The Jennings Family Saga, Book 4

Edward Jennings: Cattleman

A Novel of the American West

By Jack L Knapp

COPYRIGHT

Edward Jennings: Cattleman

Copyright © 2020, renewed 2023 by Jack L Knapp

 

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

Disclaimer: The persons and events depicted in this novel were created by the author’s imagination, except for historical persons; his depiction of them is based on his interpretation of published information. Other than that, no resemblance to actual persons or events is intended.

 

Books by the author:

The Wizards Series

Combat Wizard

Wizard at Work

Talent

Veil of Time

Siberian Wizard

Magic

 

The Darwin’s World Series

Darwin’s World

The Trek

Home

The Return

Defending Eden

 

The New Frontiers Series

The Ship

NFI: New Frontiers, Inc

NEO: Near Earth Objects

BEMs: Bug Eyed Monsters

MARS: The Martian Autonomous Republic of Sol

Pirates

Terra

 

The American Southwest Series

Jacob Jennings'

Edward Jennings

Edward Jennings II: War and Recovery

Edward Jennings III: Cattleman

The Territory

 

Fantasy Novel

The Wizards Apprentice

 

 

Chapter One

It was too far to recognize faces, but I’d seen a horse like that big black about three hours ago.

At the time, he’d been tied up to a hitching rail outside Miss Edna’s Café, and I wondered now if it was the same one. Sorrels, duns, roans were common, but black horses were like whites or paints; not popular, because they stood out against most backgrounds. The contrast made them easy to spot, and a horse like that could get a man killed in this New Mexico Territory of 1866.

I figured this might be the same one I’d seen outside Miss Edna’s, which made me curious and a little bit uneasy. Time to change my plans, I decided; my ranch wasn’t going anywhere, and for a while, neither was I. The huge ponderosa tree I was under was a mite too close to the trail to suit me, so I led Buck through the open forest to the south. I kept my eyes peeled for a better place to wait until the riders passed by.

Finding one took longer than expected and for a moment I thought about going back to the trail and heading the other way, down into the Tularosa Basin. But that would leave tracks, and the reason I’d doubled back was so that they wouldn’t know what I’d done. I remembered what Silent Sam had told me: “Ain’t no reason to rush before the fight starts, but ain’t no reason to waste time after that. I allus say that gettin’ kilt can wait, ain’t that right, Yep?”

“Yep.”

Sam wouldn’t rush things, and he’d lived through a lot during his trapping days. Smart man, Sam.

Half an hour later, I found a thicket of scrubby mountain oak, and after picketing Buck where he could graze on the sparse grass, I settled in to wait. And while I did, I thought about what had happened in Miss Edna’s that morning.

***

It had all started the day before, when I told lawyer Warren Bristol that I was quitting.

He didn’t like it much, but since he had never paid me a salary, just allowed me to study his law books in return for my work, he had no real reason to complain.

I had started out researching the law behind his cases, but after a few weeks doing that, he had me arguing them in court. He said practicing at being a lawyer while he supervised would give me experience, which was more than a lot of territorial lawyers had before hanging out their shingle!

Handling those cases had confirmed what I’d thought before starting: I didn’t want to be a lawyer. But I did want to understand the law, because the fellow who doesn’t always has to watch out for the ones that do. Many a law-abiding rancher or claim-owner has found that out the hard way after he’d ended up broke, with his property in the hands of a speculator. It had happened more than once in Texas, where I’d lived before heading east to join the Federal Army, and the New Mexico Territory had lately become notorious for that kind of shenanigan.

So I was done with learning how to be a lawyer, or at least not one who was willing to work for Bristol. With nothing in Mesilla that needed doing right now, I made up my mind to spend a few days on my ranch. I might even take my son Cliff and foster-son Art there as soon as school was dismissed for the summer.

Mesilla was no New York City—I’d been there during the War—but it was a town, and boys that lived in the Territory needed to spend time out on the range. I figured this was especially true since Cliff would one day inherit my New Mexico ranch, and if I could keep them out of the hands of speculators my Victoria properties in Texas too.

I packed up what I’d need for the trip and got a good night’s sleep, figuring to get an early start the next morning. Spend a while on the ranch, catching up on things I might have missed out on, while getting used to the quiet under the looming shadow of the Sacramento range. Then return to town just long enough to pick up the boys. It felt good having a plan that didn’t depend on Warren Bristol’s needs!

My buckskin gelding was skittish from not having been ridden recently, but I had time to be patient with him. Holding the loops in my left hand, and the lariat’s end in my right, I followed behind him, not hurrying, as he tossed his head and galloped to the far side of the corral. Whenever he slowed down, I moved a step closer and tossed the rope-end in his direction to start him moving again.

