Ralph Compton Texas Hills

by Ralph Compton

  “There’s no ‘sort of’ about it,” Wylie said. “My pa lays down the law and we fall into step. It’s how he’s been my whole life. I learned early to please him so I wouldn’t be cuffed, or, worse, taken to the woodshed.”

  “How about you, Mr. Burnett?” Reuben surprised Owen by asking. “Do you ever beat on your boys?”

  “I made them go without supper a few times when they were younger,” Owen recalled.

  “But do you hit them?”

  “No.” Owen’s own pa had taken a switch to him now and then, and he’d never forgotten the humiliation. He’d spared his sons that by coming up with other punishments.

  “I feel sorry for you, Wylie,” Reuben said. “Your pa hitting you, and all.”

  “I don’t need your damn pity,” Wylie shot back. “He does what he has to. My brothers aren’t weak sisters, like you. When they act up, my pa has to step in quick and stop it. Like the time Thaxter slit a calf’s throat to see it bleed. My pa blistered him black and blue.” He smirked at Owen. “Making Thaxter go without food wouldn’t have done any good. He’d only laugh, and the next time, it might have been a cow or a horse he killed.”

  That was the most Owen ever heard Wylie say at one time. “I reckon different families call for different ways.”

  “Why are we talking about this, anyhow?” Wylie said. “We have longhorns to catch.”

  Over the next several hours, Owen and his helpers brought in six more. Not one cow gave them a lick of trouble. He began to worry Gareth was right, and it was only a matter of time before their luck gave out.

  As the day wore on, something became apparent; there were a lot more cows than there were bulls. Either there were fewer males, or the bulls were better at hiding.

  Owen fretted that the bulls would take to fighting once they were thrown together, but as yet none had. When he mentioned his worry to the others, Wylie said that he’d heard longhorn bulls were like roosters. A typical barnyard usually had two or three, and there was always one that lorded it over the lesser birds, the cock of the walk who would fight any and all challengers at the drop of a feather. So it must be with longhorns. There were lesser bulls and cocks of the walk. A lot of lesser bulls, evidently, and only a few of the latter.

  Owen shuddered to think what would happen if they caught one.

  At midday, he and the others switched to fresh horses. They’d brought extras for just that purpose. It was tiring work, for the mounts and the riders alike, and a tired animal was more likely not to respond when it should.

  Owen would have liked to change his pants, too. He’d only brought the one pair, and by late afternoon they were torn from the thickets and thorns.

  Along about four o’clock, when they went deeper into the hills than they’d gone all day, they climbed to a grassy shelf that wasn’t much wider than a Conestoga. Owen started across. He was staring up the hill, looking for longhorns, and happened to glance to his left. His breath caught in his throat and he drew rein and blurted, “Look yonder.”

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Burnett?” Reuben said, coming up. He glanced over and his mouth fell.

  Wylie Kurst drew rein last. “God Almighty,” he exclaimed.

  Beside some tall oak stood a longhorn as massive as a buffalo, a bull with a horn spread more than eight feet, weighing upwards of a ton. From nose to tail, it was as white as a ghost.

  “Do you see what I see?” Reuben said in amazement.

  Owen nodded. He was too incredulous to talk.

  “It must be one of those cocks of the walk,” Reuben said.

  “And then some,” Wylie said quietly.

  “Think of the money it will fetch us in Abilene,” Reuben said excitedly. “Why, it’s a fortune in itself.”

  “Provided we can get it there,” Wylie said.

  “What’s to stop us?” Reuben said. “We’ll treat it the same as the others. Spread out and we’ll catch it between us.”

  “Don’t rush things, boy,” Wylie said.

  Before any of them could move, the bull raised its huge head, shook its long horns, and let out with a rumble of bovine anger.

  “Uh-oh,” Reuben said.

  Chapter 30

  “I must not have heard right,” Philomena Burnett said to Wilda Weaver. “You don’t want your husband back home safe? Where you don’t have to worry about him?”

