The Breckenridge Boys

by Carlton Stowers

  “I can be there early tomorrow morning,” Dr. Franklin said. “Meanwhile, it might be of use for you to start putting some warm rags on the horse’s leg to reduce the swelling.”

  Rankin watched the doctor leave before returning the conversation to the death of Cal Breckenridge. “I can’t recall seeing young Cal since you boys were getting ready to go off and fight against the Union,” he said. “You seen or heard from him much lately?”

  Clay shook his head.

  “Got any thoughts on who might be responsible for this?”

  Though Clay didn’t immediately answer, the marshal was already certain that the list of suspects might well be lengthy. A close friend of the boys’ father from the time his children were young, Rankin knew many of the troubles Cal had caused his old friend. Ed Breckenridge had occasionally shared his worries with the marshal when they were fishing together and drinking persimmon beer. The father could never understand what caused the anger and rebellion that so darkened the soul of one son while the other was kindhearted and loving.

  There was a troubling meanness in Cal. He picked fights, drunk or sober, and had no friends aside from his older brother. He wasn’t above stealing now and then, rarely pulled his weight at chore time, and showed little respect for his elders.

  When he joined the Confederate Army along with Clay, Ed allowed himself hope that the discipline of military service might provide the maturity his son so badly needed. Instead, his heart was broken when he learned that Cal had deserted.

  Thereafter, Ed Breckenridge never again spoke his younger son’s name.

  “Bein’ as we don’t know from which direction his horse might have come or how far he traveled,” the marshal said, “it’s likely to be difficult determining responsibility for your brother’s killing. But you’ve got my God-honest word I’ll be asking questions. And if you think of anyone I might need to speak to, just let me know.”

  Clay stared at the floor as the marshal spoke. “Somebody will pay for what’s been done,” he said, his voice barely a whisper yet filled with a resolve Marshal Rankin had never before heard from the man seated across from him.

  * * *

  * * *

  A GRAVE HAD been dug in the grove near the creek by the time the hearse arrived. Clay was in the barn, applying heat packs to the leg of his brother’s horse when Dr. Franklin called out.

  Joining him on the trip to the farm was Jonesy Pate.

  “Just so you know,” Pate said, “I invited myself to ride along after Doc here told me what has taken place. Figured you fellas might could use a hand with the lifting and burying.” A rancher and Breckenridge’s nearest neighbor, he and Clay had been friends since boyhood days. He’d been in town, having breakfast in the hotel dining room, when he’d overheard the doctor talking about Cal’s death.

  Silently and with little ceremony, the men lifted the wooden casket from the hearse and lowered it into the grave. While Clay and Jonesy shoveled dirt, the doctor headed to the barn to examine the lame horse.

  Once the burial was complete, Jonesy leaned against a tree trunk, studying his friend. Clay had read no scripture nor said a prayer once his brother had been laid to rest.

  “What are you thinking?” Jonesy asked. “You’ve been mighty quiet.”

  As they walked toward the barn, Clay reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded two-dollar note he’d removed from his brother’s body before taking it to town. He handed it to Jonesy, who unfolded and read the message scrawled on it.

  Will Darby was a no-good coward. . . .

  “Who do you reckon Will Darby might be?” Jonesy asked.

  “My brother. It’s a name he took after he left the Confederates. He wrote me about it sometime back so I’d know the name he was using and his whereabouts. I wrote him a letter, telling him of Pa’s failing health and urging him to pay a visit. But he never showed.”

  “Got any notion what this note’s about?”

  Clay shook his head. “Only that somebody had a powerful grudge against him and appears to want the world to know about it.”

  “You tell Marshal Rankin about it?”

  “I got no reason to think the note was for the marshal’s benefit.”

  Doc Franklin was rubbing liniment onto the horse’s leg when they entered the barn. “The heat you’ve been applying has helped with the swelling enough so that we can put on a splint,” he said. “I’m guessing he done damage to ligaments, most likely stepping in a gopher hole.

