The Ogallala Trail Read online

  “See you’ve been to town,” Sam said, looking at the two pokes tied on Jason’s horn.

  “Got a few things Eva sent for. Word’s out them Wagners want you and Tom dead.”

  “They willing to pay enough?”

  “Huh?”

  “They paid enough, I’d drop dead.”

  Jason slapped his saddle horn. “Ain’t a serious bone in your body. I mean, they’ve put the word out.”

  “They backshot my brother. They’ll have to backshoot me and Tom.”

  “I know they ain’t above doing that. Why, you’ve ruined their good name telling Stuart that they killed Earl.”

  “I’ll ruin more than that if I ever can prove they did it.”

  “Just keep an eye out. They’re a sneaky lot.”

  “I will,” Sam promised, letting his temper simmer.

  He went past the schoolhouse and up the road. That brief time with Etta Faye beside him, before she went back behind her haughty facade, kept running through his mind. No changing that girl. Maybe growing up as the judge’s daughter and going off to finishing school had made her like that. He’d never know. But how she would ever make it as a teacher was beyond him.

  At his brother’s house, there was a wagon packed and tarped down. Karen saw him and smiled.

  “You came too late,” she teased.

  “Sorry. I got busy helping roof my new horse barn.” He dropped out of the saddle, removed his hat and wiped his face on his sleeve.

  “Lupe hired the Garcia boys to drive her and her rig to San Antonio. She didn’t want to leave. Mrs. Hanson is taking care of her milk cow till she gets back. We will be able to come back, won’t we?”

  “Karen, I hope so.”

  “Good. I don’t know how long I can stand Fort Worth.”

  “The minute it’s safe.”

  “That’s what Tom promised me.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “The kid’s pony, Star, wandered off. He told them they could take him. He’s down the way somewhere looking for him. Hasn’t been gone long.” She turned and looked off down the pasture.

  “I’ll go help him.” He stepped up on Sorely and loped down the flats. He spotted the bay horse and rode down in the live oak to where Tom’s mount stood ground-tied.

  “Don’t go down there,” Tom said, coming back uphill with an angry look on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” Sam stood in the stirrups and tried to see.

  “They cut the pony’s throat.” Tom closed his eyes and shook his head. “What in the hell do I tell my kids?”

  Sam twisted in the saddle to look back at the tops of the ranch buildings. They were less than a half mile from the house.

  “Any sign?”

  Tom shook his head. “Not that would help. Suppose they’ll burn us out next?”

  “Anyone who’d kill a pony would do anything. Get your family out of here. I’ll be on the scout. Come back, and you and I will figure this out.”

  “Can you ever figure out a feud, short of folks dying.”

  “That’s why I want Karen and the kids out of here. Karen said Lupe is gone all ready.”

  “They left late night and were going to stop at Soda Springs on the way to San Anton. Lupe has an uncle there.”

  “Go finish things. I guess I should have been more help to her.” Sam shook his head ruefully. He couldn’t find any resolution in this whole matter of Earl’s death. “I want to look at this pony deal.”

  “I’ll be at the house.”

  In the grassy draw, there wasn’t much to find. The pony lay on its side. His throat was slashed wide-open, and the dark blood drew flies. No big thing to catch the quiet animal and then kill it. He dropped to his haunches and searched the ground for any sign: matted-down grass, heel marks or any indication that someone had been there.

  He rose and walked down the draw. Buzzards had begun to gather. Three lit atop a nearby oak and peered down at the corpse. Sam came to the place where perhaps the killers had left their horses. He found a trampled-down spot under a tree and hoofprints, but the latter were too faint for him to follow. Still, the notion that the pony killers had been so close to Tom’s house made Sam sick to his stomach.

  He stopped under the canopy of a big tree and suddenly remembered that the same thing had gotten Earl killed. The killers had used his colt as bait. With the rawhide tie-down on his holster undone, he checked the skyline for shooters. His six-gun switching around on his hip, he kept to the cover and moved down the swale. If the horse killers were there, maybe he could draw them out. He preferred to be the tracker rather than the tracked.