We both knew I’d catch him up when I was ready, but for now he was just showing off so I let him work off a little bit of energy. Better that than let him try serious bucking when I mounted! I no longer felt the pain from my war wound in my left hand, but the remaining two fingers and thumb just can’t generate enough grip to keep a horse from bogging his head if he’s a mind to. So I walked a small circle in the middle of the corral and let him gallop wider circles around the outside.

Finally tired of the game, he stood, blowing, as I eased up and put a loop around his neck. He waited patiently as I tied it into a quick headstall, which would hold him in place while I picked his hooves, curried his back, and tacked him up. The upshot of my patience was that he barely crow-hopped a time or two when I mounted up 15 minutes later.

I rode him around the corral a couple of times, then sidestepped him over to the corral gate. A rider on a well-trained horse ought to be able to remain mounted while he opens a gate, and closes it too. I was watchful, but he handled it like it was something he did every day! After side-stepping him away, I rubbed his shoulder to let him know he’d done good and gigged him into a slow trot south towards Mesilla town.

After two years of living on the town’s outskirts, I had gotten to know most of the town’s residents. I was also acquainted with a fair number who only came to town when they needed supplies, and was friendly with most except for a couple I’d opposed while arguing one of Bristol’s cases at trial. I’d won more than I’d lost, and in New Mexico Territory there are no good losers, but it was generally known that I didn’t carry a grudge either way. So when I offered to buy a man a drink and shake hands after a trial, the result was that we parted amicably. Which is why I was greeted by some and nodded at by others as I walked my horse through town.

I dismounted at the south end of the street in front of Harvey Miller’s blacksmith shop and looped Buck’s reins around the hitching rail out front. He walked out from the gloomy interior to shake hands, then asked my business.

“Buck’s offside front shoe is loose,” I told him. “I spotted it this morning when I cleaned out his hooves and decided to have you take a look. Time to reshoe him, you think?”

Harvey examined Buck’s hooves, then after looking at that loose shoe allowed that it was better to be safe than sorry. I left Buck with him and walked back into town on the way to Miss Edna’s for a cup of coffee and a slice of apple pie while he took care of trimming Buck’s hooves and replacing his shoes.

There were other cafes in Mesilla, but I seldom went to them after Joe Rawson opened his place. He did the cooking, at least in the beginning, while his wife Edna served it to their customers. We had a lot in common, so it wasn’t long before we were friends as well as business partners.

Joe had been a bronc-buster before taking up cooking, and like most it had cost him. Some had wound up crippled, others had gotten rheumatism, but I’d never heard of one that quit healthy. Joe was no different. He was stove-up from his years riding broncs, but he still had a wife to support and was no man to shirk his responsibilities. He started looking around for work he could do, and that’s when I got involved.

I’d gotten to know him and his wife Edna soon after I set up housekeeping on the outskirts of Mesilla, so when Joe mentioned that he intended to open a café in town, I put up the money they needed. Some of it went to expand their adobe house to make room for tables, some was spent on the big cast-iron range Joe used for cooking.

He was friendly, so was Edna, and pretty besides. It didn’t take long before customers started showing up.

When clerking for Warren Bristol got too much for me, I’d often taken a wagon into the Organs now and again and hauled back a load of firewood for Joe and Edna. Joe had always thanked me and offered to help next time, but we both knew that his body wasn’t up to that kind of work anymore. Even so, a man has his pride, so when I parked the wagon out back, I always let him help. I unloaded the cut wood, he stacked it, and neither one of us mentioned how much that took out of him. A proud man, Joe Rawson. I could see the pain in his face, but he never complained.

Joe’s health had gone downhill that winter, with Edna gradually taking on more of the kitchen work as well as waiting on customers. Seemed like when anybody in town caught something, Joe caught it too, and worse. I’d helped when I could and his fellow Masons had too, as much as he would let us, but even that hadn’t been enough. Joe had wasted away, one slow and painful day at a time, until he was just a shell of the man he’d been.

Edna had soldiered on, taking care of Joe while also cooking and serving customers, but Joe got worse, not better, and Edna also started showing the strain. Seemingly overnight, her face grew older. Laugh lines around her eyes faded, wrinkles took their place, and the first gray hairs appeared.

It bothered Joe, as he told me one day when we shared the bottle of whiskey I’d brought him, but we both knew there was nothing to be done. She had her pride too.

I figure Joe was relieved when it was finally over. I helped his friends prepare his body, and I noticed that for the first time in months, the grimace of pain was missing.

I walked behind the wagon holding Joe’s casket, and Edna held onto my arm all the way to the Masonic cemetery and the open grave that waited. I escorted her home after the service, and the next morning when she opened the café for business, I was her first customer.

Nor was that the last time I’d stopped in at Miss Edna’s café over the next few months; she was always friendly to customers as well as pleasant to look at, and for me a mite more than that later on after her grief from losing Joe faded.

