Matagorda (1967) (7 page)

Tap's own men had drifted in and were gathered around a smaller fire.

Two of the Coppinger riders were Mexicans-tough, salty-looking vaqueros. The third was a lean, stoop-shouldered man with a perpetual smile that did not quite reach to his eyes. He wore a tied-down gun and bowie knife.

"Lin Stacker . . . Tap Duvarney, my partner."

"Howdy," Stacker said, sizing him up coolly as Duvarney acknowledged the greeting.

He started to speak, but Duvarney squatted on his heels near the Mexicans.

"That grulla looks like a tough little horse," he commented: then addressing the shorter Mexican, he asked, "How do you like him?"

"Bueno. That one is my own horse."

"I figured so. I like him." He turned to the other Mexican. "How do you like the paint?"

The Mexican shrugged. "He runs fast." He grinned. "He pitches a leetle, too."

Duvarney had already decided that Stacker was a troublemaker, and he wanted to have as little to do with him as possible. The three had brought the horses over from the Coppinger outfit, which meant they knew where to find Tom Kittery, and also that a drive was in prospect. Tom Kittery did not seem to be as wary as Duvarney remembered him. Either he had changed or he was inviting attack . . . perhaps inviting attack because the Munsons could not know of the new men Duvarney had brought in.

Tap found himself growing more and more irritated and more anxious. He had bargained for no feud. What he had made was a simple business deal, and that was exactly what he wanted.

"How'd you know Pedro rode the grulla?" Stacker demanded. "Did you see us ride in?"

"He wears Mexican spurs, with big rowels. He left some sign where he tied his horse and where he dumped his saddle."

Duvarney felt sure that Stacker was not to be trusted. The tall, stoop-shouldered cowboy did a lot of looking around. Duvarney drifted over to where Tom Kittery sat, and dropped to the ground beside him.

"I'm taking some of my boys and riding into Refugio," he said, "and then we'll swing around by Victoria.
Any business I can do for you?"

Tom Kittery took the makings from his pocket and began to build a smoke. "If you aren't in this fight," he commented, "you'd better ride careful. There's those who wouldn't believe it."

"Tom," Duvarney said quietly, "I know you'd like to have me take up this fight of yours, but I say again that I joined up only for the cattle business. I think this feud is a foolish thing. You and the Munsons are fighting a fight that should have died out years ago. I know they burned you out, I know they killed some of your kin, but you killed some of theirs, too. All I want is to make my drive, and I'd like you to make it with me.

"If we get these cattle to Kansas or sell them in Indianola, whichever proves out, we'll have some cash money, enough to start ranching up north ... in Wyoming or Montana."

"I'm a Texas man," Kittery protested.

"Hell," Duvarney said, "I've been up there. Half the cattlemen in Wyoming and Montana are from Texas ... or England. There's good grass up there, and I know the country.

We could sell our steers, then drive the young stuff and the breeding stock to northern grass. You could leave this feud behind, own your own outfit, marry Mady Coppinger, and live happily ever after."

"You make it sound good, Tap. You surely do."

"Which sounds better? That, or to roust around the country hunting for Munsons all your life? Until they're all dead, or somebody dry-gulches you?"

"When do you want to pull out?"

"A week from today, with whatever we have. We can try for Indianola if things work out: if they don't, we can strike north for the Red River, fatten our stock on Indian grass, and push into Kansas when the market is right."

Refugio was a sleepy-looking cowtown that belied its appearance. The four riders rode into the dusty street and tied to the hitching rail in front of the courthouse.

Boardwalks ran along both sides of the street, and back of the walks were adobe or frame buildings with a few galleries hanging over the walks. The courthouse was open, and Tap strolled across the street and went up the steps. Doc Belden stayed near the horses; Jud Walker and Welt Spicer had gone into the nearest saloon.

"Rocking TD?" The clerk opened the brand book. "I don't recall that one, so you're probably all right on it." He registered the brand, studying the name he had written . . .

Tappan Duvarney.

"I've heard of you," the clerk commented. "Friend of Tom Kittery's, aren't you?"

"Met him during the war," Duvarney replied.

"He come in with you? If he did, you might tell him Mady Coppinger's in town."

Despite himself, Tap felt excitement. Was it because he hadn't seen any woman in so long? Or--

He shook himself to escape the thought, settled his hat in place, and went out. For a moment he paused in the doorway, his eyes studying the street. One of the ways to avoid trouble was to see it before it got to you.

Doc Belden was still standing near the horses, smoking a small cigar. He was looking down the street toward the saloon, which Tap could not see. Almost without thinking, Tap reached up and unbuttoned his coat. He carried two guns, one in its holster, the other in his waistband.

He walked directly to the horses and stood near Doc. "Everything all right?"

Doc gave him a quizzical glance. "Half a dozen riders just pulled in ... lathered horses . . . like maybe they'd hurried to get here."

"Mount up," Tap said; "we'll ride down and join the boys."

They tied the horses at the rail in front of the saloon, listening for voices. There were six horses tied nearby; all had been ridden hard, all bore the Circle M brand.

"Sit loose in the saddle, Belden. This may be it, but let me open the ball."

They pushed through the swinging doors into the shadowed coolness of the saloon.

Spicer was at the end of the bar, facing the room, and Jud Walker stood close by.

Two of the Circle M riders stood well down the bar from Walker. Two others were seated at a table behind him but about fifteen feet away. The other two were down the room, but facing Walker and Spicer, boxing them neatly.

Tap stepped to one side of the door, his eyes taking in the scene at a glance. Doc Belden had moved easily to the other side of the door.