  Some bobwhite quail scattered into the spiny brush, and he listened for any telltale sounds. Nothing. Maybe if he could reach the crest above him, he could see more. He followed a small slit in the vegetation and, keeping in a crouch, picked his way with stealth through to the steepest part. Seeing nothing, he scrambled to the top, where he caught his breath.

  He saw nothing but did not feel alone. Making his way back toward his horse with a full view of the depression, he realized the brown body of the pony was in an open spot clearly in view from up there. The buzzards danced around it, arguing over their prize—a man in this spot with a rifle could have picked off anyone looking at the dead animal.

  On his haunches, he saw the boot marks in the dirt from where the bushwhackers had lain on the flat rock and waited. Why had they not shot Tom? Maybe Sam’s own riding up there had spooked the killers. Now Sam felt certain the dead pony was a trap intended for Tom.

  Sam wet his sun-cracked lips and considered all the evidence and his speculation. The only way he could ever survive was take to the brush, become part Injun and beat the killers at their own game. Satisfied the backshooter was gone, he went after Sorely and rode back to the house.

  “Paw said that Star died, Uncle Sam,” Mark said to him when he dismounted. The boy’s wet lashes showed his grief.

  “I know that’s a shame, but we can find another pony.”

  “Go help your mother now,” Tom said, mussing the youth’s hair. When his son was out of earshot, Tom asked Sam what he’d found.

  “You’re lucky to be alive. That was a trap just like Earl’s colt to draw you into their sights.”

  “How in the hell did they get away without us hearing them?”

  “Can’t answer that but it was a trap. They might have left before you ever got there. But they were there.”

  “Damn, you be careful while I’m taking Karen to her folk’s place. Maybe I shouldn’t leave.”

  “Yes, you should. I’ll keep an eye on your place. Get moving. You can make Frio by evening.”

  “Oh, Sam, this whole business has me so upset.” Karen hugged him.

  He patted her shoulders. “Me, too. But we’ll work it out.”

  “Be careful.” She hurried off to the loaded wagon.

  “I’ll be back in a week or ten days,” Tom promised. Then he boosted his wife up on the wagon and handed the kids up to her. On the seat at last, he took the reins and kicked loose the brake. His mules stepped right out and Sam watched them head for Frio.

  Lord, please let them make it to safety.

  He made one more wide circle of the dead-pony area, looking for something to tie in the identity of the killer. At last, finding nothing, he headed back to his place.

  Sundown painted the front of the schoolhouse blood red when he rode by it. Trying to ignore his concern over how Etta Faye would handle her rowdy students, he rode Sorely home.

  One thing was certain. He would be alone until Tom returned. He’d have to rely on his rangering experience. As a boy of sixteen, he had ridden the country-side looking for the tracks of unshod horses used by the Comanches, for he had ridden in the colonel’s Texas Ranger Company. He’d slept many a night rolled up in a thick cotton blanket. Soon he would be out with the coyotes, trying to outdo his enemies.

  Chapter 7

  At daybreak, Abe brought him word the colonel had died in his sle
ep. When the black man rode on to tell others, Sam stood with his shoulder to the doorframe and sipped on some coffee to reflect. He’d known lots of big men in his life, but the colonel was the biggest. From his leading the local guard forces to his importing Herefords cattle, the colonel always was the one folks looked up to for advice and help. Be hard for anyone else to ever fill his big boots. There would be a big void without him.

  Shame, too, for Sam’s intentions had been to talk to him about this Wagner thing and find an answer. He knew enough about feuds—it was the resolution of one that he wanted. Or any ideas the man might have shared.

  The funeral would be the next day at two p.m.

  “You get more bad news?” Raul asked, coming from his campfire.

  “Colonel died last night.”

  “Had he been sick?”

  Sam nodded; then he tossed down the last of his coffee. “Came on sudden-like. ’Course, he may have hid it from all of us for some time.”

