The Fall of Abilene

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “Maybe I should ride with you,” my brother offered.

  “Uhn-uhn.” Hardin shook his head. “You’re night-herding, but don’t fret. I’ll watch over your kid brother. Brit says those Mexicans are partial to gambling.”

  He grinned at me. “What’s eighty-six take away thirty-nine?”

  Chapter Four

  The vaqueros had a smaller herd than ours. Brit spoke Spanish, however, and one of the Mexicans spoke English, so we had no problems conversing. They agreed to let Brit check their herd for any strays that might have wandered, and Hardin invited them to send one of their men to inspect our herd in the morning.

  A bottle of mescal made its rounds, but I just pretended to drink. The clear liquor burned my lips, and the smell alone made me want to retch.

  After the bottle’s third pass, Brit and the Mexican mounted their horses and rode to the herd, while the oldest vaquero left briefly then returned with a colorful blanket, which he spread out on the ground. He spoke no English, but his Spanish sounded so musical, I wished I could speak it. Lots of Texans, like Brit, could carry on conversations with Mexicans, but we Bentons never developed that knack. I also wished that Brit had remained in camp or that I had gone along to check the Mexican’s herd.

  This was the first mistake of both parties. Hardin sent Brit to check the herd. The vaqueros sent Alejandro, who spoke English, with Brit. It made no sense. I blamed it on the mescal.

  Once he sat cross-legged on the edge of the blanket, the old man reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a deck of cards.

  “Poker?” Hardin grinned.

  “No, señor.” The silver-haired, mustachioed vaquero began turning all the cards over in front of him, counting as he did. “Uno, dos, tres …”

  The thinnest Mexican said: “Monte.”

  “Monte.” Box Head echoed, nodding.

  Sam had mentioned monte. Now I wished my brother had been invited to this gathering.

  “It’s not the monte I’ve played before,” Hardin said. “That was only played with three cards. You know this game, Box Head?”

  “No, Wes, not really, but I think this is what they call Spanish monte.” Box Head wet his lips, grinned at the old man, and said: “How about twenty-one?”

  “¿Qué?” said the one with conchos up the seams of his pants and long black hair and a slick mustache and goatee.

  Box Head sighed.

  I looked at the cards, all dealt face up. The cards were much prettier than the cards I had seen. No clubs, spades, hearts, or diamonds. After the last card had been dealt, I said: “There’s only forty. Not fifty-two.”

  Hardin and Box Head just blinked.

  The old man pointed at the cards and began talking. My head bobbed. Some of the cards showed coins, and these were what the vaquero called oros. The cups were called copas, and the swords espadas, and I guess those club things were bastos.

  Deftly, the man gathered all forty cards, shuffled and reshuffled, and before he began to deal, he smiled and spoke softly in his native tongue while dealing two cards faceup on the blanket.

  “He dealt off the bottom,” Box Head whispered.

  “I saw it,” Hardin said. “So did these other greasers.”

  They didn’t seem to mind, and the vaquero followed this by turning over two cards from the top of the deck.

  Now the other vaqueros either laid pesos on the cards or did not bet at all.

  “Puerto.” The old man turned the deck over. All these years later, I do not recall what the card was, or even the suit, but some vaqueros laughed, one shook his head, and the dealer gathered up the coins he had won. The old-timer glanced at us, smiled, and dealt another round.

  When he paid the winners and took the money from the losers, he again shuffled and dealt. This time, when he asked for bets, he looked at me first. Smiling, I pulled a two-bit piece from my vest pocket and placed the coin on the top layout. Boy, that felt pretty fun when, after all the bets had been made—Hardin and Box Head just watched—and I saw that the “monte” card, the bottom card on the deck he turned over, was a cup, same as the one I’d bet on.

  I got my American quarter back along with the Mexican coin.

  So I bet again, and this time so did Box Head and Hardin. I’m not sure they’d figured out the game, but it seemed simple to me. You were betting on the suit. I didn’t have to count cards. Hardin could have left me to night-herd, but then I would not have won three or four pesos. And, golly, the Mexicans played this game fast. By the time Brit and the English-speaking Mexican returned, sipping from a new jug, we had started on our twenty-ninth hand.

