Sunday's Colt & Other Stories (6 page)

“Amen,” Ty Lee nodded.

Candle gave it some thought, nodded, and went back to dealing out the biscuits. But he didn't smile and he didn't look up as the others got their feed. Old Blu was trying to pick a fight with Arny and almost got more than he bargained for his trouble. Old Candle was every bit as big as Blu and a hell of a lot meaner when it came to scrapping. Blu may have lived but he'd a-damn sure been missing body parts afore the fracas was over.

“How about another hand of poker tonight?” Red River asked as he and Ty Lee mounted their ponies.

“I don't think I'll join ya, pard,” Ty Lee shrugged. “The fun's gone plum out of it.”

“You can say that again. Old Blu is hell bent for trouble, that's for sure.”

“Yeah, well, we got shovels in the wagon and there's plenty of clay to bury him in,” Ty Lee said has he turned his pony for the herd. “Old Arny don't look like much but I'm betting he's leather tough and snake mean when he gets riled. The quiet ones are always that way, don't you know.”

“Kind of reminds me of another gent I know,” Red River said with a grin. Then quieter to himself, “I think you just wrote your own epitaph, partner.”

Well, that day and night passed pretty quiet. Blu was sullen and Arny kept his distance. The only worry came when Blu held out his plate for a serving of evening stew. Candle Corn stared at him and let the plate rest empty for a while.

“I wouldn't take it kindly if this grub ended up in the dirt. A fellow can get mighty hungry around here if he don't know how to manage his chow,” Candle said.

Blu shook his head and looked to the ground. He was properly given notice and it sure weren't worth fighting over after a long day in the saddle. Besides, the stew smelled damn good.

Candle gave him a nod and plopped a ladle full on his plate. As far as he was concerned the affair was ended.

It was the last night before breaking camp but no yarns were spun and no poker game developed. Everyone sort of kept to himself and most turned in early.

About mid-morning they finished up sorting the dregs of the herd. Since none of them were branded and most were sorry, it was the custom to divide them up one critter to each outfit in turn. They came to a scrawny little lineback with a twisted neck and one horn hung low. Without saying anything Arny rode up and started the varmint toward his herd. Red River let it pass, it being Arny's turn and all.

Blu put his pony forward and called out. “That's a Slash Nine steer.”

“How so?” Red River asked. “He ain't wearing no brand.”

“I know that steer.” Blu said. “He's Slash Nine.”

Red River didn't see it. “Well, pick out another to take his place. Hell, it ain't carrying a brand and it ain't like he's some prize.”

Blu shook his head. “No, it's Slash Nine and I mean to have him.”

Arny held up and swung his pony around. It's funny how a man can let things pass then all of a sudden have his fill. Arny had had his. He waved a no and motioned to the remaining catch. “Choose another. It is my turn and the steer is mine.”

“No, by God, I won't have it, Hernandez. That's a Slash Nine steer you're taking. You've had everything your way this trip but it's coming to an end now and proper.”

By this time Ty Lee had rode up. “What does it matter? That damned crow bait probably won't live to make it back to home range.”

“Stay out of this, Driscoll,” Blu slurred. “This here's between me and the pepper.”

Even old Four-Bit was disgusted. He leaned over his horn and motioned to the catch. “Hell, I'll settle it. Let him have the steer. You can have our share of the next one up. Two for one. How's that?”

“No, it's that steer I want and that steer I'll take.” Blu was shaking with anger by then.

It got real quiet there in the dust, the sweat, and the flies. Everyone watched Arny to see how he'd do. It was his play.

Arny looked down at his saddle and shook his head. The muscles tightened along his jaw. “No. No more. The steer goes with me.”

Blu looped his reins around his horn, stepped to the ground and slid his holster forward. “And I say no. Now what the hell are you going to do about it, Mex?”

“Have you completely lost your senses?” Red River snapped. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Arny stepped down from his horse and pulled his blade from his belt. He wasn't wearing a gun. He let the tip of that blade balance on the long finger of his right hand, the handle balanced against his wrist. “I will tell you what is wrong with him, amigo. He has a sickness burning inside of him like many gringos I have known. It is not the steer. It is everything, isn't it? You want it all.”

