Trail to Cottonwood Falls

by Ralph Compton

  “Little more than that. Very lovely place,” he said, indicating the house under the great crystal chandelier.

  “Thank you, sir. And what do you do in Texas, if I may ask?”

  He decided she must be in her midthirties, taller by several inches than Conway and, under all that southern drawling, expensive silk dress, and cleavage, she was no dumb sister. This woman had some steel in her—not unlike Unita Nance.

  “I’m a small cattle rancher.”

  “Somehow I doubt the small part, but come. You two must need a drink. This cold weather has frozen us past sociability down here.” She turned on her heel and led the way to an adjoining room where the fire crackled in a large fireplace and the reflection of heat really scorched his tender cheeks.

  She poured drinks into glasses from a cut-glass decanter and handed them each one in the flickering candlelight of the room. “My late husband Carl liked good whiskey. Called this sipping whiskey. Of course, whiskey is illegal in the territory.” She winked at Conway, who nodded in return. “But of course, how could civilized men and women live without it?”

  “It would be very hard,” Ed said, enjoying the fine liquor’s taste on his tongue.

  She showed them to leather hobnailed chairs with curled wooden arms in a semicircle facing the crackling fire. More like men’s seats than horsehair-stuffed couches like he had expected. She took the central chair between them, crossed her legs, adjusted her dress skirt, and offered a toast.

  “To warmer days.” The half-filled glass was raised high in her hand.

  They clinked glasses and she turned at the approach of someone. “Yes, Adam?”

  “Dinner is in one hour?”

  “Exactly,” she said and then looked at them, receiving the nods she sought from both men. “That will be wonderful, Adam.”

  “Sell your cotton?” Conway asked.

  “Most of it. I retained some bales at the Fort Smith warehouse, hoping the price might rise, but who knows. Cotton is not very exciting. Tell me about you gentlemen’s business.”

  Conway told her about the Ivy murder and how Ed had trailed the Brady brothers to Fort Smith, then returned to go after them. She kept looking at Ed. Either to approve of him or something deeper. Slow like he savored her whiskey and nodded to Conway’s details, making eye contact with her. But he hoped not to encourage her. She was a woman on the search. While he was not certain for what, it was not Ed Wright. He couldn’t wait to get back to Texas, where it was a lot warmer.

  Dinner was served on gold-rimmed, hand-painted china plates that he imagined were so expensive that he actually worried about eating off of them. He had learned in conversation that her late husband, Carl Schaffer, several years older than she, had come to the Indian Territory from Georgia, married a Cherokee woman, and laid claim to this bottomland, then began buying out his neighbors and owned several slaves at the start of the war. His first wife and four children died in an epidemic, leaving him a widower. Actually Ellie was his second cousin and their marriage had been arranged.

  Not long after the wedding, bushwhackers shot Carl in a robbery attempt inside the mansion at the end of the war. Since then she oversaw the holdings and had a warm affection for the U.S. deputy marshals who’d run his killers down. The murderers not killed in the shootout were sentenced to hang in Judge Story’s court in Van Buren, Arkansas, the predecessor to Parker’s court in Fort Smith.

  The meal consisted of rich-tasting, smoked, salt-cured ham, canned green beans, brown rice and gravy, with canned apples. Yeast rolls steamed when opened and the butter, freshly churned, made the saliva rush in Ed’s mouth. No doubt this was no exaggeration of Conway’s earlier forecast that this would be the best stopover on their trip.

  “Do I understand you two must leave early in the morning and be on your way?” she asked from her position at the head of the long table, flanked by her company. The ring of disappointment sounded in her voice.

  “Yes,” Conway said. “No reflection upon your hospitality, of course.”

  “Of course,” Ed chimed in.

  “Your company, as always, is welcome. But I understand urgency in such matters.”

  “Thank you,” Conway said with a seductive smile.

  She clapped him on top of his hand. “You know the doors here are always open to you men of the law.”

  Then she turned and looked at Ed. “Brave Texas cattlemen as well.”

  He felt like squirming at her words, but thanked her.

