CHAPTER NINE
JONESY WAS SITTING on the steps in front of the saloon when Breckenridge and Madge returned. Clay waited until he’d unhooked the buggy and returned it to its place before telling his friend about the trip. Without a word, Madge disappeared inside to resume her cleaning chores.
“Did the young woman have any idea who might have been responsible for your brother’s killing?” Jonesy said.
“When she was talking with Madge, she mentioned somebody who had kept coming around, even after my brother started to court her. Said she didn’t like him, but he apparently wasn’t inclined to take no for an answer.”
“She give his name?”
“She doesn’t recall it, but said he worked for Baggett.” He paused for a second, then added, “So did my brother.”
It was late in the afternoon when they walked toward the tent encampment. “I spoke with Rayburn earlier,” Jonesy said, “and he informed me that we’ll be needing to take leave of our tent tomorrow. A herd’s coming in to make a rest stop.”
Routinely, cattle drivers would camp their herd a mile or so outside of town, leaving a small crew of wranglers to watch over the grazing cattle. The others would enjoy the luxury of Tascosa, sleeping in Rayburn’s tents, visiting the saloon, and stocking up on necessities at the mercantile.
“I’ll be interested to see if there’s any contact between Baggett’s folks and those driving the cattle through,” Clay said. “If we’re going to be sleeping in the open again, I suggest we pick us a spot that will provide us a chance to keep an eye on this incoming herd.” He already had a good idea what they would see.
“So what’s our plan between now and then?”
“We might see about helping Madge with the cleaning of her saloon,” Clay said.
She was surprised when they entered.
“We were wondering what kind of wages you pay for doing cleanup work.”
Madge laughed. “For pushing a broom or mop,” she said, “I can set out a bottle of whiskey. For anybody knowing how to mend broken furniture, I’d be inclined to cook up a steak.”
Clay reached for a broom while Jonesy asked Madge if she had any tools.
“Out back in the shed,” she said.
It was past midnight by the time things were back in order. The floors were swept and mopped. The chairs and tables that could be repaired were; the others had been hauled out back for kindling. The remnants of a mirror were taken down, replaced by an unimpressive painting of the saloon’s exterior a drunk customer had painted years earlier.
“I’d say things look presentable enough for business,” Madge said as they sat at the bar. She had cooked a late dinner of steak and potatoes and was bringing bowls of blackberry cobbler from the kitchen. “I’m appreciative of what you boys have done.”
Breckenridge explained that he’d told his friend about their conversation with Jennie out at the Broder farm.
Too tired to sleep, they continued talking by the light of nearby lanterns.
“If it’s none of my business, feel free to say so,” Clay said, “but I can’t help wondering how a woman like yourself got here to run this establishment.”
Madge smiled and took a sip of her whiskey. “Some years back my husband and I came here from Kansas City after learning this was a little town just getting started. It sounded like a place with a future, what with more and more cattle drives passing through. We came and used some money my father had gifted me after his success silver mining to open this saloon.”
In time, she said, her husband decided it was too much work for too little profit. He began spending more time losing at poker than he did tending bar. “He also became an enthusiastic consumer of the whiskey we’d stocked to sell.”
In time, he began disappearing, sometimes for several days and without explanation. “Every time he returned, he would have a good amount of money in his pocket—which he quickly set about losing at the poker table.
“This went on for some time before he finally got drunk enough one night to tell me what it was he was doing. He talked of this man Ben Baggett, who knew ways of making money. Good money, he put it, not like the piddling wages one earns selling drinks in a saloon.
“He talked of Baggett like he was some kind of genius, but actually he was just a common thief, the leader of an outlaw gang of good-for-nothings. A sorry lot my husband happily joined up with.”
Madge was getting tipsy as she talked of things she’d shared with no one before. “Finally, I’d had my fill and told him his choice was either me or being a thief. He slapped me hard against the side of my head, went behind the bar, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and took his leave. It was the last time I ever saw him, and good riddance. I’d have divorced him if this two-bit town had a lawyer. These days, if I was to learn he’s dead and gone, I wouldn’t mind a bit. Fact is, it would be doing the world a favor. At least he’s had the good sense not to show himself in here.”
Clay felt a twinge of guilt as he listened to Madge’s miseries. Still, he pressed for more information. “What is it he does for Baggett?”
“Like all of them,” she said, “takes from those who can’t afford it or are unable to do anything about it. They rustle cattle, rob stagecoaches, take goods from traveling wagons, always careful to carry out their foul deeds where no law’s nearby.”
Her speech was becoming a little slurred as she passed along the information her husband had told her. He had described a rustling operation unlike any Breckenridge or Pate had ever heard of. Rather than making raids on large ranches, Baggett would dispatch groups in various directions to prey on small, unsuspecting ranchers. Each raid would result in a dozen or more stolen cattle and often go unnoticed. By the time a sizable number of cattle had been assembled, arrangements would be made with cattle drivers headed north. They would mix them with the herd they were moving until they got to the sale site, then cut them out and enjoy the profit. So cattle stolen from poor folks got sold off twice.
