The Horse Thief and The Lady

The Horse Thief and the Lady

Denzel Holmes

Published by Denzel Holmes at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Denzel Holmes

http://denzelholmes.com

CHAPTER 1

Uvalde County Texas 1861

Bob took a payin’ job with the Giddings Stagecoach Line, fourteen year old Mitt Stone said and stepped down from the buckboard as his father surveyed the empty seat curiously.

What? His father George Stone took the reins and flipped them forward, over the mules’ backs to their bridles. Where does it run to?

The lantern gave scant but adequate light for the last chore of the long day and Mitt avoided direct eye contact, something he’d done since last fall.

Heads west…Fort Clark, he replied, feeling flatness in his voice.

Boy, I hate to lose him. Sure a good hand, George said, shaking his head while he loosed the harness. I hope he’ll come back for a visit before long so I can pay him. Maybe you can talk him into stayin’.

Pay? His father’s offer of pay to Bob hit Mitt like a punch to the gut. He and Bob Guthrie had worked side by side for two years without any mention of pay. His adopted friend, three years his senior, seemed to accept this arrangement with greater grace than Mitt. Bob never had a real home before he hooked up with the Stone family. And Mitt could have talked him out of going on the stage line this time. He had reasons for not doing it.

As the freed mules trotted into the pen, the lowing of cattle gave Mitt his needed chance to end the exchange before he lost his temper. His younger brothers, Tommy and Abe, emerged from the brushy creek to the southwest pushing four longhorn cows in front of them. George pulled the pen gate wider and rushed, along with Mitt, to move away so as not to spook the beasts. Once the cattle entered the pen, George dragged the rail gate closed. Mitt followed Tommy and Abe down the fence line to the barn to help them unsaddle their horses.

George called, Ya’ll come right in. Supper’s getting cold. He turned toward the house.

Tommy and Abe accepted Mitt’s news of Bob’s departure and joked lightly that they’d like to join him. It was no joke to Mitt.

Inside their newly constructed adobe home Mama Caroline and Sarah, Tommy’s twin, fired questions in his direction. Caroline said, He was like one of my sons, Mitt. Why did you let him do this?

How far out does the run go? Sarah asked.

Mitt pinched off a huge chunk of cold cornbread. West, to Clark.

Caroline turned toward Mitt, her hands on her hips. Where does it turn around?

Fort Davis, Mitt answered in a near whisper.

Oh, Mitt! she sobbed. That’s three hundred miles away in Apache country. She spun toward the bedroom.

Sarah placed a platter of roast beef on the sturdy plank table. Didn’t we hear about some Indian trouble out–?

George waved his hand to cut her off. He held his coffee cup low as Mitt’s gaze passed his briefly. He spoke to Caroline’s back. Bob’s older than Mitt. He’ll be all right. And I told Mitt to talk him into stayin’ when he comes back to visit.

Yeah, they always thought I could control Bob. And, yeah, he wouldn’t admit it, but it was Mitt, not Bob, who wanted to go following his father and the older boys when they joined their neighbor and routed that outlaw gang. Mitt’s disobedience, and now the threat of punishment, was the reason he couldn’t make eye contact with his father. But he’d always taken responsibilities beyond his years. The family expected more from him. Said I look older than I am. He thought he was old enough to go on the raid. How did I know it would end in the hanging of a man?

The conversation didn’t return to Bob’s departure although an unspoken tension hung in the air as Mitt helped his eleven year old sister Sarah wash and put away the clay dishes. He asked, over his shoulder, Tommy, how’d ya’ll get those wild cows to come in so easy?

They’re ‘bout halfway tame, Tommy explained. Didn’t you see them bellaring calves come runnin’ up from the pen? I told you we’d already caught the calves.

Mitt hadn’t been listening at the pens. Oh, yeah. I forgot. He allowed his attempt at casual conversation die.

George collapsed into his stuffed chair and shuffled the old newspapers brought from Uvalde. Mitt dried his hands, said a polite goodnight and walked out the front door. His room had one entrance, an outside door on the north wall, put there at his insistence during the recent construction. Before he entered, he studied the ranch layout.

