I wanted to ask him why. Instead, I spit out tobacco juice, hooked the quid from my mouth, and wiped my lips.
Once he had returned his hat atop his sweaty locks, he stared at me. “The major, Mister Justus, and Tommy rode back to town.”
Great, I thought. Let them get roostered together, although I knew that Mr. Justus rarely imbibed, and certainly would never partake of the horizontal refreshments offered by Bertha and that toothless hag I apparently had tried to entertain the previous evening.
“They said you and I could try Ellsworth again tomorrow evening,” Perry said, “if you’re so inclined.”
I found my voice. “I’ve seen enough.”
He cracked a smile. “I’ve felt that way many a time, Mad Carter. Likely I’ll feel that way again. That’s a lesson hard for cowboys to learn. Some of us never learn it. Get back to camp. Try to get some food inside you. You’ll feel better in the morning, and tomorrow, we’ll visit Ellsworth.”
“No, thanks.”
“You’re goin’. He turned his horse, and started away. “Way I see things, you owe someone an apology.”
* * * * *
The next day, Mr. Justus brought out another prospective buyer, who made an offer for two hundred head, but Mr. Justus didn’t like the price the man quoted. Nor did he care much for selling our beeves piecemeal. All the buyer got from us was a cup of coffee, and then he rode back to town, stopping at one of our neighbors herds.
Perry Hopkins went to town that evening, but he went alone. I passed, having decided I should stay close to camp, maybe help gather some dung for Larry McNab’s cook fires. That’s how low I felt—agreeable to picking up dried dung rather than having another bath.
Didn’t go to town the next day, either. Or the following.
When I finally agreed to go, it was not my choice. The major rode out to the herd, ordered Perry Hopkins and me to cut out five of the scrawniest beeves we could find, and take them to the lot beside Bonnie’s Beef House.”
“How much is she payin’?” Perry asked.
“That’s between Mister Justus and her,” the major snapped.
“I mean,” Perry said easily, “how much am I to collect?”
“She paid in advance. Get movin’.. He pulled out a $10 gold piece, flipped it into Perry’s hand. “That’s an advance between you and Mad Carter. Enjoy yourselves, but not too much.”
* * * * *
Well, we cut out the worst cattle we had, began pushing them across the river and into town.
My curiosity got the better of me. “Perry?” I said once we had hazed the cattle across the tracks.
“Yeah.”
“Mister Justus didn’t want to sell a hundred head to that buyer a couple of days ago, but he’s selling five head to this woman in town. That doesn’t make much sense to me.”
“I’m not paid to second guess the boss man.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“He needs cash money,” Perry said. “Besides, these cattle are half starved. No buyer would be interested in them, and if they saw them ... how poor these look ... they might question the entire herd.”
“Oh.”
Once we had the cattle herded in the empty lot, we crossed the street to Bonnie’s Beef House, spending $1.50 on steaks, fried potatoes, and coffee. Perry then split the change we had coming, taking out, as I expected, the $2 he said I owed him. When we walked back outside, those five scraggly beeves were grazing in the lot. That’s civilization for you. At least, that was Ellsworth in the summer of ’73.
After mounting, we rode straight to the Star Mercantile.
“Why we stopping here?” I asked.
“I’m not,” Perry Hopkins said. “You are. See you back in camp.”
* * * * *
I stayed there on Sad Sarah for I’m not rightly sure how long. A muleskinner cussed me out, but I couldn’t blame him, what with me just hogging the street, so I moved over to an open spot at the hitching rail. Sighing heavily, I slid out of the saddle, tethered my horse, and stepped onto the boardwalk.
A few days ago, it had been washed clean. Now it was caked with dirt and dust, some globs of mud, even pieces of torn brown wrapping paper and bits of string. That’s what I noticed. That and my scuffed boots.
Well, I mustered up some nerve, went through the doorway, and swept my hat off my head. The mercantile was busy, swarming with more people than the Presbyterian church in Pleasanton on Easter Sunday.
