Cherokee (5 page)

“But—”

He waved his hand at me. “Damnit, you asked to hear it, now shut up your mouth an listen. A damn fool could see it wasn't gonna work. Even if we could have gathered them cattle by the thousands, there wasn't no market for 'em. They was payin' four dollars a head delivered in Galveston, an' there wasn't no two men could have driven ten of them cattle, let alone fifty or a hundred, all the way to Galveston. Would of taken a drover for every head. Only thing left was the hide-and-tallow business, and I'll give you some advice right now, son. Don't ever go to work in the hide-and-tallow business. Prison is better wages, I hear, and the work ain't as hard.”

“You gonna tell me about Charlie Stevens or am I gonna get up and go on about my own work? I have heard this story before, only it was Buttercup in it. You still ain't explained how that worked out.”

He looked away. “One night Charlie told me right after evening grub that he was pulling out. He said he'd just take one horse, leave his other one, and leave me most of the powder and shot. He said he didn't mind the work, said he didn't mind living burrowed up in the mud like some animal, said he didn't mind the good chance of getting killed by the Mexican
banditos
or the Comanches. Said he didn't mind having to haul water and wood four miles. Said he didn't even really much mind starving to death as we surely were. But he said what he couldn't take no more was the loneliness.”

Howard stopped talking and looked off in the distance again.

I let him think on it a moment, and then I said, “Bad?”

He just shook his head. “Sometimes we'd go weeks without seeing another human face. An' then most likely it would be some Mexican with a herd of stolen horses heading for the border. Nearest neighbors was about a four-day ride away, and they was just a couple of ol' sourdoughs like me an' Charlie. Only time we ever saw anything in a skirt was when we took a load of hides and tallow into Galveston, an' them was the ugliest, filthiest women you ever wanted to get away from. Whores they was. An' they done a lively trade, which will tell you how bad things was. Course me an' Charlie never had more than five cents left by the time we got through buying supplies. So even if we'd of wanted to associate with such, we didn't have the coin for it.” He stopped and thought, seeming to be looking for a way to explain how it was. He said finally, “Son, it was just lonely. You and your partner have both told each other every story you know and then told them again and again. And ain't nothin' happening that's current that's worth talkin' about. Finally you just ain't got nothing left to say. You're just by yourself without kith or kin for comfort. Stuck it out damn near nine years, Charlie and me.”

“Pa, I never understood how come sodbusters didn't settle the country? Land was clear, good soil. I'd of thought there'd have been a farmer every half mile.”

He shook his head. “Land wouldn't grow nothing on account of the soil was brackish. From the saltwater.” He waved his hand in the general direction of the gulf. “That old saltwater has been soaking its way into this soil for millions of years. It'll grow grass and trash trees like mesquite and willow and huisache, but you couldn't make a crop of potatoes or corn or wheat or such. An' there ain't no running water. Think how many creeks and rivers there are within fifty miles of here. Ain't that many. We got windmills now, but there wasn't no windmills then. Nobody had ever heard of boring for water. And no timber to build a proper cabin. Just wild animals and
banditos
an' Comanches. Them kind of conditions don't draw many settlers, 'specially the kind with womenfolk. Too hard a life. This country killed women and horses. Course it's civilized now.”

That wasn't what Nora thought, but I didn't want to get into that. “So Charlie Stevens pulled out on you.”

“Yes. And I was plenty bitter about it. He tried to get me to come with him, but I wouldn't have none of it. Said when I set in to do a thing I got it done. But Charlie went on back to the Indian Territory. Said at least there was people there. Said if he was gonna starve to death he was at least going to do it with a woman in bed next to him.”

“Did you think hard of him?”

“I did. Mighty hard. And I let him know it.”

“Is that when you robbed him of the money?”

“Five
hundred
dollars? We didn't have five hundred anything between us. No, no, that come later. At least a year later, maybe more.”

“Then tell me. And pretty soon too.”