All the pens and barns stood north of the house, about a hundred yards away. The east-to-west road leading to the ranch approached just south of the house, circled the house, moving between it and the more modest adobe home of sister Ruth and brother-in-law, Will O’Donnell. It ended on flat, pebbly, common grounds between the houses and barns.

Due east, a stone curbed well where the family obtained water sat above the bank of a dry brushy creek. Downstream, to the northeast, Slave John dwelled in a stone cabin built by his hands. Mitt gazed at the cabin. In the morning, I’m gonna visit John, no matter how much Father tries to rush us for the roundup.

#

To Mitt, the cattle roundups used to seem fun when the older boys, Sam and Jake, were home. Now, they’d left home for paying jobs in town. Still, his little brothers proved their mettle early, and with Bob and Will O’Donnell, they could bring in fifty head in a three-week period, the typical hunt in the brush. He knew how his father liked to split the captive cattle into two manageable herds by building a brush corral, two or three riders guarding a bunch there while the other men drove the balance of the catch toward home. The guards would barely see the drivers when they returned to the brush; they immediately set out to gather more cattle while the guards drove their herd home.

Mitt, if you and Abe will cut two more long poles to block up that open end, I think you’ll have a corral, George pointed from horseback. Mitt knew this meant he and Abe would get the first guard duty while the others drove another bunch to the ranch.

The creek bottom corral, with a high bank on one side and impenetrable brush on the other, would serve the purpose once the ends were blocked adequately with cedar and oak logs.

What if it rains, Abe asked. Mitt knew better than to ask. It was the chance they would take. If the creek got up they would lose the cattle held.

Abe, you ask that question every time, George said. You know what to do.

The following afternoon, George, Will, Mitt, Tommy and Abe drove twenty longhorn cows, mostly with calves, into an open end of the makeshift pen and stacked the log gate behind them. Sweat caked the drovers as they stepped from lathered horses under a live oak tree and broke out canteens.

As all watched the penned animals, George said to Mitt, We’ll leave a little over half of ‘em here with you and Abe. And we’ll be back in a few days to get you and them.

Why don’t you spend the night first? Mitt suggested, knowing his father wouldn’t do it.

George didn’t answer. The man, in his late forties, fastened his canteen to the saddle as Will and Tommy mounted up for home ten miles away.

The three waved goodbye as they pushed their herd for home leaving twelve cows and their calves with Mitt and Abe. Mitt turned to his nervous cows. Some carried racks of horns six feet wide. It was his job to prevent them from breaking through the cedar, live oak, and cat claw thicket on the low side of the creek if lightning or wolves spooked them.

Between fire making, cooking, and hay gathering for the captured beasts, Mitt endured long nights answering Abe’s constant questions and pondering Bob and his new freedom.

He and Bob had disobeyed his father last fall and followed him and the older brothers, Sam and Jake, along with the men of the legendary pioneer, Carlos de Obregon Chavez, into the lower brush, not far from his present spot, to route a bandit gang from their land. The boys witnessed a fiery shootout with the outlaws. Gilberto Saliz, one of Carlos’ riders, roped the band’s leader, Wild Joe Roark, dragged him back to the blazing camp and hanged him before their disbelieving eyes.

Boy, I wish I coulda been with you. Why didn’t you take me and Tommy? Abe asked.

Because you’re too dang young to see sump’m like that. Mitt said, annoyed. Besides, Father’s still so mad at me he could kill me. Maybe Mitt was too young also, but Bob was three years older, and they were partners.

Abe scrapped his tin plate into their little trash pit. Why? What’s he said? Is he gonna whoop you?

If Mama has anything to say about it, he will. She keeps sayin’ he ought to do sump’m. Just keeps it goin’.

Aw, Mitt, I think you’re blowin’ it up. If Father was gonna whoop you, he’d already done it.

