The Chisholm Trail Page 16

  “It’s a mite easier when she ain’t hollerin’, cussin’, and wavin’ a rifle at me. I’d like to see less of you like that, and more of you like this.”

  “Thank you,” she said, pleased. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  Just after sundown they came upon a creek that angled into the Trinity. They pitched their camp a hundred yards east of the river, among the willows that lined the creek. They finished their supper, dousing the fire before dark.

  “Are we goin’ to stand watch?” Wes asked.

  “No,” said Marty. “I’m a light sleeper. We’ll picket the horses close by, and they’ll warn us.”

  For the lack of anything better to do, they rolled in their blankets and tried to sleep. After a while, as quietly as he could, Wes got up and headed down the creek. He had gone only a few yards when he stopped, drawing and cocking his Colt as he turned.

  “Wes, it’s me!” hissed Lou.

  “Go back,” he hissed in reply. “I got somethin’ private to do.”

  “So have I, but it’s dark. Let me go with you.”

  They continued, but their departure hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  “They’re about as quiet as a pair of likkered Indians,” said Marty.

  “Where are they going, in pitch-dark?”

  “I reckon they got business in the bushes,” said Marty, “and not the kind you’re thinkin’.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?” asked Chris.

  “I ain’t spent the day with you for nothin’, Miss Christabel Ward. Lou puts on a big show, cussin’ and yellin’, but you don’t. It didn’t bother you a bit, us catchin’ you jaybird naked, did it?”

  “Of course not,” said Chris. “We didn’t plan it. What harm did it do? With all your apologies, you’re not really sorry you caught us, are you?”

  Marty chuckled. “I’d by lyin’ if I said I was. I’ll be as honest with you as you was with me. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. The best most Texas cowboys can expect is a once-in-a-while look at somethin’ like your daddy’s shacked up with.”

  It was an insensitive remark better left unsaid. Her response to his careless words was a muffled sob. Despite her callous attitude toward Brady Ward, he was still her father, and she was hurt. What kind of man would forsake his daughters for a saloon whore? Marty rolled out of his blankets and went to her, half expecting her to slap his face. But she didn’t. She only buried her face in his flannel shirt and wept. Finally, but for an occasional sniffle, she was silent.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll never say anything like that again.”

  “There’s no denying the truth of it,” she said, “but it still hurts. Thank you for understanding. For months I’ve needed to do that—to just let go and cry—but I had nobody to cry to, except Louise. I…I’ve tried to hold back for her sake. I’m the oldest and—”

  “How old are you, Chris?”

  “I’ll be eighteen the fifteenth of January. Sometimes I feel so old, like I’ve always been old, and that my life will never be any better, whatever I do. When—If—we do gather a herd and reach Indian Territory, what’s going to happen to me…and to Lou?”

  “I can promise you one thing,” said Marty. “Unless me and Wes is killed stone dead, you and Lou will get to Indian Territory. Where you go from there, I reckon, is up to you.”

  “Will it matter to you where I go…from there?”

  “It will,” he said. “When the time comes, I’ll have somethin’ to ask you.”

  “You’ve had a look at both of us,” she said, her mood changing. “Are you sure you’d take me over Lou? She’s a year younger.”

  “I like older women. Besides, I’d have to shoot Wes, and that’d leave us short-handed.”

  “What do you plan to do once we reach Indian Territory and the herd is sold? Where will you go from there?”

  “Eventually we’ll come back for a bigger herd. But before we do, I expect Ten will be goin’ back to New Orleans, and he may need me to side him. We barely got out alive last time.”

  “Then why go back? What’s the reason?”

  “Her name’s Priscilla LeBeau,” said Marty. “She’s about Lou’s age, and she lives in New Orleans. Her daddy’s mixed up in black-marketing, smuggling, and gambling. He’s tryin’ to force Priscilla to marry some bastard that’s old enough to be her daddy. He’s the big pelican that controls the law and most of the gambling in New Orleans. It had to be him and Priscilla’s daddy that set up the ambush me and Ten walked into.”

  “You’d go back there with him, after being ambushed and barely getting out alive?”