  “I think there’s a good chance the leg will heal to a point that he’ll be able to walk without a problem, but should you choose to keep him, he’ll not be of much use for anything except eating and keeping the mares company.”

  Clay stepped forward and stroked the animal’s neck. “Then I reckon that’s the future he’s got to look ahead to,” he said. “My brother thought highly of this horse. Raised him from a colt. And I figure the horse loved him back. When the need came, it was him who brought my brother home.”

  After the doctor left, Clay and Jonesy sat on a bench outside the barn, silently facing the warm sunlight as it peeked through the limbs of the distant pecan trees.

  It was Clay who finally spoke. “I’m wondering,” he said, “if you might consider doing me a favor.”

  “Whatever you need.”

  “I might be away for a spell and was wondering if you could spare one of your hands to come over and see to things here on the farm—keep doctoring Cal’s horse, feed the stock, keep my dog company, things of that nature. I’ve got calf money set aside, so I can afford to pay a fair wage.”

  “I expect I could spare old Ruben. He’s a hard worker and honest, just not much at cowboying anymore, truth be known. When do you think you’ll be needing him?”

  “Soon,” Clay said. “Maybe a couple of days from now.”

  “Then I’ll bring him over day after tomorrow so you can tell him what it is you’ll be wanting him to see to,” Jonesy said as he rose to leave.

  Clay walked with him to where he’d tethered his horse. As his friend climbed into the saddle, he buried his hands into his hip pockets.

  “You know,” he said, “my brother wasn’t near as bad as most folks believe.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  SMOKE HAD JUST begun to lazily curl from the cabin’s chimney when Jonesy Pate and Ruben arrived at the Breckenridge farm. Ruben was leading a packhorse.

  “We’re wasting daylight,” Jonesy called out as Clay stepped from the barn and pulled his hat tight against his head. “I got no idea where it is we’re going or how long you figure it’s gonna take us to get there, but until we get on our way—”

  “We?” Clay turned his puzzled look from Jonesy to the packhorse. He saw bedrolls, a couple of rifles, saddlebags no doubt filled with foodstuff, and a couple of canteens.

  “Don’t want you getting lost or lonesome,” Jonesy said, “so I made up my mind to go with you.” He’d known from the first time Breckenridge spoke of his brother’s death that he was determined to find whoever killed Cal. And apparently he had some idea of where to look. Pate had doubts that it was a mission his friend would be able to accomplish alone. Despite his military service, Clay was a farmer, not a fighter. “No need for arguing. You get on with telling Ruben here what it is you’ll be needing him to do in your absence. Then we can be on our way.”

  Resigned, Clay smiled. “I’ll be grateful for your company.”

  “Want to inform me what direction we’ll be heading?” Jonesy dismounted and began petting Sarge.

  “West. Out to a place called Tascosa,” Clay replied. “Least that’s where I’m of a mind to start asking questions. When I last heard from Cal, his letter came from there. It’s a resting stop for cattle drivers and buffalo hunters. My impression is it ain’t exactly a peaceful place to visit. What we’ll do is just follow the Red River the better part of the way
. In time we’ll be up on the high plains. Somewhere up there is Tascosa.”

  As he spoke, Ruben stood nearby like a soldier awaiting orders. Clay waved him toward the barn. Inside, he first took the old cowhand to the stall where Cal’s horse waited.

  “Es a beautiful horse,” Ruben said.

  Clay showed him the salve he was to rub on the bay’s injured leg. “He’s improved considerably, so I’m thinking maybe you can lead him out into the pasture of a morning so he can graze for an hour or two every day. Sunshine and fresh air will do him good.”

  As he showed his spread to Ruben, it was obvious that Breckenridge was proud of his place. The barn and the pens housing pigs, goats, and laying hens were stoutly built. Tools were stored in an orderly fashion. There was no disrepair or neglect to be seen. “About all that’ll need doing is to keep the animals fed and watered,” Clay said. “As for your own needs, there’s venison and beef in the smokehouse. In a bin out back of the cabin, there’s sweet potatoes buried in straw, and the chickens lay eggs regular. In the kitchen you’ll find necessaries like coffee, flour, and corn meal. In the cupboard is a half-full bottle of whiskey you’re welcome to sip on if you’re of a mind.”

