Longhorn Country (9 page)

The river was churning, mud and froth tinged with red. The cattle’s mournful bellows almost drowned out the war whoops and the crash of gunfire. It certainly overwhelmed Alamo’s cursing as his horse blundered between two steers and, even as the trail boss yanked the horse’s head up hard with his reins, he felt the horn slip into the heaving chest of his mount.

The horse started to go down and Alamo
frantically
kicked his boots free of the stirrups, actually jumped nimbly up on to the saddle and launched himself over the backs of the cattle. There were three lines of steers and he almost made it. His boot touched one and he used its instinctive humping to propel him on to the next to last line.

But the animals were wet with sweat and river water and a little blood on this particular steer. His boot slipped and if he yelled it wasn’t heard above the bellowing and shooting.

Alamo slid out of sight between the lurching,
shoving
, crushing steers, slipped right down to where a tangled sea of legs thrashed and ripped up the river bottom.

The water in that area suddenly turned deep red.

Blaine had his rifle out again now, lean body twisting this way and that in the saddle: the Indians were trying to come up to him on his blind side. He had a two-handed grip on the hot barrel and he smashed it into the faces of two attackers, missed a third and, hanging on to his mount’s neck, rowelled wildly,
leaving
it to the sorrel to crash a way through.

The horse made it, neck bleeding, a slash of hide showing in a red lightning bolt on its right rump. Blaine straightened, holding the rifle in one hand, loosing off his last two shots in his Colt as a man charged in.

He didn’t see if he hit target or not, kneeing the panting horse around instantly, yelling hoarsely to a pair of
vaqueros
, as he signalled frantically what he wanted them to do. They caught on immediately, joined him in a shallow arc and rammed their mounts into the flowing side of the brawling herd, shooting and yelling and kicking.

The steers, wild-eyed, frantic, attacked from all sides, veered away from their latest tormentors and started along the edge of the river on the American side. Blaine and his riders paced them, driving them on in stampede – straight at a bunched line of
waiting
Indians. These warriors had had the job of
standing
by, waiting for their fellow braves to drive the cowboys towards them where they could be cut down in a hail of withering fire.

Instead, all they saw was a wall of giant, snorting cows coming like demons from hell, horns glinting in the sun, some tipped with blood. They turned to run and Blaine and his
vaqueros
fired again and again. The herd smashed into the trailing riders, pulping them into the gravelly ground. Others screamed in terror and plunged back into the deeper part of the river, swimming their mounts desperately for the Mexican bank.

It was all over in another three minutes, the survivors of the raiders now all on the Mexican side,
still riding, wanting to put as much distance between themselves and the devil herd as possible.

The men were wet and muddy and bloody and generally dishevelled but all stopped to fully reload their guns before a head-count was taken.

‘
Dos hombres muerta
,’ one man reported to Blaine who was looking around for Alamo, but couldn’t see him anywhere –
two men dead
, the Mexican was telling him.

Another quick search found four other
vaqueros
were wounded and then a man farther along the bank called, ‘
Señor! Tres hombres – muerta!
’ Three dead now….

The man pointed and Blaine rode back swiftly.

Even before he reached the huddle of bloody, torn rags half trampled into the mud, he knew he had found Alamo Ames.

Morgan O’Day looked down at the pile of gear on the end of his porch. A battered saddle with rifle sheath attached and the scratched, dented Henry rammed into it; a pair of spurs with the chrome
plating
coming off and one rowel badly bent; a few faded and patched work clothes in a weather-stained warbag, a threadbare blanket roll, a dented canteen and a pair of scuffed riding boots, worn over badly on the left heel. A jack knife with a broken blade point and a few coins sat in the middle of a crumpled kerchief.

O’Day lifted his gaze to Blaine leaning against a porch upright lighting a freshly-made cigarette. ‘That’s all Alamo left?’ Blaine nodded and O’Day shook his head. ‘After all those years – where you bury him?’

‘Cemetery at Del Rio – I told the sawbones there to send the bill for patching-up the
vaqueros
to you.’

Morgan’s eyes pinched down, but it was Lucas who
said, tone clipped, ‘Big of you! They’re Santiago’s men.’

