By the Horns Read online

  “Are you sure?” Pitney responded, and was hoisted erect as easily as he might hoist a child.

  “Anything busted?” the foreman asked with real concern. “That was quite a tumble you took.”

  Pitney wriggled both arms and lifted his right leg and then his left. “I think I’m in one piece.”

  “Bring a torch!”

  Spurs jangled, and a miniature sun blazed.

  Pitney blinked in the bright light and absently smoothed his jacket. His clothes were a mess and he had dozens of small scratches, a few bleeding, but nothing serious. “A miracle,” he said softly.

  Lon had the torch in one hand, his cocked Colt in the other. “Take a gander,” he said, holding the torch low.

  A glistening trail of blood led into the brush. Owen and Lon followed it, and Pitney, not caring to be left alone, followed them. In a few yards the gleam of burnished metal drew Lon to the Henry, and the glance he bestowed on Pitney was not flattering.

  They cautiously advanced.

  “I’ll be damned,” Owen said.

  The jaguar lay on its side, dead. A hole in its chest and another high on its neck showed where a horn had caught it between its front legs and penetrated clear through its stout body.

  “So what do you think of longhorn country now?” Lon asked.

  Every nerve tingling from his thrilling experience, Alfred Pitney answered honestly. “It’s magnificent.”

  6

  A Cobbler Interlude

  James Bartholomew was not an imposing man. He was five feet one in his boots and had a surprisingly pale complexion and graying hair. But as soon as he spoke, he became imposing, for he had a voice that was a gift from God. A deep, rich baritone, so full and resonant that had he devoted his life to singing instead of cattle, aficionados would have flocked to hear him from all corners of the world. He also had a warm, strong, confident handshake that spoke volumes.

  With Bartholomew was his wife, Proctor. In one of life’s little coincidences, she was exactly the same height. Her brown hair was done up in a bun, and she wore a simple calico dress, the garb of American working women everywhere, and not an elegant gown, as might be expected of someone as well-to-do as the couple were.

  Their house, like the rest of the buildings on the ranch, was immaculate. The interior had been done in wood paneling and reminded their British guest of a manor house he had once visited. Tastefully furnished, including rugs and tapestries and paintings, it might have been the home of a British lord.

  Bartholomew himself had opened the door at their knock. No servants were in evidence, another reflection of the man’s character. After greetings were tendered, Owen, the only one of the four cowboys to escort Alfred Pitney to the house from the stable, excused himself.

  “I have a lot of work to catch up on. The north herd tally is due, and the blacksmith needs to see me.”

  “He and the tally can wait,” Bartholomew said. “As my foreman, I want you in on my talks with Mr. Pitney.”

  Bartholomew guided them down a long hall to a spacious sitting room, and once the Brit was comfortable on a settee, Mrs. Bartholomew, who insisted on being called by her first name, left to bring refreshments.

  “So how was your trip out from town?” Bartholomew began.

  Excitedly, Pitney told about the incident with the jaguar. “I can’t wait to tell my friends in England. They will be green with envy.”

  “They could just as well be sad with remorse,” Bartholomew said, his eyes silently accusing his foreman. “What were you thinkin’, Owen? It’s not like you. This man could have been killed.”

  Owen looked down at the floor and said contritely, “It was bad judgment on my part. I make no excuses, and I promise you nothin’ like it will ever happen again.”

  “Don’t blame him.” Pitney came to Owen’s defense. “I insisted on accompanying him. He was merely being polite.”

  “He was merely being a dunderhead,” Bartholomew said, not unkindly. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Texas isn’t England, Mr. Pitney. A mistake out here can cost a man his life. Owen rarely makes them. He is the best ramrod in the whole blamed state. Which is why I had no qualms about sendin’ him to fetch you instead of comin’ myself.”

  “I am sorry, sir,” Owen said.

  “Really, it was nothing.” Pitney tried again. “No harm was done, other than a few bruises and scratches.” He added as an afterthought, “The incident in town, to my way of thinking, was vastly worse.”

  Bartholomew quizzically arched his eyebrows at Owen.