He looked off. “Let me see . . . Been so long. I remember sticking it out by myself for six months. Seven months, eight. Almost the best part of a year. Gawd, it was hard goin'. Before, it was just a miserable life. But without a partner, somebody to help you pull on the rope, well, it was near impossible.”

“Wasn't anyone else around to help?”

He shook his head. “Months went by and I didn't see a soul. Once got trapped by a Comanche hunting party near Caney Creek. Hid out in the weeds for three days. Didn't have nary a bite to eat, and the only water I got was what dew I could lick off the morning grass. Them Injuns was camped right on top of me. Fortunately I'd left my horse well upstream and had been working my way down the creek looking for freshwater mussels when I run slam-dab into them Injuns. Wasn't nothin' to do but hop in the weeds and hide. I thought they was never gonna leave. At least they didn't find my horse. He'd done a sight better'n me. I'd left him tethered so he could get to fresh water and grass.”

“You going to get to Stevens pretty soon?”

He spit again and looked at his empty tumbler and then at me. I just shook my head. He looked disappointed, but he said, “Wa'l, after that hard year things suddenly kind of took an upswing. There had come a pretty good influx of people into Texas and Tennessee and Arkansas and such places, and all of a sudden there was a demand for beef. Them ornery Longhorns went to six dollars and then eight and then ten, and I could see a man could make a pretty good piece of change if he had some help. So I saddled my horse an' set out for the Indian Territory. Didn't have no real sure idea where Charlie would be, but we'd originally been set up near a little settlement called Anadarko. So I headed that way and damned if I didn't find him! He'd gone into the sawn-lumber business and was doing pretty fair. The Ouchita River runs right near Anadarko, and Charlie had channeled off a piece of the stream and built him a raceway that would turn a saw blade, and he was settin' there turning out sawmill lumber and selling it as fast as he could cut it. There was considerable pine trees around that part of the territory, and he had him a regular crew cutting timber and hauling it to his sawmill. Well, he was right pleased to see me. Had him a house built right there next to his sawmill. Nice house built out of his own lumber, three or four rooms. Had him a mighty pretty . . .”

He stopped.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Swallowed some tobacco juice. Went down the wrong way.” He made a big show out of coughing. There was something about it that struck me strange, like he was covering up something, though for the life of me I couldn't guess what.

I said, “He had him a mighty pretty what?”

He cleared his throat. “What? Oh, I was just going to say he was mighty well set up. Good business, good house—made that dugout seem like the place you'd keep the hogs in. Anyway, we visited and I stayed the night and then the next day I put it up to him. I told him about what the cattle market had done and I begged him to come back with me. Of course he didn't want to, as well fixed as he was. But I reminded him it was our chance to make the dream come true we'd left Georgia with. We could own the biggest ranch anybody had ever seen. All I needed was him and about ten cowhands and we could make a sweep through the country and arrive in Galveston with a thousand head. But he wouldn't do it. I said I didn't have the money to hire the hands. I could see he must have made some cash with his saw, and if he'd come in with me we'd clean up. Well, I stayed around a few more days, eating his grub and drinking his whiskey, but he wouldn't budge. He finally said that what he'd do, me and him being old friends from when they laid the chunk, what he'd do was he'd loan me the money to hire the cowhands. Of course I didn't want to do it, hadn't come there for charity, but he piled five hundred dollars on his kitchen table in twenty-dollar gold pieces and it weakened me. Weakened me until I done it. I took the money and I went to San Antonio and I hired the cowhands. First one I hired was Tom Butterfield. And of course I've already told you the story of how Tom and I started the ranch, about that first big drive, that first payday. So there it is, son, there's the real beginning to the Half-Moon ranch.”

I looked at him, confused. “But you said you stole the money.”

“I did.”

“He loaned it to you.”

“I never paid him back. That makes it the same.”

