I was just a bit out of town when I heard someone calling my name. Whoever he was, he was just leaving town and coming toward me on the little wagon track that ran due east. The rider was still a good quarter of a mile away so I couldn’t see him clearly, but I could hear him yelling, “Williams! Williams! Williams, damnit, stop!”
I pulled up, turned my horse, and waited to see who could have such important business with me they had to shout my family name all over the prairie. The rider came on, bringing his horse at a hard gallop. I sat my horse, waiting, watching him come on. At a hundred yards I thought it was Rex Jordan. At sixty or fifty yards I was sure it was, though I’d only seen the man a couple of times. About forty yards away he started pulling his horse up, but the animal was hot and was fighting his head and didn’t want to stop. I watched Jordan sawing on the reins, ruining the horse’s mouth, standing up in the stirrups and using his weight on the horse’s mouth. Finally he got him down to a sideways canter, the horse still flinging his head every which way, doing his best to tell Jordan to quit yanking on the goddam reins, and then finally down to a nervous, fast-footed walk. He came straight at me, his right arm pointed out, a finger sticking out of the fist he was pointing at me. He yelled, even though we were only a few yards apart, “Williams, I want to talk to you, by gawd!”
He was red in the face. I didn’t know if it was from anger or from trying to cold-jaw his horse. I said, “Well, here I am. Talk.”
He pushed his horse right up next to mine, so close we could have touched. Jordan was a tough-faced man with a scar under his eye. He might have been in his late forties, but his body looked hard and thick. He was a good deal shorter than me, but he was beefy and bullnecked. I noticed, as I had before, that he wore the narrow-brimmed hat of a man who wasn’t native to Texas.
He jabbed his finger at me and said, “I’m gonna warn you an’ I ain’t gonna warn ya but this oncet.... That high-hat brother’n of yours, that fancy-pants Norris er whatever his name is—he goes to pullin’ them bullyboy stunts on my boy Shay a’gin an’ we goin’ to war, you unnerstan’ me?”
His finger was coming a little closer to my face than I cared to have it. I reached up and knocked his arm away with my left hand. “Jordan, I don’t know what the hell you are talking about. You got a complaint with me you calm down and make some sense. Don’t come riding up to me yelling your fool head off about goin’ to war. I don’t have the slightest idea what you are talking about.”
He was still so mad spit was flecking out of his mouth when he talked. “I’ll by gawd tell you what I’m talkin’ ’bout. I’m talkin’ ’bout all you goddam Williams and your goddam bullyboy ways. You don’t own this goddam country n’ it’s about time you—”
“Get off your horse.”
“An’ you messin’ with the wrong bunch of folks you come courtin’ trouble with us. Tellin’ my boy you’s gonna run us outten the country. Lis’sen, by gawd, I’m gonna tell you a thang or two. I—”
“I said, GET OFF YOUR HORSE!”
He stared at me then. “What’d you say?”
“I said get off your horse.”
He spat. Not at me, but closer than I cared for. “Mister, you can go screw a mule tellin’ me when to git on er off my horse. Lis’sen, I’m by gawd—”
My gun was suddenly in my hand. “I’ll tell you once more. Get off your horse.”
His mouth closed as abruptly as if he’d closed it to keep a bug from flying in. He stared at the revolver in my hand. He said, a little unsteadily, “That a pistol in yore hand?”
“That’s damn good, Jordan. Next you’ll notice there’s a hat on my head and a shirt on my back. Get off your horse. Now!”
I could see he wanted to ask me what for. I didn’t want him to ask me that because I didn’t know the answer. I was angry, bad angry, and I was trying to calm myself down before I did something I’d regret later. I watched as he pulled his horse back to give himself room, then dismounted. I said, “Drop them reins.”
He said, “My horse’ll run off.”
“Shit,” I said in disgust. Man didn’t even know how to train a horse to ground-rein. I eased out of the saddle. We were standing between our two horses. Jordan was about three feet away. He was wearing a sidegun, but he was carefully keeping his hands wide of his sides.
“Pull a gun on a man,” he said. But he was all eyes for the .42/.40-caliber Colt revolver in my hand. “By gawd, it’ll be murder. They’ll ketch you.”