‘He loaned ’em to us – besides he’s likely dead by now.’

‘Then his Estate can pay the bill – Goddamnit, Blaine, we’re not responsible for every damn Mex who takes a bullet in an Indian raid!’

‘I’ll pay their bills,’ Morgan said, sounding
reluctant
but uncomfortable under Blaine’s hard stare.

‘Aw, Pa, we don’t have to! We’re under no
obligation
to …’

‘It’s settled. Move on, Lucas – how many head did we lose, Blaine?’

‘Twenty-seven, counting the six we had to shoot because of broken legs or horn gashes.’

‘Goddlemighty!’ breathed Lucas in disgust. ‘We find a great chance to boost our herds cheaply and now you go and lose us nearly thirty head on a short trail drive like that!’

‘Out of half a thousand,’ Blaine said curtly.

‘Just the same.’ Lucas took on a sly look as he glanced at his father. ‘Pa – that crossing at El Salto hasn’t been used for cattle for a few years now. It’s cheaper for the Mexes to drive to the Gulf and ship out by sea – Freighters use the crossing but I can’t recollect the last time they got hit, because the Army usually gives ’em escort.’

They waited for Lucas to continue and there were beads of sweat on his face now. His eyes seemed to flick to Blaine and away again quickly, almost of their own accord.

‘Well, seems to me that the first time in years a
herd of really prime beef uses that crossin’ it gets hit by Injuns – and we have here a man who’s
half-Comanche
and has one helluva grudge against the O’Days….’

He didn’t say more, knew there was no need. Blaine hadn’t missed a drag on his cigarette or moved an inch. His stare nailed Lucas where he stood and made the man clearly uneasy, but he wouldn’t look away even though the strain made his eyes water.

‘Blaine?’ asked Morgan tightly.

‘They were renegade Apaches. From the Madres, I’d guess, where they been hiding out – reckon they were hungry enough to try for prime beeves, so it wouldn’t cost anyone much to have ’em hit a herd using the crossing.’

‘How much did it cost you?’ sneered Lucas.

‘Not a dime – I didn’t hire ’em. But someone did.’

‘Naturally!’

But Morgan frowned. ‘You sound sure of that, Blaine.’

Blaine felt in his vest pocket, flipped a glinting coin towards Morg. The old man fumbled and dropped it but Lucas slowly picked it up, examining it as he handed it back to his father.

‘Double eagle, Pa – current date, too, so it ain’t some old one the Injun was carrying.’ Lucas glanced at Blaine. ‘You did find it on one of the dead Apaches, I guess…?’

Blaine nodded. ‘Four more, too, but I gave a couple to the
vaqueros
, used the rest to bury Alamo.’

‘So someone paid for that raid,’ Morgan said,
turning the gold coin between his fingers. ‘A hundred dollars. A fortune to renegade bucks.’

‘If they could find somewhere to spend it – not too many trading posts or stores in the Sierra Madres.’

‘Only got your guess that that’s where they were from. Could’ve made themselves look that way.’ Lucas shrugged. ‘Well, Pa, if he denies he paid it, your guess is as good as mine. Who did sick ’em onto our herd?’

Blaine moved so fast and silently that neither man was quite sure what had happened – least of all Lucas who found hismelf sitting in the dust at the foot of the porch steps, nursing a throbbing jaw, blinking in an attempt to settle his vision.

‘What the hell’d you do that for?’ demanded Morgan of Blaine, anger flaring in him like a
brush-fire
, the old, knuckly fists clenching down at his sides.

‘Ask Lucas.’ Blaine stooped and picked up the jack knife with the broken blade. On the small metal oval let into the staghorn sideplates, the name ‘Alamo’ had been scratched. Blaine hefted it and put it in his pocket, plainly something to remember the dead trail boss by. He started down the steps and saw now that Lucas had a crooked smile on his lopsided face.

He knew then that Lucas was glad he had taken that punch in front of Morgan: it could only put Blaine further in the Old Man’s black books.