I reckon we needed each other, although I didn’t know it at the time. With my wife Cece, I’d known right off that we were meant to be together. After she died, I didn’t expect it to happen again. With Miss Edna, whatever we had kind of sneaked up on me.

***

This morning, Edna brought me my coffee and pie and a cup for herself as well. We talked as old friends will until two men came in, and after that she was busy.

I didn’t care for the way one of the men watched her, but Edna had that effect on more than one of her male customers. I figured there was nothing to it, but the other one seemed to be paying more attention to me and I couldn’t figure why. Had he been part of the jury in a case I’d argued? Or maybe just a bystander, there for the entertainment? I studied him, trying not to be too obvious about it, and now and then I caught him doing the same to me.

Curious, I thought.

When I stood to go pick up my horse from Harvey’s smithy, they stood too. Edna collected money from them, and I just nodded for her to add my reckoning to the account I paid off at the end of every month, so without intending to I ended up ahead of them as we left. That’s when I noticed a big black horse tied to the hitching rail in front, and standing hipshot by it, a sorrel.

And now, a pair of horses that looked a lot like those two were behind me on the trail that led up to San Augustine Pass. Coincidence?

I decided that was a bet I wasn’t willing to take, but even so there was no knowing their intentions. It was best to let them go their way while I went mine if they would.

Which is how I’d ended up belly-down behind that ponderosa. The trees spreading roots would break up my silhouette, making me harder to spot, but that wouldn’t be good enough after they got closer. The trail bent to avoid another big tree, and while they were out of sight I’d moved to where I was now, behind a thicket of low-growing scrub oak, and with another one behind me that would keep anyone from sneaking up on me. And after that, I’d settled in to watch the trail.

***

I laid up in that thicket for two hours, just waiting. Buck grazed behind me, and when I wasn’t watching the trail I watched him; horses will almost always spot anything new or threatening before the rider will. But I never saw the two riders, and judging from Buck’s behavior he hadn’t even smelled their horses.

Puzzling.

They should have passed, judging by how far behind me they’d been when I spotted them, even if they’d held their horses to a walk. But they hadn’t, so where were they?

I didn’t like the only answer I could come up with, but I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t stay where I was forever, and I had no idea where they’d got to. I made up my mind to move on through the pass, but I’d be watchful for anything and stay off to one side or the other of the trail whenever I could.

The shadows had spread across the dusty trail when I headed out, but I would have spotted anything moving.

Nothing did. I kept most of my attention on the country around us, scanning ahead from right to left while now and again glancing back where we’d come from.

Judging by the tracks that showed up two miles on, they had left the trail before they caught up to me, had made their way up the slope, then rejoined the trail after they’d gone past where I was hid.

Had they spotted me before I moved behind the oak thicket? Or had they been watching for me, and when I didn’t show where they expected me to figured out that I’d taken to the brush?

Not that it mattered, except that they’d been following me and now I was following them.

I watched the country, and also paid attention to the tracks of their horses. As long as they were ahead of me…

But then they weren’t, and when the tracks vanished I took notice. That’s when I got to wondering if they’d done the same thing I had when my tracks had disappeared.

Without seeming to pay attention—no reason to let them know what I had noticed—I eased Buck left until I was about a hundred yards off the trail, then pulled my Winchester from the boot before dismounting behind an ancient juniper tree. Junipers don’t have much foliage, but the thick, gnarled trunk and the twisty branches hid what I was doing.

I listened for several long minutes, trying to be patient, but there was no sound other than Buck’s cropping at the scattered clumps of bunchgrass. That was a good sign, I figured; if they’d been nearby, he would have acted different.

Finally, knowing I couldn’t go on ahead without knowing what those two were up to, I opened the near-side saddlebag and took out a piece of jerky. Miss Edna’s pie was nothing but a memory, so I gnawed on the jerky while I swapped my boots for the Yaqui-made moccasins I had bought in Mesilla. Flora, the Yaqui woman who’d made them, lived with Moses Jennings in Mesilla, and while Moses made and repaired harness she helped the business by making moccasins. More than one man in Mesilla wore moccasins like mine.

Ranchers loved the fancy buckskin shirts she made, I did too, but folks expected a lawyer to dress the part. Which is why I had mostly worn boots and a boiled white shirt when I was working in Bristol’s office, only needing to add a four-in-hand necktie when I went to court.

Not that I had needed the boots in town, but I had decided that eastern style shoes and a derby hat didn’t suit me. Bankers and store clerks could wear ‘em, stovepipe hats too, but not me. I was a cattleman at heart, taking time off to learn about the law, so I wore boots. One day, I might follow the advice given me back in Texas by John Linn, and go into politics. That’s why I’d gone to work for Warren Bristol, figuring that if I ever intended to be part of making laws or enforcing them, I ought to know how the system worked.

