Hell on the Prairie (3 page)

***

“
Hello the house!”

The sky had just begun to lighten in the
east when Walt Brodrick’s rider hailed the Gladstone place. Billy
and Timmy had already been up for more than an hour, and smoke from
Elva Gladstone’s cooking fire rose from the laid rock chimney.

“
Hello the house!” The holler came
again, before anyone could answer the first one.

Elva opened the front door. “Don’t be
impatient, young man,” she said. “Breakfast will soon be ready, if
you don’t mind biscuits and bacon with a little milk. Your name,
please.”

“
I reckon I’ll be Landerson Willis,”
the young cowboy said. “Folks call me Reckon. Where’s
Billy?”

“
Milking the cow, not that she’s
giving much. No bull to hand to give her a calf.”

“
Biscuits ’n bacon’d do good, missus,
real good, I reckon.”

“
Get down. Tie your horses over there
to the scrub oak, where there’s grass.” She turned toward the door,
then stopped. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “Water and
a wash basin outback. Wash your hands and face before you come in
to eat.”

Reckon had already kneed his pony toward the
clump of oak, but he reined up. “You talk just like my own ma,” he
said, grinning. “I’ll surely wash up, ma’am, I surely will, I
reckon.”

“
See that you do.”

Reckon tied the horses to the scrub oak as
directed, then strode to the back side of the cabin. Two boys
already splashed in the washbasin, trying to outdo each other as to
who could get the wettest. “Which one a’ you is Billy?”

“
Me,” Billy said.

Reckon looked him over. The boy lacked two
inches or so of Reckon’s height, but his shoulders were broad, and
muscles rippled on his arms as he completed washing up.

Billy wiped his face with a scrap of flour
sacking. “This here’s my brother Timmy,” he said.

“
I’m Reckon. Come to getcha. Yore
pony’s tied to the scrub oaks out front.”

“
We leaving right now?”

“
Yore Ma gave me an invite to biscuits
’n bacon, I reckon. We can ride after that. If’n you can ride that
pony, that is.”

“
If’n that pony wears hair, I c’n ride
’im.”

“
I reckon,” Reckon said, but he didn’t
sound convinced. “Outta the way. Let a man wash up.”

“
Bet my Ma told you to do
that.”

“
So?”

Billy grinned. “She would, I reckon,” he
said.

“
Yeah. I reckon,” Reckon said as he
splashed water into the basin.

“
See ya inside.”

Billy and Timmy charged through the door,
shouting something about breakfast, but when Reckon entered, they
sat respectfully on one side of the table.

“
You sit over there,” Elva said,
waving at a bench on the side opposite Billy and Timmy. She placed
a platter heaped high with biscuits on the table, to complement the
bacon that sent a delicious smell wafting around the
kitchen.

Reckon looked at Timmy and Billy, expecting
them to dive into the food.

“
If you’ll remove your hat, Mr.
Willis, we’ll say grace.” Elva folded her arms.

Reckon grabbed his hat and put it in his
lap. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“
Timmy, say grace, please.”

“
Yes’m.”

Silence.

“
Timmy.”

“
God, thank you for the grub. Bless it
for us. Amen.”

Elva heaved a sigh. “Someday you’ll learn to
be humble,” she said, “someday.”

Billy, Timmy, and Reckon Willis sat poised
to strike, looking expectantly at Elva for permission to delve
in.

“
You may eat,” she said, and they
reached for the food. While they ate, Elva sat with her hands in
her lap.

“
Mighty fine feed,” Reckon said after
he’d swallowed his last mouthful of bacon and biscuit. “Mighty
fine, I reckon.”

“
Why thank you, Reckon Willis. That’s
kindly of you to say so.”

Reckon stood. “Be the same with you, ma’am,
me and Billy’d best hightail it for Hawley Flats. Boss’s gathering
the herd there.”

Billy gathered up his plate and cup and took
them to the stand at the back wall. “I’ll be going,” he said.

“
God keep you, William,” Elva said.
She hadn’t moved since the men started eating.

“
Thankee for the grub, Missus,” Reckon
said. “Right tasty first thing in the morning, I
reckon.”

