to Tame a Land (1955) (10 page)

The man in the gray shirt hesitated. "What about ou r money?" he asked.

"They were to get thirty a month," the young woma n said. "They worked about three weeks."

With my free hand I counted out twenty-five dollar s per man. "Pick it up, and if one of you feels lucky, star t something."

They could see I was young, but this was John Wesle y Hardin's country, and he had killed twenty men by th e time he was my age. They didn't like it, but I was to o ready, so they picked up their money and got out.

I followed them to the door and watched them get thei r horses.

"Don't get any ideas about those cattle," I said. "I f anything happens to them, or to any part of them , hunt down all three of you and kill you where I fin d you."

Waiting in the doorway, I listened to them move dow n the road, then went back inside.

The two women were putting food on the table. Th e young woman turned on me. "Thanks," she said. "Thank s very much."

It embarrassed me, the way they were looking at me , so I said "Seven dollars a head?"

"All right." She pushed the tally sheet across the table.

It was for 637 head. "How will you get them to Sa n Antone?"

"Hire riders."

"There's nobody. Those were the Tetlow boys. Nobod y wants trouble with them."

"Rona, we might get Johnny," the older woman suggested, "and we can both ride."

"All right, Mom." Rona turned to me. "I've been riding since I was six. We can both help."

So it was like that, and I took the herd into San Anton e with two women and a boy of fourteen helping me. Bu t I had an old mossy-horn steer leading and he liked t o travel. He was worth a half-dozen riders.

Bennett paid Rona himself, glancing at me from time t o time. When he had paid her off, the two of them turned t o go.

Rona held out her hand to me. "Thanks," she said.

"They were all we had."

One of Bennett's hands came in. "Tyler," he said, "yo u want those cows-"

Something stopped him. I guess it was the way everybody looked. Everybody but me, that is. Bennett's fac e went kind of white, and both the women turned bac k again to look at me. We stood there like that, and I wa s wondering what was wrong.

And then Rona said, "Your name is Tyler?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

"Not Ryan Tyler?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She looked at me again, and then she said quietly , "Thanks. Thanks, Mr. Tyler." And then both wome n walked out.

Bennett took his cigar from his teeth and swore softly , bitterly. Then he put the cigar back in his mouth an d he looked at me. "You know who they were?"

"Who?"

"That was Rice Wheeler's widow . . . and his mother."

Chapter
9

WE, POINTED THEM north across the dry prairie grass , three thousand head of them, big longhorns led by m y tough old brindle steer. We pointed them north and too k the trail, and it was a good feeling to be heading nort h and to know that I owned part of the drive; that at las t I had a stake in something.

After the first week the cattle settled down to the pattern of the drive. Every morning at daybreak that ol d mossy-horn was on his feet and ready, and the first tim e a cow hand started out from the chuck wagon he turne d his head north and started the herd.

It was a hard, tough life, and it took hard men to liv e it. From daylight to dark in the saddle, eating dust, fighting ornery cow stock, driving through occasional rainstorms and fording rivers that ran bank-full with tumblin g water. But we kept them going.

Not too fast, for the grass was rich and we wanted the m to take on weight. Sometimes for days at a time they jus t grazed north, moving the way the buffalo moved, takin g a mouthful of grass here, another there, but moving.

Two hundred and fifty head of that stock were mine , wearing no special brand. Depending on prices, I coul d hit the other end of the trail with between five and seve n thousand dollars, and that was a lot of money. And it wa s real money, not gambling money.

New grass was turning the prairies gray-green, and ther e were bluebonnets massed for miles along the way the cattle walked, with here and there streaks of yellow mustard.

The grazing was good, and the stock was taking on weight.

If we got through without too much trouble, we woul d both make money.

Nothing was ever said about Rice Wheeler. Sometime s I wondered what they thought when they heard my nam e called and knew who I was. Bennett ventured the onl y comment, about two days out.

I'd cut out to head off a young steer who was gettin g ornery and trying to break from the herd. Bennett helpe d me turn him back, then turned in alongside me.

"Don't think about Wheeler," he said abruptly. "H
e was no good. Best thing ever happened to Rona, when h e took off and never come back."

"Leave of his own accord?"

"No. Folks caught him with some fresh-worked brand s in his herd. He killed a man and left ahead of the posse."

It was a good crew we had. The oldest of the lot, no t speaking of the boss or the cook, was twenty-six. Two o f the hands had just turned sixteen. And we had fourtee n cow hands in all, seventeen with Bennett, the cook, an d me.

We crossed the Red at Red River Station and pushe d on into the Indian Territory, heading for Wichita.

Twice groups of Indians came down and each time w e gave them a beef. Each time they wanted more, but the y settled without argument.

After crossing the North Canadian we lost a hand in a stampede. We buried him there, high on a hill where h e could listen to the coyotes and hear the night singing o f the herders. He was seventeen the day he was killed.

The Osage drums were beating, and we held the her d . C
lose. We weren't looking for trouble, but we knew i t could come. Nighttime we slept away from the fire, an d we kept two men on watch near camp. We missed a lo t of sleep, them days. But we were getting on toward th e Kansas line, and things looked good.

When the first cows were coming up to the Cimarro n we were attacked by a party of Osages. They came sweeping down on us from a wide-mouthed draw, a bunch o f young bucks with more nerve than sense. And they hit u s at the wrong time.

Me, the boss, and a tough hand called Mustang Robert s were riding drag. As though by command, we swun g around, dropped to the ground, knelt, and took stead y aim. Then we waited.

They came on fast, very fast, riding low down on thei r horses' sides. On signal, we fired.

An Indian fell, his horse catching him in the head wit h a hoof as he went over him. A horse went down, throwin g his rider wide where a bullet from Kid Beaton's Sharp s nailed him.

