Trail to Cottonwood Falls

by Ralph Compton

  “You want some food?” she asked him in an accented voice, holding the pot.

  He nodded and the boss woman put one of the plates in front of him at the same time.

  “Eat up. Be a long time till supper,” the woman warned.

  Ed looked hard at the food, undecided. The enticing aroma made him nauseated.

  “Ed? You still got that crop-eared Injun stud horse?” Rusty asked. The grinning freckle-faced red-head looked past two of the others at him for the answer.

  Ed bobbed his head. “Ten Bears. Yeah, he’s Comanche bred. Got him with some mares at the ranch.”

  “How did you ever get him?”

  “Rangering—” Ed, afraid he was drooling, wiped his mouth on the side of his hand. “Couple of us chased down a band of them. I got the horse.”

  “Way I heard it, you boys had a big firefight with ’em.”

  “Oh, just part of rangering back then.”

  Rusty nodded at the others. They hadn’t heard stories like the E ranger company digging Ranger Wylie Sherman’s grave with their rifle butts. Everywhere he turned people, people that he really liked, kept getting killed. Stampedes, river crossings, gunfights, horse wrecks—and that damn bitch Lady Fate left him there every time to bury them.

  He began eating and figured that with his mouth full he wouldn’t have to tell any more stories. The food did flood his mouth with saliva. He wasn’t risking sounding stupid about how he got there. He’d been drunk. He’d been like he wanted to be. Then he didn’t have to think about them—those he had planted between there and the Illano Estacado, as well as between there and the whorehouses in Abilene. He kept his head down.

  She, the tall voluptuous woman, crossed the room and stood in the open doorway as the first golden light came across the Texas hill country. “I guess today you boys better push some of those steers that’s down on Florence Creek back north. Crabtree’ll be up here telling us we’re eating up his range.”

  “Ma’am. It ain’t his land.”

  “I know Rusty. But I’m not Sam, and I can’t stand in his face and shout at him till he backs down.”

  “Us boys—”

  “You boys are getting twenty a month and found to work my cattle, not be enforcers. We’ve got range and feed. Move them north.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “More coffee?” she asked, swishing past Ed on her way to the kitchen.

  He nodded. He must have been really starved to have eaten all that food on his plate, though he wasn’t sure when he did eat last.

  Her hands had left for the day to go move steers, after saying their good-byes, and Ed pushed the empty plate away. Despite the goodness of the food, it wasn’t setting that well in his stomach.

  She came out and took a chair opposite him at the long table. She was pretty—wavy shoulder-length, light brown hair, the suntanned face of an angel and a full lower lip that looked ripe as a peach for kissing. Most women avoided tanning their faces, but on her it looked like rich cinnamon sugar. But it was her blue eyes that locked in on him.

  “Get enough to eat?”

  “Too much.”

  “Guess you figured why I brought you here.”

  Things began to fall in place. She was Sam Nance’s widow. He was killed in the war. Her name was—

  “I’m Unita Nance.”

  “I knowed who you were.” Every cowhand between there and San Antonio had a crush on her.

  “Good.” She folded and unfolded her hands on top of the table. “You know why you’re here?”

  “I’ve got a notion—” He caught the first surge with his hand clamped over his mouth. Turned over the chair, getting up and rushing outside. On the porch at last, he upchucked it all over the edge, and then, using a porch post for support, had debilitating waves of the dry heaves.

  “You’ve been trying to kill yourself, Ed Wright.”

  He wiped his mouth on his kerchief and turned to look at her in the doorway in anger to cover his embarrassment. “What’re you? My new mother?”

  “You could use one.” Arms folded, she stood and squinted against the glare at something. “That’s probably Crabtree.”

  Ed looked to the dust and then backed up to put his butt against the stucco. “He give you much trouble?”

  “All mouth—so far.”