  After supper, Conway excused himself and they were alone in the den at the fireplace, having an after-supper drink. She stood by the hearth and turned to Ed. “You have a woman at home.”

  “I made a pledge to one,” he said, looking past her and wondering why her cleavage attracted him so. Silly, he finally decided, it’s on purpose.

  “Oh, so you will marry her?”

  “No, I promised to take her cattle to Kansas.”

  She smiled as if relieved at the knowledge. “Then you have no wedding plans?”

  “Ma’am, the way my life’s been the last five years I don’t need any wedding plans.”

  “She’s a very lucky woman. I am a student of men.” Then she turned away and looked at the north wall. “I have gauged you as a man who drives hard for what he wants done.”

  He nodded. “That’s to get the Brady brothers, or send them to hell.”

  “Then take her cattle to Kansas.”

  “Try.”

  “No, you don’t try things. You do things, Ed Wright. More whiskey?”

  No, thanks.” He handed her the glass. When had he done that before? For some reason he didn’t want to get drunk. He shook his head and smiled at her. “You, too, are the type of person that runs on iron tracks, like a locomotive.”

  “Well, thank you. Many men find that unattractive in a woman.”

  “You’re neither unattractive nor offensive to me. But I can understand how a weed-free cotton field in such large acreage is the product of your oversight.”

  She looked slightly embarrassed and wet her lips before sipping her whiskey. Avoiding looking at him, she shook her head. “If I were the Bradys, I’d buy a cemetery lot and coffin, and go around in my stocking feet so I didn’t die with my boots on.”

  Ed laughed and rubbed his palms on the tops of his legs. He hoped she was right.

  “What’s so funny?” Conway asked, coming back.

  “I was ordering funeral arrangements for the brothers,” she said.

  “Good, I hope they need ’em.”

  So did Ed.

  Later that night, he sprawled on his back on a feather mattress with the bedroom’s fireplace casting a glow on a tin ceiling. He could have sworn he heard footsteps in the hallway, coming from Conway’s room to hers. None of his business, but he did smile to himself at the discovery, roll over, and go to sleep.

  Chapter 14

  A cold sun shone the next day. The snow on the ground looked like powdered sugar on the brown leaves and around the bases of the tufts of yellow-brown sedge grass. They left the river country and rode over lots of waist-high blue stem and through some stunted post oak. Stirrup to stirrup, they passed several Indian homesteads with smoke coming from rusty stovepipes. Winter-thin horses and milk-cow stock stood about the places, guarded by leggy black dogs that barked at their passing.

  At a trading post on the Grand River, they spoke with Jerky McClain, a white-haired Cherokee with small, thin braids, a high-crowned, unblocked brown cowboy hat, and two eagle feathers on beaded rawhide strings that bobbed on the back of the brim when Jerky spoke.

  “Them Brady bastards may be denned up with that woman—what is her name?” Jerky turned to his wife, who, in her youth, must have been the prettiest woman in the Nation. Her beauty, though aged, still showed through her soft copper skin.

  “You mean Ruby Heartkiller?”

  Jerky narrowed his brown eyes at Conway. “You know her?”

  “I think so. She lives up on the Arkansas near the Bear p
lace?”

  “Bear Springs.”

  “Bear Springs, yes,” Conway said, as if recalling the location.

  “You better have plenty of damn ammunition. There may be twenty of them no-accounts up there with them.”

  “Twenty?”

  “Sure they’re all about to starve out this time of year. Horses are too thin to steal, and no one would buy one anyway. They can’t ride west over there on the cattle trail and rob any drovers cause there ain’t none. You may find a shit-pot load of them hanging out over there.”

  His wife frowned at his choice of words.

  “That’s what they’d be. Twenty of those no-accounts would sure make a shit-pot load.”

  “You don’t have to say that. What if there were little kids in the store?”

  He raised up as if to look for them. “I don’t see no little kids. Only two old marshals from Fort Smith. You see any kids?”

  “No.” She shook her head in disapproval. “Don’t you two encourage him either.”

  They all laughed.

