Matagorda (1967)

Matagorda

LOUIS L'AMOUR

Chapter
One
.

Major Tappan Duvarney
Rested His Hands On The Rail And Stared
toward the low sandy shore. It was not what he had expected of Texas, but whatever lay ahead represented his last chance. He had to make it here or nowhere.

He listened to the rhythmic pound and splash of the paddle wheels and looked bleakly into the future. Behind him lay the War Between the States and several years of Indian fighting with the frontier army; before him only the lonely years at some sun-baked, windswept frontier post, with nothing to look forward to but retirement.

When the war had broken out he was a young man with an assured future. Aside from the family plantation in Virginia, his father owned a shipping line trading to the West Indies and Gulf ports-four schooners and a barkentine, and good vessels all.

Tap Duvarney had made two trips before the mast on the barkentine, had taken examinations for his ticket, and had made two trips as third mate, one aboard a schooner, the other on the barkentine. His father wanted him to know the sea and its business from every aspect, and Tap liked the sea. He had taken to the rough and rowdy life in Caribbean ports as if born to it.

The war changed all that. His sympathies and those of his family were with the Union.

He had gone north and joined up. Benegades had burned the plantation buildings and run off the stock; one schooner had been lost in a hurricane off this very coast, two others had been confiscated by the Confederacy and sunk by Union gunboats. The barkentine had disappeared into that mysterious triangle south of Bermuda and left nothing behind but the memory. The last schooner, beat and bedraggled, had burned alongside the dock when the war came to Charleston. Tap Duvarney returned from the war saddled with debts, his father dead, his home destroyed.

There seemed only one thing to do, and he did it. He went back to the army and a series of frontier posts. During the nine years following the war he fought Indians from the Dakotas to Arizona. He managed to keep his hair, but picked up three scars, one from a knife, two from bullet wounds.

Finally, his father's estate had been settled and he emerged from the shambles with a bit more than seven thousand dollars.

It was then he heard from Tom Kittery.

Captain Wilkes stopped beside him now on his way to the pilot house. Duvarney knew that Wilkes was worried about him, and genuinely wished to help. The captain was a good man who had served on one of his father's ships.

"You'll find Texas a fast country, Major. Do you have friends here?"

"One ... so far as I know. I met him during the war."

"You haven't seen him since? That's quite a while, Major. Is that the man you've gone into partnership with?"

Duvarney thought he detected a doubtful note in Wilkes's voice, and he was not surprised.

He was a bit doubtful himself from time to time.

"I know the man, Captain. Whatever else he may be, he's honest . . . and he's got guts. I go along with that."

"The cattle business is good," Wilkes said. "Indianola has been the biggest cattle-shipping port in Texas for a good long time, so I've had a good deal to do with it. I may know your partner."

"Kittery . . . Tom Kittery. Old Texas family."

"Kittery, is it? Yes, he has guts, all right. There isn't a man in Texas would deny that. And he's honest. But speaking as a friend, I'd never leave the ship, if I were you. Come on back to New Orleans. You're a good man, and you know the sea. We'll find something for you there."

"What's wrong with Kittery?"

"With him? Nothing . . . nothing at all." Wilkes glanced at Duvarney. "I take it you haven't heard about the feud?"

Wilkes paused, then went on. "You're walking right into the middle of a shooting war . . . the Munson-Kittery feud. It has been going on since 1840 or thereabouts, and from the moment it is discovered that you are associated with Kittery you'll be a prime target."

"I know nothing about any feud."

"You say you knew Kittery during the war? He may have thought the feud was a thing of the past because it seemed to be over. Until the Kittery boys left for the war there hadn't been any shooting for several years.

"In the years before the war the Kittery faction numbered some of the toughest, ablest fighting men in Texas; so the Munsons laid low and played their music soft. And when the Kittery boys went off to war, the Munsons stayed home.

"Even so, they kept quiet until Ben was killed at Shilo. That started them stirring around a bit, but it wasn't until Tom was captured-reported dead, in fact-that they began to cut loose.

"They ran off a bunch of Kittery cattle, then burned a barn. Old Alec, Tom's uncle, rode out after the Munsons and they ambushed him and killed him. After that they really cut loose. They killed two Negro hands who had worked for the Kitterys for years, and burned the old home-one of the oldest houses on the coast.

"Cattle were beginning to be worth money, and the Munsons thought they were rich on Kittery beef. Only somebody stampeded the biggest herd one night and ran them into the Big Thicket. Well, you don't know the Thicket, but finding cattle in there is like hunting ghosts. The Munsons never were much on hard work, and rousting those steers from the Thicket would be the hardest kind of work. So the steers, and a lot of other cattle, are still in there."

"Maybe those are the cattle I bought," Duvarney commented ironically. "It's my luck."

"Are you wearing a gun?" Wilkes asked.

"I have one." As a matter of fact, he had two guns. "From what you've said, I should be wearing one."

'You should." Wilkes straightened up. "I'm going up to take her in, but my advice to you is: stay on the ship. ... If you do leave her, be ready for trouble. They laid for Johnny Lubec, and they laid for Tom. They were waiting for him when the boat docked ... my boat."

"Tom?"

Wilkes smiled grimly. "Tom was no fool. I told him what had happened to Johnny, so he left the ship as we were going past the island, entering the bay.

The fog was thick that morning, and he lowered himself over holster was worn from use, but he belted it on. He hesitated a bit over the second pistol, then thrust it into his waistband.

Pausing before the mirror, he straightened his cravat, and studied the hang on his coat to see if the pistol showed a bulge. It did not.

For a moment then, he looked at himself.