‘He figures
I
hired the Injuns to hit our herd, Pa. Just to make him look bad, inept,’ Lucas said, as he swayed on his feet, watching Blaine walking away from the house. ‘See how much he hates us O’Days…?’

Morgan grunted, watching Blaine, lips compressed.
You could never tell with that damn breed! His face was as blank as a granite cliff … and he sure did hate the O’Days
.

‘Best let me make the drive to San Antone, eh, Pa?’

Morgan rounded on his son as he came up on to the porch, dabbing at a bleeding lower lip now.

‘No – Blaine can do it. Keep him out of my sight for a while.’

‘Aw, now listen, Pa! I still reckon he had somethin’ to do with the raid on that herd! You send him out on the trail and – and – well, hell, who knows what he might arrange! I mean, the White Creek Reservation is in that general direction and that’s where his tribe is.’

‘And you reckon you could handle a raid by Blaine’s Comanche friends? Even if he doesn’t go on the drive, he could still arrange a raid … right?’

Lucas agreed it was probably right. ‘So why take the risk?’

‘The herd’s at risk whether he bosses it or not if what you’re thinkin’ is right – you got a man among the crew you can trust, really trust, I mean?’

‘Well – Waco’s done a few jobs for me before….’

‘Didn’t you send him down to Del Rio for
somethin
’ recently?’ Morgan asked, suddenly thoughtful.

Lucas tried to keep his face blank. ‘Yeah – to pick up a pair of ridin’ boots I’d ordered from that Mex leatherworker down there – but, sure, Pa, I could send Waco along on the drive to keep an eye on things. Likely cost a few bucks….’

‘Pay him whatever he wants – It’ll come out of your share of the herd money.’ As Morgan swung back into the house, he flung over his shoulder to the stunned Lucas, ‘You’re the one with all the suspicions, right…?’

‘Yeah –
right
!’ gritted Lucas.

But he didn’t say it out loud.

Inside, Morgan poured himself a stiff whiskey, glancing at the old cottage wall clock and wincing: he was starting earlier and earlier. But, dammit, he seemed to have more worries recently, day by day, than he’d had the past ten years.

And not the least of them was wondering if Blaine had found where Kitty was staying at that orphanage or whatever it was down there in Monterrey.

He didn’t
think
Alamo would have broken his word not to tell where she was, but – well, Alamo was dead now and there was just no way of knowing.

He sure couldn’t tell from anything Blaine said – or didn’t say.

He tossed down the whiskey and immediately reached for the bottle again.

Oh, Katy! Why did you have to saddle me with such a man as Blaine! He’s gonna be the ruination of me, I can feel it … I think I’ve known it for years!

And there ain’t a damn thing I can do about it because I gave you my word I’d watch out for him … Now I gotta sit an’ watch him work off his hatred for me
….

There were almost four thousand head in the herd when they started out for San Antone, a distance of about two hundred miles – as the crow flies. By the
time they followed a trail that would provide water and feed for the cattle, it would be more than two hundred fifty miles, or even closer to three hundred, depending on conditions found along the way.

There hadn’t been much rain of late and Calico Benedict, the rider Blaine had sent to scout on ahead, came back with the not-so-good news that the planned route would take them through country in the grip of drought.

‘Some waterholes, Blaine,’ Calico allowed, a man about the breed’s age, but who had grown up in this country in a sod hut dug into a cutbank and could read the weather and topography like a book – except he couldn’t read anything written but his own name, when he laboriously printed it on any papers he couldn’t avoid signing.

‘Grass?’

‘Brown, mostly – short-stalk, too.’

Lucky Kinnane, in on the conversation, said, ‘We got a couple spare buckboards, Blaine – We could load one with hay and feed and a couple salt-licks to help us out.’

‘OK, Lucky. Good idea – set some men gathering hay, but not ones going on the drive.’

Lucky grinned. ‘The boys’ll love that, playin’ sodbuster.’

Blaine headed for the barn to check out the condition of the buckboards, mentally choosing the horses he would use to pull the vehicle he picked as being the best of the two. The trail drive was going to cost more than Lucas had estimated so he went to see the
man and told him Calico’s news and Lucky’s plan with the hay.

