The Virginia City Trail Read online

  “That’s questions I can’t answer, Cal. Only Lorna can, and I think you owe her the opportunity. Will you talk to her before we leave Texas?”

  “Yeah,” said Cal with a sigh. “I’ll talk to her.”

  Hitch Gould and Bill Petty rode west a good thirty miles before seeing evidence of cattle ranching. A cow and calf vanished up a brushy draw ahead of them, and tracks in the mud indicated the presence of others. The rain had diminished to a drizzle when they topped a hill overlooking a run-down cabin and sagging log barn. Beyond the barn was a creek, and beside it a pair of roan horses grazed. There was no other sign of life. From the dirt-and-stick chimney of the cabin a tendril of smoke rose, only to be whipped away by a rising wind.

  “If they got even one cow,” Hitch said, “it’s well hid. Won’t hurt if we ride in and ask, though. If they got nothin’ to sell, maybe they can head us toward somebody that has.”

  They rode on, and before they reached the cabin, one of the horses that grazed along the creek nickered. A man stepped out on the porch, and his most prominent features were a high-crowned Mexican sombrero and the Henry rifle in the crook of his arm. He said nothing, waiting for Hitch and Petty to ride closer. A hundred yards distant they reined up.

  “We’re lookin’ to buy cows,” Hitch shouted. “I’m Hitch Gould, and this is Bill Petty with me.”

  “We have no cows, senor, but you are welcome to ride in.” He lowered the muzzle of the Henry just a little.

  As Hitch and Petty rode closer, it appeared their host was Mexican or Spanish. He wore the tight-legged trousers of a vaquero, and over a white shirt he wore a short open-front jacket. His black riding boots were anything but new, and a thin moustache graced his upper lip. His hair, black as a crow’s wing, was over his ears and down to his collar. Hitch and Petty reined up near the porch, and Petty further explained the nature of their visit.

  “I am Manuel Cardenas,” he said, “and I regret that I cannot ask you in. The Senor Wells returned from the war with lung fever. He is very sick.”

  “Sorry,” said Petty. “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Nothing, senor,” said Cardenas in a softer voice. “He is dying. I think he will leave us before this time mañana.”

  So suddenly and silently did the boy appear in the doorway, Bill Petty had his hand on the butt of his Colt. Cardenas was swift with an introduction.

  “This is Curly,” he said. “Curly Wells. He is Senor Hiram’s hijo.”

  Curly Wells was young, maybe fifteen, with eyes as black as his hair. He was a good half a foot shy of six feet, his Levi’s were faded and patched at the knees, and a too-big flannel shirt had the sleeves rolled up to free his hands. He had dark crescents under his eyes and worry lines well beyond his years. Bill Petty spoke.

  “I’m Bill Petty, and this is Hitch Gould. We’re lookin’ to buy longhorn cows. Sorry about your pa. Is there anything we can to do help?”

  “No,” said Curly bitterly, “unless you can take us back four years, keep my pa out of that damn war, and run them Yankees the hell out of Texas.”

  “Nobody can change that,” said Petty. “It’s nigh dinner time. You and Manuel are welcome to join us, with somethin’ for your pa.”

  “No,” said Curly hastily. “No, thanks.”

  “The feeds on us,” Petty said. “Hitch, unload the pack mule.”

  Curly said no more, retreating into the cabin. Manual Cardenas spoke quietly.

  “It is his pride. We are very poor and have little to offer.”

  “The war’s been hard on us all,” said Hitch. “That’s why me and my pard, Arch Rainey, jumped at the chance to sign on with Mr. Story’s trail drive. When we reach Montana Territory, we’ll have some money in our pockets, and we won’t have to answer to Yankees and carpetbaggers.”

  “As we was ridin’ in,” Bill Petty said, “we saw a cow, a calf, and tracks of others. If they’re not yours, whose are they?”

  “Ike Hagerman’s, I think,” said Cardenas. “His ranch is to the west of us. We have only the horses near the creek, so we do not object when his cows graze our range.”

  Despite the gravely ill Hiram Wells, Cardenas led Hitch and Petty into the cabin and down a hall to the kitchen. They passed a door that was closed, and from behind it came the painful dirge of consumptive coughing, the sound of a man coughing his life away. Cardenas stirred up the fire in the old stove, adding wood.