  “He asked you the other day to take the cattle north next year, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “I’m not certain. This feud I told you about and all—lots on my mind.”

  Raul nodded as if he understood. “I have some sopai pillas as a treat. Come eat them while they are hot.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be right along.”

  At the campfire, Sam grinned, sharing the dark honey and the puffy pastry with Raul and his pleasant teenage boys.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Today we finished the roof and tomorrow we fix the schoolhouse and then we can go home.”

  “Maybe stay one day more. They may need the schoolhouse for his funeral.”

  “No problem. We can wait a day.”

  “Good. You and the boys can nail on the barn siding if you have time.” That would complete the building. The fresh-cut lumber for that was stacked and spaced to dry, but it would be far better nailed in place. One less thing for Sam to do.

  “We will do that if you wish us to.”

  “Yes, you and the boys can do it. I was going to do that myself, but since you’re here and all, you can.”

  Raul smiled at him. “Fine. Is more work for us.”

  The next day, Sam dressed up: white shirt, celluloid collar, tie and brown suit coat. Feeling choked, he rode stiff in the saddle and arrived at noontime. Of course, the local wives had fixed a large spread of food outside the schoolhouse for everyone to eat, as was traditional.

  Sam hitched Sorely and made his way to a knot of men. The mood was somber, as he expected, and they nodded at him.

  “Sorry. I didn’t hear about Earl until after the funeral,” Oscar Mott said. Others gave Sam similar nods.

  “Who did it?” Ralph Fears asked.

  “I reckon one of the Wagners.”

  He searched the faces of the others. A few nodded; others looked down, in deep reflection.

  “I’m kin to them, Sam. But I want you to know I had no hand in his death,” Leroy Turner said.

  “Thanks. I like to know who my friends are these days.”

  “Where’s Tom?” another asked.

  “Took his wife and kids to Fort Worth.”

  “Oh?”

  “Whoever shot Earl set a trap for Tom.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They cut his children’s pony’s throat to draw him in.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure, but they had the trap set.”

  “Why don’t you ask for a Ranger to investigate?” Mott said. “That damn Stuart won’t ever get off his ass. All he can ask is if you will swear out a warrant. Hell, it’s his job to find them.”

  “I better go find Miss Thelma and pay my respects.” Sam excused himself and headed for the schoolhouse. Coming off the rise he saw a familiar parasol. Stuart was helping Etta Faye out of her rig. Sam went on, hoping to avoid both of them.

  “Oh, Ketchem,” Stuart said loudly before Sam reached the steps to the schoolhouse. “Nothing has turned up on your brother’s murder yet.”

  “Ain’t to liable to either, is it, Stuart?”

  “How’s that?”

  “With you warming that chair in your office, ain’t much gets done.”

  “I’ve made inquiries.”

  “Good. I’ll feel a whole lot better knowing that my brother isn’t lying under six feet of dirt up there without someone caring about who backshot him.” He nodded to Etta Faye and went on inside.

  “Oh, Sam,” Thelma said. Her face flush from crying, she came to him to be held. “I knew he didn’t have long, Sam. But I didn’t know it would be this short.”

  “We never know.”

  “I know how you and he were such good friends. You know, he always said you were his best ranger. My, my, what will we ever do without him?”

  “Take a hitch and go on. He’d want that.”

  “Oh, he wanted so much for you to agree to take those cattle north next year.”

  “I know. I’m still thinking about it. But I have a lot on my mind, what with losing Earl and all.”

  Thema nodded. “Guess we have plenty of time to think about it. I do hope you will drop by. I will need some advice. He wanted you to have the fancy Colt they gave him in Austin. The one with the steer head carved ivory handles.”

  “Oh, I could never—”

  “He wanted you to have it.”

  Sam hugged her lightly and stepped back. “Others want to talk to you. I’ll miss him. But he left us plenty to be grateful for.”

  “I know, Sam. I know.”