“Pretty clever thinking,” Jonesy said. “Downright sorry behavior but clever.”
Madge’s eyelids were becoming heavy. “Time I get to bed,” she said. “I’m about talked out anyway. Again, I much appreciate your helping me out . . . and listening.”
Clay had one more question as they walked toward the door. “Why do you stay here?”
Madge faintly smiled. “I got nothing else,” she said.
* * *
* * *
TWO NIGHTS LATER Breckenridge and Pate left the comfort of their tent and were camped out on a hillside near where a large herd of cattle grazed in the moonlight. Around a fire, a half dozen trail drivers sat, sharing stories. Occasionally, the sounds of laughter and curses echoed in the still night.
It was well after midnight when the quiet was interrupted by a gentle rumble of approaching hooves. Soon the flicker of torches appeared on the horizon. “Looks like they’re coming to do business,” Jonesy said.
They watched silently as the arriving cattle were driven into the main herd. Then there was the exchange of a saddlebag from one of the trail drivers to the leader of the group that had arrived with the stolen cattle.
The transaction was over in a matter of minutes. As the visiting riders left, their torches still aflame, Clay watched them disappear.
“I think,” he told Jonesy, “it’s time we figure out a way to see what’s going on down in that canyon. I’m of a strong mind that’s where we’ll find the man I’m looking for.”
CHAPTER TEN
PALO DURO CANYON is a thousand-feet-deep, ten-mile-wide geographic scar that runs along Texas’ Caprock Escarpment. A half day’s ride south of Tascosa, it was an unwelcoming landscape of jagged ledges, massive boulders, dark caves, and a terrain only the most sure-footed of man and beast could safely travel.
Once large herds of buffalo, antelope, and mule deer roamed its basin along the banks
of a winding offshoot of the Red River, but when discovered by Indian tribes, they were soon wiped out, leaving only coyotes, rattlesnakes, and the haunting winds that constantly whistle through strange formations and scrubby mesquites and along narrow pathways.
It was an excellent place for a hideout. And it had been Ben Baggett’s home for almost a decade.
Over the years, he had organized his operation to military-like efficiency. There were scouts who often traveled in pairs, sometimes alone, searching out potential rustling targets, carefully instructed to focus on small farms and ranches that were located a considerable distance from sheriffs and marshals. The scouts would report back with locations, routes of escape, and hiding places to await buyers from cattle drives.
Throughout northern Texas, west into New Mexico Territory, and along the southern border of Indian Territory, favored routes of wagon and stagecoaches had been located and reported to Baggett.
Once targets were determined, men he relied on as lieutenants would lead small groups of raiders to carry out the thefts. Sometimes as many as three groups would be at work simultaneously in different regions.
In the canyon, Dell Baggett was assigned to oversee the building of living quarters for the men—dugouts, log-and-mud cabins—and corrals for the horses. He saw to it that members of the gang ate meals prepared by an aging chuck wagon cook who had been lured into the fold. He had planted a vegetable garden along the riverbank, assembled a flock of chickens, and urged the raiders to occasionally return with a stolen calf to be butchered.
It was Dell’s responsibility to decide what supplies needed to be stolen or purchased and how the wages of each member of the outfit would be paid on a monthly basis. And it had been his suggestion that the men be allowed an occasional payday visit to the saloon up in Tascosa.
So well run was the operation that Ben Baggett had little to do aside from counting his money and hiding it away in a canyon cave only he knew about.
Then a freakish accident occurred that briefly changed things.
Having spotted a chicken-stealing bobcat roaming the canyon rim one afternoon, Dell got his rifle and went in pursuit. While negotiating the rugged terrain, paying more attention to the route being taken by the animal than his own footing, he slipped and fell into a crevice. The fall itself was short and not harmful, but at the bottom of the opening was a large den of rattlesnakes.
Before he could climb to his feet, the young Baggett had been bitten repeatedly, in the face, on the limbs and torso. His calls for help went unheard for some time, and by the time he was found and rescued, his entire body was badly swollen, the toxic venom having spread from head to toe.
Ben Baggett ordered that his son be stripped and damp clothes applied to his body in an attempt to reduce the swelling and rising fever, but there was little positive effect. Using their knives, several of the men cut small Xs into the spots where bite marks were visible and attempted to suck the contaminated blood from his system.
Nothing worked. By nightfall, Dell was in a coma. By morning, he was dead. For all his careful planning, his father had never thought to include someone with medical knowledge among his gang.
Two days later, after a coffin had been built and a grave marker fashioned, the father and his men made the journey into Tascosa so that Dell might have a proper cemetery burial.
The elder Baggett’s grief, such as it was, passed quickly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE BRIGHT MOONLIGHT and torches carried by the rustlers made following them back to their canyon hideout easy. The distant flames danced like fireflies traveling in single file. The purpose of watching Baggett’s men was no longer to determine what they were doing or even how they carried out their thefts and exchanges. Breckenridge and Pate simply wanted to learn the location of the outlaws’ hiding place.