“Shut up, Jordan,” I said. “I’m not going to shoot you. I pulled the gun because you wouldn’t shut your big mouth. And you were putting it on my family. Now I’m going to tell you something. You ever bad-mouth my family and I hear about it, I will pull a gun, only I’ll use it next time. You understand that?”
He just stared at me, pure anger and hate in his eyes. “I unn’erstan’ any sonofabitch can talk tough when he’s holdin’ a gun on a man ain’t got one in his hand. You put that sonofabitch up and see how tough you talk.”
“Jordan, you are trash. I was hoping you wouldn’t turn out to be so, but I see, on short acquaintance, that you are.” I shoved the revolver back in its holster. “There. Now what do—”
He charged me with his head down like a billy goat butting a stump. It happened so sudden that it took me off guard. He smashed into me and the momentum knocked me backwards. I was just able to wrap my arms around his back and carry him over with me as I fell. As we hit the ground I whipped up my right boot and got it in his belly and gave a hard push. Even as heavy as he was, and I figured he outweighed me by ten pounds, he went flying off to the side and landed on his back in the dust. I jumped to my feet. He was scrambling, trying to get up. I let him get almost erect, and then I hit him flush in the face with a hard, driving right. I didn’t care if he was a forty-year-old man. He and I were going to have to reach an understanding and damn quick or I was going to beat him to death.
The right hand knocked him straight backwards. He flailed his arms, trying to keep his balance and not go down. I stepped forward and hooked a left into the side of his head. It knocked him sideways. There was an ugly red splotch in the middle of his face and his nose was leaking blood. But even off balance he got his hands up and drew his right fist back, drawing it way back to throw a haymaker. I said, “That goes back much further you are going to have to put a postage stamp on it.” Then I hit him two quick left jabs, rocking him back on his heels, and then hit him a hard, jolting right on the jaw. He dropped down to his knees and then fell over on his side.
I wasn’t particularly proud of myself. He wasn’t much of a fighter. I could tell from his style that he liked to grab on to somebody and then wrestle around in the dirt and use his strength and size. Well, I’d quit doing that in grammar school.
I said, “Get up, Jordan.”
He was trying to push himself up with his arms, but he was still a little woozy. I reached down, got him by the shirt collar with both hands, and dragged him to his feet. He was still unsteady, so I give him a good shaking. I said, “Jordan. Jordan! Jordan, look at me!”
He shook his head as if to clear it, then slowly raised his hand and touched his face, and then looked at the blood on his hand. He said, “Fuckin’ son’bitch, gonna kill yore ass.” He mumbled it, but I heard it plain. I let go of his collar with my right hand and ripped an uppercut into his belly just below his ribs. The blow almost lifted him off his feet. He went, “Hooooooo,” and fell backwards, his collar jerking out of the hold I still had on him with my left hand. He landed on his back, struggling for breath. I stood over him watching him gasp and heave. I was patient. I knew it’d be a moment or two before he could get his breath back.
Finally his breathing got somewhere near normal, and he struggled up on one elbow and then sat up. One of his eyes was starting to close and his nose was bleeding worse. Every lick I’d hit him had raised a lump. I squatted down where we could be eye to eye. I said, “You just threatened to kill me. You want to try it here and now?”
>
He didn’t answer, just sat there panting, one arm resting over a knee. I noticed he’d lost his revolver. It was laying in the dust about five yards back of him. I also noticed his horse had run off. It hadn’t gone far, just a few yards off the wagon track and into some tall grass, where it was grazing. My horse was standing where I’d left him.
I said, “Jordan, I asked you a question. You threatened to kill me. I’m not planning on letting that pass. You look like a bushwhacker to me, and I don’t plan on riding around this country looking over my shoulder. You want to settle it here and now?”
He made a little surrender move with his hand. He said, lowly, “Didn’t mean it. I was mad as hell. I ain’t no bushwhacker. I jest got mad about my boy Shay and what yore brother tol’ him.”
