Trail to Cottonwood Falls

by Ralph Compton

  “Good. If they’re here, we’ll find them.”

  “Aw, I don’t expect you to have to—”

  She swept across the floor and seated herself on his lap, pressing a finger to his mouth. “I intend to keep you in my sight from now on.”

  “In that case—” His mouth closed on hers, and he hugged her hard enough to break her in two. He fell into a deep abyss that consumed his every thought with tasting her.

  When they parted, she pushed her curls back, straightened up, and shook her head at him. “You really think your bluff on twelve cents a pound will work?”

  He winked. “We can always take less but I figure that’s top dollar. Being the first shipment out of here and all. He might pay it.”

  “What will those steers weigh?”

  “Eight to nine hundred pounds in the shape they’re in.”

  She whistled. “That’s neat. Almost a hundred dollars apiece.”

  “You could use eighty thousand dollars?”

  She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him. “Ed Wright, do you know how much money that is?”

  He snuggled up to her and savored the musk that filled his nose. Then he let go of her and leaned back in the chair. “I think he’s serious.”

  She used her fingers to comb the hair back from her face and smiled. “Should we get a room at that hotel?”

  “Better get two.”

  She nodded and looked away. “I meant that.”

  “They just nailed up this fresh floor setting on the ground and stuck the tent over it,” Ed said, observing the construction from his seat with amusement.

  “They call that the boomtown way, don’t they?”

  More shots punctuated the air, and Ed shook his head. “It’ll really get wilder here in six weeks when the herds stack up outside of town.”

  “We should be loaded up and on our way home. Right?”

  “I sure hope so.” He looked warily around. These folks had lots to learn and not much time.

  Les returned and Ed knew by the look on his face that they had made a helluva deal.

  “Well, the old man wants them.” Les motioned to her and smiled.

  “When’re Joe’s scales going to work?” Ed asked, looking as bored as he could.

  “Day after tomorrow. There’s fifty cars on the side tracks now, and the rest should be here by then too. We can weigh and load a thousand head the first day, Joe says.”

  “We’ll have them at the pens by sunup,” Ed said, and rose out of the chair and shook Les’s hand.

  “Want a drink of the good stuff?” Les asked.

  Ed shook his head. “No thanks, we’ve got work to do.”

  “I’ll be damned, Ed Wright. You never turned down a drink before in your life.”

  “Guess I’ve got a new one.”

  “I never heard what happened to your partner, Dave Ivy.”

  “The Brady brothers murdered him on a riverboat.”

  “Brady brothers? Why I seen them this morning—”

  Cold chills ran up Ed’s spine and he blinked in disbelief at Les. “Where? Where did you see them?”

  “They were in the diner where I ate breakfast. They’re a real shady bunch, but they came down from Abilene with the rest of the garbage.”

  “You know where I can find them?”

  “Try the Royal Flush Saloon. I’m sorry about Ivy. If I’d known they’d done it, I’d sure have sent you word.”

  “Come on.” He turned around to see that Unita was ready. “Where’s the Royal Flush at?”

  “On the next block behind here. You can’t miss the sign.”

  “We can find it.”

  “Thursday we weigh the first half,” Les reminded him as they left.

  “We won’t miss it,” Ed said, going out the flap.

  “What now?” she asked as they went around Les’s tent and edged their way through piles of empty boxes and crates. He could see the ace high card hand-painted on a sign. When he stopped she about collided into him. He laid the revolver on his left sleeve, checked the loads in the cylinder and, satisfied, snapped the cover shut.

  “You stay here and keep an eye out to see if any rats run out from under the tent.”

  “Rats?”

  “Two-legged ones.”

  “You expect them to run?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Will you know them?”

  “If they’re in there—they’ll either run out or come out feet-first.”

  “I’ll watch,” she said.

  Ed crossed the rutted street, which had been prairie grass only months ago but was now cut up into a boggy mess by freight wagon deliveries and traffic. Some boards spanned the swamp and he did a balancing act to reach the far shore and save his boots.