  “You are generous to supply the food,” he said. “I will prepare it.”

  When the meal was ready, Cardenas knocked on the door to the sick room. Young Curly Wells swallowed resentment and pride, eating as though he hadn’t had a decent meal in his life. In fact, he seemed ashamed of his voracious appetite, returning to the sick room when he had finished.

  “Manuel,” Petty said, “I reckon this is a hurtful time to be thinkin’ of it, but there ain’t much hope for you and Curly, after . . .”

  His voice trailed off, but Cardenas understood. With a sigh, he spoke.

  “Si, senor, I have thought of it.”

  “Mr. Story’s hiring riders for the drive north,” said Hitch. “Men who can rope, ride, and shoot, if need be.”

  “Muchos gracias,” Cardenas said. “Curly and me, we do these things, but we cannot leave while the Senor Wells lives.”

  “We’ll be a month or more buyin’ enough cows for the drive,” said Petty. “Hitch and me will be ridin’ back this way in three or four days, and we’ll stop by again. We’ll leave you some grub too.”

  Cardenas watched them ride out. They left without seeing Curly again, and when they had ridden a mile or more, it was Hitch who spoke.

  “We’ll be ridin’ back to camp a hell of a lot sooner than next Monday,” he said. “Half our grub’s gone.”

  “Well, damn it,” Petty said, “they were starving. What would you have done?”

  “Exactly what you done.” Hitch grinned. “Give ’em half our grub.”

  5

  Arch Rainey and Tom Allen rode southeast, into Navarro County.

  “There’s some lakes out this way,” Arch said. “Waxahatchie Creek runs into one of ’em, and maybe twenty miles east of Corsicana we’ll cross the east fork of the Trinity. Corsicana ain’t that big of a town, but it’s the county seat. There’s three or four saloons, and if there’s cows for sale anywhere within thirty miles, somebody ought to know of ’em.”

  “What’s beyond Corsicana?”

  “More prairie and more little towns,” said Arch. “There’s Malakoff, but it ain’t more’n a wide place in the trail. Beyond that there’s Athens, but it ain’t nothin’ to get excited about. There’s a Masonic hall, a hotel, a Presbyterian church, a mercantile, and some saloons. Malakoff’s maybe thirty mile beyond Corsicana, and Athens is ten mile east of Malakoff.”

  “If we don’t have any luck at Corsicana, then we might as well ride on to Athens,” Allen said. “Even if we don’t learn anything in town, we ought to find some ten cow spreads somewhere on these plains.”

  The rain had intensified by the time they reached Corsicana, and the town appeared deserted. They reined up before an imposing saloon called the Trinity and shouldered through the bat-wing doors, thankful for a respite from the incessant rain. Half a dozen coal-oil lamps cast a dim glow as they swung like pendulums from the ceiling, guttering in the gust of wind through the door. Two men sat hunched over a checkerboard, not even bothering to look up. The barman said nothing, raising his eyebrows in question.

  “Couple of beers,” Tom Allen said.

  The barman brought their beers, collected the money, and said nothing.

  “We’re lookin’ to buy some cows,” said Allen.

  Still the man behind the bar said nothing.

  “Pardner,” Allen said, an edge to his voice, “we’re here to buy cows. Do you know of any spreads with longhorns for sale?”

  “No,” said the barman sullenly.

  Allen said no more. He finished his beer, waited for Arch, and the two of t
hem left the saloon.

  “Unsociable varmint,” said Arch. “If the rest of the town’s anything like him, we’re wasting our time.”

  “We’ll ride down to the courthouse,” Allen said. “I reckon they’ll have a sheriff.”

  The courthouse was of brick, and the bench that ran the length of the porch was deserted. There were deep puddles of water in the street, and a rain barrel at one corner of the courthouse had overflowed, creating a minor waterfall. Arch and Allen reined up, looped their horses’ reins about the hitch rail, and went inside. They had no trouble finding the sheriff’s office. It was the first door they came to, and across the upper third—which was frosted glass—they read: J. WILLOUGHBY, COUNTY SHERIFF.

  “It ain’t locked,” said a gruff voice from behind the door. “Come on in.”

  Allen opened the door and stepped inside, Arch following. The sheriff dragged his boots off the desk, his swivel chair groaning. He was a big man, gone to fat, his sparse hair gray under his old hat. He wore Levi’s, a gray flannel shirt, and a black leather vest to which a tarnished star was pinned.