Not that Bristol was a good example; that man might not know much about what was legal, but he was expert in bending the law to suit his own aims!

I knew I wasn’t suited to be a lawyer and I didn’t know if I could handle what I’d seen of politics, but I had grown up on a ranch. I knew the good, like helping a cow with a difficult birth and being the first human to see that quivery-legged calf struggle to stand up. I knew the bad too, like working all day to pull stupid critters out of a mudhole only to see them head right back for it. I knew about shaky markets and bad weather and heel flies and rustlers, but they were things a man could face up to.

Politics was different. John Linn had done it and seemed to enjoy it, but I wasn’t sure if I could do what he did. I didn’t have his patience, but even so I might decide to try it one day. I might succeed at it, I might not, but owning my own spread and running it would always be a part of my life. If for no other better reason than knowing that a man was allowed to shoot rustlers and horse thieves same as he would coyotes raiding the hen-house! But if he shot a few politicians, and knowing them and how I felt about some I just might, folks would likely frown on that.

I picketed my horse where he could graze and focused on what I had to do, find out what those two riders had in mind. I loosened the safety strap holding my Colt’s pistol in the holster—a man only needs it when he’s on horseback—and settled it comfortably the way I always wore it now, holstered on my left with the butt forward and with the barrel slanted backwards. That way, if I needed it in a hurry, it came out slick as you please. I had worked at it until drawing the pistol with my right hand and cocking it with the heel of my left was as close to automatic as such things ever get. No need to even think about it anymore, just draw, cock, point, and shoot.

Apaches aren’t known to wait around during an ambush; generally, a man barely sees one coming at him before a spear or arrow gets there. A long gun is better, which is why I was carrying my rifle, but at close range there’s no time to pull it from the saddle boot. That’s when a man needs a pistol. The distracting thoughts kept trying to intrude, but I pushed them aside and leaned forward as I crept along.

I was trying to watch out for anything on me that might make a noise, and at the same time I was examining every bit of cover ahead of me that might hide a man. Not two; they might have split apart if they intended to bushwhack me, which was what I was thinking.

Of course, I could be wrong. They might be innocent travelers who had decided to make camp early. But up near the top of the pass, where I was, there would be no springs and not much grass for their animals.

After a mile or so of slowly sneaking along from one bit of cover to the next, I spotted the horses. There was no sign of the two riders; it was just the big black and the sorrel, their reins tied to branches of an ancient juniper tree and standing hipshot while they drowsed.

I’d left Buck’s tie loose enough for him to graze, but the two I was looking for hadn’t done that. Likely they figured to not be where they were for long.

I squatted low behind a small boulder and thought about things. I could try sneaking up closer, but right now the breeze was blowing mostly in my direction. Not directly toward me, more from off to my left, but not blowing toward their horses.

The bush a few yards in front of the boulder I was behind offered concealment, but no cover if it came to a fight. I figured it would, so I kept looking. I didn’t know where the riders were, but I knew where they’d be as soon as they got tired of waiting. They’d come here to get their horses.

There was a cluster of larger rocks off to the right that should offer a more open view of the horses, so I decided to move. I was more than a little concerned…not afraid, just concerned…as I snuck across, and I took care not to surprise a rattler that might like those rocks as much as I did. But there was no snake, and no sign of the missing riders as I slid into the welcoming cover of the rocks.

And went back to waiting.

A big deerfly found me after a while, and buzzed closer to my right ear than I wanted him to. I wanted to swat him in the second-worst way, but I could tolerate a fly-bite better than a bullet hole so I didn’t. Instead, I slowly tipped my head to the right to discourage him. It worked; the hat brim between him and my ear not being to his liking, he buzzed around a time or two and went looking for an easier meal.

That was when the two horses I’d been watching woke up. Their heads went up and swung left so they were looking toward the trail. Moments later, I heard the grating sound of rocks rubbing together.

Not Indians, then, something to always watch out for in the mountains; they wouldn’t make that kind of mistake.

I heard the shhh sound as one brushed past a limb, then low voices. Not close, maybe twenty or thirty yards away I figured. Still too far to make out words, just the low murmuring. The voices stopped as they moved in to untie their mounts and tighten the cinches before mounting and I got ready.

The man on the far side swung his leg over the cantle first and settled in, boot feeling for the offside stirrup, while the one closest to me put his left boot in the stirrup and his right hand on the saddle horn as he prepared to mount.

That’s when I stood up.

No thinking required; I understood that I wouldn’t get a better chance. I cocked my Winchester as soon as it was clear of the rocks in front and yelled, “Freeze right there! Don’t turn your head!”

They did, surprised, but I didn’t expect it to last.

“Mister…” the one closest to me said, but I shut him up in a hurry! “I didn’t give you leave to speak! You just stand there and think about what you had in mind while I decide what to do with you!”