  “There was a killin’, and a hangin’.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “The girl at the Nose Paint was shot.” Owen’s knuckles, where they gripped the chair, were white.

  “Carmody Jones? But you and she were—” Bartholomew caught himself, and his face softened. “Please accept my condolences.” He glanced at the doorway as if to make sure his wife would not overhear. “I take it they hung the bastard who murdered her?”

  “That they did,” Owen confirmed. “A corset drummer. He was playin’ cards with us. Had a gambler’s rig up his sleeve. When he was called on it, the fool drew on us.”

  “Drummers,” Bartholomew said in disgust. “I have yet to meet one who doesn’t irritate me to the marrow. Either they talk you to death, or have the manners of a goat, or both.”

  “There was no trial,” Pitney mentioned. “The people just rose up and threw a rope over his neck, and that was that.”

  “Who did the throwin’?” Bartholomew asked.

  “Luke,” Owen said.

  “Ah. He and those no-account pards of his are still hangin’ around then, I take it? Too bad,” Bartholomew said.

  “You know Luke Deal?” Pitney inquired.

  “All too well. He roams all along the border country, makin’ life miserable for everyone he meets. But he always comes back to Whiskey Flats. He’s shiftless and worthless and bad to the bone.” Bartholomew smiled at Owen. “Not like you.”

  Proctor returned, bearing a tray laden with a pitcher of cobbler and four glasses, along with Saratoga chips and small plates. She placed the tray on a table next to the settee, then poured the cobbler herself and brought each of them a glass and some chips.

  “You are a gracious hostess, if I may be permitted to say so.” Pitney offered a compliment as she roosted next to her husband. He sipped the iced tea. “This is quite delicious after that long hot ride in the buckboard today.”

  “It will tide you over until supper in an hour,” Proctor said. “I trust you won’t mind beef? We tend to dine on simple fare.”

  “I am sure I will like whatever your cook prepares.”

  “Oh, I do the cooking myself, Mr. Pitney. Same as I do my own housework and laundry.”

  Pitney raised his glass to her. “I admire your work ethic, madam. In my country the life of leisure is all the rage, and as soon as a woman acquires any substance, she hires servants to do everything for her except clean her teeth.”

  Proctor laughed. “I have always been a hard worker. It’s one of the things that attracted my husband to me, I suspect.”

  James Bartholomew cleared his throat. “Let’s talk business, shall we? I gathered from your letters that your consortium has business interests around the world?”

  “The BLC is hardly mine,” Pitney said. “I merely manage some of its affairs. I serve under a board of directors. It is they who believe the BLC’s acquisitions in Wyoming can prove a lucrative investment. Especially with your help.”

  “A bold step, given they’ve never ranched a day in their lives,” Bartholomew said.

  “Money begets money. They are constantly seeking new business ventures. Several other British firms operate ranches in America and turn a nice profit. The BLC intends to do the same.”

  “And you are the one they have entrusted with the job? You are either very brave, or shy a few marbles.”

  Pitney laughed at the friendly joke. “I have been their busi
ness manager for going on seven years, and I have yet to let them down. I believe in hiring only the best. I believe in buying only the best. Quality will out, as they say, in all walks of life, and that includes ranching.”

  “I commend your foresight,” Bartholomew said. “And I am naturally curious. How is it you came to choose the Bar 40 out of all the ranches in the Lone Star State?”

  “I did not choose the ranch so much as I chose you. When I asked around of those most knowledgeable about the cattle trade, I soon learned of your reputation, Mr. Bartholomew.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  Owen, who had been silent since the mention of Carmody Jones, now sat up. “I hear tell you are hopin’ to prevent another die-up.”

  “Such is my prayer, yes,” Pitney admitted. “As you are aware, the BLC owns approximately six hundred thousand acres. Within a few years we hope to increase that amount to close to one million.”

  Owen whistled softly. “That’s a big ranch even by Texas standards.”

  “To be perfectly honest, there are days when I think it is too big. The BLC employs over a hundred cowhands, yet it takes them the better part of a month to make an accurate count of our cattle each year. Before the die-up, our books showed us having close to eighty-five thousand head.”