  “No,” Wilda said.

  Philomena glanced at Mandy and then at Estelle. Both appeared as surprised as she was. “How can that be?”

  “I’m not you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Wilda didn’t let Philomena finish. “The last thing I’d do is try to talk Jasper out of going after those longhorns. I was so happy when he told me. Happier than I’ve been since we said our ‘I do’s.’”

  “But the dangers . . .” Philomena tried again.

  “He’s a grown man. Besides, there’s dangers on the farm, too. A horse might kick him and stave in his head. He might fall from the hayloft and break his neck. Or trip on a pitchfork and break his leg. What’s the difference if it’s that or a longhorn?”“

  “A horn through the chest will kill a man as quick as anything,” Philomena argued.

  Wilda sat back. “I’m afraid our opinions differ. And it’s not the dangers that matter, anyhow.”

  “What does, then?”

  “The money.”

  “Oh, Wilda.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Wilda said. “You with your fine house and big farm, and a man who doesn’t drown himself in a flask every day. You already have a lot going for you. Both Ariel and me envy you to no end.”

  Philomena was taken aback. “There’s nothing to envy. I’m as ordinary as can be.”

  “You have it good, Philomena Burnett,” Wilda said without rancor. “Yet you don’t even realize it.”

  “You have your own farm. Your own house. Your own land.”

  “Pshaw. Jasper and me are barely above the bottom of the barrel. But now we can change that. If this cattle drive works out, for the first time in my life, I’ll have more money than I’ll know what to do with. My ma couldn’t ever make that claim. Nor her ma before her. Or on back as far as anyone in my family could remember if they tried.”

  “You value the money more than your husband’s skin?”

  “I do,” Wilda said.

  “I don’t believe it,” Philomena said. “No wife can care so little for her man. Jasper has done right by you, just as Owen has done right by me. We owe it to them not to let them be killed trying to provide for us.”

  “I can’t think of a better reason,” Wilda disagreed. “I’ve stood by Jasper for over twenty years. I’ve put up with his drinking and his laziness. I’ve fed him when he was hungry, nursed him when he was sick. I even let him touch me in the bedroom on occasion.”

  “Mrs. Weaver!” Mandy said.

  “That’s not proper talk for a lady,” Estelle said.

  “Child, what would you know?” Wilda countered. To Philomena she said, “This cattle drive is a godsend. At long last my husband can repay me for the years I’ve devoted myself to him. At long last we’ll go from hardscrabble to comfortable, from famine to feast, from barely scraping by to having plenty. If that’s not a blessing, I don’t know what is.”

  “Money won’t keep you warm at night,” Philomena tried.

  “I keep myself warm, thank you very much. I make Jasper sleep on his side of the bed and I sleep on mine.”

  Philomena frowned. This was getting her nowhere.

  “In fact,” Wilda went on, “if Jasper were to show up and say he’s quit the drive, I’d boot him out the door and tell him to finish what he started. I’m not about to let him ruin our chance at happiness.”

  “His or yours?” Philomena said, unable to keep some of the bitterness out of her tone.

  �
��Mine is the one that counts,” Wilda said. “Call me selfish if you want but that’s the way it is.”

  “I never heard a wife talk like you in all my born days.”

  “I’m being honest with you, Philomena. Would you rather I lied? That I say Jasper matters more to me than the money? He’s a means to an end. When you think about it, that’s all any husband ever is. A means for a woman to get the things she wants out of life.”

  “Why, Wilda, that’s”—Philomena had to think to come up with the right word—“hideous.”

  “Oh, please. You’re making a mountain of disgrace out of an anthill of yearning. Is it wrong to want the good things in life? To have what a lot of other women have? To live in a nice house? Have pretty things?”

  “It’s not wrong in and of itself, no,” Philomena answered. “But we can take anything to an extreme.”

  “Listen to you. The woman who has it all, accusing me of being a poor wife for wanting what she has.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” Philomena said defensively.