  The old man turned over the deck.

  “Pay the queen, boys.” Hardin’s cold eyes locked on the ancient vaquero.

  “No,” the old-timer began, speaking rapid Spanish, not in anger, but in explanation.

  That’s as far as the vaquero got, because as he reached to collect the dollar Hardin had bet, Hardin slapped his hand, hard.

  “You aren’t cheating me, you son of …”

  I opened my mouth but stopped. Brit was starting to say something about this not being three-card monte, but the old man, insulted and angered by Hardin’s reaction, reached for the knife sheathed on his left side.

  “No,” I whispered, feeling the good nature sour. Then I shouted: “Don’t do that!”

  Hardin had one of his Colts out before I realized what was happening. The old man fell on his back and clutched his nose with both hands. Blood gushed between his fingers, and he writhed on the ground, groaning. The Mexican with the fancy britches palmed his revolver, but Hardin already had the pistol aimed, and that cannonade left my ears ringing. Half blinded from the muzzle flash, I fell backward.

  Another shot. Maybe two or three more.

  Box Head said: “Let’s get out of here, boys!”

  Something crunched. The old man groaned. Hardin said: “Take that, you cheating greaser!”

  Something hard and hot burned my chest. My eyes opened, and I saw Hardin, his Colt touched my shirt, the barrel hot. He said: “Get up.”

  Even with thumb and two fingers wrapped around the walnut butt of his Colt, Hardin gripped my shirt and jerked me upright. I weaved as Hardin let go, then he spun and fired two more bullets into the blanket and cards. Coins scattered.

  I felt myself shoved toward Star.

  “Party’s over,” Hardin said. He emptied that revolver, although he had to hold the cylinder with his left hand to get the weapon to fire. Finally, the Colt slid into the vest holster, and Hardin backed his way to the picket rope where we had tethered our horses. Two other vaqueros, night-herding their cattle, rode toward us but stopped after Brit fired a bullet over their heads.

  “We Texans won’t tolerate cheating by the likes of you!” Hardin shouted as he found a stirrup, and we departed that camp as quickly as we could.

  * * * * *

  “What do you mean?” Hardin asked.

  “It’s Spanish monte, Wes,” Sam told him. “Not three-card monte. You’re not trying to find the queen. It’s all about the suits. That’s all you’re betting on.”

  Back at camp, most of the boys started laughing, but not me. I didn’t know if Hardin had killed one or more of those Mexicans.

  “Queen was the highest card out there,” Hardin argued.

  “But monte’s not poker, Wes,” said Jim Clements, another one of Mr. Carroll’s hired hands and one of Hardin’s best friends.

  Someone tossed Hardin a small bottle, and he took a snootful of the brown liquid. After swishing it around in his mouth, he swallowed and passed the bottle to Three-Fingered Dave, who kept shaking his head and giggling.

  “Wish I could’ve been there,” he said.

  I wish he’d been there instead of me.

  “Those Mexicans should’ve played a Texas game,” Hardin said. He laughed and
studied my brother. “So you’re saying the queen doesn’t win that game.”

  Sam’s head bobbed.

  Hardin laughed. So did Clements, who pounded Hardin’s back. “Next time, pard, you got to invite me to one of those games. I sort of feel you was holding out on me.”

  Hardin took the small bottle from Three-Fingered Dave and handed it to Clements.

  “Queen doesn’t top a trey? Well, it doesn’t matter. Neighbors will likely try to put up a statue of me for cleaning those greasers out. Just the same, between those Mexicans and that colored boy I buffaloed this morning, we ought to start pushing what cattle we’ve got north come first light.”

  Nobody smiled at that, especially Erastus McDougal.

  “I ain’t got nowhere near enough grub to get us to the Red River, Wes, let alone Kansas.”

  “Get your supplies at Lockhart,” Hardin said. “We’re moving out at first light.”