  “Jerome Willoughby,” he said. “Sheriff, I reckon, until the Federals appoint some hombre more to their likin’. What kin I do fer you gents?”

  He listened while Tom Allen explained the purpose of their visit. There was an agonizing groan from his swivel chair as he again leaned back and rested his scarred boots on an equally scarred desk.

  “With most of the men at war,” he said, “folks ain’t had time to round up many cows. The Comanches has been raisin’ hell to the south, near Waco. Nearly ever’body that had cows t’sell sold ’em last fall, mostly fer what they could git. Them few drives that went north near ’bout took all the cows that was ready fer market, and it’ll likely be fall b’fore there’s any more. Nobody in these parts is got a decent herd, ’cept Spur, and you’ll have some trouble there.”

  “Tell us about Spur,” Allen said.

  “Spur was built lock, stock, an’ bunkhouse by Tobe McDaniels,” said the sheriff. “Then the war come, an’ Tobe lost his riders, includin’ his son, Bud. Fer four long years old Tobe hung on, just him an’ his young daughter, Jasmine. When Bud come home from the war, Tobe aimed to take a drive north. Bud come home in the summer of ’sixty-five, an’ he wasn’t worth a damn to nobody. Laid around and drunk rotgut whiskey an’ picked fights with anybody that’d fight him. He was twenty-one, a year older’n Jasmine. It was more than old Tobe could take. He died last year, three days before Christmas.”

  “The herd should be for sale, then,” said Allen.

  “It ain’t,” said Willoughby. “The girl—Jasmine—swears she’s takin’ the herd up the trail, if she has to boss it herself. But she’s got no help, no hope, an’ no money. Her no-account brother’s back there in a cell, sleepin’ off a drunk. Been here since las’ night. Sooner or later, Jasmine will come lookin’ fer him.”

  “Does he have a horse?” Allen asked.

  “Over t’ the livery,” said Willoughby.

  “Unless you have some objection,” Allen said, “we’ll take him with us. How do we find Spur?”

  “Take the little varmint, an’ welcome,” said Willoughby. “Keep ridin’ toward Malakoff an’ you’ll ride right into Spur.”

  Arch brought the horse from the livery, and Sheriff Willoughby revived the sleeping Bud by drenching him with a bucket of water from the overflowing rain barrel. McDaniels came out of it coughing, choking, and cursing. He stumbled to his feet and took a wild swing at the sheriff, but Willoughby stepped aside, and McDaniels collapsed in an ignominious heap on the floor.

  “Behave yourself, Bud,” said the sheriff. “These gents is takin’ you home.”

  “Don’ wanna go home,” McDaniels mumbled. Tom Allen helped him to his feet and McDaniels spat in his face. With his left hand Allen grabbed a fistful of McDaniels’s shirt, and fisting his right, he slugged McDaniels just below the left ear. McDaniels went limp, breathing raggedly.

  “Take his feet, Arch,” said Allen.

  They carried McDaniels to his horse, flung him across the saddle, and lashed his wrists and his feet together under the horse’s belly. The horse glared at them resentfully, unused to this disgraceful arrangement. Without further ado, the duo mounted and rode away, Arch leading McDaniels’s horse. Tom Allen and Arch Rainey had ridden almost twenty miles before they began seeing longhorns with the Spur brand on the left flank. The continuing rain had revived Bud McDaniels, and by the time they reined up before the Spur cabin, he was cursing them more viciously than ever. Suddenly the front door opened and a girl stepped out on the porch. Dark curly hair flowed down over the collar of her red flannel shirt. She was trim in Levi’s riding boots, and a flat-crowned hat was thonged under her chin. In her right hand she held a Colt.

  “What have you done to him?” she demanded.

  “Brought him home,” said Tom Allen. “Since he didn’t want to come, and got a mite nasty, we had to make some arrangements.”

  “Thanks for bringing him,” she said coldly. “Get him off the horse, and the two of you get the hell out of here.”