  He shook his head and his hand went to his hip out of habit. No gun. He’d not worn one in months. He straightened, feeling naked as two riders galloped in. No love in his heart for Terrrance Crabtree. He considered the rancher a blowhard and a bully. Biff Tyler, his right-hand man, was swarthy-faced with a little mustache—a ladies’ man. Crabtree, with a big gut and loud mouth in his forties, was no pretty sight. He wore his clothes slovenly and spat tobacco in rapid-fire fashion. The right corner of his mouth was usually stained brown. This day was no exception, but he needed to shave as well.

  Ed watched her shoulders stiffen, standing on the porch and telling the stock dog that had been left behind to hush. Wonder the dog hadn’t bit him when he was wandering around in the dark earlier.

  “Unita, them damn steers of yours—” Crabtree spat sideways and brushed his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “The boys are moving them, today. You may have passed them on the way.”

  Crabtree shook his head like that wasn’t enough. “I ain’t warning you again, bitch. Keep them cattle off my land.”

  Ed stepped forward. “My mother would have washed your filthy mouth out with soap.”

  She tried to contain him with her arm held out, but he shoved it aside. Anger raged through his body, and he wanted to slam his fist down Crabtree’s throat and shut him up permanently.

  “Where I come from insulting a woman is—” Ed started off the porch for him.

  Tyler bound off his horse and met Ed halfway to his boss’s horse. His fists flew like lightning. Ed’s guard up, Tyler’s fist still slammed him in the jaw. Then three more into his gut and ribs and he staggered backward. Ed found himself on his butt and blinking his eyes in disbelief up at the dandy.

  “Unita—” Crabtree laughed doubled over in the saddle. “You better hire you somebody besides that damn drunk if you aim to go up against me. He couldn’t wipe his ass, let alone fight. Come on, Biff. She’s got our message.”

  “Terrance Crabtree, I’ll fill you full of buckshot you ever come back up that lane again.”

  “Big talk. Big talk.”

  She was on her knees beside Ed as he tried to clear his head and rub his sore jaw. The sumbitch about loosened all of his teeth. A concerned look on her face, she ran her hand over his cheek and put his mussed hair back in place. “You all right?”

  He closed his eyes and then nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

  Not really, but the next time they meet he’d have a gun on his hip. That dandy wouldn’t get a second chance at him and live to talk about it.

  She helped him up. “I didn’t bring you out here to fight my wars. I’m sorry about this happening.”

  “I’ll be all right.” On his feet, he brushed himself off and glared after the pair. The bitter sourness kept burping up his throat and he needed another drink.

  What was with this woman, anyway? He closed his eyes. When he reached for the porch post, a sharp pain in his side felt like a mule’d kicked him. Damn, that dandy must have broken a rib or two. He tucked his right arm to his side and winced.

  “You all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then why did you wince so when you reached for that post?”

  “Damn it, I can wince if I want to.”

  “He’s cracked your ribs?” She scowled at him, standing in the doorway with a know-it-all smirk.

  “Might have.”

  “Get in here and take that shirt off.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “No, we’ll fix you a hot bath and I’ll bind you up. I’ve done that before.”

  “I don’t need a bath.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion. Get those clothes
off.”

  He felt his face heating up. “I don’t feel like it.”

  “Rosa and I have both been around enough—we won’t peek, anyway.” She took him by the left arm and dragged him inside. “Rosie, fill the bathtub.”

  “I don’t need a bath.”

  Unita narrowed her blue eyes. “I can tackle you and win. He cracked your ribs; you’ll be a pushover. Now take off those clothes.”

  “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

  “Shape you’re in, you may need two.”

  He toed off his boots. Damn, she was tough. He’d never seen the likes. He needed a drink, not a bath. Damned if she wasn’t in his face, unbuttoning his shirt. If it didn’t hurt so bad to do it, he’d shove her away.

  She hauled him back in the kitchen and that little Mexican woman was pouring steaming water in a big tub. He was down to his one-piece underwear and they were gathering his clothes up. Maybe, like a chicken, they’d scald him in hot water, then pick his feathers. Why hadn’t she just left him at the Shamrock Saloon?