  On the other side of the mud, he nodded to her and headed for the flap. A tinny piano cut the afternoon’s warmth and he stepped into filtered sunlight penetrating cloth, and saw a long, raw bar made of boards on barrels.

  “What’s your pleasure, laddy?” the big Irish bartender asked as if he was in the fanciest bar in the U.S.A.

  Ed looked around at the empty tables and chairs. “The Brady brothers.”

  “Well bless me soul, you’re late. They took the stage out of here an hour ago.”

  “How come?”

  “Word came up that some acquaintances of theirs in a small burg south of here got themselves all shot up by a band of Texas Rangers.”

  “Band of Texas Rangers?” Ed blinked at the man in disbelief, about to laugh.

  “I heard the tale secondhand.” He turned up the ends of his mustache and leaned his elbows on the bar. “Twelve steel-eyed rangers rode into this small burg called Wichita under the cover of night. Found the three men in their beds, made them go downtown barefooted, and strung them up one at a time on a saloon porch to strangle to death. Then the captain shot each one in the face to be sure they were dead.”

  “Who were these ones they hung?”

  “Some of the Bradys’ bunch. A Mexican named Roho, a breed called hisself Hatchet and an Apache—he was some kin to Cochise—Warlock was his handle.”

  “They all work for the Bradys?”

  “Who knows, but when Marsh heard that a dozen Texas Rangers was coming up here, they closed up shop and shagged out of here.”

  “Where they headed?”

  “I heard Fort Laramie mentioned.”

  Ed found a couple of silver dollars and slapped them on the bar. “Anything else?”

  The big mick shook his head and nodded thanks for the money before him. “You know them rangers, mister?”

  “Yeah,” he said, and left the Royal Flush.

  He waved at her that it was all right, and then started for the crossing boards. “They took a powder.”

  She nodded, looking relieved.

  When he reached her side, he hugged her shoulders. “You won’t believe what I heard that sent them pedaling out of here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Twelve Texas Rangers hung his gang on a saloon porch in Wichita.”

  “What?”

  “They heard the rangers slipped in at night, woke them up, and took them to the saloon, barefooted, and hung them.”

  “Twelve, huh?” She laughed. “You tell them anything different in there?”

  “No, ma’am, let them think that many rangers are after them. Now we need to find a steak and then get back to camp. Boys got lots of work to do to be ready to load that many head in a day.”

  “What about the Bradys?”

  “I’ll get them after we load and get paid for those steers.”

  She made him stop and looked him hard in the eye. “You know you can’t go without me.”

  “I had that notion, back down the trail. Can I tell you how rough it might be?”

  “Rough doesn’t matter. I’m going along.”

  “About to become the richest woman in Banty, Texas, and ain’t got any more sense than that?” He looked into the deep set of h
er eyes and shrugged in defeat. “All right. Let’s go eat.”

  A shot rang out and he stepped in front of her, trying to locate the shooter.

  “You forget I’m a Texas Ranger now, too,” she said, looking slyly at him and stepping out from behind him. “That means I’m your equal.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Cattle sales and then Fort Laramie. Those two dogs couldn’t hide from a dozen Texas Rangers.

  Chapter 30

  The clack of horns, cattle bawling, dust boiling, men cussing and prodding them on and off the scales ten at a time, then into pens, and finally up the chutes into slat-sided cattle cars. It took all the trail hands she could spare from the herd, and every one of Schroeder’s men, working from dawn to dusk. But, the task finally done, they drank buckets of beer she’d ordered for them with all the barbecue they could eat. She even bought an armload of French bread loaves and a big tub of fresh-churned butter from a farmer’s wife for a treat.

  “Best damn day we’ve had so far, boys,” Shorty said, sitting on the ground, floured in dirt and looking red-eyed as a mad cow, with an empty tin plate in his lap.

  “Amen,” one of them shouted, and raised a cup of beer. “Here’s to the best boss lady in Texas!”