I sat back and looked at him. Either he was pulling my leg or he wasn't telling me all of it. I said, “And this is what is weighing on your conscience, owing some man five hundred dollars for thirty years or whatever it is? This is what you want me to go through all this silly rigamarole for? Carry up not five hundred dollars, but twenty-five thousand dollars in gold? On horseback? And deliver it as your substitute because I'm your eldest son?” I leaned toward him. “Howard, have you reckoned you've raised a fool?”

He looked uncomfortable again. “Justa, I'd just as soon not tell you the rest.”

“And I'd just as soon not make that damn fool trip. Especially by horseback.”

He seemed to kind of collect himself. “Charlie came after me not long after I got back. We were right in the middle of the cattle roundup and he showed up one day.”

“What for?”

Howard looked at that far-off object he'd been studying through most of the conversation. “Come to get what belonged to him.”

“He came for his money that soon?”

His voice got an angry note in it. “How the hell do I know, damnit! He came, that's all. And there was a showdown between me and him.” He flipped out his hand. “Right out yonder, about where that far barn stands. That was close to where my dugout was. I was still living in it.”

“And he came for the money he'd loaned you before you even made your drive to Galveston? That don't make a bit of sense. He was a cattleman. He would of knowed you didn't have his money then, that you would have paid some of it out for supplies and to your hired hands. Tell me the truth, Howard. What the hell happened?”

“I told you, there was a showdown 'tween him and me.”

“Over the money?”

“No. I said it weren't over the money.”

“Then what the hell did he come all this way for?”

“Something that belonged to him, that's what for.”

“And he thought you had it?”

“I reckon.”

“But it wasn't the money?”

“Hell, Justa, he had just loaned me the money. He'd of knowed I couldn't pay it back that soon.”

“That's what I just said. What I want to find out is what he came all the way from Oklahoma for?”

He got that far-off look in his eyes. I couldn't tell if he was seeing the prairie out in front of him or the years in the past. He said softly, “Charlie was a gentle man. Wasn't no fighter. Would rather laugh than argue. Go ten miles out of his way to avoid a fight. But he was a firm man where something counted with him.”

It was worse than pulling teeth. I said, “What the hell happened?”

He shook his head sadly. “The whole thing was a mistake, a misunderstanding on Tom Butterfield's part.”

“What the hell has Buttercup got to do with it.”

“Me and Charlie was faced off about ten paces apart, arguing. Not really raising our voices, but an observer could have told we was arguing. Tom Butterfield was holding some cattle about two hundred yards away, maybe a little further, maybe three hundred. Course you know what kind of shot Tom is with a rifle . . .”

Of course I did. Even with him as old as Howard, he could still take his old Hawken buffalo rifle and outshoot any of us. I said, “Yeah.”

Howard said awkwardly, “Charlie went to take his revolver out of his holster. Was an old cap-and-ball percussion. One of the first. He said he was going to lay his gun down on the ground so there couldn't be no mistaking he'd come in peace. Well, Tom had been watching. Hell, Charlie hadn't been here thirty minutes, half an hour. I hadn't even offered the man a cup of coffee or a drink of whiskey. Tom seen Charlie pull his pistol and he acted. Too sudden, but it was too late for me to stop him.”

“What happened?”

Howard swallowed and looked pained. “He fired from that distance. I reckon he was trying to kill Charlie, but he didn't have the quality of a gun like he does now. So the ball hit Charlie in the right arm. The upper part. Broke the bone. Hell, it shattered the bone all to smithereens.” He took the chaw out of his mouth and threw it over the railing. “Course there wasn't no doctors here then. It's a wonder Charlie didn't die. We had to cut off his arm. Cauterized it with a running iron. Took four men to hold him down. After that we took care of him as best we could. Took about two weeks, but finally he was able to get on his horse and left. Went back to Oklahoma.” He looked around at me. “I ain't never seen the man since.”

“And you owe him five hundred dollars plus interest, plus one right arm.”

“That's about the size of it.”

I said evenly, “What else you owe him, Howard?”