“
You’re welcome, Reckon Willis. And
I’ll trust you to keep an eye on William. He’s not been away from
home for any amount of time.”

“
Yes’m,” Reckon said. “Let’s light a
shuck, Billy Boy. Boss’ll be upset at us taking so
long.”

“
I’m ready,” Billy said.

“
You think,” said Reckon. “You still
ain’t forked that feisty little bronc I brung for you to
ride.”

“
I will. I will.” Billy clamped a
floppy felt hat on his head. “Let’s do it,” he said.

Out by the scrub oaks, Billy got his first
good look at the Texas pony Reckon had brought for him. “Where’d
you dig this one up?” he said.

“
He’s been around a couple a’ year. A
bit feisty, so cowboys ain’t happy to have to ride him.”

“
Got a name?”

“
Pick any cuss word. It’ll
fit.”

Billy put a hand on the pony’s scrawny neck.
“Looks like he ain’t been eating too regular.”

“
That there blaze-faced hunk a Hell
could spend a month knee-deep in clover and never gain a ounce. He
was born skinny. He’ll die skinny, I reckon.”

The horse twitched an ear and slapped
Billy’s leg with a long uncut tail. “Hang on, horse, I’ll be right
back.” He dashed around the house toward the root cellar.

Reckon sat his bay horse with a leg thrown
over the saddle horn. He rolled a smoke as he watched.

Billy came running back.

“
We ain’t got all day,” Reckon said.
“You gonna fork that bronc or not?”

“
Climb on a horse what don’t know ya,
and you’re likely to be eating dirt, least that’s what my Pa always
said. And you all said it’d be a wonder if I could ride this horse
here. Well, me and him’re gonna get acquainted.” Billy held out a
shriveled carrot so the paint could have a sniff.

The horse’s head came around to where he
could nibble at the carrot. “You see, paint horse, I ain’t of the
bad sort,” Billy said. “They ain’t no reason for you to get a hump
in your back before I even get a leg across it.”

The paint horse butted Billy, looking for
more carrot.

“
Not now, horse,” he said. “But you be
good to me and I’ll be good to you. Deal?”

“
I reckon it’s getting high time to
move out,” Reckon said.

“
Sometimes it takes longer when a
man’s in a rush,” Billy said. “That’s what my Pa said anyway. Up,”
he said to the paint as he tugged on the horse’s onside front leg.
The paint let Billy pick up his forefoot without a fuss, and stood
patiently as he used his Barlow knife to clean the frog and check
the shoe.

“
He’ll need re-shoeing a long time
before we get to Kansas,” Billy said. He went around and lifted the
other forefoot. “Rock jammed into the frog,” he said. “Don’t you
all take care of your horses?”

“
I reckon the wrangler does,” Reckon
said.

“
Don’t look like it.” Billy checked
the paint’s rear hooves, trimming where it was needed. “See, old
man? You look after me. I’ll look after you.”

“
Shee-it,” Reckon said. “Trail horses
don’t get no pampering.”

“
Maybe not. But a man looks after his
horse and the horse’ll look after him.” Billy untied the paint and
fastened his warbag to the saddle. “We’ll get a proper saddle at
the rail head,” he said. “Gotta leave mine here for my little
brother.” He fed a second carrot to the paint. “What do you figure?
You gonna sunfish a bit before we settle down?” He patted the
paint, then led him around in three tight circles. He ran his hand
around under the horse’s belly, then took the surcingle up another
notch. “We ready to go, paint?”

“
William Henry! Are you leaving with
no goodbye for your mother?”

“
I’ll be on my way, Ma.” Billy didn’t
turn to look at his mother as he spoke. He raised his voice.
“Timmy. You listening?”

“
Yeah.” Timmy Gladstone stood at the
corner of the cabin.

“
You’re all Ma’s got, boy. I’ll go
make some cash money. You keep the place together, you hear? You’re
already twelve, so stand up and bear it.”

“
You ain’t my Pa,” Timmy said, “and
you got no right to go telling me what to do.” The pout on his face
was plain in his voice.

Billy’s tone took on a hard edge. “Pa gets
home and you can go back to being a little boy. Right now you’re
the man on this place. Act like it.”

“
I reckon we’d better get going,”
Reckon Willis said.