I lifted my eyes, but not my head, saw a bespectacled boy in sleeve garters fetching things off shelves behind the counter. Saw a lady twirling a parasol and watching herself in a full-length mirror. Saw a balding man scooping coffee out of a keg. I didn’t see Estrella, and that allowed me to breathe again. So I moseyed over to a table stacked with silk and cotton bandannas in an assortment of colors and styles—solids and polka dots and calico designs. I fingered the rag around my neck, started to pull one out from one of the piles, before noticing how nasty my fingers looked. I moved away, wiping my hands on my chaps, which probably made my hands only dirtier.
After dodging three girls staring hungrily at jars of peppermint sticks and hard-rock candy, I leaned against a counter of collarless shirts. Without touching any of the duds, I finally came to the end, and looked at a navy-colored shirt with yellow piping. About then, it dawned on me: What am I doing here. Perry wants me to apologize to that girl, but she ain’t here, so I might as well vamoose.
“Can I help you?”
Sticking my hands in the belt of my chaps, dropping my hat to the floor, I spun around, and looked up. My mouth opened, but no words escaped.
Her smile widened, and then Estrella laughed. It was a musical sound. But when she looked up from my hat on the floor and into my face, recognition struck.
“Oh.. She started to turn away.
My hands released their hold on my chaps, and my fingers clutched the navy shirt. “I’d like this one,” I said. “And to pay you for the one I’m wearing.”
She stopped.
“And apologize for the other day.”
She turned.
“I was acting grown up ...”—now it was me who was focusing on my hat on the floor—“or thought I was. But I was acting like ... a fool.”
“I’d say you paid a fitting price,” Estrella said.
“Well ..... I looked up. “Yes, ma’am. But you didn’t need to pay for anything I did. So, I’m sorry. Apologize for inconveniencing you so, maybe scaring off customers.”
She stepped up to me, and I had to look up at her. Then she bent down, picked up my hat from the floor, exchanging it for the blue shirt I had in my hands.
By the time I walked out of the Star Mercantile, I knew her name, she knew mine, and she invited me back to visit and shop anytime. I told her I hoped I would have no need of any more new shirts—not for the price they charged, I was thinking—and that led to another wonderful laugh.
Yes, sir, by that time, I was beginning to take a liking to Ellsworth again. Then I met Happy Jack Morco.
chapter
9
I blame it on that sorry boot heel.
It happened to slip off again right when I stepped down from the boardwalk toward Sad Sarah, and planted my face smack-dab in the street. I dropped the wrapped-up new shirt into the dirt. Horses snorted. A few tethered in front of the store stamped their hoofs. Behind me laughter erupted—a man’s cackle—and I rolled over, face flushing with embarrassment and anger. The only good thing was that at least Estrella O’Sullivan had stayed inside the mercantile, probably helping a customer, and hadn’t witnessed my accident.
That fellow, though, he almost doubled over with laughter, had to grip the railing for support. He was a big cuss, maybe five-foot-ten and two hundred pounds, wearing a gray slouch hat and tan coat that had to be two sizes too small for him. The coat was
unbuttoned, so I could see he wore one of those false-bib shirts. You know, the kind with pleated white cotton stitched over the front of an otherwise plain calico shirt, so that, when you button your coat, it looks like you’re wearing a fancy, expensive shirt. I could also tell he wore a gun belt, in violation of the town ordinance. He laughed like a Yankee.
A Texas temper has been the undoing of many a cowhand, and mine just exploded. I jumped to my feet, ready to thrash that fellow, but I had deposited my boot heel on the boardwalk. Instead, I tripped again, landing this time on the warped pine, skinning both elbows.
“You belong in a circus, boy. You’re a regular clown.”
As I pushed myself up, his right boot smashed my face, and I flew back into the street, hitting my face, hard. Blood gushed from my nose, my eyes watered, and now a killing rage enveloped me. Spitting out blood and saliva, I sat up, trying to find that laughing Yankee. I must have said something, undoubtedly a cuss or a threat. That’s when I heard the metallic click of a revolver.
“I’m gonna call that resisting arrest, boy. On top of drunk and disorderly.”
I froze. I’d been up the trail, had seen my share of cow towns, but never had I looked down the cavernous barrel of a .45 Colt.