  “Muy bueno. Your home is very nice. I will watch over it with much care.”

  Clay shook his hand. “If its suits you,” he said, “we’ll do our financial settling up when I get back. In the event you don’t see me again, go to the bank in town and ask for Hector Wayne. He’ll see you are paid what’s owed you.”

  He began to walk toward the cabin, then stopped after a few steps. “One more thing. Of a night, Sarge is used to sleeping at the foot of the bed. And he’s pretty set in his ways.”

  Ruben nodded. “We will be good friends,” he said.

  When Clay emerged from the cabin he had a saddlebag slung over one shoulder and at his hip was his old holster with CSA embossed on it. It was the first time Jonesy had ever seen his friend wearing a sidearm.

  * * *

  * * *

  THEY TRAVELED ALONG the southern bank of the river for the first two days, the weather mild and the sky blue and cloudless. Then came a late-afternoon spring storm that turned the horizon black and forced them to quickly seek shelter from the approaching wind and rain.

  They had just managed to urge their nervous horses under a hillside outcrop when the storm began. Loud peals of thunder and jagged bolts of lightning alternated as the storm’s intensity grew.

  While Breckenridge unsaddled the horses, Pate had managed to gather enough dry mesquite to build a fire. He set a pan outside their shelter, letting it fill with rainwater so he could brew coffee.

  In time the storm calmed to a gentle rainfall, and Jonesy began to remove his clothes. “I’m past due my bath taking,” he explained to his surprised companion as he stepped from the shelter of the rock overhang. “Bathing in the clean rain is a far sight better than in that muddy river,” he said. Wearing only his hat, boots, and long johns, he danced in the rain, lifting his face to let the cool drops fall into his mouth.

  For the first time in longer than he could remember, Clay laughed so hard, tears filled his eyes.

  Jonesy was still doing his rain jig when there was a rustle in a stand of nearby bushes and a young boy suddenly stepped into the clearing. He looked to be fifteen, maybe sixteen, and was soaked and shivering. He stared silently at the near-naked man.

  “I guess you ain’t never before seen a growed man dancing in the rain,” Jonesy said as he moved toward the youngster. “What is it that brings you out in such weather?”

  The youngster pointed in the direction of the river. “Our wagon got washed away,” he said.

  Clay had hurried from his shelter as soon as he’d seen the boy and placed a blanket across his shoulders. “Come get by the fire and dry yourself,” he said. “You got a name?”

  “Lonnie.”

  With little prodding, the boy explained that his parents had left Kansas en route to a friend’s ranch in far West Texas where jobs awaited. “Pa and me was gonna learn to do cowboying, and Ma was going to tend to the cooking and cleaning,” he said.

  “When we come to the river, Pa got all excited, saying Texas was just on the other side. We seen that the storm was coming, but the water looked shallow, and we thought we could get across before the rain came.”

  What his father hadn’t considered was that the rain was already coming down hard upriver, causing it to quickly rise and flow ahead of the storm.

  “We were in the middle of the river when the water came in a rush,” Lonnie said. “It happened so fast, there wasn’t nothing to do but jump out of the wagon and swim for the bank. Ma, she never learned to swim, so last I saw of her, she was being washed downstream. Pa yelled for me to swim toward this side since it looked a bit closer. He was going after Ma, but I never seen nothing but his hat floating past.”

  Clay and Jonesy exchanged glances as the boy explained what had occurred.

  “We’re about to lose daylight,” Jonesy said. “Come morning, we’ll saddle up and see if we can locate your people. Meanwhile, let’s get you something to eat.”

  The campfire was still aglow and the rain had stopped by the time the exhausted youngster, dry and fed, fell asleep.

  * * *

  * * *

  THE MEN FOUND the wreckage of the wagon almost a mile downstream. The ribs that had held the canvas cover in place were bare, skeleton-like, and two of the wheels were a hundred yards away, tangled in a dam of brush and tree limbs. Near the bank, when the water was again shallow, was a dead horse.