  Chapter 2

  She issued him a pair of bib overalls to wear while they washed his things. They left him alone to get out of the tub and dry himself on feed-sack towels. Then, with him seated backward on a chair, she used some sheeting to bind his chest so tight he could hardly breathe.

  “What can you keep down?” she asked when she finished and he had managed to put the suspenders up.

  “Keep down?”

  “You have to eat something and keep it inside.”

  He sat backward on a straight-back chair and rested his forehead on the top rung. All he needed was something to drink. His molars were about to float out for a good shot of whiskey. He didn’t want any more fussing over him or meddling in his business. Besides, she was holding him captive there—especially in them bib overalls. Lands, he’d never go to San Antonio in them. When his clothes got dry . . . And he’d find that Biff Tyler and even that deal up too.

  “I’m dead serious. Look at yourself. You’re skin and bones, not eating and all that drinking like you’ve been doing.”

  “I eat.” He’d never thought he’d see the day a dandy like Tyler could whip his ass—but he had. And he did it all in the shake of a lamb’s tail, too.

  “Why didn’t you keep breakfast down?”

  “I ate too much.”

  “Ed Wright—” Her blue eyes narrowed to slits. “If I have to tie you up in a shed and force-feed you, I’m going to sober you up until you can see what a mess you’ve made of yourself.”

  “Pretty damn strong words coming from—coming from a lady.”

  “You’re going to think strong words. Now, Rosa made you some chicken soup. I want you to eat a small bowl of it.”

  “I don’t need no—”

  She reached over and put a finger on his lips. “I need a guide to show me the way to Kansas.”

  He shook his head and started to fold his arms over his chest. That hurt so bad that he kept his elbows at his side. “No, you don’t need me. I’ve done that.”

  “You afraid you’ll fail?”

  “Fail? No, I’ve never failed. Oh, I did, and I buried those mistakes beside rivers I can’t name and pounded crude crosses on prairie graves where no kin will ever find ’em. What do you tell folks looking for a son or husband to return, and all they got is you to look at and cry with? Goddammit, woman. I’m not going back.”

  “Ed Wright, you’re the biggest coward I ever met.”

  “I don’t care.”

  She dropped her gaze to the tabletop and shook her head. “Yes, you do. ’Cause deep inside you’re a lion. Why, you left that porch mad enough to whip an army over Crabtree’s comments to me.”

  “Got my ass whipped too.”

  “That’s because you’re still drunk.”

  “I’m too damn sober right now.”

  She looked at him hard and slow, and shook her head. “I’m going to dry you out, and you can hate me, cuss me, fight me, but if I have to hog-tie you, I can.”

  “You get your mind set you can act plenty tough.”

  “I don’t ever act, Ed Wright. I do it for keeps.” She nodded to Rosa. “Bring the soup.”

  No need in him arguing. He’d eat her damn soup, and when his ribs healed he’d rustle a horse. Big Mike, I’ll be coming back soon. Ugh. He made a face at the first teaspoon of the hot liquid. Chickens were for honyockers to eat—went right along with the baggy bib overalls he had on.

  All he wanted was a bottle and enough damn liquor to slip off—get out of this world. But she wasn’t serving any, just chicken soup—ugh. But to save having to argue with a hard-headed woman he sipped it off the spoon. She never left till he had finished it all.

  “Is it going to stay down?” she asked.

  “How should I know? I didn’t bring up the last. It just came up.”

  “Rosa, your soup worked I think.”

  The Mexican woman appeared in the doorway and nodded in approval, then looked at him. “You drink goat milk?”

  “No!”

  “Be good for you belly.” She smiled and went back.

  “Goat’s milk. I ain’t no baby.”

  “No, but you’ve been colicky and nothing is better than goat’s milk for that.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ve said that ten times. You aren’t. Tyler cracked your ribs. And you aren’t sober yet.”

  “All right. I’ll go take a nap.”

  She nodded. “That’ll be fine. Nothing more should happen here. We’ve had our chewing out from Crabtree and the rest of the day should be peaceful.”

  Ed frowned at her. “He do that often?”