While I was talking to the one holding onto his saddle horn, I had that Winchester aimed at the one who was already mounted. The close one wasn’t going anywhere for the moment, being off-balance the way he was and with both hands busy holding on to that nervous black horse. This time, riding the bigger horse was no advantage!

While I’d been talking, the sorrel had started moving. Its head up was up and moving back, so that the rider could get a better view in my direction, and I could no longer see his right hand. But I knew where it was. Fair enough, I decided, and squeezed the trigger.

I barely had time to see the dust puff from his shirt before I levered another shell in and shot the one who was now trying to get astride that big black. The bullet hit him just above his cartridge belt and he fell, and as he did that big horse reared. Its rider had been holding the reins and when he fell, they pulled the horse’s head around so that it twisted as it came down. The near-side forefoot hit the rider in the head and I heard the bone crack, a loud snapping sound.

Both horses crow-hopped to the side, then stopped, avoiding the jerk that would come when they stepped on the trailing reins. For a moment there was no other sound, only the fading echo of my shot and the shuffling and snorting of two alarmed horses. I watched the two men on the ground as the one that had been stepped on tried to breathe, then gave up. There was only a kind of rattling in his throat, a long sigh, and he was done.

The smoke from my shots drifted away, the smell acrid in my nose before it vanished in the light breeze, and then I saw the other one move as he tried to get up. I took two shells from my belt loops and reloaded the Winchester’s tube, then reseated it and eased the hammer down.

Judging by the short panting breaths, he wasn’t going to last long. I walked over and stood just back of him, where he couldn’t get a clear view, and watched the blood pump out of the hole halfway down his left side. Lung-shot or a kidney, I figured, and it didn’t matter which. “You got anything you want to say?” I asked.

For a moment I thought he wouldn’t speak, but then he gasped out, “My brother?”

“Dead,” I said. “I shot him, but getting stepped on by his horse finished him off.”

He might have heard my answer, but there was no way to tell. The blood pulses slowed to a bare ooze, then stopped.

I left them lay where they’d fallen and while speaking slowly and softly, I walked up to their horses, picked up the reins, and led them away. As soon as I was sure they wouldn’t be able to smell the blood, I tied the reins to a tree branch and walked back to where the bodies lay. One last look to make sure they weren’t going anywhere, and I knew weren’t; the one who’d asked about his brother had died with his eyes open, and a fly had already landed right at the edge of the eyeball. I don’t know how they sense death, but they do.

I picked up my rifle from where I’d laid it and headed back to fetch my horse. Two brothers, dead. I tried to remember any incident that might have put them on my trail, but while there was something about the way that one had looked at me in Miss Edna’s café, I couldn’t quite recall what it was.

Did I even want to involve the law in what had happened, such law as there was?

Too far from Mesilla for the town marshal to have jurisdiction, and I wasn’t sure which sheriff might be interested. No, I decided; better to just let what had happened be forgotten, except that I would likely dream about it.

Bare seconds, that fight had lasted, and two men who’d been alive were no more. They’d meant to kill me, but even so I would not forget. I still dreamed about what had happened during the war, so the new dream would just have to take turns with the others.

***

The two had set their ambush near the highest point of the trail, meaning that the flat area wasn’t particularly large. From back the way I’d come and looking ahead to the east, the ground sloped away in both directions. It was cut here and there by arroyos, most of them small, but some were already large enough to become canyons farther along.

I didn’t plan to notify a lawman about what had happened, but neither did I want these two found. As long as there were no bodies for somebody to find, there was nothing to tie me to what had happened. Somebody might eventually wonder what had become of them, but wondering wasn’t the same as knowing.

During my time working for Bristol, I’d watched more than one clever lawyer twist things around to the point that more than one bad man had got off free, and I figured that sometimes the decision had gone the other way. Easiest way to make sure it wouldn’t happen to me, drag the bodies over to an arroyo and dump them. Then scrape rocks and dirt over them, as much as I could manage.

I took off their pistol belts and searched their pockets before I tied the lariat around their feet. One had more than forty dollars in gold in his pocket, while the other had thirty dollars and some loose change. I took the money, because they wouldn’t need it and I might. I also took their guns.

The money was just about what a cowhand would have after being paid off for a month’s work. Not broke, and therefore not a simple robbery. Put together with the way that hombre had looked at me in Miss Edna’s and I knew they had intended murder. I would remember, and one day there might be an accounting. I mounted up and dragged the bodies over to an arroyo, loosened my rope, and flopped them in.

The rifles and pistols were ordinary weapons. There were no marks, no names or initials scratched into the grips or stocks, just what working cowhands might be expected to own. Some of my men likely needed better weapons than what they had, and they’d be glad to get these. As for their horses, sorrels were common but that big black would be remembered. It would be safer to put both down, and I briefly considered it, but realized I couldn’t do it. They’d done me no harm, and anyway I would need a pack horse to carry the weapons.

