Trail to Cottonwood Falls

by Ralph Compton

  “Wonderful,” she shouted, and hugged him. In her rush, she knocked off his hat and even kissed him on the side of his face. Sitting up on her knees, her face bright with excitement, he decided she was the prettiest woman he’d ever met.

  He would be days sorting out why he ever agreed to the job. Didn’t matter; he’d never backed out of anything he’d promised anyone and had no plans to start doing it. That trail north was like a mistress. She could be pretty, all broken out in blooms and waving new grass. In her stormy moods, she was a black widow and her swollen rivers were webs of death. She ran the gamut from soft lullaby winds to tornadoes. Hot sun to freezing hail, and even snow. Damn her soul anyway!

  Chapter 9

  He watched the stud horse from the ridgeside seat on a bay horse out of his own remuda. He’d sent Unita’s roan home with her. Tina was a good hand to cook, but he kinda missed Unita and Rosa’s cooking. Maybe he missed her company—Unita’s. He was headed for Willows and Gunterville. He knew a few point riders and he wanted good ones, with experience. Moving a mile-and-a-half-long string of cattle into water to cross a river all depended on them, the two riders, one each on the right and left at the head of the serpentine line. It took real hands to hold down the speed of the herd, or to close in and make them go faster. The rest of the lot could be punchers. Boys that could sit a horse well enough and had few fears. Ones who wouldn’t get homesick so bad they’d quit halfway across the Indian Nation and go back.

  Ich Strang lived on a small place above Whittaker, married to some German widow with kids who kept Spanish goats. Ed was on his way to see Ich first. He rode through the live oak that crowded a narrow ribbon of wagon tracks in a sandy draw.

  He came out in the open to the sounds of goat bells, bleating, and some border collies barking at his arrival. A few grown hens scattered from their scratching at his bay horse’s approach. A full-bodied woman came out of a jacal and swept the dark hair back from her face. Three thumb-sucking young-uns hung on her skirt, too bashful to look at him.

  “Ich around?” he asked, taking off his hat for her.

  She nodded. Her dark brown eyes boring holes in him. She knew he wasn’t there on a social call and probably did not approve of it either. No matter their economics, women didn’t like their man off and gone to hell for six to nine months.

  “He’s up at the corral.”

  “Good to see you, ma’am,” he said and nodded, then put his hat back on. He booted the bay for the weathered gray post corral. He could see the lanky Ich busy sacking out some young horses.

  “Hey, Ed. I wasn’t expecting you,” the lanky, bow-legged man in his thirties said with a knowing smile. “Thought you was drinking San Antone dry.”

  “I was—” He rubbed his rough, callused hand over his mouth and nodded. “Run them plum out of good whiskey.”

  “What a shame. Climb down and jaw a while,” Ich said, coming out of the corral. He already had out a jackknife and was fixing to sliver off some chawing tobacco from a plug.

  Ed stepped off and undid the cinch. The bay dropped his head and lifted a hind foot to stand hipshot, ground tied where the reins were in the dust.

  “You got some work, huh?” Ed tossed his head at the four horses tied in the corral.

  “They ain’t mine. Breaking them for a fellow. Work’s been kinda short.” Ich rubbed his hands on the front of his wash-worn britches. “Fact is, I was thinking about going to San Antone myself.”

  “I’ll need a point rider.”

  “You’re going back?” Ich frowned at him.

  “I am, as the guide for a woman.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Sam Nance’s widow.”

  “You sweet on her?”

  Ed closed his eyes and shook his head. “I only agreed to guide her. So if working for a female is against your religion, tell me now.”

  Ich kept making circles on his upper legs with his palms and finally said, “Well, goddamn, guess I’ll go.”

  “Good. I can issue you a twenty-dollar sign-up bonus.” Ed went and got the roster and pencil from his saddlebags. He held the paper on the seat of his saddle and handed Ich the pencil. “You’re my first man to sign on.”

  “I see that.”

  “I’d also appreciate you not mentioning the bonus. I ain’t paying the rest.”

  Ich nodded and scrawled out his name. “I’ll be beholden to you for it.”