  “Sounds like it to me. Sounds like you’d like it if my life went on as it has been. A life of misery, of working my fingers to the bone for a man who loves his liquor more than he loves me.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “But true.” Wilda placed her hands on her legs, and sighed. “I can see this isn’t getting us anywhere. If all you wanted was to persuade me the cattle drive is a bad idea, you’ve wasted your time. You might as well leave.”

  Philomena saw her last hope of persuading Owen to give up the cattle business falling apart. “I was counting on your help.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “I thought we were friends. Or at least friendly toward each other.”

  “I’m being friendly now. I’ve heard you out, haven’t I?” Wilda stood. “Our talk is over. There’s nothing you can say or do that will change my mind.”

  Reluctantly, Philomena rose. Her girls did the same. Both Amanda and Estelle looked troubled. “In any event, I thank you for your time. And for the tea.”

  Wilda took a step, then stopped. “Philomena, listen. This isn’t about you. Do you understand that? It’s about me and my life and how I can better it. How I can be happier.”

  “Some people are happy without a lot of money and whatnot.”

  “They say they are, but are they really?” Wilda shrugged. “Even if that’s true, it’s only true for those women. Not for all of us. We can’t all be as virtuous as you are.”

  “It’s not about virtue, Wilda. It’s about living out the rest of my years with the man I married.”

  “That’s important to you. Good. I see that. Why can’t you see it’s not as important to me? If Jasper can’t provide, he’s not my helpmate. He’s an anchor, dragging me down with him.”

  On that sobering note, Philomena led her daughters down the hall and out onto the porch. The fresh air didn’t seem so fresh, the sunshine didn’t seem as bright. “I thank you again for your time.”

  “I’m sorry, Philomena. I truly am,” Wilda said, and shut the front door on them.

  “Gosh, Ma,” Mandy said. “I never heard anyone talk like her.”

  “Me either,” Estelle said.

  They walked to the buckboard and climbed on. As Mandy was settling into the bed, she remarked, “That Wilda Weaver is a terrible woman.”

  “She’s something,” Philomena said.

  Chapter 31

  For something so huge, the white bull could move incredibly fast. On the heels of its bellow, it whirled and plunged into the vegetation.

  “There it goes!” Reuben cried.

  “Thank goodness,” Wylie said.

  Raking his spurs, Reuben bawled, “After it!”

  “Hold on, boy!” Wylie hollered.

  In his enthusiasm, Reuben raced after the giant, yipping and whooping.

  Owen would have rather let the bull go. They weren’t up to handling a monster like that. They needed more experience. But he couldn’t let Rueben Weaver get himself killed. Galloping in pursuit, he shouted for Reuben to stop.

  The bull threaded through the trees with an ease that belied its size. It reached an acre of dense thicket and hurtled in, heedless of the thorns. In the blink of an eye it disappeared.

  It spooked Owen, a creature that size vanishing like that. It didn’t seem possible. “Reuben, don’t go in after it!” he yelled, but once again, the Weaver boy must not have heard him.

  Reuben barreled into the scrub.

  “That damned lunkhead!” Wylie Kurst shouted.

  Owen lashed his reins. The swath of crushed vegetation was easy to stick to and spared him from the worst of the needles. The trail angled to the right, and there Reuben was, not ten feet away. Owen hauled on his reins, praying he could avoid colliding with Reuben’s animal. The chestnut dug in its hooves and slid to a stop an arm’s length from disaster.

  “Reuben, what in the Sam Hill?” Owen said in anger.

  Reuben was looking all around in consternation. “Do you see it? Where did it get to?”

  “I don’t see the bull anywhere,” Owen was happy to say.

  “One second it was here, and the next it was gone,” Reuben said. “How can it do that, as big as it is?”

  “Maybe it’s for the best.”

  “All that money on the hoof.” Reuben appeared on the verge of tears.