“I’ve killed men for less,” the man hissed.
Tasting blood, I thought of my mother, my brothers and sisters. I envisioned Major Canton and Mr. Justus reading over my grave.
The big man laughed again, but he did not lower the long-barreled revolver. Nor did he ease down the hammer. “You Texas boys keep forgetting that this isn’t Nauchville. We got rules. We got laws. You come down here armed, that’s another crime I’ll have to charge you with.”
I made myself look at my waist, saw blood drops from my nose on the ground between my legs, felt my hip. I even looked over at Sad Sarah.
“I got no gun,” I told him. “Not even on my saddle.”
Right hand still gripping the ivory handle of his Colt, he eased his left into the pocket and came out with a little four-shot Sharps rimfire. I barely got a glimpse of the checkered hard-rubber grips and brass frame before the Derringer disappeared inside his pocket.
“I took this off you,” he said.
I almost called him a liar, but that Colt persuaded me to do otherwise. Still, I let him know: “And I ain’t drunk, either!”
“You can tell that to the judge.. Another smile. “Or Saint Peter.. He moved his left hand up to the lapel of his frock coat, then pulled it aside so that I could see the tin shield pinned on the inside of his coat.
“I’m the assistant city marshal,” he said, “and you’re going to jail.”
A crowd had gathered on both sides of the Star Mercantile, but the door remained shut.
The big marshal stepped off the boardwalk, his gun never wavering, savvy enough to keep clear of my feet. “Let’s go,” he said.
“What about my horse?”
“It’ll be confiscated.”
I tilted my head toward Sad Sarah. “Sorrel mare yonder.. I didn’t want my mare standing in the sun all day.
“I’ll figure it out.”
Again my head tilted, this time toward the dusty flooring. “Can I have my boot heel?”
His finger tightened on the trigger, and I gulped down fear. The fool Yankee figured I was trying to trick him, but I just wanted my boot heel. Quickly his eyes darted, and I dared not move, barely even breathed, till he looked back at me again. Then he laughed. “Sure, boy. Now stand up.”
“I was hoping,” I tried, “that I could knock that heel back on now. Make it easier for me to walk.”
He considered that, finally stepped back on the walk, and kicked the heel to me. I reached over, and while I positioned the heel and stood, pressing down, trying to secure it temporarily, the bell chimed over the door. Shame swept over me again, but it wasn’t Estrella that stepped outside.
At first, I thought the bald gent was a customer, till I noticed the sleeve garters he wore. He shot a worried look at me, then ambled farther onto the boardwalk and said: “Marshal Morco.”
So this was Happy Jack Morco, one of Marshal Brocky Jack Norton’s deputies. I remembered Sheriff Chauncey Whitney warning me about him.
“What is it, O’Sullivan? Morco’s eyes remained trained on me.
I pulled off my bandanna, wadded it up, held it under my nose. Used both hands, mind you, to keep Morco from suspicioning me. Tilting my head back to stop the bleeding, I could see behind the bald storekeeper. There stood Estrella, wringing her hands. Well, it was only a matter of time before she learned what was happening in front of her store. And here I was to blame for it. Only this time, it hadn’t been my fault. I hadn’t done a thing. I figured every shopper in the store stood behind her, trying to get a good look-see over her shoulders.
“Are you arresting this boy?” the bald man said.
“He’s drunk,” Morco said. “Practically staggered onto the street.”
“Marshal, he just stepped out of my mercantile. And he was sober when he purchased that shirt lying in the dirt.”
“I say he’s in his cups.”
“Are you accusing me of selling ardent spirits, Marshal. Everyone in Ellsworth knows I am a temperance man.”
Now Happy Jack Morco turned, laughing. “You. An Irishman? He holstered his gun, but kept the coattail behind the ivory butt. “He resisted arrest. That’s why his nose is busted. That’s another reason I’m hauling him to jail.”
“A broken nose seems punishment enough.”
That irked the lawdog. He spun around so quickly the shop owner took an involuntary step backward. “Who made you a judge, Alroy. Or a constable. You trying to tell me how to do my job?”