  “He asked me to marry him as soon as he heard Sam was dead. I wasn’t interested and told him so. Then he tried to buy me out. Now he just complains about all I do.”

  “Complains? I’d shut his mouth permanently.”

  She shook her head. “He’s a windbag, and every time he rides up, I say, ‘Thank you, Lord. I almost accepted his proposal.’ ”

  Ed nodded like he understood her. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Your clothes will be dry and ironed by then.”

  “Sure—thanks.” He headed for the door feeling foolish in the loose-fitting overalls. The shed was across the open yard of dirt. He went inside and opened the small windows and door for some air. Warm day for fall. Lying on the bed dressed, he looked at the underside of the dark shingles and tried to plan his escape. He needed to get back to San Antonio and Big Mike. A pesky fly buzzed him. Finally he fell asleep.

  When he awoke the boys were back—he could hear them and their horses. His clothes, all clean and pressed, were on the old chair beside his bed. He fixed his hair with an old comb he found and studied his face in a worn-out mirror with most of the silver stuff off the back. Man, he did look bad in a bad mirror. But who cared? A shave might help; he appeared to be kinda wooly and his hair was long enough that it might need to be braided in another week. He’d fix that when he got back to San Antone.

  For supper, the crew had fire-braised beef, frijoles, biscuits, and peach pie. He had more chicken soup. But it stayed down. Unita never mentioned Crabtree coming by. Ed figured that was on purpose; her hands would have ridden over and thrashed him for talking to her like he did. They’d driven most of Bar U cattle back north to suit their neighbor, Rusty said between bites.

  “How did your day go?” Rusty asked him.

  With a new stack of biscuits to set on the table Unita fired him a look. Don’t tell. Ed simply nodded. “All right.”

  “Ed, tell us about how it was going up the trail sometime. None of us ever been up there and we’d sure like to hear what it was like.” Don Don looked to the others and they all agreed.

  With a bob of his head, Ed said, “Sometime I’ll do that.” He busied himself eating more soup. It did stay down.

  Day two on the Bar U. The d.t.’s woke him up before dawn. He’d wrestled with horrible nightmares all night, and woke up screaming
, “No!” On top of that he wasn’t sure what it had been about. He found a glass of whiskey poured and set on the table, and the women busy talking in the kitchen. With little fanfare, he downed it and gave a long sigh. Besides the shaking and lost feeling, he had a fire in his belly that was setting him ablaze.

  “I bring you some goat milk,” Rosa said, and set it down before him on the oilcloth.

  He thanked her and looked at the glass. If it cured babies, maybe it would cure him. It tasted too sweet, but he forced it past his tongue. Finished, he put down the glass and looked up at Unita.

  “We made you some oatmeal.”

  “Oatmeal? Goat’s milk? Think I’m a baby?”

  She looked hard at him. “I thought Tyler showed you that yesterday.”

  He started to point his finger at her and the action of his right arm caused a catch in his side. The pain made him crouch over. “Fine—I’ll eat it.”

  Rosa rang the bell and the crew came busting in. They made him nauseated eating stacks of pancakes, butter, sorghum syrup, fried eggs, and pork sausage balls.

  Rusty split them up for the day, sending some to clean a spring and tank, and the rest to scatter a couple of her new Durham bulls who liked each other’s company better than being out alone with another bunch of longhorn cows. Nothing wrong with them; they just liked their own kind better.

  After they rode out, Ed had Unita shave his face. She never mentioned his shaky hands, but deftly scraped the soap-lathered whiskers off with a sharp razor and showed him his shaven face in a small mirror when she had finished.

  “A haircut wouldn’t hurt.” She laughed, light-hearted. “Get out on the porch. I’ll get a sheet.”

  “You have lots of things to do—”

  “I’ll carry the chair. Go on.”

  He frowned and did what she asked. Cleaning himself up didn’t hurt.

  “How is your belly?” Rosa asked from the kitchen.

  He blinked, then recalled why she asked. “Goat milk and oatmeal is setting good.”