Mitt’s defenses rose instantly. He ain’t gonna whoop me, I’ll tell you that. He might think he is, but he ain’t. I took my last whoopin’ from him a long time ago.

Wooo, you sound like a big tough man, Abe ribbed.

Mitt wouldn’t take offense. He knew his brother. You know why Sam and Jake left home?

I guess they got jobs.

Had to, Mitt shot back. They’d eventually starve out here. How much is Father gonna pay you for what we’re doin’ right now? Nothing, that’s how much, and you know it.

Abe settled into drawing pictures on the ground with a stick. Well, but Sam and Jake are growed up, and they like girls, and all that stuff. Wonder what Bob is doin’ about now?

Makin’ money and havin’ a good time, I hope. Mitt surveyed the small herd in the fading daylight. Let’s get some sleep. The cows are bedded down.

Mitt leaned back on his saddle. No, Abe’s wrong. I see that look ever time I see Father. And Mama keeps on sayin’ things.

Mitt’s thoughts continued, but he hadn’t wanted to share them with Abe. Six years ago, on the move from Tennessee to Texas, Mitt pulled a stunt, as his mama called it. He followed his father and his brothers when they rode to retrieve Slave John from kidnappers in Arkansas. He claimed Mama sent him. For that lie he got the strapping of his life.

Now he fumed that George had left him with his ten year old brother in Comanche country to hold twelve wild cows. And we’ll have to drive ‘em in and hunt the next bunch alone. If the cows break out, or if me and Abe don’t get home with ‘em, he’ll blame me.

Late in the evening after two nights of guard and no accidents, a rider appeared above the creek bank. Following a moment of a thumping heart Mitt recognized his father.

A rush of love mixed with relief and resentment flooded Mitt’s chest. Didn’t expect ya’ll back for two more nights…days, he said.

Just me. Will and Tommy went on to find some more. George looked tired. I’m gonna help ya’ll drive these home.

Didn’t think we could handle the job.

At morning, George and Abe sat in their saddles to watch the herd while Mitt dismounted and tossed aside eight-inch by ten-foot cedar logs to open the corral at its weakest point and start the cattle toward home.

With two cows roped together at the horns and tethered to his saddle horn, Mitt rode right flank. George dragged another pair at the point, allowing that with four restricted, the others would stay bunched. Abe rode rear. That his father wanted the pairs tethered instead of free-driven convinced Mitt more certainly that his father had no faith in him. The drive moved slowly toward the corrals and home.

The cows bellowed when they topped a rise in the low hills. Mitt spied a tremendous herd of longhorns crossing their intended path two hundred yards ahead. The free animals sensed the humans and bolted. The captured cows yielded to instinct and spun fiercely in the direction of the moving herd. Mitt’s tethered pair bolted left, jerking his horse down to his left, pinning his leg. Amid thorns and brush, his dally rope spun loose from his saddle horn. He heard the thundering of hooves, the shouts of his father, and, then, dead silence. Mitt shook his right boot from the stirrup as his horse struggled and righted itself. His left leg took on the agony of demons as tasajilla thorns demanded attention in his shoulder. Minutes passed as he sat on the ground, shrouded by the thorn bush and cedars.

As he held his knee and brushed away thorns, George rode up. Didn’t you see that wild bunch? You should’ve snubbed your cows up. Why didn’t Bob stop them on the left?

Maybe George wasn’t screaming, but it sounded like screaming. We don’t have Bob! Mitt rose despite his pain. He stabbed his forefinger toward George. You run him off.

George stared for a second. I’m sorry, son. I meant Abe. And I hope I didn’t run Bob off. Been a lot of help right about now.

Mitt didn’t accept the apology. You expect the impossible and you don’t want to pay a man for his work. Pain and anger drove him. While we’re at it, we just as well get it out in the open about that hangin’. If you intend to do anything about it, right now’s a damn good time to tell me what it is.

He’d never used swear words in front of his father, but he had no regrets.

I don’t plan to do anything.