By thunder, I thought Morco was about to hit the old man, so words shot out of my mouth before I could stop them. “It’s all right, mister.”
Morco spun again, this time drawing and cocking the revolver. The crowd gasped. I stepped back, my boot heel falling off, and I stumbled again, falling onto my butt and landing with the package between my legs. The brown paper wrapped around it had ripped. Blood dripped from my nose onto the navy blue cotton.
“Besides, he was carrying a weapon,” Morco said, and again he fished out the little popgun with his left hand, holding it out for everyone in the crowd to see.
“Well, now, that’s mighty interesting,” a voice declared from the right side of the store front.
A figure pushed his way through until he stood beside Alroy O’Sullivan. The presence of Sheriff Chauncey Whitney caused a bit of a murmur, and even brought Estrella out onto the boardwalk.
“I recall you taking that little Sharps off a drunken cowhand last week,” Whitney said, his voice real easy. “Used it for evidence in front of the judge.”
“It’s a popular gun, Whitney.. Morco no longer smiled, and his voice carried with it a razor-sharp edge.
“Not among Texians,” Whitney said. “They like big guns. Big hats. Big horses. Big rowels on big spurs.”
I pulled the bloody bandanna away from my nose, looked at the drops of blood soaking into the cotton shirt. I was having no luck with new duds.
“This is a city matter, Whitney,” Morco said. “No concern of yours.”
Whitney shook his head, keeping his voice friendly. “I wish that were the case, Happy Jack. Really, I do. But that boy yonder is Mad Carter MacRae. You could say I got papers on him myself.”
That caused me to drop my bandanna right onto the new shirt. Quickly I snatched it up, my nose dripping out more blood. I almost broke into tears, with Estrella O’Sullivan standing there, watching as I ruined another new store-bought shirt. My movements caused Happy Jack to turn again, and now he pointed both the big Colt and the puny Sharps at me.
“Leave him alone, you big bully!. Everyone turned. My jaw hung open. Estrella O’Sullivan stepped around her father’s s
ide, and glared at Assistant Marshal Happy Jack Morco. “He’s not drunk. He never resisted arrest. And that gun he never touched.. She stepped closer to Morco and whispered something I couldn’t catch.
Then her pa reached out, pulled her aside, and hurried her back inside the store. He closed the door, and stood like he was standing guard. I sure wouldn’t want to try to go through him.
“What kind of papers?” Happy Jack asked Whitney, holstering the Colt and dropping the Derringer into his pocket.
“Kind of a material witness.. Whitney stepped down off the boardwalk, extended a hand, and pulled me up. Then he picked up my new shirt, eased between the horses, and, after opening my saddlebag, stuffed the garment inside, speaking as he worked. “Anyway, I need to bring him to my office, let him speak to this fellow from Holyrood way.”
“County business?”
“State business, actually, if it pans out.”
“State, eh?. Happy Jack Morco practically licked his lips. “Any reward?”
“Maybe. I’ll let you know.”
Whitney walked back, picking up my boot heel, then grabbing my shoulder, and helping me back onto the boardwalk. I stood inches from Morco’s face. His breath stank of old cigarettes.
“What’s the boy here wanted for?” Morco asked.
“Him?. Whitney laughed. “I said he might be a material witness. But the farmer from Holyrood has reported a murder.”
That got a gasp from the crowd. Even got a deep intake of breath from me. I almost pulled away from Whitney, but his fingers tightened deeper into my arm. The sheriff had a grip like a pair of pliers.
“Murder?. Happy Jack Morco licked his lips.
“Be seeing you, Happy Jack,” Whitney said casually.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea as Sheriff Whitney led me down the boardwalk.
Two blocks down, I found my voice. “I never murdered nobody.”
“Never said you had. But I do recall warning you to stay clear of Norton and his deputies. And I seem to remember bringing up Happy Jack Morco’s name, in particular.. He smiled, tipping his hat with his free hand to a gray-haired lady, window-shopping in front of a millinery. His other hand never lessened its grip, which would likely leave bruises.
Summer of the Star Page 7