“Somebody give this bastard a gun!” Blu yelled. “We'll settle this right now and for good.”

Arny shook his head and stepped toward him. Barely nine feet separated them. “I do not need a gun. Not for the likes of you. If you want the steer, take it, if you can.”

“This is murder,” Red River said. “I won't have no part in it.”

It was then that Candle Corn walked up. He had been watching from the cook fire and came for a closer look. He studied the way that Arny held his blade and smiled. “Go on. If Blu wants a fight, let him have it.”

Blu grinned and tensed for the draw. “That's right. And, when I'm through, you're next.”

Blu hesitated. There was a madness in his eyes and his teeth gleamed like ivory in the center of his grin. “Make your play. Cause if you don't I'm gonna kill you where you stand.”

Arny nodded, then quicker than a rattler he flicked his wrist underhanded and put that six-inch blade in the center of Blu's chest. Old Blu hadn't even had time to go for the draw. He just looked at the knife hilt deep in his heart and then down at his empty hand, sort of like he couldn't believe what had just happened. He rocked back and spread a cloud of dust and cow shit with his landing. Most figure he was dead before he hit the dirt.

Candle Corn calmly walked up to Blu and checked his vitals. “Deader than a skillet,” he said coolly. “You were right about one thing, hoss. Old Blu never did let looking like a fool interfere with his glory.”

“I guess he needs burying,” Red River said as he looked over his shoulder toward the remainder of the Slash Nine crew. “And, I suppose someone ought to break the news to his outfit.”

“There might be trouble,” Arny said as he made a shadow over the body.

“Anybody here see anything but self-defense?” Red River asked.

“I don't know what else you'd tag it,” Four-Bit said. “He'd a-killed Hernandez for sure.”

Candle slipped the blade from Blu's chest and wiped the blood on his apron. “You might need this,” he said as he offered it to Arny. “It might be that the crew will want to take him back to the Slash Nine. Blu may have had some kin, I'm thinking.”

Arny motioned to one of his men. “Turn the steer loose. I want no part of him.”

“Don't send him our way,” Four-Bit said. “I'm thinking that there scrawny lineback is cursed for sure.”

Ty Lee shook out his line, put a loop round the steer's horns, dallied up, and made for the branding fire.

“You ain't figuring on putting our brand on him?” Red River asked as he followed along.

“Nope,” Ty Lee said. “I figure this steer is cursed and no outfit'd want anything to do with him. I'm a-gonna fix him so that never happens. Lay a loop on him so we can stretch him out.”

Well, they strung him down and stretched him out right in front of the branding fire. Ty Lee gave his line to Four-Bit, stepped down from his pony and drew up the slash iron. Quick as you please, he burned MURDER across the side of that poor critter and then let him free.

Ty Lee gathered his lasso and mounted. “I figure that'll do it. Fair warning to anyone. It's their hide if they want him but they need the warning just the same.”

By that time all the riders had gathered round the fire. Every man agreed that it was the proper thing to do. They buried old Blu under a mesquite and nailed his hat above the grave for a marker. They say that hat hung on that tree for several years before it rotted away. They still call that tree the blue mesquite and it's a popular gathering place for the outfits to this day. I guess old Blu was good for something after all.”

The wide-eyed youngster whistled long and low. “Now that is a yarn if I ever heard one. Heck, I know where that tree is. I guess everybody hereabouts does. So, what happened to Arny? Did the law give him trouble?”

The cowpuncher shook his mop. “Nope. Back in them days there wasn't much said about such doings. Blu was dead and the matter ended there. As for Arny, he got hold of some bad water a few months later and died of the drizzlin' trots. It wasn't long before the whole affair would have been forgotten except for that old steer showing up from time to time. I wonder how long it will be afore that old steer cashes in his chips.”

The youngster pitched his dregs and stared into the fire. “Could be he never will.”

“Could be,” the puncher said.