  “Nope, come next March you’ll be saying ‘That damn Ed Wright bribed me into this and I don’t know why.’ ”

  Ich laughed. “I know it would be asking a lot, but if I had a month’s wages before we rode out then my wife could get through till I got back.”

  “You got a deal, Ich. Don’t get busted up on them broncs. I’ll need you come March. Where’s Shorty at?”

  Ich made a face. “Crinerville jail.”

  “What did he do now?”

  “Helped himself to some things. They didn’t give him hard time, but he’s got six months.”

  “Who’s sheriff over there now?”

  “Kingfisher, L. T. Kingfisher. You recall him?”

  “I think so.” The name didn’t bring a good picture of anyone, but maybe he’d recall the man when he got there. “Here’s the twenty-dollar bonus, and five more for Chrstmas gifts for them young-uns.”

  Ich spat out some dark black tobacco on the rain-softened ground, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and nodded in approval. “Thanks, this’ll make Hiedie a little easier to handle when I break the news.”

  Ed jerked up his latigo to tighten his cinch. “I’d say she knowed when she saw me ride up.”

  “She’s a good woman. I sure won’t complain about her.”

  Ed swung in the saddle and nodded. “They tell me good ones are hard to find.” He saluted his longtime acquaintance and hit the trail for Crinerville.

  Past dark he reached the settlement and, besides being starved, felt sore-backed from the hours in the saddle. His side still sore, he dismounted under the livery lamp.

  “You got a place to sleep tonight?” he asked the fuzzy-faced old man who came out to wait on him.

  The old-timer cleared his throat, cut a big hocker, and spit it out, drooling into his beard. “Yeah, you can sleep in the feed room.”

  Ed thanked him and took his saddle off the bay. He hauled it and the sweaty pads inside and tossed them on a rack. Then he undid the bedroll and tossed it on an empty cot. The old man returned and gave him the bridle. “Best food’s at Chin Lee’s.”

  With a nod to show he heard him, Ed put the bridle up before he headed down the street to find a meal. He went past a saloon and the smell of liquor wafted out into his nose. An image of Unita and her disapproving look at him shone in his mind, urging him on to the diner.

  He told the Celestial waiter to bring him whatever he had fixed and thought the Chinese man said, “beast and lice.” When the plate came it was heaped with rice, gravy, and strips of browned beef. He nodded his approval and decided that had it been anything not alive he’d have eaten it. After the meal and some rich coffee, he paid the man and went across the street to the two-story courthouse.

  In the basement he found the jailer in the sheriff’s office. “I know it’s kinda late, but I understand you have a fella in here I know. Could I speak to him?”

  “Which one?”

  “Shorty Turner.”

  “I guess it won’t hurt. Leave that six-gun here and go through that steel door. Shorty’s in the second cell. No tricks.”

  “No tricks.” He undid the gun belt.

  The man nodded and went back to his book work under the lamp. The holster and gun piled on his desk, Ed headed for the door.

  “Oh, what’s your name?” the jailer asked.

  “Ed Wright.”

  “Good enough.” The man gave a toss of his head.

  “That you, Ed?” a hoarse voice asked in the cell block’s semidarkness, the only light coming around the half-open steel door.

 
“It’s me, Shorty. When do you get out of here?” The jail smelled of piss and about upset his supper.

  “April, they said.”

  “Reckon I can talk to the sheriff and get it cut down a month?”

  “Who knows? You can ask him.”

  “I get you out, do you want to ride point?”

  “Hell, that’s a dumb question. Hell, yes. For you?”

  “No. For a woman.”

  Both hands on the bars, the man frowned at him. “Who?”

  “Sam Nance’s widow. I’m going along as a guide.”

  Shorty chuckled. “How did she get you to agree to that?”

  “Well?”

  “Count me in. If you can get me out one day early, I’d sure appreciate it. They won’t ever lock me up in one of these hoosegows ever again.”

  “You got tobacco and the makings?” Ed asked.

  Shorty shook his head.

  “I’ll bring you some in the morning.”

  “Ed Wright, you’re a winner, pard.”

  “We’ll see.” Ed stood up, shook Shorty’s hand through the bars, and then started to leave.