“
Be right with you,” Billy said. But
as he shoved his left boot into the stirrup, a hump came up in the
scrawny paint’s back. Billy barely got his right leg over the
cantle when the paint leaped straight up and came down on four
stiff legs to give Billy a spine-jolting before he sunfished around
in a tight circle, doing his damnedest to dislodge the rider from
the saddle.

Reckon Willis let out a holler. “Whee-ooh.
Ride ’im, you all. Whee-ooh. Yeehaw.”

Billy hauled on the reins, trying to get the
paint’s head up from between his legs. It wouldn’t come, and the
paint wasn’t about to stop sunfishing.

The daylight between Billy’s butt and the
saddle got wider and wider until he was coming down when the paint
was going up and the smack of buttocks on saddle seat sounded loud
and clear, and Billy rebounded high and far, his boots came clear
of the stirrups, and he found himself in a heap on the ground.

The paint stopped the moment Billy hit
dirt.

“
Ain’t no way to ride a hoss,” Reckon
said.

“
That paint don’t know me, that’s
all,” Billy said. He rubbed his backside with both hands. “You
figure it’s just me? Or does that horse buck everyone off?” He
limped over to where his hat lay in the dust, picked it up, and
used it slap the same dust from his clothes. The paint stood
hipshot, its head hanging.

But the moment Billy took the reins again,
the horse’s head came up and he turned it to give Billy a sniff.
“It’s me, old pard, and I’m bound to ride you to the herd. Either
that, or die.”

One moment Billy was sweet-talking the
paint, the next he was in the saddle with the reins pulled tight,
holding the paint’s head up.

The horse crow-hopped a bit. Then he decided
Billy had the upper hand. He settled down and let his head
droop.

“
There. See? Not such a bad
situation,” Billy said. “Now. We’ve got a couple dozen steers to
haze over to Hawley Flats. Let’s get to it.”

The paint never tried to throw Billy again,
and it turned out to be the best trail horse of his entire string,
despite its coloring.

2

The Brodrick herd started north from Hawley
Flats with Billy Gladstone riding drag along with Hillary Mason, a
rider who’d seen many better days and some days a lot worse, to
hear him tell. Hill Mason was pushing fifty if he was a year, and
he said he fought with Hi Morgan in Terrell’s Cavalry at Mansfield
and Yellow Bayou. But whenever Billy asked about the fighting, Ol’
Hill would give him a hard eye and shake his head.

“
You don’t want to hear about war,
boy,” he’d say. “There ain’t no heroes and it ain’t fun. War is as
close to Hell as a man can get. Leave it be.”

At Red River Station, the day before the
Brodrick herd crossed the river into the Indian Nations, a man
drove into camp in a rattley old wagon. He talked to Brodrick and
to L.B. Higgins, the trail boss. Then he parked the rickety old
wagon across the main fire from the Old Woman’s chuckwagon. And
when Billy came in for supper, the man had rows of guns laid out on
a ground cloth.

“
Yer pick a’ weapons, men,” the man
hollered. “Injun Nations comin’ up and a man orter be ready. No
tellin’ what them redskins’s gonna do.”

Billy tried hard to ignore the gun hawk. The
Gladstones only had one squirrel rifle, and Billy left it at home
for Timmy to help fill the dinner pot with. He wandered over to the
firearms display with a plate of beef and beans and a hunk of
sourdough.

“
Well, youngster. Innerest you all in
a reliable weepon?”

“
Just looking,” Billy said. He had no
money, and drovers got paid after the herd reached railhead and got
sold.

The gun hawk wore a patch over one eye and
he only had three fingers on his left hand. “You’ll be wanting a
lead spitter in the Nations,” he said. “Man cain’t depend on no one
but his own self when the cards is down.”

“
Get the Remington conversion, kid,”
Walt Brodrick said.

“
Ain’t got no money, boss.”

“
How much for the Remington,
Hoss?”

“
Fer you, Walt, one eagle’ll do. One
lousy eagle.”

“
Good buy, Billy,” Brodrick said. “Man
needs a good six-gun on the trail. Rifle, too, if he
can.”

“
Ain’t got no money, boss,” Billy said
again.