  Tom Allen cut the rope, gave the still-cursing Bud a shove, and he slid off flat on his back in the muddy water that had pooled in the yard. The girl splashed through the mud and water to help him, and he dragged her face down in the mud beside him. It was the kind of thing a cowboy couldn’t possibly ignore, and Tom Allen and Arch Rainey roared with laughter. By the time the girl sat up, the half-drunken Bud had joined in the laughter. She swung the Colt as hard as she could, and the muzzle of it caught him just above the eyes. His wild laughter ceased and he went down on his back, the rain pinking the blood from the gash above his eyes. Tom Allen took the girl’s left hand, helped her to her feet, and was rewarded when she took a vicious swing at his head with the muddy Colt. He caught her wrist, forcing her to drop the Colt, but her left hand was free. She slapped him across the nose and mouth. Hard. Abruptly he let go of her wrist, and, caught off-balance, she fell face down in the muddy, knee deep water.

  “You little catamount,” Allen said, “I ain’t one to argue with a lady, but where I come from, you purely don’t qualify.”

  “Damn you,” she squalled, lifting her head from the mire, “help me up.”

  He rolled her over on her back and helped her sit up. Hostility gone, she tried to get up, but could not. Allen helped her, and this time met no resistance. She staggered over to where her unconscious brother lay, and when she turned to Tom Allen, there was a pleading when she spoke.

  “Please take him into the house,” she said.

  “How far are we from Waco?” Story asked as he and Cal rode south along the Brazos.

  “Sixty miles, at least,” Cal said. “There’s a couple of things that may hurt our chances of buyin’ cows down this way. Remember what Hitch was sayin’ about Charlie Goodnight’s outfit? They’re somewhere south of Waco, roping and branding longhorns. Anybody else of the same mind, them that might sell to us, won’t find that many cows.”

  “The other thing, I reckon, is the Comanches,” said Story.

  “That’s it,” Cal said. “Just ain’t many folks willin’ to risk their hair for ten dollars a cow. You’d need a hell of a big outfit, some of ’em to rope cows and the rest to fight Comanches. But even that don’t always work. The Comanches stampeded Goodnight’s first herd, and he lost ’em ever’ damn one.”*

  “Whatever we accomplish, then,” said Story, “will have to be somewhere between our camp and Waco.”

  “I’d say so,” Cal said. “We can ask around Waco. Goodnight’s gatherin’ cows, not buyin’ ’em, so anybody that’s of a mind to sell, we ought to have a fair shot. I reckon if Goodnight and his outfit can rope a herd of wild cows out of the brakes, escape the Comanches and get the longhorns to market, he’ll be the richest man from New Orleans to San Francisco.”

  “I reckon he will,” said Story, “and I wish him luck, but I’d rather do it my way. It’s worth ten dollars a head n
ot to have to fight the Comanches. We’ll get our fill of Indian fighting along the Bozeman Trail.”

  “Do you aim to ride straight to Waco, or will we be lookin’ for ranches along the way?”

  “We’ll be watchful along the way,” Story said, “but unless we come upon something promising, I think we’ll ride on to Waco. It’ll be far quicker if we can get word of ranchers with cows to sell, rather than shotgunning around looking for them.”

  The rain continued, and the only evidence they found of small ranchers was abandoned spreads. They rode past two such rawhide outfits, the second being only a forlorn copy of the first: log houses with sagging doors and crumbling chimneys, fallen pole corrals, and barns with sagging or collapsed shake roofs.

  “The men rode off to war,” said Cal, “and while they was gone, Indians or starvation caught up with them that was left behind. In some cases, like with my pa, they just give up and died. Sometimes it’s the easy way out.”

  It was still daylight when they rode into Waco, but because of the continuing rain, it seemed darkness was approaching.

  “We’ll be spending enough nights out in the mud and rain for the next few months,” Story said. “Let’s find us a hotel and dry out.”

  They found an unpretentious one-story affair called the River Bend, more a boardinghouse than hotel. Their horses and the pack mule had been left at the livery, where the jovial liveryman had locked their saddles and grub in a tack room. Across the muddy street from the hotel was the Brazos, which appeared to be the busiest saloon in town.

  “We’ll mosey over there,” said Story, “when we’ve dried out and rested some. We’ll do a lot of listening and very little talking.”

  “Smart move,” Cal said. “Once word gets around that we’re buyin’ cows, every thief and no account in East Texas will know we’re carryin’ dinero.”

  While their hotel room wasn’t fancy, it was clean, and there were dry towels. They shucked their sodden clothes and spread them out on the floor to dry.