  “He picked me up off a New Orleans street, after I’d been stomped and robbed and couldn’t help myself. He’s no older than Lou, he’s half Injun, but by God, he’s a man! When he goes back to New Orleans, if he needs me, I’ll go. Does it bother you, me standin’ by him?”

  “It would bother me if you didn’t,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to see New Orleans.”

  By noon of the fourth day, they had reached what had to be the Indian’s horse ranch. Until now the banks of the Trinity had been devoid of human habitation. The “ranch” consisted of an ugly adobe hut and a barn with an adjoining corral. There were a few horses wandering about, staring at them over the six-rail fence.

  “I reckon this is it,” said Marty.

  They reined up before the barn. It was unlikely they had approached unseen and unheard, so Marty paused before hailing the house. A cow hide covered the entrance, and it was shouldered aside by a man who held a Spencer rifle. He had high cheekbones and shoulder-length black hair streaked with gray. His old high-crowned black hat had an eagle feather in the band. His face was gaunt and most of his front teeth were missing. He wore moccasins, dirty overalls, and an equally dirty red flannel shirt with the elbows out. He said nothing, waiting for them to speak. They dismounted.

  “Horses,” said Marty. “Caballos.”

  “Oro,” said the Indian. “Twenty dolla’ oro, uno caballo.”

  “Oro,” repeated Marty, spreading ten fingers, countering the offer.

  The Indian refused, shaking his head.

  “Oro,” said Marty, showing ten fingers, then five.

  The Indian said nothing.

  “Caballos,” said Marty, showing ten fingers, then two. “Caballos, oro.”

  “Caballos,” repeated the Indian, extending all ten fingers, then two.

  “Fi’teen dolla’, uno caballo.”

  Marty nodded his head in agreement. The Indian would sell them twelve horses at fifteen dollars each.

  “Donde?” inquired Marty.

  The Indian shifted the Spencer to a comfortable position under his arm and nodded for them to follow. He led them around the adobe and half a mile into the woods. It was a typical holding pen, created by fencing both ends of a small canyon. A stream ran the length of it, created by a seep at the upper end. Marty counted twenty-five horses. They were broomtails, but they had the same stocky bodies and broad heads as Maynard Herndon’s broncs.

  “I like them all!” cried Lou. “How can we ever choose?”

  “Color won’t matter,” said Marty. “Any one of ’em will make a good cow horse. Take your pick.”

  Chris chose a black and a gray, Lou a bay and a sorrel. They pointed out their choices to the Indian, and he climbed through the six-rail fence, carrying only a blanket.

  “Watch how he handles them,” said Marty. “We’ll have to approach them the same way, until they get to know us.”

  The Indian approached the black, and at first the horse seemed nervous. His ears went up, and they realized the Indian was speaking to the horse. He gestured with his hands, as though conversing with a friend. Carefully, he placed his hand on the horse’s withers, and the animal didn’t flinch. Finally he spread the blanket across the broad back, and still the horse remained calm. He stretched his arms across the animal’s back, then lifted his feet off the ground, putting all his weight on the horse. When the blac
k accepted his weight, he draped one arm casually around the horse’s neck, as Marty and Wes dropped the rails to let them out. Chris approached the black slowly, talking to it as the Indian had. The horse held steady, allowing her hand on the broad shoulder.

  Marty and Wes chose an assortment of blacks, bays, grays, sorrels, and chestnuts. The Indian patiently repeated the procedure until they had their twelve horses. Slowly, carefully, they made friends with the animals, as the Indian had. Marty counted out nine gold double eagles, $180, into the Indian’s hand. He followed them as they led their new horses back to the barn, where they’d tied their mounts. The Indian pointed downriver, shaking his head.

  “Indios,” he said. “Malo Indios.”

  Marty shook his head, pointing upriver, the way they had come. They rode out, their new mounts following on lead ropes.

  “He warned us of bad Indians downriver,” said Chris. “That’s bound to be the Comanche camp Bodie Tomlin mentioned. Have we been warned not to ride downriver or to look out for our horses because of the Comanche camp?”

  “Likely both,” said Marty. “I reckon he’s got some agreement with them, so they don’t steal him blind, but it won’t help us. It’s the kind of thing that would just tickle hell out of the Comanches—let us pay for the horses, and then steal them from us.”