  “That’s more than we run,” Bartholomew mentioned.

  “We had that many,” Pitney stressed. “We lost some to rustlers and some to wolves and some to fires and poisonous weeds, but those losses were negligible, and more than replaced by the number of new calves. Then we had two consecutive years of drought. The grass withered. We lost a few thousand more than we normally would but we were able to keep the rest healthy by rotating them between water holes, rivers, and streams.”

  “That must have taken some doin’.”

  “Indeed. Neighboring ranches lost even more than we did. We were proud of ourselves and, as our hands might say, thought we had it licked. But nature is a harsh mistress. The droughts were only a prelude. She was softening our herds up for an even worse blow.”

  “The blizzard?” Owen said.

  Pitney sadly nodded. “The worst in Wyoming’s history. Snow six feet deep, with drifts of ten to fifteen or better. Winds that snapped trees like they were twigs. And the cold! I was in Britain at the time, but my American foreman recorded mornings where the temperature was in excess of fifty below zero.”

  Proctor set down her drink, saying, “Your poor cattle.”

  “We lost a third of our herd. I was on the next ship over as soon as word reached me, and I arrived as the last of the snow was melting.” Pitney shuddered slightly. “It was terrible, simply terrible. The foreman took me out to see for myself. Acre after acre, mile after mile, of dead animals. Frozen to death, or dead of starvation because they couldn’t break through the snow to reach the grass.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Bartholomew said sincerely.

  “It will take the BLC years to recover. We have taken steps to make sure the disaster does not repeat itself by setting up feed stations throughout our range. Sheds where we store hay to be used in the event of heavy snow.”

  “I’d say that is darned prudent.”

  Pitney sat back and sighed. “But it is not enough. Our hands have to reach the hay to distribute it, and in a blizzard, that will take some doing. Then there are those periodic droughts I mentioned, about which we can do precious little.”

  Bartholomew shrugged. “We have droughts in Texas but we get by.”

  “You have something else in Texas, something we don’t have in Wyoming, something which might be the answer to our direst needs.”

  “I can’t make any guarantees,” Bartholomew said.

  “I know, and I would not presume to ask for any. But my idea seems logical enough.”

  “What idea?” Proctor asked.

  “The BLC has lost so many head due to one factor and one factor alone,” Pitney told her. “Under normal conditions, our cattle thrive. They fatten nicely, and return a nice profit. But only so long as they are fed and watered regularly and the weather cooperates. The least little hardship and they weaken and die.”

  Owen remarked, “I wouldn’t call droughts and blizzards little hardships.”

  “True. But you see my point? Our cattle are not all that hardy. They are certainly not as hardy as, say, your Texas longhorns, which thrive under conditions that would kill our cows outright.”

  “Longhorns are tough critters,” James Bartholomew conceded. “They have to be to survive. Texas summers are scorchin’ hot, Texas winters can be cold. The brush country has little water and not much grass, so they have learned to do without.”

  “All of which makes them ideal for what I have in mind,” Pitney said enthusiastically. “Namely, to infuse the BLC’s Wyoming cattle with Texas longhorn blood.”

  “Why not take a herd of our cows north?” Owen asked. “You wouldn’t need a large herd to start. Eventually you could replace all your cattle with longhorns.”

  “Eventually, yes. But in the meantime our expenses would increase. And then there is the very important consideration that pound for pound, our Wyoming cattle yield more beef for the money invested than we could ever get from longhorns.” Pitney shook his head. “No, when I say I want to infuse our Wyoming cattle with longhorn blood, I mean exactly that. I want to breed the two together. I want to make our cattle hardier while at the same time maintaining our high yield.”

  “Others have tried similar notions,” Bartholomew commented. “Charlie Goodnight bred longhorns and a buffalo once. Sort of by accident. He had a pet buffalo he called Old Spike, and it took a fancy to his longhorn cows. Ended up with a critter folks called a cattalo. Some thought it would give a boost to the cattle industry, since buffalo are even hardier than longhorns. But a lot of cattalo were stillborn. Most of the males that lived were sterile. The final blow was that cattalo didn’t have much meat on them.”