But not that big black; he was a gelding and likely a fine riding horse, but people would pay attention. I led him to the arroyo where the bodies were, removed the saddle and headstall, and slapped him on his rump. He trotted away as I dumped the tack in, just uphill from the bodies.

Burying the whole shebang took more than an hour, but I got it done. Finally ready, I loaded the spare weapons onto the sorrel, tied them securely so they wouldn't rattle, and headed east, glad to leave that part of the mountain behind.

 

Chapter Two

I pushed on, wanting to get out of the mountains before stopping for the night.

I kept my eyes peeled during the journey north along the flank of the Saint Augustin range, stopping now and again to look around and not relaxing until after I was well down into the flats. The Apaches would have heard the shots, and while they might have come to investigate, they prefer not to fight at night. Still, there could be one or two trying to cross the difficult divide into manhood. If they spotted me, there was no telling what they would do, so I rode loose in the saddle and kept my Winchester ready.

Twilight turned to night as I left the hills and headed out into the desert. Two hours later, with Buck weary from the long day of riding, I decided to switch horses. The sorrel was far from fresh, but he was still in better shape than Buck. I shared out what water I had between them, taking only a sip from what was left in the canteen for myself, then let them graze on the sparse grass while I swapped the guns from the sorrel to Buck.

Off to the north, the white sands shimmered with reflected moonlight. I needed rest too, but it would have to wait. I led off on foot, leading both horses and letting them recover slightly. An hour later, I mounted the sorrel and gigged him into a walk.

The Tularosa Basin is hard on people and harder on horses. Mine needed rest, but I wouldn’t be able to relax until I got to my ranch. I let the sorrel have his head for the most part, only using my spurs as a gentle reminder when he wanted to stop. I understood that if I allowed either one to do that, they might not be able to keep going.

But I knew better than to ride up to the ranch house during the night; people get shot doing that, but likely nobody would be at the line shack we’d built. It was near a small spring located near the edge of my land, and near the base of a rocky outcrop. It wasn’t much, that spring, little more than a seep, but in the desert water is a precious thing. There would be enough for my horses and maybe some for me after they’d had a drink. The line shack was primitive, nothing but a roof and unchinked log walls over a dirt floor, but it was good enough to shelter the hands working that part of my range, and it would suit me for the remainder of the night.

Hopefully, there would be hay in the corral for the horses, but I would have to wait. My jerky was gone, and my backbone and belly-button were closer friends than they’d been for quite a while.

As expected, Buck smelled the water first. He’d been plodding along behind the sorrel, head down, but as soon as he smelled the water his head came up. I swapped horses again and let him have his head, and as I’d hoped he took us right to the spring.

After watering the animals, a process that took close to an hour, I rubbed them down with a fistful of hay and turned them into the corral. Enough water had accumulated by that time for me to drink my fill. Not food, but better than nothing.

The danger from Apaches was worse up in the mountains, but down in the flats where I was a man might run into white men that were at least as bad. And to be fair, a few women too. The Basin is a hard land where only hard people can endure, and I wasn't the only recent arrival that had come here from Texas.

The war had ended two years ago, but there was no real peace over there. Men still straggled in from the eastern battlefields, some arriving now because they’d only recovered from sickness or wounds. Others had been on the losing side of one of the east Texas feuds, and some were two short jumps ahead of a rope necktie. It didn’t do to take chances when meeting a stranger.

There was no law in Texas but what the Army provided, or so I’d heard, not that Texans weren’t prepared to administer informal law themselves. Some of the small settlements in the Panhandle were like that, which was why some of the worst kept heading west to the New Mexico Territory.

To get there, they had to cross the treacherous Pecos River, notorious for steep banks, undercut bluffs, and quicksand. The easiest and safest way was to follow one of the trails to Pope’s crossing, and after that, if they kept south of the Sacramento Mountains and kept going west, they ended up on JJ’s place or mine.

Now and again, one showed up riding the grub line. Some were looking for a job, others were pushing on to the mining districts over by Socorro. My foreman fed them even if we didn’t have work for them, because it kept the cow thieves mostly honest. A man who was low-down enough to steal from folks that had fed him deserved hanging, and some found that out the hard way. Simple possession of a running iron was evidence of intent, and when the possessor wound up at the end of a short rope after a long drop, nobody asked questions.

I unrolled my bedroll in the line shack, barred the door, laid my Winchester close by, and was asleep as soon as I stretched out.

***

The horses were stiff and cranky the next morning, but they were also thirsty. I led them to the spring, watered them, then saddled up and headed for the Sacramentos that loomed ahead.