  “So we’d better stand watch,” said Wes.

  “We’re going to,” said Marty. “You and Lou will take one watch, me and Chris the other. We’re goin’ to cover as many miles as we can before dark, and just hope that Comanche camp has laid in a good supply of moonshine to keep ’em occupied.”

  Chris and Marty took the second watch. They sat close together and talked quietly, their eyes roaming the moonlit clearing where the picketed horses grazed.

  “Lou’s been awfully quiet,” said Chris. “That’s not like her.”

  “I expect that’s for Wes’s benefit,” said Marty. “He thought the minute she got out of that creek and got her britches on, she’d start shootin’. She come on mighty strong.”

  “I called her down,” said Chris, “and for once, I think she listened.”

  “You said your pa brings back ammunition for Bodie Tomlin and his bunch. Where does he get it? We had to send to St. Louis for guns and shells, and was able to do that only because Herndon used his uncle’s name.”

  “I hate to tell you,” she said. “All you hear from me and Louise is the things Daddy’s done, none of them good. We lived in Galveston for a while. Me and Lou was alone a lot, because Daddy took goods from incoming ships and hauled them to other towns, by pack mule or in wagons. The town he mostly hauled to was Beaumont. The ships were unloaded at night, because their load was black-market and smuggled goods. That was last year, long before the war ended and the blockades came down. One night when a ship docked, the law was there. Some of the crew was killed, and Daddy escaped only by leaving his pack mules and running for it. He sneaked out of town, me and Louise with him, and we went to Beaumont. That’s where he took up with Bertha, and our lives just went to hell.”

  “So when Bodie Tomlin sends him to Beaumont, he’s buying ammunition from the same place where he once delivered illegal goods.”

  “I think so,” said Chris.

  “Ten needs to know about this,” said Marty. “The U.S. Customs people in New Orleans believe Priscilla LeBeau’s daddy is involved in this. I think he is too, and I think this old bastard who LeBeau’s tryin’ to force Priscilla to marry is the head of it. The customs man in New Orleans, before he was gunned down, got Ten involved, and that’s why old LeBeau wants our young Injun’s head in a gunnysack.”

  “Dear God in heaven,” sighed Chris. “Why can’t he just take Priscilla away and leave all of this mess behind?”

  “He’d like to,” said Marty, “but he’s underage, and so is Priscilla. God knows what’ll happen before Priscilla’s eighteen. She likely thinks Ten’s dead, thanks to her sneaking old daddy. Ten’s not even sure where she is, but I’d bet she’s back in New Orleans. She seems like a real wampus kitty, not the kind to hide out, hopin’ everything will be all right.”

  “So that’s where Ten will be going once this trail drive is done?”

  “Damn right,” said Marty, “and there’ll be the biggest fight since 1814, when Andy Jackson stomped some British butts.”

  “Pair of riders comin’,” said Herndon.

  Ten had been at the breakfast fire, pouring himself a last cup of coffee. He put down his cup and got to his feet. He and Herndon stood together as their visitors reined up a dozen yards away. The man wore town clothes, was graying at the temples, and looked to be about fifty. His female companion might have been forty, but she looked older. She was plump, big-bosomed, her divided skirt was too tight, and her hair was jet-black. She wore enough makeup to have put a tribe of hostile Indians on the warpath. Were she to smile—however unlikely the possibility—Ten thought her face might just shatter like a looking glass.

  “I’m Brady Ward,” said her companion, “and this is Bertha.”

  “I’m Tenatse Chisholm,” said Ten, “and my pardner is Maynard Herndon.”

  He said nothing more, allowing the silence to grow long and painful. Whatever the purpose of their visit, he wouldn’t make it easy for them.

  “Gatherin’ a herd, I see,” said Ward.

  Ten nodded, saying nothing.

  “They’s a right smart of a herd upriver, maybe fifteen mile,” said Ward. “Them yours?”

  “They are,” said Ten.

  “You ain’t bin here much more’n a week. That’s a heap of cows.”

  “We work nights and Sundays,” said Ten.

  “Long ways from there t’ here,” said Ward. “Riders could make off with them cows, ’fore you knowed it.”