The Dark Man

Merciless spring winds had driven the fire through the open prairie grassland with frightening efficiency. A broad band of black, smoldering earth five miles wide and fifteen miles long left nothing unscarred in its path. As the riders made their way toward Robert Irvine's homestead, they recognized the burned corpses of coyote, rabbit, deer, and even cattle still smoldering where they fell.

“My God, Mister Print. How could anyone have survived this?” Uncle Sam Jones asked.

Print Olive shook his head and sighed. “I'm afraid it will cost Irvine his life. I've heard that his burns are terrible.” He cast a determined look toward his son, Thad. “Look here now, we won't say that to the woman. Let's be mindful of her feelings when we talk to her.”

“You do the talking, Dad. I wouldn't know what to say to her.”

Olive nodded and urged his sorrel forward.

Nadine Irvine saw the riders coming at a distance. A black swirling ash cloud wisped along behind their ponies and drifted in the gentle wind. She stepped to the door of her soddy and brushed an errant lock of hair from her eyes to see them better and to try to present some sort of suitable appearance. She did not recognize any of the riders—a tall bearded black man in his fifties and two compact, dark-featured white men. She was anxious and gently urged her three children behind her skirts as she held her ground at the doorway.

“Hello to the house,” the older white man said. “We have come to help your family.”

She managed a smile as she studied his features. He was a round-faced man, dark complexion, black deep-set eyes, and a wide mouth under a heavy moustache. “I don't believe I recognize you, sir.”

He held up his horse and folded his hands across the saddle horn. “I. P. Olive, ma'am. I run a herd up on the Sawlog.”

She tensed. She knew his reputation. “What can I do for you?”

“We heard of your troubles. I've come to offer my help. How fares your husband?”

“He is in Dodge. The doctor tells me that his burns are serious. We are praying for him.”

“He saved the cattle?”

She managed a weak smile. “Yes, he managed to drive them to out of the path of the fire. But when he tried to get back to us, his horse fell and the fire overwhelmed him. He left the cattle to the west to manage on their own. I haven't had time to see to them.”

He nodded. “You are fortunate that the wind drove the fire so quickly past your soddy so there wasn't time for the roof to catch fire.”

“Yes, but the children and I were very frightened. It was awful.”

Olive looked down at the earth as if in thought. “Yes, ma'am. I'm sure it was.” He hesitated. “I have a proposition for you. This is my son, Thad. If you are willing, he will return today with some wranglers and he will drive your cattle to my herd on the Sawlog. We will pasture them there and return them to you in the fall.”

“I don't know how we would manage the rent,” she said apprehensively.

“No rent. We'll manage your cattle until the fall or until such time that your husband can manage them himself. You'll have no grass for several weeks and your cattle will scatter. You'll need the income from the calves to make it through the winter.”

“I don't know what to say. Your offer is quite generous.”

He smiled. “Have you any food in the house?”

“We have a store in the root cellar. We'll make out.”

“I'll send you a load of provisions from Dodge.”

She trembled. Tears welled in her eyes. Her voice cracked. “God bless you, Mr. Olive.”

He looked to the earth again, unwilling or unable to accept her blessing. “How many head do you have?”

“Fifty and a bull. At last count there were thirty-five calves but there may be more by now.”

“Thad will fetch them today.”

She nodded but did not speak for fear of breaking down.

He nodded. “Thad will have the supplies to you within the week.”

She bit her lip and nodded again.

“We'll be on our way. My best wishes to you and your family.” He wheeled his horse and started back to Dodge.

She watched them ride away and turned to her oldest daughter. “He is a most generous man. Never forget what he has done for us this day.”

***

Louisa Olive watched her husband struggle to pull on his coat. She could tell that the old wounds were plaguing him. “Do you need some help with that?”

He shook his head. “I'm getting old. It's that shoulder wound from the war. It gives me more grief each year.”

She thought of the ragged scar from Vicksburg on his shoulder, the four bullet scars in his chest and neck, the shotgun pellet scars on his hip from the Texas raid and wondered that he was able to manage as well as he did. He was still a powerful man and strong in spite of his accumulated wounds and years in the saddle. “Did you pack your salve?”