Mitt shouted as he rubbed his knee, Yeah, you do. I been seein’ it in your eyes since September. Mitt wouldn’t take a whoopin’ from his father like he’d done when he was a kid. Tell me what it’s gonna be and we’ll settle this right now.

"Son, we lost a few cows. That’s all. I’m sorry I was sharp with you. It’s not your fault. I apologize. Let’s go find Will and Tommy and we’ll get some more cows."

Mitt knew that his father was a man of few words and wouldn’t repeat himself. He stumbled toward his edgy horse and grabbed the reins. The pain in his left knee wouldn’t allow him to mount. With his right foot in the stirrup, he vaulted upward, sat crossways in the saddle, swung his leg over the pommel and booted the compliant mount forward. He snapped his hat low. He wanted more from the brief confrontation but doubted that he would get it.

The three-week drive ended at the barns without words. Torn shirts, salt-caked horses, and red cheeks said it all as Mitt wagged another bale of hay into the enclosed trap as thirty wary cows and some dozen calves watched from the back fence, less than half the numbers brought in at earlier times. No doubt it’s gonna be my fault we brought in so few.

Mitt could play silent too. He would not give away the final resolution in his mind.

One horse that hadn’t been worn down, Turns Wrong, the spotted hammerhead they brought from Tennessee six years ago, stood in the corral.

The next morning’s dawn would break soon as Mitt walked Turns Wrong onto the road between the main house and the one occupied by Will and Ruth. A lamp light showed in the bedroom window of his parents. He felt as well as heard the crunching of gravel beneath the hooves of the horse.

Mitt, that you? came his father’s voice as he cleared the yard.

Mitt put firm boots to Turns Wrong’s sides, and plunged into a full run.

#

Stephens at the Uvalde stage station handed Mitt a new crisp paper to sign. He said, Notice how it reads.

Overland to the Pacific

Confederate States of America

George Giddings got a good mail contract with the new gov’ment. Jest as well tell ye, the agent said, ye’ll git paid in Confederate money. He chuckled, told an old boy that the other day and he walked out. Might as well git used to it. Ye take yer money and pay fer thangs like before. Some folks is a little nervous, I reckon.

Mitt reached for a pencil. Does that have sump’m to do with why there’s no soldiers at Fort Inge? Mitt tried to sound confident. Across the rutted street, gates and doors of the abandoned army post yawed and groaned in the breeze giving it a ghostly aura.

Changin’ of the guard, they call it. I reckon Southern boys will come in and take over soon.

A coach and two freight wagons pulled in from the east. Mitt felt jittery as he watched through churning dust for any horsemen from the direction of home.

Stephens motioned for Mitt to follow him. He introduced the coach drivers as they descended their seats and said that Mitt would join them. Midnight Cryer drove the coach with his guard, Jim Ham. Cryer, small, old and bent, pressed the ball of his hand against his right hip. He took Mitt’s hand with barely more than a grunt. Both men wore full, bushy whiskers and their faces showed deeply etched lines of sun and wind.

Ham, taller, younger, shook Mitt’s hand. Old Midnight is ‘bout the most careful boss on the stage line. Listen to what he says and you’ll do all right.

Stephens pointed to the wagon teamsters, Dee Perkins and Oscar. Mitt shook their hands. Like Midnight and Jim, they wore full facial whiskers. Around forty years of age, Dee’s stocky frame and reddish brown hair gave him an energetic appearance. Oscar, slender in build, loosed the hat string under his chin and wiped his receding forehead.

You’ll ride with me to Clark, Dee said.

Mitt smiled. Suits me. He exhaled a breath of relief. None of the drivers mentioned his age.

In a flurry of changing mules in the wagon yard, time sped by as Mitt tried to prove his worth, and hoped departure would precede any arrivals from the ranch.

Stephens called from the station’s back door. Mitt, come meet your papa.

He dropped the collar in his hand, ready to vault the tall rail fence. The way Stephens said it. He glanced back from a posture of a runner in his starting blocks. Stephens stood in the doorway smiling, holding high a Sharps carbine.