  He turned and started for the doorway. Etta Faye, standing at the end of the receiving line, stopped him.

  “After all this, do we need to put off the schoolhouse workday?” she asked.

  He shook his head, looking out the front door at two boys about to get in a fracas. “Business as usual. Excuse me.”

  With a few swift steps, he was out on the porch, then on the ground, and he had both boys by the collars before the first blow was struck.

  “This is a funeral, not a sideshow,” he warned. “Don’t fight here.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boys said, looking sheepish when he released them.

  Matty Brooks, a large, earthy-talking woman married to Kell Brooks, took Sam by the arm and escorted him to the food tables. “You look like a wormy Mexican steer. You need to eat. Get a tin plate and fill it, or I’ll fill it for you.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I certainly will.”

  “And that was nice of you to separate them two boys. I hope that Etta Faye can handle the likes of them when she teaches up here. There’s some salty ones in that age group. Half ain’t had much schooling either. Living way out here, they had no way to get to Frio.”

  Sam piled some barbecued ribs on his plate. “Guess she’ll learn or they’ll ride her out on a rail.”

  “You going to look after her?”

  “Why me? I’m not on the school board.”

  “You set up the workday.”

  He took some German potato salad. “Just trying to help.”

  “More than that fancy deputy would ever do.”

  “I guess,” he said, licking the barbecue sauce off his finger and trying to decide what else to take from the numerous dishes of food. “She likes him.”

  “No, I think she’s with him to make someone I know jealous.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re damn right she is.”

  “Naw, you don’t know Etta Faye. She don’t want to be serious with no man, but she likes escorts.”

  “Say what you want Sam Ketchem, she’s got a reason for everything she does, even coming up here and teaching school.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Matty threw back her head and laughed out loud. Then, recalling the nature of the day, she clapped a hand over her mouth and blushed. “I bet you do.”

  The Wagners arrived and a hush fell over the crowd. Their women brought fo
od in pans and dishes to add to the table. Harry wasn’t with them. Bo, the next to the oldest, was a man almost as big as Harry. Sam knew him from roundup. Next came Frank, his wife and children. Frank ran a steam-driven sawmill.

  The shortest Wagner, Tillman, considered himself a lady’s man and a gunfighter; he wore leather cuffs stud ded with some cut-glass studs he told people were real rubies. He rode a fancy black horse, which had a saddle with some silver trim. He eyed Sam and then rode on. Sam was seated at the board tables set up for the occasion and enjoying his lunch when Whit Stuart came by.

  “I know there’s bad blood between you and the Wagners. But I’ll have no trouble here today from any of you.”

  “Maybe you better go tell them that,” Matty said, bringing Sam a cup of lemonade.

  “I will.” Stuart squared his shoulder and strode down the way.

  “If there ever was a peacock contest in this outfit, Whit Stuart would get first place.” She shook her head, looking hard toward where the deputy was confronting the Wagners.

  In a short while, Tillman, who had shaken off Stuart’s hand, came stomping down to where Sam ate his lunch. Boots set apart, he folded his arms over his chest and glared at Sam. “You got anything to say to me? To my face?”

  “No. You got a guilty conscience?” Sam looked up at him mildly.

  “Word’s out you’re saying we killed your brother.”

  A meaty rib in his hand, Sam motioned it toward Tillman before he took a bite. “I’d throw in a pony you killed, too.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Someone choked Earl’s colt to death so he’d go check on it. Then they shot Earl in the back. They tried the same thing on Tom. But they got spooked.”

  “Who are you saying did it?”

  “I’m saying, if the shoe fits, wear it.”

  “Them’s fighting words—”

  “Wagner, get your hand off that gun butt!” Stuart came from the edge of the crowd with his own gun drawn. “I said there’d be no trouble here. You can claim your gun at my office.”

  He shoved Wagner’s pistol in his waistband and backed up. “I want no trouble from any of you.”

  “I’m eating lunch,” Sam said and dismissed Stuart.