He pulled on his hat. “Yes, I couldn't manage without that. I shouldn't be gone more than a week. Look for me to be on the Thursday train.”

“We have the church dinner Friday. I'd like you to take me.”

He nodded and smiled. “I'll be back Thursday for sure. All I have to do is see that the town is ready for the herds. I'm taking Uncle Sam with me. It shouldn't take that long.” He cast a look at the holstered Colt revolver and gun belt hanging on a coat peg next to the back door.

“Surely, you won't need that.” She said.

“No, I gave my word. I'm through with the gun. It's just habit, that's all. Make sure that Thad gets that wagon of supplies delivered to Robert Irvine's widow. She'll need those supplies more than ever now.”

“It'll be done. Thad hitched the wagon this morning and went to Zimmerman's to get those goods.”

He gave her a brushing kiss, picked up his bag, and stepped out the door.

She watched him walk down the street to the corner and turn south toward the train station. She thought of the twenty-seven years of struggle and toil that they had been together. First there were the years in Texas after the war when he built the herd, the murder raid by rustlers, and the death of his brother, Jay. Then there were the years in Nebraska, the murder of his brother, Bob, and the two years Print spent in prison for lynching Bob's killers; their new start in Dodge City after the blizzard of '85, the town house, the horse ranch in Logan County, and the cattle pool on the Sawlog. They were moderately wealthy in spite of terrible losses and cruel twists of fate. He had changed after the prison sentence though—softened, carefully gauging his words and his actions. Even when the blizzard took nearly half his cattle he accepted it stoically and rebuilt his herd again. He did not rage and curse his fortune as he would have in the old days. She knew his rage wasn't gone, but he was a temperate man now compared to the old days…a better man…a good husband. She hoped he wouldn't drink too much in Trail City. Sometimes, when he drank too much the old, dark Print came back. She liked this Print much better.

***

Seven small-frame buildings and an enormous cattle loading pen next to the railroad tracks made up Trail City, Colorado, forty feet from the Kansas border. Olive owned most of the town—the saloon, the livery stable, and the dry goods store. The town had largely been his idea and he had convinced investors that the newly formed National Cattle Trail would pay off handsomely when Texas cattlemen drove their herds to the closest eastern point—the Tick Line on the Atchinson, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad. He hadn't counted on the new railroad reaching Fort Worth as quickly as it had, causing most of the southern herds to go there instead. But, in spite of that, one good year would allow them to break even on their investment. After that the westward driving railway would end the days of the Texas drives north to Kansas. Then, like so many times in the past, he would sell out and invest his money elsewhere.

Print and Uncle Sam stepped from the passenger car and walked the empty single street toward the saloon. The first herd was due in a week and when it arrived the place would be transformed for a few days. Lonely, bored, gaunt cowboys would fill the settlement looking for whisky, new clothes, and a good time. Print expected seven herds ranging in size from two thousand to thirty-five hundred head would arrive in quick succession. He wanted all to be ready. Twenty cases of whisky, forty barrels of beer, and four thousand dollars worth of clothing, hats, boots, gun leather, and tack waited to be consumed by the Texans. His prices would be high but with no other settlement of note within seventy miles, the cowboys would have little choice of where to spend their money. It had to be that way. He had just one season to earn his investment back. Seven herds spending five thousand a piece would do it—just seven herds. Any more would mean a profit and he knew of seven on the way for sure.

Tom Bennet stood behind the empty bar of the Trail City Saloon when Print and Uncle Sam stepped through the door. He smiled when he recognized the forty-nine year-old and his “gun nigger.” He had worked for Olive off and on for nearly five years, ever since Olive first settled in Dodge City. He was glad to accept the chance to run the saloon for him. He was getting too old for cowboying. The position took him off the back of a horse and into a store—warm in the winter, dry in the rain, and plenty of whisky. “I expected you might come in on the train. What can I get you, Mr. Olive?”