  “Throw in Kansas too,” another said.

  “We’ve got one more tough day,” Ed said. “Then you can go see paradise. It’s all here.”

  They cheered and began moving stiffly toward their horses to drag back to the herd and camp.

  “I’ll pay them Saturday morning. I’ve arranged for Caudle and whoever wants to take the chuck wagon, your big steer Sam Houston, and the remuda back,” she said.

  Ed frowned at her. “Isn’t Blondie going back with the ponies?”

  She shook her head. “He said he wanted to tag along with us.” Then she raised her chin and met his gaze. “He’s tough help if we need him.”

  “The rest of a dozen rangers, I guess?”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Half or more of this bunch will be dead broke and hung over in two days. Tell Caudle not to be in any hurry to head for home right away, and to take the ones who need a way to go back. They can earn their grub by herding the horses and doing camp work.”

  She squinted her right eye at him in disbelief. “They’ll spend it all that fast?”

  “Oh, that’s why all this riffraff came down here from Abilene. This is where the money will be. Those boys and some drovers will sure make the money change hands.”

  “You never did that?”

  He shook his head. “I never mixed business with pleasure.” Thank God.

  A thousand more head to do the same with, and only a few hours’ sleep what with night herding and guarding and all. The second day proved even tougher. But at last the sale was over and they set the boys free. Ed, Unita, and Les were in his tent under the glow of two lamps.

  “They weighed better than you thought,” Les said, poring over the tickets. “Where do you want the money?”

  Unita looked at Ed, and at his nod began. “I need to draw some money to pay my crew. Some expenses, and the rest we want in a safety deposit box or vault.”

  “Don’t trust Kansas banks?”

  Ed shook his head. “Besides, it’s not all her money.”

  “I understand. I’ll be a couple of days reaching the total, you understand. My latest accountant took one look at this place and quit. How much do you need?”

  “Three thousand five hundred should do it.” Unita shared a glance with Ed.

  He agreed. “We’ll be back in a few weeks for the balance.”

  Les looked across at both of them. “I’ll get the money out of my safe for you. Be careful. Those back shooters are tough ones.”

  Ed agreed and they left with the crew’s money.

  “Any urge to get drunk?” she asked as they negotiated the muddy streets. The loud sounds of music, doves laughing, and screaming and general hell-raising filled the night.

  “No, ma’am.”

  She hugged his arm. “Thanks. Thanks for getting me here, and thanks for being you.”

  He looked at the dark skies, threatening rain. “Thanks to you.”

  “We’ll get all the crew’s part settled, and then?”

  “Take a stage for Fort Laramie.”

  “You ever been there?”

  “No.” Just another place, but if it contained the Bradys, he wanted to be there and confront them.

  Four days later, at a stage stop in Beaver Creek, Nebraska, a horse hustler told Ed the Brady brothers had quit the stage there and gone up in the Platte River breaks.

  “You sure it was them?” Ed asked, looking around in a cold north wind.

  “Mister, I’d know them two skunks anywhere.” The whiskered man spat aside and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “They killed my brother Job in Ellsworth two years ago.”

  “They recognize you?”

  He shook his head.

  “What’s in the breaks?” Ed motioned to the south.

  “There’s a guy makes whiskey down there named Gilmer. He’s got kind of a hideout for their kind down there.”

  “How many will be there?”

  “No telling.”

  “Wait, throw down our gear and saddles,” Ed said to the driver, who was getting ready to leave, the stopover. “We’re getting off here.”

  “Suit yourself—” He looked around at the rolling prairie as if they’d lost their minds. Then he climbed up and threw down the gear for him and Blondie to catch.

  “We’ll need three horses,” Ed said to the hustler.

  “I can get them in a couple of hours.”

  “There’s a bonus if you find them quicker.”

  “I’m on my way,” the man said, and hurried off.

  “You must have information,” she said coming out of the soddy stage stop and seeing the luggage and saddles piled on the ground.