‘Hell, Benedict’s a worry-wort! Waco was out along that trail not long ago when he rode a chore for me. He never said nothing about dried-up creeks or short grass.’

‘Calico knows the country between here and San Antone. Better than Waco – or you and me.’

‘I’d take Waco’s word….’

‘Then take it. But there’s been no rain so I’m taking the spare feed.’

Lucas glared as Blaine went about whatever business he had in mind, then hurried to see Morgan, painting a different picture for his father.

‘He
wants
to take that hay along, Pa! You just think what a wagon-load of hay, suddenly bursting into flame at night, would do to a nervous trail herd—’

Morgan, hung-over from his drinking, was worried, and barely able to think. But he shook his head and said in phlegmy tones, ‘No, Blaine’s not like that – he – he’s workin’ off what he figures he owes me. Stoppin’ me gettin’ top price for the herd can’t be in his plans. It’d work against what he’s tryin’ to do.’ He added uncertainly, ‘Whatever that is….’

‘Well – I still think he’d take any chance that’d pull us down, Pa – he’s an
Injun
, for Chrissakes! They never forgive a hurt, and Blaine was hurt plenty….’

Morgan was too irritable to be bothered with details and theories. He waved an angry arm at his son. ‘Just let him ready the herd the way he wants! And quit botherin’ me with all these damn notions you have! I know you’ve always hated his guts, been
jealous of him, thinkin’ I favoured him over you.’

‘Well, that’s sure true!’

‘Ah! You’re weak, Lucas. Weak and penny-pinchin’ and jealous – and just plain miserable! I think you’re even glad I disowned your sister! Now, get the hell outta here – I don’t want to talk to you right now!’

Lucas went but he was fuming: to his warped way of thinking, Blaine had won yet another round!

But the son of a bitch would pay for it this time! By hell he would!

The large herd spread out once they cleared the big canyons.

The riders were mostly from Broken Wheel but some also from Bexley’s Double B and Hurd’s Twisted Horseshoe, small ranches which had cattle in with Morgan’s drive.

The trail men were kept busy holding them in some semblance of order but it was pretty easy work at this stage. The cows had full bellies and had slaked their thirsts before setting out. Some would rather have slept it off under a shady tree but in general they moved willingly enough. Blaine headed them round to the south, skirting Brackettville and
heading
across towards Uvalde and the mining country.

Waco, Lucas O’Day’s man, was a good enough cowboy, a tall, solid ranny in his mid-thirties with a rugged face and a pair of tiny eyes that made most folk think of a pig. But it was the look in those same eyes that prevented anyone but a damn fool from saying so out loud. Word had it that a couple of
wranglers
Waco had been drinking with in a bar in Bisbee,
Arizona, started to feel their liquor and began making hog-snorting noises. The story claimed both were buried just outside the town and each crude sapling cross on the graves had a pig’s head impaled upon it.

Someone, a little later, noted there were two notches cut into the butt of Waco’s Colt .45.

Those notches stopped a lot of men wrangling with Waco. Blaine had no argument with the man, though – he did his chores well enough and kept mostly to himself. Fernando, who had come along to drive the wagon-load of hay, claimed it was because no one wanted to inadvertently tread on Waco’s toes. Giving him a wide berth seemed the best way of avoiding this.

Now Blaine hauled his sorrel alongside Waco’s shaggy roan and told him to ride on ahead with Lucky and pick a good place for a night stop. The man simply nodded, spurred away to where Kinnane sat his mount under a tree, waiting, and then both rode on ahead and disappeared over a low ridge.

Campbell from Twisted Horseshoe, supposedly a part-owner with Martin Hurd of the small but
growing
spread, reined up alongside Blaine.

‘Country’s dry but not as bad as I thought – keep this up and it’ll be a breeze gettin’ to San Antone.’

‘Lot of miles to travel yet, Cam.’

‘Long as we get our bunch of five hundred in safely, I’ll be happy.’

Campbell rode off and Blaine watched him go:
another one thinking only of himself … wait till it came time to share costs of the hay and extra feed … well, he’d 
worry about that when it happened
….