  Chapter Five

  One day of riding drag cured me of any excitement about driving sixteen hundred steers to Abilene.

  Heat sucked the life out of me, and dust coated my clothes, skin, and my insides—no matter how tightly I tied that bandanna over my nose and mouth. By the end of the day, my backside felt raw, and the insides of my thighs and calves had been chaffed so bad, it hurt to walk. My back ached. Everyplace ached.

  We made ten miles. Only ten miles, though Hatley figured it might have been closer to eleven. I’d be older than Methuselah before I ever saw Abilene.

  Though not hungry, I ate, longing to crawl into my sugans and sleep—but before I’d rolled out my blankets, Jim Clements informed me that I would not be sleeping till Three-Fingered Dave spelled me around eleven. I had to night-herd.

  “Don’t worry,” he told me. “We pushed them hard today. Likely, they’re too tired to stampede, and it don’t look like rain or thunder. Should be peaceable. And we’ll slow them down tomorrow, not push them as hard. Maybe make eight miles.”

  Eight miles! No, I’d never see Abilene.

  It took more than a week before we neared Lockhart, but only Wes Hardin, Jim Clements, and Erastus McDougal got to have themselves a whiskey and a sit-at-a-table supper in town. At least they came back with plenty of grub, and Erastus made us a vinegar pie the next evening.

  By then, my appetite was fading even more. So was Sam’s. I figured it was because our bellies were filled with swallowed dust. Already the drive had worn me down into a stupor, and we had not yet gone a hundred miles.

  We pushed on. I didn’t feel any better.

  Box Head’s head hurt. My back pained me.

  Then the itching started.

  “Rose-rash,” Erastus declared after rolling up my shirt sleeves and feeling the pink spots on my arms. “I’ll rub some grease on it. Don’t scratch too much. Might open them up and get infected.”

  “I’m too tired to itch myself,” I told him.

  He stared at me, put the back of his hand against my forehead, and sent me to my bedroll.

  You can’t get sick on a trail drive. Up before dawn, I made myself drink coffee and attempted to get down half a biscuit before moving to the remuda to cut out the horse I wanted.

  Box Head got sick the next day. Three-Fingered Dave had chills after that. So did Brit. Hatley groaned and wished he was dead. Sam swore that he had never been sick a day in his life, forgetting the bronchitis that laid him up when I was six years old.

  My nose started running. My skin turned hot and dry. Most of us began coughing hoarsely. The rose-rash spread to my chest, and I had trouble keeping my eyes open.

  Somewhere in Williamson County—Corn Hill, I later learned—we lay in our sugans, coughing, sweating, believing that death would be an improvement, while Hardin glared down at us. Hardin, Erastus, Jim Clements, and our wrangler, a Mexican boy named Carlos who was younger than me, were the only ones not ailing.

  “Rose-rash, Erastus?” Hardin swore. “It’s measles.”

  “Measles?” Erastus shook his head. “Don’t only kids get that?”

  “Carlos don’t have ’em,” Clements said. “Maybe he carried ’em. Maybe he give everybody ’em spots and fever and chills.”

  Hardin moved to the chuck wagon. “Jim, you can be a horse’s arse. Carlos isn’t sick because he had measles as a kid, most likely. Same as you. Same as me. Same as Erastus. You and Carlos will have to circle the herd till I can get these boys on their feet again.” He started pulling open drawers built into the wagon. “Erastus, do you have any carbonate of ammonia?”

  “What the hell is that?” the cook asked.

  Hardin slammed the drawer shut. “Cut out a horse. Ride into Georgetown. Did you get apples in Lockhart?”

  “No. I got flour. Beans. Salt pork. Some lard. Airtights of tomatoes.”

  “I don’t need your grocery list, Erastus. Now get some apples … some niter … the carbonate of ammonia I’ve already mentioned, and rice. You did get some salt, didn’t you?”

  “I got plenty of salt. Where do I get this niter?”

  “You might have to find an apothecary. But the mercantile might have some in stock.” By then Hardin had found a writing tablet and a pencil. He licked the tip of the pencil and wrote down the needed items. “Probably need some bottles of cough cure. Don’t drink it yourself, Erastus. Some salve. Epsom salts.”