"Drivers like to call these guns Papa. Stephens approached. Ye know, when an Indin is chargin’ at ye, jest yell out, come to Papa. Stephens demonstrated with a deliberate aim toward the open woods then handed the weapon to Mitt. These breach loaders make for fast shootin’. I hope ye never have the need."

With new teams of sinewy mules in harness, the coach and freight wagons rolled from the yard and aligned in front of the station, facing west. Aboard the back wagon with Dee Perkins, Mitt paid little attention to the four passengers boarding the stage, except to notice that one was a woman. Midnight waved the caravan forward and Jim popped the whip over the six mules that quickly took the slack from their collars and harness and rolled westward.

We’ll stop fer a little while at Turkey Creek, Dee said, and then go on to Clark. Git there late, but they got hands at the station that’ll take care of our mules.

Dee talked freely and put Mitt at ease as iron wheels ground the gravel, and the trace jingled in a mixture of thunder, music and freedom. The spreading live oaks and tall elms of Uvalde gave way to stunted, scattered cedar and mesquite as the train rambled westward into the unknown.

How do the stops break down, Dee? I mean, way on out?

Dee leaned out and viewed his left wheels. He spat tobacco juice. San Felipe Springs come after Clark. Good water there. Turn north through Dead Man’s Pass and Devil’s River Canyon.

Mitt wouldn’t ask how the places got their names.

Camp Hudson’ll be the next mule change. Go on to Beaver Lake Station. Then ye’ll see the sight of yer life. Howard’s Well. Dee glanced over to Mitt. That is, I hope you see it. It wuz attacked by Indins four times last year and wiped out complete earlier this year. He shook his head and pinched his nose. Don’t none of us care for that place much.

Do the soldiers ever go along for protection?

After a big raid. Might go out for a week or two. Used to be a standard thang that they’d go with us from Howard’s Well to Fort Lancaster. Now there’s no soldiers anyhow.

The sun gave way to twilight, which faded to a half moon as Mitt shuffled on the plank seat. Dee slowed the team. Clark’s jest a little ways up here. Yeah, I see some lights.

I see them now, Mitt intoned, trying to sound reassured. He cleared his throat.

Two station hands met the incoming vehicles and spoke to the drivers as they stepped down with their sparse belongings, then entered the rough sawn plank station house.

Bunks are right there, Dee said. I guess since you’re the new man, you have to take a top bunk.

Mitt had packed one change of clothes. He tossed the gunnysack on an upper canvas cot and reached to release his belt, assuming the day was over.

Dee dropped his sack directly below Mitt’s bed and tapped Mitt’s arm. Don’t bunk out jest yet. Few of us like to go into Brackettville fer a little fun. You’ll join us, won’t ye?

I don’t think so, Dee. Kinda wore out. These older men had driven farther than him but found the energy to go into town.

Dee stared at him. Ye like girls, don’t ye?

Oh, yeah, yeah, I like girls. They got girls?

Dee grinned. Well, we’ll jest have to teach ye how much fun this freightin’ can be. Prob’ly a faro game, maybe some poker. Always plenty o’ rotgut. All them thangs ye can waste money on. He reached into his bag, drew out a small Derringer pistol, and dropped it into his pocket.

As Dee, Oscar and Jim chattered on the quarter mile walk, Mitt slid his hand across his front pocket to feel the little cloth sack containing his life savings.

The money came from his one and only paying job when the family moved from Parker County in the north of Texas to the brush country below Uvalde. It was when he met Bob. The two had taken mule skinning jobs with the demanding freighter Otto Reitzel from Waco Village to San Antonio. The German contractor paid each of them thirty silver dollars. The fifteen remaining in his pocket represented his resolution, then and there, to never be without money again.

Whoa, wait a minute, Oscar said as he halted in the middle of the street and glanced around. Only one building showed lights glowing from within. He pointed. The Big Owl is thuh only one open! What happened here?

I guess when the army left, the strip dried up, Jim answered. But looks like the one still here is doin’ a good business. A dozen horses stood hitched to the rails in front.