  The bodies of Lonnie’s parents lay on a sandbar that had resurfaced in the middle of the river following the storm. Both were bruised and torn by the rocks and brush they had repeatedly collided with while being hurled through the flooding. The man’s arms were wrapped around his wife’s waist.

  “He tried to save her,” Clay observed. “He did all he could. His boy’ll be needing to know that.”

  Jonesy nodded in agreement. “What is it we should do now?”

  “I’ll stay here and try and make the bodies as presentable as possible while you ride back and fetch the boy,” Clay said. “He can say his goodbyes, and then we’ll find a proper burying place.”

  Though both were already searching for answers to long-range questions, neither mentioned it. Only when Jonesy had ridden away did Clay whisper to himself, “One step at a time.”

  * * *

  * * *

  LONNIE WAS SILENT as he rode behind Pate to where his parents’ bodies had been found. He then sat motionless on a rock pile, watching as the men dug side-by-side graves in a shaded area where wild grapevines wound through tree limbs. Only when dirt had filled the burial sites and Clay and Jonesy began gathering smooth river stones to cover the graves and ward off predators did the youngster participate. Once the task was completed, Jonesy walked to a nearby hillside where spring wildflowers had begun to bloom and picked small bouquets to place on the graves.

  “This is a mighty nice place you picked, Mr. Clay,” the boy said.

  As he spoke, there was a rustle in the nearby brush and a mare, her coat caked with mud, appeared. Part of the team pulling the ill-fated wagon, she had managed to break away and reach safety. The horse slowly walked toward the boy.

  “Her name’s Maizy,” Lonnie said as he gently brushed mud from her mane. “I gave her that name when Pa brought her home. When there was no plowing to get done or town trip in the wagon, I rode her to school.” A hint of a smile appeared as he spoke.

  “You got anything in mind to say to your folks before we take our leave?” Breckenridge asked.

  Lonnie shook his head. “I done said it in my head, private.” He then led Maizy to stand by the tree stump so he could use it to climb onto her back. “I’ll wait until we get back to the camp before I start cleaning her up.”

  Clay and Jonesy watc
hed the youngster ride bareback along the riverbank. Once the boy had put enough distance between them, Clay addressed their problem. “I’m thinking he has a right to speak his mind on the matter,” he said, “but we’ve got to decide on what we’re to do about him. Impression he’s given is that the folks they were headed to work for ain’t relations, just friends. If he’s got kin, he ain’t bothered to mention them.”

  * * *

  * * *

  THEY DISCUSSED THE matter after dinner. Maizy’s coat shined after Lonnie had found a rocky basin of clean rainwater to bathe away the river mud. He’d borrowed Jonesy’s knife and dug caked dirt and pebbles from the horse’s hooves.

  “It ain’t our intent to leave you on your own,” Jonesy said. “We’re wondering if you’ve given any thoughts to what you might be wanting to do.”

  Lonnie shrugged. “I reckon I could try going on to the ranch where we was heading and see if they’d hire me on,” he said, “but I don’t rightly know the location. All I knew was we was heading somewhere out in West Texas. Even if I did know where it is, I expect it would be far out of your way. I wouldn’t mind to ride along with you folks for a spell. I won’t be no trouble. I can cook pretty good. And I’ll tend the horses.”

  When there was no response the boy was quiet for a minute, then said, “You ever hear of a place called Eagle Flat? It’s a little town located somewhere on the Red River.”

  Neither Clay nor Jonesy had ever heard of the place.

  “Ma made mention of it several times as we was traveling. She said she had a cousin who had married a cattleman and was living there. I think she must have been in poor health. Ma, she was wondering if we might have time to stop in for a visit, but Pa said it was too far west of our route.”

  “Our plan is to continue heading in that direction,” Clay said. “I reckon you could come along until we can find this Eagle Flat and your ma’s cousin.” He glanced toward Maizy. “Unfortunately, we ain’t got another saddle.”