  “Shouldn’t I fetch a doctor?”

  “No.” Hardin ripped out the page of paper and tossed the pencil back into the drawer. He strode back toward the cook. “Don’t tell nobody that anybody’s sick. Don’t tell no one where we are. Folks get into a panic when they hear somebody’s sick. They’ll think we’ve all got the typhoid or cholera. And I don’t want anyone fetching the law here. Get back as soon as you can. And … get calomel. Almost forgot that. That’s not written down. Can you remember it?”

  “Yeah. I ain’t that old that I’m senile. And I know what calomel’s for.”

  So did I.

  “Again, Erastus … don’t drink the cough cure.” He pulled out some gold coins from a leather pouch. “Bring me back all the change and a bill of sale.” After handing the cook the money and the list, Hardin motioned at me. “I’ll have Counting Boy check your bill of sale. He’ll know how much money you should bring back, so don’t go stopping in some grog shop to buy yourself a pilsner.”

  * * * * *

  John Wesley Hardin, who had killed somewhere between seven and seventeen men—depending on your source—moved us over to the shade trees. Hardin did most of the nursing—didn’t seem to mind—though Clements, Carlos, and Erastus helped him from time to time.

  We soaked our feet in water with the Epsom salts in a large wreck pan. The calomel did its work. Hardin boiled rice—Erastus, Clements, Carlos, and Hardin ate the grain—and he fed us the water it was boiled in, like a broth. We ate sliced apples and drank apple tea, which he made by pouring hot water over the raw apples. I guess he put niter and carbonate of ammonia in our drinks. Coffee was forbidden. Oh, Erastus made plenty, but only he, Hardin, Clements, and Carlos drank that. We were only allowed the rice water and apple tea.

  He played twenty-one with me, not for money, just to pass the time and see how fast I could add up my cards. He read the Bible to Three-Fingered Dave, who swore he was dying and wanted to make his peace with the Lord. He helped us to the latrine he and the boys had dug—and that was not a pretty place to be even after we had finished all the calomel.

  He covered us with blankets or took the blankets off.

  The salve Erastus brought from Georgetown was labeled for veterinary use, but he tested that on Hatley and decided that it would work for the rest of us, too.

  On the fourth day, a white steer, big and ornery, drifted in. That was not the first steer to join our herd. When he wasn’t playing nursemaid, Hardin had road-branded maybe three or four steers that wandered too close to our herd. The bi
g steer, though, wanted to fight, so Hardin did not try to slap a hot iron on its hide. He shot it.

  Erastus and Carlos butchered it, setting out most of the meat to dry for jerky, and they ate steaks while we drank beef broth.

  “Meant to shoot that devil in the nose,” Hardin said. “Missed my aim. Plugged him through the eye by accident.”

  I never thought it was an accident.

  Two nights later, Hardin let me chew on some fried meat.

  “The saying is,” he said, “that you don’t eat your own beef on a drive. It’ll make you sick.”

  “I’m sick enough,” I told him, though I felt much better.

  “This isn’t our beef, so you should be fine.”

  I requested coffee, but he shook his head. “Apple tea for another day or two.”

  At least I had been treated to meat.

  “What brings you on this drive?” he asked.

  “My pa got bad hurt,” I said after a long silence. “Need the money.”

  His head bobbed. “What’s your pa like?”

  “Now?” I didn’t want to think about it.

  “No. Before he got hurt.”

  I shrugged. “Like most fathers, I guess. I don’t know. Works hard. Was with Hood during the war. He and Sam.”

  “That a fact?” He didn’t wait for confirmation. “My war didn’t start till after the surrender.” Hardin shook out his dregs. “We never should’ve surrendered.” He paused. “My pa’s a preacher,” he then blurted out.

  I smiled. “That’s why you’re being a … umm … Good Samaritan? Helping us. Nursing us.”

  His head shook. “Nobody ever called John Wesley Hardin a Good Samaritan before. Not likely to again.”