Uncle Sam cut his eyes warily toward Olive when he ordered a Red Eye. Louisa had told him to watch her husband and to keep him from drinking too much, but Sam said nothing. It would do no good if he wanted a drink. Sam had been with Print through it all. He felt he knew Print Olive better than she did. She only saw one side of him. He hid his pain and his worries from her. Sam knew that inside the rough and confrontational exterior of a cattle baron there was also the weaker man—the man with wounds—deep, dark, and unsettling. Print drank to control his pain. He also drank to confront his demons. One was just as bad as the other.

Jim Kelly had been Olive's real “gun nigger.” Most men considered Sam to be just a lacky—a black face to replace one nigger with another. Sam knew better. He wasn't the gun hand that Kelly had been in the old days, but Sam had stuck it out with Olive while he was in prison after Kelly left. Kelly had the bigger reputation and fame, but Sam was Olive's friend and would remain so until they shoveled the dirt in his face. So what if Print drank a little too much—he needed it to cut the pain. Sam would see that he made it to his bed all right. That's what a friend did.

Tom Bennet poured two fingers in a shot glass and turned to place the whisky bottle back on the display case behind the bar.

“Leave it,” Print said abruptly. “This shoulder of mine is giving me fits and that damned laudanum makes me sick.”

Tom cut his eyes to Sam for approval then said, “Sure thing.” He set the bottle and absentmindedly wiped the bar with his towel.

“Do you have any help lined up when the first herd arrives?” Olive asked as he downed his glass and poured another.

“Bucky Tide is going to work the days and Al Shipman's old lady is going to help me with the night crowd.”

“What about law? Have they found anyone to round up the drunks and keep the peace?”

“Starky said that old Bill Grover would act as Justice of the Peace. Old Bill worked with the Mastersons in Dodge and is hell to pay with that sawed off Greener.”

Olive chuckled and poured another drink. “Old Bill will keep things in order. I'm glad they were able to get him. He's a crazy old coot, though.”

“Dale Reeves hired a couple from LaJunta to run the café for him. She's a fat old heifer but damn she's a good cook. You ought to try one of her breakfasts. Her biscuits and gravy are just plain larapin.”

Olive turned and gazed out the front window toward the Reeves' House Café across the narrow street. “Good. Sam and I will give her a try for dinner and breakfast in the morning.” He picked up his bottle and took a seat at the table closest to the bar. The whisky was beginning to have an effect and he was mellowing. He stared at the empty shot glass and danced it softly along the table's edge. “I need to get over to the livery and see that everything is ready there.”

Sam smiled. “There'll be time for that by and by.”

Print looked out the window but his gaze was on the past. “This'll be the end of it. Won't be anymore trail towns after this season. The old days are gone.”

Sam cut his eyes to Tom Bennet before answering. It was going to be all right. Print was mellowing rather than getting mean. “Yes, sir, Mister Print, them old days is sure enough gone.”

Olive poured another glass but did not drink. He chose to study the oily texture of the dark amber liquid as he gently swirled it round the edge of the shot glass. “You remember Ellsworth? Now that was a rough trail town. Folks talk about the days in Abilene, Wichita, and Dodge but that damned Ellsworth damn near got me killed. How many years did we drive to Ellsworth?”

“Just two, Mister Print. Just two.”

“That feller just couldn't believe that I wasn't cheating. Hell, he bid wild on poor hands and thought I was cheating when he lost. If it hadn't been for old Jim I'd a-been a goner that day. He shot me three times before I got a round off.” He stared into the whisky. “I spent damn near six months getting over those wounds.”

“Yes, sir. You was a lucky man that day. Old Jim killed him dead just in the nick of time.”

Print downed his whisky. “We don't want nothing like that to happen here. Not before most of the herds are in. We don't want to be driving off business. You need to watch them games carefully, Tom. Don't let anything get out of hand.”

Bennet nodded. “Old Bill will keep a tight rein on the place.”

“You got to do it, Tom. Bill might not be around. If a feller is losing big, watch close. Step in and settle 'em down.” Olive poured another drink. “We don't want anything like that Ellsworth business happening here in Trail City.”