They lost three men and two horses in a matter of seconds, and drew off, deciding they'd had it.

Two days later Mustang, went out after antelope an d didn't come in. I was in the saddle, so I swung aroun d and picked up his trail. When I'd followed him maybe fiv e miles I heard the boom of a rifle.

It was far off in a bottom somewhere. Taking it fast , I headed toward the sound with that fine new Wincheste r of mine ready for action.

There were six of them, all Kiowas, and they had Mustang pinned down in a buffalo wallow with his horse dea d and a bullet through his leg.

There was no chance for surprise. They would hav e heard my horse's hoofs drumming on the sod, and the y would be ready for me. So I went in fast, the reins loope d on the pommel and shooting as I came. I wasn't hittin g anything, but I was dusting them some, and they didn'
t like it.

Maybe I did burn one of them, because he jumped an d yelled. Then I went down into that buffalo wallow, ridin g fast, Mustang covering me. He nailed one of them just a s I swung down to the wallow, and then he came up an d I slid an arm around his waist as he put a boot in m y stirrup.

Surprising thing was, we got away with it. We got clea n out of there, with Mustang shooting back at them. Five o f us came back later and picked up his saddle. We scoute d some, and found a lot of blood on the grass at one point , a little at a couple of others.

"Killed one," Kid Beaton said. "Killed one sure."

And then there were days of dust and driving, and th e grass thinning out a little. So we swung wide, taking a longer route, ducking the main trail, finding richer gras s to keep the stock up. Twice we stopped and let them loa f and graze two days at a time. Bennett knew cattle, an d he knew the markets.

We moved on. Crossing the Kansas line we found a long, shallow valley with good grass and a creek. W
e moved the herd into the valley and made camp near th e creek, upstream from the herd in a bunch of willows an d some cottonwoods, big old trees.

We were just finishing chuck when we heard the bea t of horses' hoofs and four men rode up.

Mustang put his plate down and glanced over at me.

"Watch yourself," he said.

Three of them got down. The leader was a small ma n with a thin face and quick, shifty eyes. The two backin g him were tough, dirty men, one of them a breed.

"My name's Leet Bowers," the leader said. "Come daylight we're cutting your herd."

" 'Fraid you might have picked up some of our cattl e . . . by mistake," another man said, grinning.

Bennett was quiet. He was standing there with his fee t apart, holding his coffee cup. "Nobody cuts my herd," h e said flatly.

Bowers laughed. He had a laugh with no smile in it.

"We'll cut it," he said.

When they came up I'd been standing over the coffe e pot with a fresh-filled cup. Now I stepped a little awa y from the fire, still holding the cup. "I don't think so," I s aid.

Bowers turned to look at me. He turned his hea d straight around and looked at me out of both eyes, th e way a snake does. He had his gun tied down, and it wa s a Bisley Colt. I remember there was a patch on his vest , sewn with lighter material. The patch was below the heart.

"We've got twenty-five fighting men," he said, and h e was measuring me. "We'll cut it, all right."

"You don't need twenty-five," I said, stepping out a bit more from the fire. "You only need one if he's goo d enough. Otherwise twenty-five couldn't do it, nor fifty.

The boys here," I added, "like a fight. Ain't had muc h fun this trip."

He kept looking at me. Mustang Roberts was off on m y right. He had his leg bandaged but there was nothin g wrong with his gun hand. Kid Beaton was a little farthe r over.

"Who're you?" he asked softly.

"My name is Ryan Tyler," I said, "and I own some o f these cows."

Leet Bowers's eyes glinted and his tongue touched hi s lips. He was laughing a little now. "Rye Tyler," he said , "who killed Rice Wheeler and then let Burdette run hi m out of Colorado."

It was poor shooting light, with only the fire flickering , and the shadows uncertain and strange.

"Burdette never ran me out of anywhere," I said, "bu t that's no matter. You ain't cutting this herd."

"Burdette ran you out of Colorado," he repeated, a taunt m his tone. "You're yellow!"

My first bullet cut the top of that white patch on hi s vest, my second notched the bottom of the hole made b y the first.

Leet Bowers fell with his head in the fire but he didn'
t feel it. He was dead.

It happened so fast that nobody had a chance to do anything, but no sooner had the sound of the shots died tha n Kid Beaton threw down on them with his Sharps. "Yo u boys drag it," he said, and gesturing toward the body , "Take that with you."

"Now," said the cook. He was holding one of thos e old Colt revolving shotguns. "Or we can bury all of yo u here."

They dragged Leet Bowers out of the fire and slun g him over his saddle. None of them looked so very spr y and I'd say they'd lost some wind.

Bennett walked toward them. "Don't come near m y herd. If so much as one cow is missing, we'll hunt dow n every man jack of you and hang you to the highest tree.

And if there isn't a tree, we'll drag you."

They rode off, drifting mighty quiet.

Mustang Roberts looked around at me, drinking coffee.

"See that? With his left hand, yet. And never spilled hi s coffee!"

Bennett turned around to me. "Nice work, Tyler. I'v e heard of this man. He killed a rider two months ago an d since then has had everything his own way."

For once I didn't feel bad about a shooting. In Lee t Bowers's eyes there had been something vicious. The flat , mean look of a man who kills and wants to kill.

Outside of Wichita, bunching the herd, Roberts rod e over to me. "Goin' back to Colorado?"

"Uh-huh."

"Who's this Burdette? Heard something of him?"

"Gunman. Mighty salty, they say."

"Have trouble?"

"Words." I headed a steer back into the herd. "He ha d his chance."

"Seems he's talkin'."

"Well," I said, "I'm not hunting trouble. But I a m agoing back."