to gain more money than perhaps they have a chance to earn otherwise. Maybe they’re in a hurry, or they’re lazy, or life has dealt them a bad hand—lots of reasons.” He paused, smoked, looked at the group.

  “Why they turn to crime isn’t as important as why they so often fail. That is what we must concern ourselves with. Again, there are a number of reasons. Poor ideas and poor planning are always a path to failure, but drinking and bragging, greed, and wild spending have led more men to prison or a noose than anything else.”

  He paused again, smoking and looking from man to man. “Now, I have a good idea and a good plan. It is, after all, my idea and my plan, so I aim to collect the payoff and take exactly forty percent of that payoff for myself. Every man who participates and is still with me on the day of the payoff will get an even share of the balance.”

  He sipped his whiskey, looking around the table. No one spoke. “There are five of you here, and a sixth will be joining us. I would be remiss if I didn’t warn you there’s likely to be some shooting, and you know how that goes. Frankly, you have to be willing to kill without hesitation or be killed. But if all six of you make it, well, there’s no guarantee, but I’m thinking you’ll garner around eight thousand dollars each.”

  Once again, he paused, sipped his whiskey, and drew on his cigar. One man spat onto the floor, another had been holding his beer in the air, and he remembered to take a drink. The well-dressed man knew that the number—eight thousand—was difficult for the men to grasp. A cowboy made thirty or forty dollars a month, plus room and board. “I reckon this will involve a week or so of planning and getting in position, and then another week of work before the payoff. If you want in, you’re in, but once you commit, well, you’ll be committed one way or another, so consider carefully.” After a moment, he continued. “It is a bold plan, I’ll tell you that. It’s high risk, and as I mentioned, high reward if we are successful.”

  No one spoke. Finally, the young man with the half-closed eyes said softly, “I’m already in.”

  “Opportunity knocks,” said the well-dressed man, smiling. He waited. He sipped his whiskey.

  Two of the cowboys looked at each other. A barely perceptible nod passed between them, then one said, “Me and…” he hesitated, “him are
in.”

  One of the remaining cowboys said, “I’ll sign on.”

  After a moment, the last one spoke. “Count me in. I’ve always been a bit of a gambler.”

  “Last chance,” said the cigar smoker. No one spoke. “All right, nothing in writing. I’m going to give you directions to a place, a date, and a time. We’ll meet there and go over the plan. Do not be late, but early is fine. Once we’re there, nobody leaves until the payoff.”

  The cigar smoking man stood and reached for the bottle in the center of the table. Lifting it, he poured each man a fresh drink. Setting down the bottle and sitting down himself, he spoke. “Before we drink to our success, let’s cover one last thing. We know very little about each other, and it’s safer that way. I go by Texas; please call me Tex. We have a fellow already in the fold, out scouting some things, goes by Cal, short for California. The fellow to my left,” he moved his left hand to indicate the sleepy looking young man, “is Arizona, and he likes being called Arizona.” A tiny twitch moved the sleepy man’s mouth.

  Texas smiled. “Now we need to give everyone else a name.” He pointed to each of the other four men at the table in turn. “Montana, Wyoming, Virginia, Tennessee. Let’s all remember to use these names. One last thing—we’re bound together in our quest for money, but I know all of us fought for the South, so we have that binding us also. To success.” He held up his glass.

  FOURTEEN

  Ten miles southeast of the crossing at the Colorado, Christie and Johnny were sitting in Christie’s campsite, close to the fire, looking at a map. They had met a handful of travelers headed south and had quizzed them on what they had seen on the way down. It was helpful information. There did not seem to be any drives directly in front of them, at least not between their current location and Fort Worth, so they shouldn’t have any trouble finding grass. The two discussed the trail, really the old Shawnee Trail, until they reached Waco, where they would head west, angling toward Fort Worth on what some called the Eastern Trail, and others called a part of the Chisholm.

  “There’s some disagreement,” said Christie, as he and Johnny calculated distances and discussed places to water and layover at night. “Some say the Chisholm don’t start ’til you cross the Red River. Others say it extends down here, into Texas.”

  The cowboys discussed the day’s events while they sat around the fire, eating plates of beans and salted pork, washed down with cups of strong black coffee. The weather had been mild, no one had been badly hurt, and spirits were high. A good amount of kidding was going on.

  One cowboy stood up and began to shake his leg and shout in a high voice, “Help! It’s got me!”

  Everyone laughed, including Leo, the young man they were making fun of. He knew they were just having fun. Only sixteen, his dad had died in the war, and he and his brother and sister had been raised by his mother on a small farm in South Texas. They had gotten by selling butter, bee honey, and vegetables from a large garden. Three milk cows, a dozen goats, two horses, and some hogs had been Leo’s responsibility.

  He could read and write a little, and he was pretty fair with numbers, but there were giant holes in his education. Much of the cowboys’ talk was beyond his understanding. He rose and began collecting empty plates and spoons. Later, washing the plates, he decided to ask Cookie some questions.

  “Cookie,” he started, “what’s the difference between a cow, a heifer, and a steer?”

  There. It’s out. My ignorance.

  The cook, busy putting away the supper makings, looked over at the boy. “Y’all didn’t have no cattle?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” said the boy. “Just some milk cows, horses, goats, and hogs. Daddy died in the war.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Cookie. “Yeah, uh, well, a steer is a bull. Do you know what makes a bull, like a stallion?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the boy, his face reddening.