“Happens I heard a different kind of story. And it happens I know my brother Norris a hell of a lot better than you or your son. Norris don’t threaten. That ain’t his style. And he wouldn’t threaten to run anybody out of the country. The way I heard it was your boy, Shay, come in my brother’s office, uninvited, and showed him that revolver he likes to flash around so well, and told Norris there was more than one way to settle a land dispute.”
He looked up at me. He was still breathing hard. “Then why would the boy come and tell me what he done for? I was goin’ in to see yore brother Norris when I seen you coming out of town. I know you be the boss. I thought I’d take it up with you.”
“You got a damn strange way of going about things. I don’t know where you’re from, Jordan, but folks around here don’t take to having their kin bad-mouthed and they don’t take to a lot of yelling and threats. Now, I don’t know why Shay told you what he did, but I know what Norris, said passed in that office. So far nothing has come of it but a scuffle between me and you. But if it gets to picking up speed it might get out of hand. You understand what I’m saying?”
He put his jaw in his hand and worked it back and forth for a minute. “Maybe Shay overtol’ it. He puts on the dog ever’ once in a while.”
I started to say, “Maybe Shay lied,” but I didn’t. You’ve got to leave a man a little pride. You push his face in the dirt too hard and he’ll never be clean with you. I said, “The matter is going to court. We’re satisfied to let a judge rule.”
He worked his jaw again. “I’m willin’ to let it be over. You hit mighty hard, Mister Williams.”
I stood up. “Then let’s let it be at an end. I’ve got to leave the county for a few days, and I’d like to know there ain’t going to be no flare-ups about this. My youngest brother Ben tends to be a hothead. I’d hate to have any trouble start while I’m gone.”
He pushed off the ground and got to his feet. “Suits me,” he said.
I pointed. “Your revolver is back behind you. I’ll catch up your horse.”
I deliberately turned my back on him, knowing he was picking up his pistol, and walked to my horse and mounted. Still without looking back, I rode over to his horse, caught up the reins, and took him back to Rex Jordan. He took the reins without a word. He hadn’t apologized for badmouthing my family, so I was damned if I’d say I was sorry for punching his face in. But I said, “Your brother . . . I ain’t ever met him.”
He swung into the saddle. “Luther? He’s younger than me. By a good ten years.”
“I ain’t seen him around.”
Jordan said, “He just got outta jail. Down in Mexico. Been kind of enjoyin’ life. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” I said. I nodded and turned my horse for home. I wasn’t all that pleased to hear that he had the kind of brother could get himself thrown in jail in Mexico. But by the same token I couldn’t make too much out of it because Norris had done the same thing. But I somehow doubted it was for the same reason.
I rode along, flexing my right hand. I’d hurt it on Jordan’s hard head when I’d hit him on the side of the jaw. The first time I’d hit him his hat had flown off and I could see he was mostly bald on top. But I didn’t figure it was on account of age. Some men I had known went bald in their early thirties. And there wasn’t nothing old about Jordan’s strength. I’d felt it when he’d charged me, butting me in the chest and trying to get his arms around me to squeeze me like a vise. You didn’t want a man like that to get too close to you. Fortunately, my arms were long enough to hold him off.
But even though we’d both said the matter was settled, I was still troubled. The family was trash. I didn’t like to go around calling people a name like that, but I didn’t know any other that fit.
And then there was the brother, Luther. I didn’t know anything about him, but I did hate to be going off for such a long time with an ex-resident of a Mexican jail lined up on the side opposite my family.
But then, we weren’t exactly defenseless. Ben was worth any four men they could bring up against him, and at least half of our dozen regular hired hands could use a gun to some good effect. And there was still Buttercup and his shoulder-held cannon. He was no bigger than a dried frog, and yet able to make a shot at 500 yards that few men half his age would attempt, much less hope to make a success.
And there was Lew Vara to keep an eye on the situation.
I decided to hell with it. If a man set out to worry about all the possible trouble that could come his way, he’d never get anything done but worry. Still, I couldn’t help but think that Howard had a hell of a nerve asking for his little errand at such a time. I glanced at the sun and kicked the sorrel into a lope. I might still make it in time for lunch, though I didn’t know how I was going to explain my skinned knuckles to Nora. I couldn’t tell her the truth because it would just cause her to worry and to also give me a good scolding for not handling things in a more civilized manner. Nora was never going to learn that there were some people and some situations that just did not respond to a civilized approach. All they did was take it for a sign of weakness.