The horses soon warmed up and after an hour, I stopped to let them graze. As a result, they displayed new energy when I remounted and pushed on. Ranch horses are like that; they’ll work hard, but just like their riders they need time to rest.

Captain Jack, the noted scout, had made a famous ride where he’d pushed his horses to the limit. The story I’d heard said that one had died and the other was never any use afterwards. I wasn’t out to set records, and Buck was too good a horse to mistreat like that. The sorrel had also stood up well, but I would have to decide what to do with it. Keeping it was simply too dangerous, because someone might tie me to its missing rider.

I rode up to the ranch house a little after midday and dismounted. There was a trickle of water running into the corral’s trough, which was something new. There might even be water in the kitchen by now! But a pot of coffee would have to wait while I took care of the horses.

I curried them, forked hay from the shed next to the corral into the pole feeder, and headed for the barn to see if there were oats. Both animals had earned a bait, oats if we had any, corn if not.

One of the barn cats hissed at me—hanging around the grain bin was probably good hunting territory—but I ignored him and went about my business. After distributing the grain to the bucket feeders, I stored the tack and weapons I’d taken from the ambushers in the barn. Ramón would pass them on later to whoever needed them.

That was one of the differences between my people and the peons that some ranchers in the Territory kept; I had armed mine, for some the first weapons they’d ever owned, and as soon as I got better ones I replaced what we’d started with.

Lincoln had freed the slaves, but those old ranchers swore their peons were different.

Likely some of the people who’d come to work for me had been peons, but that was no skin off my nose. Sheriff Candelaria likely knew, but he hadn’t said, and until someone showed up claiming one of my men owed him money it wasn’t a problem. There would be trouble over the peons one day. I didn’t know what would happen or when, but I was sure it would.

On the way up to the house, I looked over the other buildings. The tan-colored torreon upslope from the house looked imposing enough to keep the Apaches at bay all by itself, and beyond it was the village that had grown more-or-less by accident.

That’s where I finally saw movement; one of the women came out with a basket that looked to contain laundry and she spotted me. Moments later, after a couple of shrieks and what I guessed were swear words, half a dozen women and kids headed toward me!

In less time than you might think, I was sitting out on the veranda with a cup of strong coffee in my hand while the women bustled around in the kitchen. I surely needed that cup of coffee; without it, and despite my hunger, I would probably have fallen asleep before my lunch of tamales, beans, hot peppers, and tortillas arrived. But it did, and after a lot of smiles—a body might think they were glad to see me!—I was finally able to relax on the veranda and doze off. They might have let me sleep all night, but I woke up at dusk and was drinking another cup of coffee when JJ, John Linn Junior, rode in.

He spotted me on the veranda and after caring for his horse, walked over. “Glad to see you, Ed! The big city get to be too much for you?”

“Nope,” I said, “but I finally got a belly full of clerking for Warren Bristol! If you ever need a crooked lawyer, he’s your man, but make sure he’s working for you and not himself!” I let a little bit of the disgust I felt for that man color my words.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” JJ said. “Planning to stay full time now? We could use you!”

“No set time to go back to Mesilla,” I admitted, “so I can stick around. Is there a problem?”

“No more than usual,” JJ said disgustedly. “Dumb cow-critters insist on drifting back into the canyons! They’re likely to end up in a mountain lion’s belly up there, if they aren’t rustled first. Combing them out of the brush is a chore that never ends. We could both use more hands, but I would have to borrow money to pay mine! We’ll both be in better shape next month after I deliver a herd to Fort Craig, but right now I’m strapped for cash.”

“I can let you have enough to tide you over," I said. "Hire as many as you need, but be selective; some of the people that have drifted into Mesilla ain’t worth a tinker’s damn! You’re talking about trailing a mixed herd to the fort?”

“Yeah. I could do it alone, but I figure we’ll both be better off if I throw your stuff in with mine. I’ll also need some of your men to help mine on the drive if you do. I figure me as trail boss, four of your hands to help with the herding, and I’ll provide the rest. I’ll provide the remuda too and a wrangler for it, but that will leave both of us short on hands until we get back. Which is why I mentioned that we could sure use you.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Let Ramón know what you need, he’ll see to it. As for me, I can stick around for a while, and I was thinking about bringing Cliff and Art here for the summer. Be good for both of them, I’m thinking, and they might stay longer if they’re needed. You mentioned rustlers; Apaches taking a beef now and then?”

“No, they’ve been pretty quiet," JJ said. The rustlers are drifters, most of them from Texas. Some might have been in the Confederate Army, or at least they claim they were, but from what I’m hearing more than a few were deserters. Texas was full of ‘em there at the end! Bush soldiers, folks called ‘em.”

“Were they soldiers, JJ?” I asked. He would know more about that, though neither of us wanted to talk seriously about it. More than a few killings had happened between men who’d been on opposite sides, and even a simple discussion could get out of hand before a man realized it.