  “And those awful sounds they made,” Proctor said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Buffalo don’t make the same sounds cattle do,” Proctor explained. “They don’t moo or low. They grunt. Cattalo grunt, too, only they sound more like pigs. I couldn’t stand to hear them. They gave me the shivers.”

  “There is something else,” Bartholomew said. “It might sour the sale, but I have to be honest with you, Mr. Pitney. You are not the first person to think of crossbreedin’ longhorns with ordinary cows. Others, right here in Texas, have done the same. The longhorn traits don’t always stick. Sometimes the opposite happens. Sometimes they are bred out of the stock.”

  “Breeding is an inexact science, yes,” Pitney said. “I have researched it heavily, and I feel that, all things being equal, my grand scheme has a fifty-fifty chance of achieving success.” He gazed out the window at longhorns grazing on a nearby hill. “In my estimation, the potential reward justifies the experiment.”

  “An expensive experiment,” Owen spoke up.

  “Like I said, I always go with the best. The Bar 40 herd, by all accounts, qualifies.”

  Bartholomew placed his hands on his knees. “But to do as you propose, to buy a bull and have it taken all the way to Wyoming.” He cocked his head. “Do you have any notion what you are lettin’ yourself in for?”

  “The burden is not entirely mine,” Pitney said. “Part of our agreement was that you would see to the delivery.”

  “And I am a man of my word. I have already spoken to three of my top hands, the same three who escorted you here—Lon Chalmers, Slim Vrains, and Cleveland Hearns. They will take the bull north.”

  “I will accompany them,” Alfred Pitney said.

  Bartholomew did not hide his surprise. “You never mentioned wantin’ to go along.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? As you pointed out, it is an expensive investment. Since this whole arrangement was my idea, its success or failure rides on my shoulders. Should it fail, it will do so through no lack of effort on my part. My employers must be satisfie
d I have done my utmost on their behalf or I could find myself unemployed.”

  “But it’s such a long way,” Proctor said.

  “And there are dangers,” Bartholomew said. “Not the least of which is the bull itself. Longhorn bulls admit to no master. They do as they want, when they want.” He frowned. “To be honest, I almost declined your offer. I am convinced you will regret this.”

  “Give me more credit than that,” Pitney said. “And be advised that nothing you can say will persuade me not to go. The BLC has too much as stake. I have too much at stake.”

  “In that case,” Owen addressed his employer, “maybe I should go with them and uphold the Bar 40’s end.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” Pitney said.

  Bartholomew’s brow was puckered in thought. “My foreman has a point. I have a stake in this, too, seein’ as how it’s my bull you’re buyin’, and my word that we will get it to your ranch.”

  “I would rather not impose,” Pitney said. “I’m confident your three cowboys and I are up to the challenge.”

  “Can you spare me for a few months?” Owen asked.

  “Oh, I think I can hobble by.” Bartholomew grinned.

  Alfred Pitney chuckled. “You Yanks are pulling my leg. Isn’t that the expression? It won’t take that long to reach Wyoming. We will have the bull there within two weeks, possibly less.”

  “It can’t sprout wings and fly,” his host responded.

  “Who needs wings when we can avail ourselves of the railroad?” Pitney rejoined. “We will take the bull to the nearest station, load him on board, and off we go.” Pitney beamed. “The railroad has special stock cars, you know.”

  “For horses and cattle, yes,” Bartholomew replied. “Normal livestock, normal cattle. Longhorns aren’t normal. And a longhorn bull will no more stand for bein’ confined than, say, a grizzly would.”

  “Aren’t you exaggerating? Railroad cars are sturdily constructed. I daresay that once we have the bull inside, it can act up to its heart’s content and we can laugh it to scorn.”

  “Never laugh at a bull.”

  “Why on earth not? Surely you are not suggesting the animal will take exception? Honestly, Mr. Bartholomew, I hope you won’t take this in the wrong vein, but you seem to regard longhorns in general, and longhorn bulls in particular, as if they are more extraordinary than they are.”