  That night the two of them slept in the living room off the back of the store on cots and in their own bedrolls. By dawn, they’d eaten Mary’s breakfast of bacon, biscuits, and flour gravy—she explained her hens had quit laying in the short days and cold. Full of her rich food, Ed paid her for it, as well as the horses’ grain, and they left.

  Day three threatened to thaw them out some.

  “I know a man up near there that might help us. He’s been a good posse man in the past.”

  Ed unbuttoned his coat and nodded as the temperature began to rise. “Guess we could use some help.”

  “Cost you a dollar a day and keep.”

  “I can afford that, especially if we can catch the Bradys.”

  “I can’t guarantee that.”

  “I understand. Let’s hire him. Where is he at?”

  “On the way. Besides, he knows where Ruby Heartkiller lives.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Gale Brown.”

  Ed nodded and they trotted their horses. It was past noon when they reached Brown’s place. Brown’s plump Indian wife told Conway that he’d gone to see about a neighbor and would be back later. She didn’t act pleased to see either of them and went back inside and closed the door without a word.

  “Guess you must have made her mad,” Ed said, chuckling as he led his bald-faced horse to the edge of the yard and loosened the girth to wait on Brown’s return.

  “Aw, she don’t like for him to ride posse. Afraid he’ll get hurt I guess.”

  “That’s real enough. From the looks of things he can use some money.” Ed dug out some jerky to share. “Here. Guess she ain’t killing no chicken for us to eat.”

  “By damn, I believe she’d let us starve.”

  Ed sat down on a large log and began to chew some hard, peppery jerky, moistening it with his saliva first. It was a long ways from eating on gold-rimmed plates at Ellie Schaffer’s.

  At midafternoon Brown rode in and pushed his winter-shaggy bay horse over to where they lounged in the sun. The thin rider looked to be in his forties. He walked toward them bent over like so many beat-up bronc busters.

  “How you been?” he asked Conway with a grin.

  “Fine. Meet Ed Wright.” Both men shook hands and nodded.

  “What brings you out of your card game?” Brown said with a wink at Ed.

  “Bradys. They killed and robbed Ed’s cattle partner near Memphis on a paddle wheeler.”

  “Plenty tough bunch.”

  “Ed’s paying posse wages to get them. We’re headed for Bear Springs country.”

  Brown nodded and then looked at Ed. “I could use some pocket money. I’ll get a bedroll and my gun. Be ready to ride in a few minutes.”

  “Fine, take your time.” Ed watched him head for the house.

  The next thing he heard was the shouting and cussing of the woman coming from inside the low-walled shack. Brown soon appeared and looked unscathed, but the dark-faced woman on his heels was not to be ignored. She waved her fists at them and let fly a jargon of cuss words. Some must have been Indian, Ed was unsure but they sounded like large hail on a tin roof.

  Brown, undeterred by her foot-stomping tirade at his back, stuck his rifle in the boot and tied his bedroll on behind his saddle. Then he turned like he’d heard none of it. “Guess I’ll be back in a couple days.”

  She stood straight, arms folded, frowning at him with her dark lips narrowed to a seam. “You should have dressed better.”

  He reined up the bay and looked hard at her. “Why?”

  “They are going to bury you in those old clothes.”

  He grinned at her. “Hell, no one would know me wearing anything else.”

  She charged the horse, kicking at his legs. “Go! Go, you stupid bastard!”

  Brown nodded to Ed and the three rode off under a barrage of cuss words and some small rocks. Ed looked back once and about laughed at the sight of her: hands on her hips, glaring after them.

  “Ruby Heartkiller,” Conway said. “You know her?”

  “Yeah, she’s up in them hills above the Arkansas River,” Brown said, sounding not the least disturbed by his woman’s anger.

  “We need to scout the place. Several folks think she’s got lots of boarders up there, setting out the winter.”

  “I heard that Bo Tinker was up there too.”

  “Who’s he?” Ed asked the pair riding on his left and right as they trotted their horses northward.

  “He shot a deputy marshal down on the Canadian last summer,” Conway said, looking serious. “Tough guy. I’ve got a warrant for him. We need him too.”