  “Ich on the right?”

  “Yeah, signed him up on the way down here.” He turned at the door and looked back. “That suit you?”

  “Fine. Didn’t figure his wife would let him go.” Shorty chuckled. “Guess he’s tired of confinement too.”

  “I guess,” Ed said, and grinned.

  After breakfast the next morning at the diner, he went by the sheriff’s office. L. T. Kingfisher wasn’t in and the deputy said he expected him about noon. Ed spent the morning whittling on a bench out in front of the general store. His molars floating for a drink, he fought the urge until the sun reached the highest zenith and he went to lunch.

  He was halfway through his “beast and lice” dinner when a big man cast a shadow over him.

  “Mr. Wright?”

  Ed nodded.

  “L. T. Kingfisher.”

  “Have a chair, Sheriff.”

  “I will. You and Shorty old friends?”

  “He’s been one of my point riders for the past few years.”

  The lawman nodded. “I understand from what my deputy told me you need him March first?”

  “Yes, I sure will.”

  “You come down here the end of February and take him out of my county, and make him swear to never come back here—you can have that pilfering damn pack rat.”

  “Thanks. Can I buy you lunch?”

  “Not necessary. You just be sure he don’t come under my jurisdiction ever again.”

  Ed blew the steam off the cup of freshly poured coffee in his hands. “I’ll do that.”

  “Good,” Kingfisher said and rose with some effort. “Just so he don’t come back.”

  “Done.”

  He headed back to the ranch after taking Shorty enough tobacco, paper, and matches to last him a while. It was after sundown when he chose a place off the road to roll out the bedroll and rest the bay. His pony hobbled, and after eating some hard jerky, he laid down to sleep a few hours. He had the two experienced point riders, and needed ten more good cowboys, a horse wrangler, and a cook’s helper. Probably needed a cook too—Unita couldn’t do that and ramrod. He closed his eyes and went to sleep to some coyote’s wailing.

  Chapter 10

  At noontime, he was in Banty and stopped off at the bank. He drew fifty dollars from his account and shook hands with Wayne Ripple, the banker.

  “You’re looking good,” Ripple said, and smiled.

  “I’m fine. You send word to them borrowers of yours. Unita Nance is going up the trail to Kansas March first, and they might put in with her.”

  Ripple shook his head as if to dismiss the notion. “They won’t send any cattle up the trail with a woman.”

  “They might if I did.”

  “You’re going to send your cattle with her?”

  “I am. Thanks. Have a nice day,” he said, and left the flabbergasted banker with his mouth open. Ripple was a good man to deposit with, but he always suspected Ripple’s loans were made to increase his empire. The word he was shipping about Unita would hit the live oak faster than a dancing dust devil could travel. A smile on his lips, he went across the street for a couple of beers.

  He made a trip through the free lunch counter and after getting some German rye bread, sliced sausage, and sharp cheese he took his plate to a side table and ordered a beer from Otto the bartender.

  “It is good to see you again, Mr. Wright.”

  “Good to be here,” he told the mustached German, who brought him a tall schooner of beer.

  He was halfway through his beer and lunch when a short, familiar man slid into the seat opposite him. “I got two hundred big steers.”

  “Why tell me, Dean?”

  “They said—you said—you were making a drive.” Ed shook his head, and picked up the sandwich to take a bite. “You need to talk to Mrs. Nance.”

  “But they said you were—”

  His mouth full, he pointed the sandwich at the man while he chewed on it. “She’s the one taking cattle north.”

  Dean Morgan wilted in the chair. “I ain’t sending no damn cattle to Kansas with a woman ramrod. Hell, if I want to lose them, I can do that right here.”

  Ed nodded in approval. “I see how you think. Besides, ain’t that Jim Bob McGregor coming in? He’ll take them north.”

  Dean frowned. “And rob me blind. No, thanks.”

  Inside the batwing doors, Jim Bob McGregor pushed an expensive white hat back on his head and smiled like a shit-eating cat. “Well,” he said in a rusty voice. “If it ain’t Ed Wright. How are you, hoss?”

  “Fine.”

  “Someone said you’d sobered up. Said that Nance woman dried you up. Wish she’d dried me up. You know what I mean?” He gave a nasty smirk.