What he saw was a lean, spare-built man with a brown, quiet face and hazel eyes.

His shoulders were broad, and the coat fitted admirably. He was, he thought wryly, what he had heard people say of him: "a handsome man," or "a fine figure of a man."

He was also a man of thirty-three with a wealth of experience, and nothing to show for it but the scars. When most men of his age were well established in their life work, he had nothing, was nothing.

He had found it all too easy to slip into the routine of army life, but the peacetime army offered little chance for advancement, and he had been lucky to make major.

He knew of many older men who had done just as much who were captains, and a few who were still lieutenants. But his early life had been geared to ambition, and he felt he must accomplish something, do something, make himself a better man, and his country a better place. This he had been taught as a child, this he still believed.

He turned from the mirror, gathered up his gear, and swung his sea chest to his shoulder with practiced ease. Then he picked up the carpetbag and walked out on deck, placing his things near the gangway.

Several passengers had come out on deck to watch the steamboat's approach to Indianola.

Most of them he knew by sight, and had measured and catalogued them. All except two fell into familiar categories. One of these was a tall, wiry man in a tailored black broadcloth suit, a hawk-faced man with a saturnine expression, as if he viewed the world with wry amusement. The other was a girl.

She was young, and beautiful in the way a ranch girl is beautiful who does not know the skills or artifices of the city. She was blonde, with blue eyes and a clear, fresh complexion, but she looked somewhat sullen now, and seemed to be approaching the Texas coast with no anticipation of pleasure.

Several times Duvarney had caught her eyes upon him, showing curiosity but nothing more. He lifted his hat. "Ma'am, I presume you are acquainted in Indianola?"

"Yes, I am," she answered. "My home is in Texas."

"A fine state, I've heard. I was wondering if you could tell me where I could locate Tom Kittery."

Her eyes were suddenly unfriendly. She looked at him, a hard, measuring glance. "If you are looking for Tom Kittery you will have to find him yourself. If there is anyone who knows where he is, I don't know about it."

"I see. Well, no harm done. I expect he will find me soon enough, when he knows I am here. He has enemies, I believe?"

"He has . . . too many of them."

Then they stood silently together, watching the approaching shore, and Tap found himself wondering about her. She was dressed neatly but not expensively, in the style of a ranch girl going to the city, or coming back from a visit. From her attitude, she was not happy about coming home.

"You enjoyed New Orleans, ma'am?"

She turned quickly. "Oh, I did! It's a wonderful place, so many people, beautiful clothes ... so many nice places to go-if there was somebody to take you."

"You have friends there?"

"I have an uncle and aunt there. I'm afraid they did not approve of a lot of the most exciting places."

"Quite properly," Duvarney commented dryly. "The most interesting places in New Orleans are no place for a young girl.

"As for me," he added, "I look forward to Indianola, and to Texas."

"You're going to stay there?"

"I hope to. As a matter of fact, I have some investments there. An investment, I should say. In cattle."

She looked at him. "You did not mention your name. Or where you were from."

"Sorry, ma'am. The name is Tappan Duvarney, and I am from Virginia."

"You're Tap Duvarney?"

He was surprised. "You've heard of me, then?"

"I'm Mady Coppinger." She glanced quickly around to be sure no one else was listening.

"Tom Kittery is my . . . he is a friend of mine. He told me about you. As a matter of fact," she added, somewhat irritably, "he has been talking of very little else since you decided to come down."

She looked hard at him again. "Tom said you'd lived in Richmond and Charleston."

"A long time ago. For years I've only visited there. I've been in the army . . . out west."

"I envy you. Any place is better than Texas." The sullen look was on her face once more. "I wish I had never come back. I hate it."

"Do you go to New Orleans often?"

"I've never been there before, and it isn't likely I'll get to go again." She looked suddenly defiant. "Unless somebody takes me."

He avoided the opening, if that was what it was, and watched the shore. He could see the buildings now. The coast was low and flat, but there seemed to be hills beyond the town which were vague at that distance. The two long dark fingers of pier thrust into the bay waters.

"I've never been anywhere before," the girl said. "Only to Indianola or Victoria . . . and once over to Beeville. My pa owns a ranch."

"Does he live near Tom?"

She shook her head. "Mr. Diuvarney, you must understand something. Tom Kittery is a hunted man. The Munsons are looking for him and when they find him they'll kill him. If you want to stay alive, don't you dare mention his name, or they'll be gunning for you."

"I will have to find Tom."

"Don't you go asking for him. I'd say you'd best hire yourself a rig ... or a horse."

She looked up at him. "Do you ride?"

"I was in the cavalry."

"Then get a horse and ride south. Take your time. Ride south toward Mission River.

If nobody stops you keep on riding, but don't be in a hurry. Tom will find you."

"It doesn't seem a very good time to gather a herd for a cattle drive," Duvarney commented.

"Tom usually does what he starts out to do," Mady said. "I'll have to say that. Like the business with the hides."

At his questioning look, she went on. "The Munsons have been branding Rafter K stock.

The Rafter K is the Kittery brand, but the law is a Munson and there wasn't much Tom could do, or so folks thought. Then one morning they woke up and found fresh hides tacked up where everybody could see them. They were nailed up with the hair side against the wall so any western man could see the Rafter K had been changed into a Munson Circle M."

She smiled, and suddenly her face was changed. "Everybody in the country was laughing about that, and telling the story, until Jim Hart killed a man over to Beeville.

Since then nobody feels much like talking, but the hides are still going up. Tom has nailed up hides in Beeville, Indianola, and Victoria, and even clean down to Brownsville. The Munsons are mad enough to eat nails."