  “There will be other bulls,” Owen said. “Big ones like him.”

  “Not that big. He’s the biggest, ever.”

  Wylie Kurst had drawn rein. “Consider yourself lucky, boy. If that thing had turned on you, you’d be worm food.”

  “Stop calling me boy,” Reuben said. “You’re not much older than me.”

  “You rode off without thinking,” Wylie said. “That’s what a boy does. Not a man.”

  “Who are you to talk?”

  Owen nipped their spat in the bud with, “That bull might take it into its head to circle around. We should light a shuck.”

  Wylie stiffened. “I didn’t think of that. You’re right.”

  “I thought of it,” Reuben said.

  Owen didn’t like the dark look Wylie gave the younger Weaver. He waited for Wylie to rein around, then did the same. Once they were out of the brush and resumed their hunt, he gigged the chestnut alongside Wylie’s roan. “Don’t take it personal, what he said back there.”

  “I’ll take it any way I want.”

  “We can’t afford hard feelings. We have to get along to make this work. And like you brought up, he’s still a boy.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Burnett,” Wylie said. “Our pa told us we’re to behave until the drive is over. We’re not to cause a ruckus. Not to hit anyone or shoot anyone. We do, and we answer to him.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Owen said. Although the fact that Gareth had to expressly forbid them to shoot someone was disturbing.

  “If we didn’t have to work together,” Wylie continued, “I’d have pistol-whipped that brat for talking to me the way he did.”

  “Reuben Weaver is no brat. He has better manners than most, and is always polite to everyone.”

  “Not to me, he wasn’t.”

  Owen let it drop. But it didn’t bode well. Petty bickering could turn into something uglier. He’d have to keep as tight a rein on his partners as he did on the chestnut.

  “Tell me something,” Wylie said.

  Owen looked at him.

  “What makes you the way you are?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re always so damned reasonable about things. Always trying to talk things out. Don’t you ever lose your temper? Don’t you ever get mad?”

  “Of course I do. I’m human, aren’t I?”

  “You don’t ever show it. You’re not like my pa. He gets mad
a lot. And when he’s mad, you can be sure he shows it. Once at the supper table Lorette mentioned how she admired that you never lose your temper—”

  “She did?” Owen said in surprise.

  “—and Pa told her you’re the same as everybody else but that you pretend you’re not. He said you’re like a teapot that keeps the steam in until it’s fit to explode.”

  “That’s not true.” Owen never had been one for holding grudges and the like. The few occasions he did become mad, he got over it and went on with his life.

  Wylie grunted.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I believe you pretend. I’ve never heard you so much as cuss anyone, so you must hold it in, just like my pa says.”

  Owen never would have imagined he’d be a topic of discussion at the Kurst table. Or that Gareth held such a low opinion of him. He pondered that over the rest of the afternoon.

  By sunset they’d added six more longhorns, which brought the total tally for the first day of the roundup to eighty-three cattle.

  Later, as they sat around their campfires, relaxing, Owen did the arithmetic in his head and announced, “If we can keep this up, in four to five weeks we’ll have two thousand head or more.”

  Gareth, who was pouring coffee, remarked, “Three thousand would be better. In case we lose some on the drive.”

  “Three might be more than we can handle.”

  “Between two and three, then,” Gareth said. “But not less than two.”

  “We’re quibbling over a few hundred,” Owen said.

  “Ten to twenty thousand dollars more is nothing to sneeze at.”

  “I suppose it’s worth it, then,” Owen conceded.

  “You suppose?” Gareth set the pot down, and glowered. “Are you sure your heart’s in this, Burnett?”

  “What a thing to say to me,” Owen said, feeling offended. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “My heart is sure in it,” Jasper Weaver said. Instead of a tin cup, he had his flask. “Wilda told me that if I don’t come home with our share, she’d make me sleep on the settee the rest of my life.”

  “Now there’s a woman who knows her mind,” Gareth said. “You should listen to her.”