Mitt held back until the others entered through the swinging doors and studied their moves. Dee said, Over there, and led toward a table with four empty chairs near a larger game table surrounded by gamblers. Women in fluff-shouldered dresses stood behind several men, hands on the players’ shoulders, and watched the game. The gamblers, dressed in suits and black hats, eyed the new entries briefly.

As the four took chairs and waited for a bartender Mitt grew uncomfortable. He didn’t want to drink, but curiosity about the girls had tempted him.

Not many girls in here, Dee said. I guess they left too. Oh, well, he leaned back, le’s jest get a drink and see if any show up, or play a little faro.

The shout from the gaming table brought Mitt around. Hey, Hook! You throwed that one from the bottom.

Mitt twisted in his chair to see as Dee pulled his Derringer. The gamblers pushed back from the table and leaped to their feet along with the dealer. The angry gambler said. It ain’t the first time. But you did it to me this time.

Nobody calls me a cheat, the dealer scowled as his revolver cleared the holster. Two gun blasts cut the air. The dealer lurched backward, hit the wall, and fell forward across the table. The accuser tried to cock his gun. His thumb slipped, the revolver twirled downward and fell. He doubled over.

I’m hit, he said as his knees bend. He crumpled to the floor. Other gamblers rushed forward as they sought their holsters to put away their drawn guns.

One reached the fallen man and disappeared under the table. Eddie? Eddie? Can you hear me? A few seconds later he raised from the floor. Eddie’s dead. His voice faltered. My brother’s dead.

Oscar touched Dee’s wrist and whispered. Get that thang out o’ sight.

Dee glanced and shoved the little pistol into his pocket. Le’s git out before we git caught up in a witness fight. The four scrambled for the door, Mitt leading the pack.

They were halfway to the station before anyone spoke. Dee rested a hand on Mitt’s shoulder. Well, skinner, how’d ye like yer first visit to a cat house?

Mitt sniggered. Wasn’t nothin’ like what I expected.

Yeah, Dee said, sometimes it ain’t near that much fun.

When they entered the stage station, laughing, Midnight sat up from his lower cot. Ya’ll back awful early. I’d known that, I might ‘uve went with ye.

Don’t take Mitt long to visit a woman, Dee said as the others chuckled.

Midnight eyed Mitt for a moment. Don’t pay no ‘tention to these guys. I’m glad ye’re back. I wanted to tell ye, they got another freight wagon ready to roll west. So you’ll have yer own outfit when we leave in the mornin’.

No one spoke of what they’d witnessed in the saloon. Mitt wouldn’t tell if they didn’t. And maybe Midnight would give ‘em a chewin’. Hours later his pulse slowed.

#

Mitt dropped from his upper birth before the others rose, anxious to inspect his wagon and team. He helped the station attendants harness up noting the frail creatures and the looseness of their collars.

Dee came out whistling. He slapped Mitt on the back. I’m gonna miss havin’ some company on my wagon.

They know I’m green, but they don’t seem to pay attention to my age. George shaved his face about every ten days and his sons had followed suit. Mitt started shaving his emerging dark whiskers a year ago. Recently Bob had said, You don’t look no fourteen. More like eighteen. That long face and them deep set eyes, why you’d make a good poker player.

As the coach and wagons rolled forward, Mitt respected the seniority of the other drivers, holding back until they lined out, taking the rear position. Driving his own team of four mules seemed a second nature and he smiled in spite of the constant onslaught of dust.

The springs at San Felipe del Rio offered a spellbinding, great rush of sweet water which leaped from a rock ledge, formed a small lake and charged for the nearby Rio Grande. The drivers and station hands sat outdoors in a circle of homemade chairs and benches after supper and made small talk while Mitt worked the action on his carbine. Around nine the next morning the caravan traveled through rows of stately palm trees for a hundred yards and turned abruptly northward for Dead Man’s Pass.

"Old Midnight got that name chasin’ Indians with Big Foot