One of the men at the tables turned his head, squinting his eyes against the outside glare, to see who had come in. It was Shabbit.

"How are you, boys?" Tap said quietly. "Let's all have a drink, shall we?"

The situation had suddenly reversed itself, and it was now the Munson party who were boxed. If they faced the two men at the bar they could not face the two at the door.

And shooting against the sunlight was not too easy a thing.

Shabbit hesitated, and the moment passed him by. "To the bar, gentlemen," Tap insisted.

"I'm buying the drinks. Bartender, set them up ... right there."

He was pointing at the center of the bar, and he was pointing with a gun.

Nobody had seen him draw it ... it was simply there.

One of the Munson men, whom Tap remembered from the graveyard, pushed back his chair and got up. "Don't mind if I do," he said coolly. "You ridin' with the Kitterys now?"

"I'm in the cattle business with Tom Kittery," Tap replied calmly. "I'm not mixed up in any feud, and don't intend to be."

As the first man started to the bar a second man got up. Shabbit was the last to move, muttering under his breath. When all had lined up along the bar and their drinks were poured, Duvarney motioned Walker and Spicer back to the door. Then he went to the bar and paid for the drinks.

"Oblige me, gentlemen," he said, "and stay with your drinks. My finger is very touchy on the trigger, and I'll need at least ten minutes to complete my business here.

I would regret killing a man for merely putting his head out of the door."

Retreating to their horses, they mounted and walked them slowly down the street.

They left town on the road to Victoria, but soon turned off it and went toward the San Antonio River. It was after dark when they made camp in the breaks along the San Antonio, and before daylight they were moving again. By late morning they were riding into Victoria.

Spicer and Walker stayed with the horses, while Duvarney and Doc Belden walked down the street. Mady Coppinger was on the boardwalk on the other side. Tap crossed over, removed his hat, and bowed.

"Miss Coppinger?" he said. "It is good to see you again."

His eyes went up and down the street, scanning the buildings, even the second-story windows.

"I don't understand you, Major Duvarney. Why would a man like you want to come to Texas? Tom says you have connections in Virginia, that you've lived all over, know all sorts of people."

"I like Texas."

"You like it? I find that hard to believe."

"It's a man's country, I will admit, but you would find the cities less attractive after you had been there a while."

"Anything is better than this," she replied. "I wish ... I wish I could just move away and never see it again. You men may like the dust, the cattle, the sweating horses ... I don't. I want to be where there's life . . . excitement."

"You would find it just as dull there after a while," Tap commented. His eyes swept the street again. "Have you time to eat with me? I see there's a restaurant up the street, and I'd be pleased if you'd be my guest."

"I'd like that very much," she agreed, "after I get some things I need." While she went on down the street to do her shopping, Tap Duvarney walked back to the horses.

"We'll be in town for a bit," he said. "I'm going to have dinner with Miss Coppinger."

"You sure do pick 'em, Major," Walker said, grinning. "That's a mighty handsome figure of a woman."

"She's spoken for," Duvarney replied shortly. "That is the girl Tom Kittery is going to marry."

"You'd never know it, the way she was lookin' at you," Jud commented. "But that's none of my affair." He looked around uneasily. "You want us to stay close? I smell trouble."

"There's a grove of pecans on the edge of town. After you boys do whatever buying there's to do, meet me there ... in an hour."

Welt Spicer hesitated. "You sure you don't want us to stay by you? I've heard tell this here is a Munson town."

"No . . . just be there when I come. I'll be all right."

The restaurant was a small place, with white curtains at the windows and white tablecloths and napkins. Mady came in a moment after he arrived, moving gracefully. Her eyes lighted up when she saw him. "You may not believe this," she said, "but I've lived near Victoria all my life and this is only the second time I have eaten here."

He glanced at her thoughtfully. She was uncommonly pretty, and especially so today.

She was, he thought, one of those girls who love company, who like to be going and doing. There was little chance of that on a cattle range.

"But you're in town often," he protested. "Where do you eat?"

"We bring our lunch. But sometimes we eat at the home of friends." She looked up, her blue eyes resentful. "You haven't been here long enough to know, Major Duvarney, but cash money is hard to come by in Texas these days. My father has more cattle than most folks around Victoria, but he sees very little cash money. I had to skimp and save to make that trip to New Orleans. Not that pa isn't well off," she added.

"It's just the way things are in Texas."

She looked unhappy, and it caused him to wonder about her relationship to Tom Kittery.

Tom was the sort of man who would appeal to women. He was tall and well set-up, he carried himself with a manner, and had an easy, devil-may-care way about him. His family had standing in East Texas, and but for the feud might have been living in prosperity ... on a par with her own family.

Obviously, that was not enough for Mady Coppinger. She wanted the life of the city and its real or fancied excitements. Her one brief visit had only served to whet her appetite for more, and had been brief enough to bring no disillusionment. Such a girl was the last person in the world for Tom Kittery, a man committed by birth and inclination to the wilder West.

"Cities aren't the way you seem to think them," he said, "and most of the people living there have no part of what is supposed to be the glamour and the excitement.

You probably have a better life and a more interesting life right here."_

They talked on, and in spite of himself he was led to talk of New J York and Washington, of Bichmond and Charleston. The time went by too quickly, and more than an hour had passed before he broke away and joined his men, who were growing restive.

He had learned a little. Mady was in love with Tom, but was torn between her love for him and her desire to be rid of Texas and all it stood for. She loved him in her way, but she wanted him away from Texas, and she doubted his ability to win the feud. The fighting itself disturbed her less than he expected, yet somewhere, somehow, she had been offered some powerful and fairly consistent arguments to indicate that Tom had no chance of winning.