  “They’re up in the Platte River country at some whiskey maker—we think.” Ed heaved up his saddle and her war bag. “We’ve sent for horses.” He hauled his load of gear out of the mist that the wind blew in. Blondie brought more in with a nod.

  “Horses be better than stage,” he grumbled in Spanish.

  Ed laughed. “You ain’t seen the horses yet.”

  The mounts the hustler brought back were winter-shaggy brown ponies. Ed and Blondie saddled them. Then Blondie tried each one. One bucked some, but they acted broke. They saddled her the tamest one. Then, with a memory map the hustler drew in the dirt that satisfied Blondie, they set out southwest across the prairie in midafternoon. That evening they ended up at a homesteader’s and slept on the hay in his shed. His wife, a German woman, fed them supper and breakfast while her husband puffed on his clay pipe and talked about the tall corn he planned to grow on the acres he’d plowed that winter with his oxen and the new John Deere steel plow.

  After breakfast and more words from their hosts about how to find Gilmer’s place, they rode on. Ed looked over the neat furrows the man’d made that looked like cornrows of hair. The job of plowing with oxen sounded like a prison sentence to him—he’d hardly enjoyed breaking out land for oats with mules in Texas, years earlier.

  By midafternoon they had reached a ferryman on the Platte named Ned who looked them over. “Texans, huh? Got cattle coming?”

  “Yeah, a couple of thousand. Plenty of good grass around here.” Ed indicated the short, new greenery waving in the wind.

  “This country’s going to be settled by farmers, mister. Law and order, not no border ruffians like you all bring up here. Railroad is recruiting them folks now. Settlers to grow crops and use my ferry.”

  “Good,” Ed said, and indicated the barge. “Us ruffians want across the river.”

  “Cost two bits apiece.” He held out a callused, unwashed hand.

  “Man we stayed with last night said you charged ten cents.” Ed pushed his bluff with a wink at Unita.

  “That’s for locals.”

  Ed narr
owed his eyes and reined up the short-coupled mustang. “Anyone ever threaten to shoot you for overcharging folks?”

  “No—but ten cents a piece is enough.”

  “That’s better. Now, for a silver dollar, tell me how many men are at Gilmer’s?”

  “I don’t make it my business—”

  “How many?”

  He scratched his shaggy beard and nodded. “Maybe four. Two rode in a few days ago, and far as I know ain’t left.”

  “One have a mustache and a goatee?”

  “Yeah. They both looked like tinhorns. Said they was land buyers.”

  “Land buyers?” she asked.

  “Yeah, ain’t no one buying land around here, lady. You can homestead it easier.”

  Ed paid him, and they dismounted and loaded their mounts on the hollow-sounding ferry. Ned began to crank them across the choppy brown Platte. On the high far bank, the hills were eroded and chocked in red cedars that towered above them. Gilmer’s place was a few miles west according to the farmer.

  “Good luck. Hope you find them,” Ned said when they disembarked on the shore. “They give me a counterfeit ten for their crossing.”

  “You give them change?”

  The ferryman nodded.

  “What did you do with it?” Ed asked, ready to remount his anxious, head-tossing bay.

  “Paid a freighter for my coal with it.”

  Ed nodded that he heard, and guessed that would work until someone got caught.

  “He did what with it?” Unita asked, leaning over toward him as their horses climbed the road.

  “Paid for the coal some freighter brought him.”

  “Oh, no.”

  Ed nodded matter-of-factly. “The further you get in the frontier, the more bad money there is.” He twisted in the saddle. “We can make camp somewhere and let you go scout them?” he asked Blondie.

  The blue-eyed scout nodded. “They not far.”

  Ed twisted in the saddle again, looking over the broken country. “If we can find any shelter we’ll be lucky.”

  “Quit worrying about me,” Unita protested and redid the blanket she was wrapped in against the wind.

  “I’m more worried about the three of us. This threat of rain we’ve rode in all day might increase, and we need some dry shelter.”