They were convinced that the cattle thefts, dating back to the one outside Aberdene, were all the work of Baggett’s men.
As they rode through the night at a leisurely pace, Clay’s mind wandered. The journey, begun in anger and driven by a quest for revenge, had become something more. He thought about young Lonnie waiting back at Nester Callaway’s farm and wondered how he was dealing with the loss of his parents and what his future held. He thought of his own family, all now gone, and of Jennie Broder, like him mourning Cal’s death. And there was Madge, a strong, hardworking woman who was a virtual prisoner in a worn-out saloon in a dusty little town at the tail end of nowhere.
Pate broke the silence as day was about to break. The rustlers’ torches no longer lit the way. “Can’t be much farther,” he said. Even as he spoke, the distant riders began to disappear from the horizon. “Appears they’re riding down into the canyon.”
They stopped and dismounted to stretch their legs. “We’ve come far enough,” Clay said. “This is where they can be found.”
Jonesy scanned the horizon, seeing nothing but cacti, scrub brush, and blowing sand. “Ain’t much to look at, is it?”
* * *
* * *
ELI RAYBURN WAS seated at the end of the bar when Breckenridge and Pate returned to Tascosa. It was late afternoon and the evening customers were yet to arrive. “Glad to see you boys back,” he said. “The herd’s on its way out of town, so I’ve got tents available again if you’re interested.”
Madge’s only acknowledgment was to place two glasses of beer on the counter.
“Stars shining have a tendency to keep me awake,” Jonesy said, “so we’ll again be accepting your hospitality. Our horses would likely appreciate more comfortable accommodations as well.”
“I’ll see to it your tent is cleaned and ready and the stalls have fresh hay.” Rayburn finished his drink in one gulp. “I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting you boys would be hanging around so long.”
“We’re hoping to have our business done shortly,” Clay said.
Only when the men rose to leave did Madge speak. “Mr. Breckenridge,” she said, “might I have a word?”
She pointed toward one of the tables generally reserved for poker games. “I’ve been doing considerable thinking about our conversation the other night,” she said. “I’ve got something that needs saying.”
Clay removed his hat and put it on the table, running his fingers along the brim. “If your intent is to persuade me to abandon my purpose,” he said, “you’ll be wasting your time. I came here with a job that needs doing.”
“Go home. Please. Go back and tend your farm. Forget about this awful place,” she said. “I fear you’re going to wind up dead yourself, trying to avenge the killing of another. You’re facing a fight that’s nowhere near fair. Unless I’m mistaken, all you’ve learned is that the person who claimed the life of your brother is likely a member of Ben Baggett’s lot. Without more specific knowledge, you’re looking at a fight with the whole bunch of them. They’re bad people, bad unlike any folks you’ve ever known. They’d kill a man without bothering to even know his name. And, if you were paying attention the day they came to town to bury Baggett’s boy, you saw there is a considerable number of them.”
“How many total you think there are in the canyon?”
“I can only guess, but from what I’ve seen come in here from time to time, I’d say at least fifteen, counting Baggett himself. You can’t kill the lot of them just to make sure you get the one who murdered your brother.”
For the first time, Madge noticed the darkness in Clay’s eyes.
“Why not?” he said.
PART TWO
WILL DARBY’S STORY
CHAPTER TWELVE
IN THE DAYS that immediately followed his desertion from the Confederate Army, the most difficult thing for him was to remember that his new name was Will Darby, no longer Cal Breckenridge. As he rode through the Mexico desert, stopping only to visit one dingy cantina after another, he constantly repeated the name, hoping to burn it into his consciousn
ess. Will Darby . . . Will Darby . . . Will Darby . . .
When he’d had enough tequila, he’d even put it to song.
My name’s Will Darby
And I ain’t real smart.
My name’s Will Darby
And I need a head start. . . .
If he wasn’t memorizing, he was trying to consider a future for himself, one that didn’t include returning to Aberdene and the family farm. His father, he knew, would never welcome a deserter home and most likely he would forever be judged an embarrassment by his older brother.
He would have to make his own way. Maybe there was some cattle ranch up the way that needed an able-bodied hand. Or a newly established town that could use help with building a schoolhouse or a church.
Even in his drunken state, he was already doubting the wisdom of his hasty decision. He knew the army pay he’d managed to save wasn’t going to last long. And while hiding out in Mexico for a time was possible, making it his home wasn’t an option worthy of consideration.
Once again, he’d made himself a fine mess. He’d done it often enough as Cal Breckenridge, and now was about to do the same as Will Darby.
He rode on until dark, swaying in the saddle. His empty tequila bottle had been tossed into the Rio Grande some miles back.
Making camp on the sandy bank of the river, he managed to remove the saddle from his horse and tether him to a scrub mesquite. Without even bothering to remove his boots, Will stretched out on the saddle blanket and was immediately lost in a drunken sleep, his restless dreams mixed with bloody war battles and boyhood memories of happy times spent with his brother, Clay. They were still young, chasing fireflies near the house, laughing as they ran.
The Breckenridge Boys Page 6