  “We can stay at Sam Belham’s place and scout Heartkiller’s before we rush in, if’n you don’t look too hard for liquor,” Brown said to Conway.

  “I’d much rather have Tinker than a whiskey fine.”

  “Good. His wife’s a good cook besides.” Brown gave Ed a big smile of approval at the decision.

  “We gonna make Heartkiller’s by dark?” Conway asked, leaning over in the saddle to see Brown.

  “No, after dark. I don’t want them getting word we’re coming. We get there in the daylight they might find out and hit the trail, or fortify themselves good in her place. Either way I don’t want them ready.”

  “I told you he was good posse man,” Conway said.

  Ed nodded, his mind focused on the events ahead. Maybe he would get those two killers in his gun sights, and not far off either. Then he could go back to Texas. It had been clouding up since they left Brown’s and he sensed moisture in the wind on his face. More snow or cold rain moving in; he felt it in his stiff bones and muscles. If they could get this over before it struck. . . . Maybe—but in his heart he doubted they could do it all—scout the outlaws’ place and take them before the storm struck.

  Hours later, dogs barked in the distant darkness, no doubt at their discovery of Brown’s approach to their yard. He’d ridden ahead to talk to Belham while Ed and Conway waited on their horses in the timber. No moon or stars. Ed wondered how this plan might work. In this strange land he felt like a blind man, dependent on Conway. Ed considered the marshal levelheaded enough, and he felt Brown had an uncanny way of handling things. Different from being a ranger. But whatever was necessary suited him. The temperature under the cloud cover was steady and not as cold, save for the wind that swept out of the south.

  “Going to storm,” Conway said, sitting his horse close by Ed. “Too warm.”

  “I’ve had the same notion all day.”

  “I hope Gale can get us in here.”

  “Someone’s riding back.”

  Gale rode up and reined in his mount.

  “He says come on in. Sam don’t like that bunch. Says he’ll even help us.”

  “Why’s that?” Conway asked.

  “I think some of that bunch helped themselves to Sam’s wife.” Brown sat his horse in front of them. “It happened when he was gone.”

&n
bsp; “Reason enough,” Ed said.

  “She’s making more food, so we can go in, put our horses up, then wash up. Sam said he’d take us over there tonight, but hell, dark as it is we might just as well wait till morning, huh?”

  “He know how it lays.”

  “Says he does.”

  “How many are over there?”

  “Not over six or seven, according to him.”

  “The Bradys there?” Ed asked as they walked their horses toward the lantern hung up for them.

  “They have been,” Brown said.

  “How about Tinker?” Conway asked.

  “I ain’t sure. We better ask Sam.”

  “I will.”

  Ed looked off at the shape of distant hills, barely visible in the inky night. Maybe this whole ride had not been in vain. He certainly hoped so when he dropped heavily out of the saddle and went to loosening his girths.

  Sam Belham was a big man, framed by the light in the doorway. A dark beard and wearing overalls his voice sounded gravely and carried. “Howdy boys. Get them feed bags on them ponies, then come on down. She’s got supper ready.”

  “What’s this Sam like?” Ed asked, hauling his saddle and pads into a rough shed and tossing them on a wagon. Maybe they’d stay dry there.

  “He’s a little mouthy, but he’s honest.”

  “Never met him,” Conway said, putting his saddle up.

  “Thanks,” Ed said, wanting to add, “I hope all this works.” He followed the others to the shack and washed up on the porch, then shook the big man’s hand.

  “Ed Wright.”

  “You a marshal too?”

  “Ex-Texas Ranger.”

  “Damn, you guys brought both barrels, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, they killed my partner, them Bradys did,” Ed said.

  In the background, Ed saw a girl busy setting out plates of food on the table. She hardly looked out of her teens and was the only one in the room. Definitely Indian, she had a cute, full figure under a blouse and layered skirt. But her smile at them, and her eyes dancing over high cheekbones, would have melted a big drift of snow. She nodded to him and the others to sit down, then rushed off for more.