  “Jim Bob—” Ed held his fork like a spear and pointed it at the man. “You say one more derogatory word about that lady and I’ll jerk your filthy tongue out by the roots.”

  The drover blinked at Ed for a moment and his face drained. “Listen, you drunk sumbitch—”

  Ed was out of the chair with his hand on his gun butt. “I said—”

  “Hold your horses.” Jim Bob held his hands out, looking pale, and started backing for the door. “No need losing your temper. I know you was a ranger—I want no part of gunplay with you. I’m leaving. Right now.”

  “Whew,” Dean said, and reslumped in the chair. “I thought you two were fixing to have a gunfight and I was in harm’s way.”

  Too angry to answer him, Ed took a deep swig of beer, still standing and watching the batwing door carefully to be sure Jim Bob didn’t bust back into the saloon. Every muscle tensed in his body, ready for any action required. Where did Jim Bob McGregor get the gall to speak about Unita like that?

  McGregor was in the same book with Crabtree, and he’d teach both of them better habits when talking about a woman. The beer finished, he ignored Dean, went to the bar, paid Otto, and pushed his way out in the bright sun. Then he cinched up the bay and rode out of town.

  Halfway to Unita’s place he took the bottle of whiskey out of the saddlebags and began to drink it, still seething mad about the drover’s words about as honest a woman as he ever knew. The sun fell in a bloody pool and he rode on, drinking whiskey and thinking about bad things: flooded rivers, a mile wide across the bottoms; swimming cattle milling in the current’s whirlpool and needing to bust them up or lose them all, lightning dancing on horns with a blue light he’d never seen anywhere else.

  “That you?” she called out from the porch.

  “Yeah.” He heard himself slur the word. Then he stepped out of the saddle, his sea legs gave way, and he crumpled in a pile on his butt. Taking handfuls of dust and letting them fall out of his fists like an hourglass’s sand, he shook his head. “I been—rinking—a little—”

  “Rosa. Come help me. . . .” Unita called out.

  Chapter 11

/>   His head hurt when he sat up on the cot. The shack was dark, and he wondered how close it was to bell-ringing time. He scrubbed his face on his dirty-smelling hands and wrinkled his nose. Geez, he felt sore and bad. Why in hell did he come back here to her place? He’d never know, he decided, pulling on his boots, then rising to stomp them on. His brain still in a fog, he felt around, found his hat, stuck it on, and pushed outside.

  Light was on in the kitchen. He petted the stock dogs darting around him in friendly fashion. Grateful that they liked him, he went to the back door in the cool air and knocked.

  “Oh, Senor,” Rosa said, and opened the door for him to enter.

  He considered not going in, then shrugged it off and went inside anyway, feeling like the tardy boy at school. In the bright light he blinked and met Unita’s gaze from the dry sink where she was busy rolling out biscuit dough. Even exasperated-looking, she was pretty. He wanted to be dressed up and clean instead of smelling like horse sweat and booze. Too late for that—she got what she got. There wasn’t anything in their deal calling for him to dress up. He was her guide—scout. Not in charge, either.

  “Well, what did you find out?”

  “I have two point riders, Ich Strang and Shorty Turner, two of the best.”

  “They’ll show up?” She flour-dusted a whiskey jigger and began cutting out the biscuits to go in an oven-blackened pan.

  “Ich’s set to be here March first. Shorty, I got to go get him.”

  “Go get him?” Her blue eyes cut him a suspicious glance.

  “Oh, he’s in the Crinerville jail.”

  She nodded and busied herself making biscuits. “Give Ed a towel and soap, Rosa. I think tank water should make him sharper.”

  “Sure, thank you,” he said and sucked on his eyetooth, considering what he could do nice for her. She could be as cold as that water would be. All right, he earned all he got, but he’d stayed sober the whole time getting those two hands. A week or two on the trail and she’d see what it was like—bury a few good boys—that goddamn trail . . . He went out the back door and slammed it. Then he realized he didn’t have a towel or the soap that Rosa had gone for. He turned and went back like a sheep eating dog, and the door opened as he reached for it.