CHAPTER 4
I didn’t get home for lunch with Nora on account of I swung by the big house to have a word with Ray Hays. I knew the men would be in for the noon meal because they were working close to headquarters, holding the “cut,” the steers we’d be shipping, in a little pasture right up next to the barns.
As I rode up toward the house I spied Hays lallygagging around the bunkhouse, and I rode up and dismounted. Hays said, “Hell, here’s the boss. What have you got to say for yourself there, Mister Williams?”
I said, “Let’s me and you walk off a little ways and have a talk.”
It kind of alarmed him at first, but when I assured him I wasn’t about to fire him, not that he didn’t deserve it, he relaxed a bit. Ray was a slightly built man with sandy hair and a pleasant, open face. You could josh him and you could kid him so long as you were his friend. If you weren’t, it was not a smart thing to push him too far. We walked along and Hays said, “Boy, Boss, feel that fall air? Don’t it make the sap just rise in yore tree? Boy, howdy! This is my kind of weather.”
I looked sideways at him and shook my head. Ray was from west Texas, and out there mid-October meant crisp, cool weather. The fact that it still felt like August must have gotten past him somehow. But that was the way he thought. It was October, it was fall, and it was time to howl.
He said, “Can’t wait fer Saturday night. Hear Miss Maybelle has got some new girls. Ah’m goin’ in an’ have me a ripsnorter of a time. If I don’t feel like I need a doctor Sunday morning ah’m gonna feel like I been cheated.”
We’d walked far enough away from the other cowboys hanging around the door of the bunkhouse so we couldn’t be overheard. I stopped us. I said, “Hays, me and you are fixing to take us a little trip horseback. Cross-country. Pick you out a good traveling horse, a good stayer, because we’re going a pretty good piece. We’ll be leaving the ranch right after the noon meal Friday. Day after tomorrow. We’ll be gone the better part of two weeks.”
His jaw was hanging open. “What about Saturday night?”
“Oh, there’ll still be a Saturday night. Only
thing is that me and you will be spending it out on the prairie somewhere.”
“Aw, hell, Boss . . . I was countin’ on goin’ in to Miss Maybelle’s place Saturday night and washin’ off a little of this hard work.”
I didn’t pay him any mind. I said, “Now this is strictly between you and me. When you go to gathering up supplies and folks start asking you questions, you don’t know nothing. All you’re doing is what I told you to do. You understand that?”
“Yeah,” he said kind of listlessly.
“Pick out a good packhorse. I know we ain’t got no regular packhorses, but do like that time I was headed for Del Rio. Get one that is solid and gentle and won’t spook and that can keep up with us if we have to run. Get a big horse because it’ll be carrying a pretty good load.”
Hays said, “Boss, you sure I’m the right one for this job? I mean—”
“Hush,” I said. “I may need a gun and I may need a steady man in a fight. You recommend anybody else outside of Ben?”
He sighed. He knew there was no way out. “I reckon not.” Then he suddenly brightened. “We wouldn’t be headed for any hot spots, would we? Like Dallas or Houston or Galveston?”
“Might pass some along the way,” I said. “Doubt we’ll have much time to frolic.”
“Well . . .” he said, looking dejected.
“I want you to go to the cooks and get some trail grub. Get a bunch of smoked beef and some cheese and as much bread or biscuits as won’t go stale. And get a bunch of canned goods. And locate a ground sheet. And get several of them big canteens. You can spend Thursday morning getting it all rigged up. I’ll tell Ben I got you busy at something else. And you don’t want to forget your carbine or extra cartridges. Hell, you know what gear to pack. And what grub.”
“Where we goin’?” he asked.
“Why, Ray, I thought you’d be happier than this about the trip. You are always complaining about being stuck here on the ranch. Well, I’m giving you the chance to be stuck out on the prairie.”
Cherokee Page 7