  “Mister,” said Ten grimly, “you do them riders a big favor. You tell ’em if any man takes just one cow out of that herd, he’d better be wearin’ his burying clothes. I’m an Injun from the Cherokee nation, and I can track a lizard over solid rock. You pass the word along to any rustler or group of rustlers. Tenatse Chisholm will stretch their necks from here to yonder, and leave ’em hanging for buzzard bait.”

  “How dare you threaten us!” snarled Bertha, in a low, venomous voice.

  “I don’t make threats,” said Ten, equally venomous. “When I tell you something, you can damn well count it as a promise. Now ride out of here!”

  Without a word or backward look, they rode out.

  “I never heard it put any straighter or any plainer,” said Herndon.

  “We know what their plans are,” said Ten, “so we have nothing to lose. They came here to intimidate us, to soften us for the kill.”

  “Ward don’t seem like much of a threat,” said Herndon. “I have an idea it’s that she-buffalo ridin’ with him that’ll cause trouble.”

  “I’ll hang her from the same limb as Bodie Tomlin,” said Ten, “if that’s what it takes. I don’t cut any slack for female rattlers.”

  15

  Marty, Wes, Chris, and Lou reached Ten’s camp without difficulty. They listened solemnly while Ten told them of the visit by Brady Ward and Bertha. Chris was the first to respond.

  “If you mean what you’ve said—about us being part of your trail drive—take the longhorns from our holding pen and drive them here.”

  “We haven’t been here long enough to gather that many longhorns,” said Ten. “They’re going to know you’ve thrown in with us.”

  “I don’t care,” said Lou. “It’s about time for Bodie Tomlin’s bunch to ride out again. Suppose they take our herd? What can we do? Let’s bring them here, where we’ll at least have a chance of keeping them.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” said Ten. “They could just grab your herd to keep us from gettin’ it. Besides, I think we’d be fools to try and protect two herds, fifteen miles apart.”

  “There’ll likely be trouble at the house,” said Herndon. “Ward’s doin’ the talking, but the words are comin’ from t
hat woman of his.”

  “You’re so right,” said Chris. “I don’t know how much longer we can stay there, or if we can stay at all.”

  “I don’t want to stay there,” said Lou. “Why don’t we just move out into the brush and be done with it?”

  “Ten,” said Marty, “let’s have them move into our camp. Once we bring their herd down here, Ward and Tomlin will know they’re with us. We’ll have them gunning for us whether Chris and Lou are here or not. Bringing us all together will cut the odds, and give us two more guns.”

  Ten sighed. “I’ll have to agree with you. I had some hope we could gather most of our herd before we had to fight, but now I doubt it. If it’s goin’ to be that way, then we’ll just lay all the cards on the table. Chris, tell Brady Ward the two of you are leaving, that you are no longer gathering a herd for him to sell. I’ve already told him the cows in your holding pen are ours. I don’t believe the two of you will be welcome or safe in the same house with Bertha. Do you want a couple of us to ride there with you?”

  “No,” said Chris. “I want a chance to get our belongings and the few things mother left us. Bertha would stop us from taking anything if she knows we’re leaving. She’s just that mean.”

  Once they’d ridden out, Marty shook his head.

  “I don’t like them goin’ there alone.”

  “Me neither,” said Wes.

  “They’re not going alone,” said Ten. “Marty, you and Wes trail them, but don’t go near enough to the house to be seen.”

  When Marty and Wes had headed upriver, Herndon spoke.

  “The Wards have sand, but I’d bet a horse and saddle neither of them is eighteen. You reckon that’ll be a problem?”

  “No,” said Ten. “There’s no law closer than Nacogdoches, but it’s not the law we have to worry about. Eighteen or not, I believe Chris and Lou have the right to make up their own minds. The next move is Ward’s. Or Bertha’s.”

  “Or Tomlin’s,” said Herndon. “They sound like the kind that would bushwhack us while we’re huntin’ longhorns.”

  “If they do,” said Ten, “we’ll be ready. But I’m not sure old Bertha won’t hold them off until we have a larger gather. If you aim to steal a herd, why settle for a hundred or two?”