  “Well, you know what a gelding is?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A steer is a bull that has been neutered, just like a gelding.”

  The boy’s face brightened with understanding.

  “Now, a cow is a female who has had a calf, or maybe more than one. A heifer is a female that hasn’t had any calves. You got it?”

  “Yes, sir, thank you.”

  “Well, you’re likely to have more questions, so just ask, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I mean it,” said Cookie, whose actual name was Herbert. “Don’t ask them cowpokes. They’ll kid you ’til you turn blue.”

  Once Leo finished his duties, the young man, totally exhausted, walked to the hood wagon, found his bedroll, and looked for a place to settle for the night. Cowboys were generally positioned around the fire, sleeping under a blanket. It still got a bit cold at night, and no one had a tent except Mr. Christie. Finding a place, the young man spread his blankets and was asleep in minutes.

  Johnny retrieved his own bedroll and moved to the same position he always took—some fifty feet to the east of the chuckwagon. He wanted the men to be able to find him in the night if he was needed. And the nightmares he had suffered from since the war were less frequent, but occasionally he still suffered from one. When he did, he often thrashed about and even cried out sometimes. He didn’t need the men to witness that. He picked up his saddle and saddlebags and moved into position. After spreading his blankets, he rummaged in his bags for a new box of cigarillos. His hand felt something he didn’t recognize. He pulled out the paper-covered book that he had picked up in town for Rosalinda. She had written him a note on the paper wrapping and put the book in his bag.

  Husband, I am thinking of you. Enjoy the book. Love, Rosalinda.

  He pulled off the paper carefully, saving the note. He found the book Afloat and Ashore by James Fenimore Cooper. Johnny smiled and then laughed out loud. My wife, how lucky can one man be?

  FIFTEEN

  Off and on, Jace noticed the wagon. It was back a piece but seemed to be following in their path. Then, near the end of another long day, he saw a lone figure approaching on horseback. Jace pulled his horse to a stop and watched. Suddenly, he realized it was the girl from the wagon riding one of the mules. Turning his horse, he spurred it and headed at a gallop toward the approaching girl.

  As he got near, he slowed his horse to a walk and hailed the girl. “Is there trouble?” he hollered. He could see her shake her head. He continued toward her until they were close. She stopped her mule, looked at him, and smiled her funny smile. She looked the same—same bonnet, same dress, same big eyes.

  “Mama wanted me to invite you to supper, to thank you for your help,” said the girl. “We’re having jackrabbit stew.”

  “Oh,” said Jace, a bit stunned. “Where did you get the jackrabbits?”

  “They jumped in the wagon,” said the girl, her face serious.

  “They did?” asked Jace.

  “Are you slow?” she asked.

  “Slow? Why, no,” said Jace.

  “Sorry, just wondering. I shot the jackrabbits,” said the girl.

  “You shot them?”

  “Are you sure you’re not slow?” she asked again.

  “What?” said Jace. “No, I mean, I was just surprised you shot them.”

  “Are you coming?” she asked. “We’ll wait supper on you.”

  Thoroughly flustered now, Jace said, “Yes, ma’am. I am for sure coming. Thank your mama for the invitation. I’ll be about an hour.”

  The girl smiled and turned her mule to return to the wagon.

  Talking to his horse on the way back to the herd, Jace said, “That girl is a menace. I can see that right off. She’s playing some kind of games with my head, trying to confuse me. Well, that’s fine. I’ll just have supper, to be polite, and be shut of ’em.”

  Back at camp, Jace waited for B.R. to ride in. He told him he was having supper with the woman and her kids.

  B.R. stared at him, trying to figure out if this was a ruse. He was so worri
ed about Jace. He wanted to make sure… well, just wanted to make sure he was okay. Finally, he said, “Well, the woman’s cooking can’t be any worse than Cookies’.”

  Jace smiled and said, “That’s a fact.” He slapped B.R. on the shoulder and walked away, headed to the wagon for a supper of jackrabbit stew.

  He was greeted warmly by the woman, who introduced herself as Mrs. Covington. The young boys, Chase and Garrett, were shy, but they said hello. Turning to the girl, Mrs. Covington said, “This is Ruth.”

  The girl pressed her lips together and scrunched up her face, causing her big eyes to narrow, in what Jace now thought of as sort of a smile.

  “I’m Jace. Pleased to meet all of you.”

  They sat around the campfire in a small circle, and the woman held out her arms to her sides. It took Jace a few seconds to understand that he was expected to do the same. On one side he grasped the Garrett’s hand, and on the other, Ruth’s.

  “Let us pray,” said Mrs. Covington. “Lord, thank you for all the blessings you have bestowed upon us and forgive us our sins. Amen.”

  Mrs. Covington spooned stew into deep tin plates from a pot on the fire. She passed the first one to Jace. One of the boys handed him a tin cup of water and a spoon. Soon they were all eating, and Jace was trying hard not to eat too fast. After a diet of beans and beef or salted pork, the rabbit stew was wonderful.

  “I’m sorry we’ve no coffee,” said Mrs. Covington. “It didn’t seem essential to our trip.”

  “That’s all right, ma’am. This is wonderful,” said Jace, his voice sincere.

  “We’re on our way to Weatherford,” said Mrs. Covington. “My sister’s husband died of the cholera, and we’re going to live with her.”

  “I’m sorry to hear he died,” said Jace.