“Some might have been,” JJ said slowly. “No way to tell now, but…here’s the thing that’s different about the ones that were real soldiers. They don’t mess with ordinary folks unless prodded, and they generally leave private property alone. You know how touchy Texans are about people that don’t respect them, and they purely hated the Rebel tax collectors and draft enforcers! But the bush soldiers are different, so after a while local folks just shut up and quit complaining when they showed up.”

“Rebels, not Confederates?” I said, but JJ didn’t take the bait. He knew I was just joshin’.

“Rebs, Yankees too, and shiftless no-account ones at that! If they’d have been in my command, they wouldn’t have lived through the first fight!”

I grinned, knowing what he meant. Why put a man with initiative and good soldiering ability out as the advance picket, where he’d be the first one killed during an attack? Union commanders had done that too, picked the ones they could spare to be cannon fodder. I’d never personally had to do it, because I’d been lucky enough to be given command of a veteran company; but I had talked to commanders who’d received more than their fair share of Mister Lincoln’s hard bargains in the manpower drafts.

“About the drifters, JJ. Cow thieves, you said?”

“If they get half a chance,” JJ confirmed. “That’s what we were doing, taking away temptation by pushing your stock down to where your hands can keep an eye on them, and like I said, we could use your help.”

“I’ll stick around for a while,” I repeated, having made up my mind while he talked. “One question: I was hoping to see Sam or Yep, or if not one of them, then that fellow I brought here a few months ago.”

“Festus Samuels?” JJ asked. “He’s probably over in the bunkhouse by now if you want to talk to him. I haven’t seen Sam for a week or two, but Yep was here up until day before yesterday.”

“Festus will do.” I was confused, because Festus had claimed to be a hunter and had told me he didn’t want a regular job. “He’s punching cows now?”

“I had to talk him into it,” JJ admitted. “He was—well, nervous at first. You know?”

“Because you’re Texan, and he’s colored.” My voice was flat, but it was a struggle. I won’t put up with mistreating a man because he’s a different color! Long as he does an honest day’s work, he’ll be treated like anyone else and paid the same.

“That’s it,” JJ confirmed. “But after I talked to him, he decided that he wanted to be one of the regular hands, and I’m glad I gave him the chance. He’s a good man.”

“I thought he might be,” I said, and let the discussion drop. “Did Yep say when they’d get back?”

“Nope, but you know them, as independent as two hogs on ice!” I grinned at the thought, but understood his meaning.

“How are we doing on game?” I asked.

“We’ll both want to stock up before winter, but for now we’re good. Have you seen the cool-house yet? The creek runs through it, and that keeps the temperature down. The men finished building your smokehouse a few days ago, and as soon as the weather cools enough we’ll start curing meat for the winter.”

“You’ve done well,” I said. “They’re keeping your place supplied too?”

“About the same,” JJ said, “and that’s Sam’s doing. He alternates between ranches, bringing in fresh meat for your folks, then a carcass or two for me and mine. Deer for the most part, but they try to bring in one or two elk each week. Between them and what our people raise in their gardens, we’re in good shape. They’re workers, Ed, all of them, as good as any that worked for us back in Texas.”

“Good to hear,” I said. “What do you have in mind for tomorrow?”

JJ shrugged. “Keep working the canyons, but watch out for trouble. The Apaches have been quiet for the last few months, but with Indians you never know.

“Most of the strangers drifting in have been looking for work, but there have been some who brought cattle with them. They’re looking for someplace to settle, but so far they’ve not shown interest in the desert. There’s better grazing near the Pecos and less trouble with our Apaches, but there have been raids by Comanches and Kiowas over that way.”

“I heard about the troubles over in Texas,” I said. “I intended to ask you about that. Have you thought about our Victoria properties?”

“I have,” JJ admitted, “but there’s not much I can do about them. I can’t just go back and claim what you offered, at least not yet. One day, maybe, but if the former Rebs didn’t hang me for deserting the cause, Yankee carpetbaggers would call me traitor and confiscate the land. Did you have something in mind?”

“I do,” I said. “I had time to do some thinking on my way here, and I made up my mind to not abandon my claim. My pa and Jean-Louis Lafitte settled on that land and fought Comanches to keep it. Pa never made it back from Mexico, but the rest of my family’s buried there and I’ve decided not to give it up without a fight. Easiest way to do that is to go back and see what’s going on for myself.”

“You can do that, but like I said, I can’t,” JJ said, “and besides, there’s too much to do right here. But going alone? Ed, that’s Comanche country as soon as you cross the Pecos, not to mention that you don’t know what you’ll run into when you get to Victoria.”

“I thought of asking Sam and Yep to go with me,” I said, “and Nick might be willing, too. With four of us, including them two who know more about Indians than anyone else we know? We should be okay.”

“That will leave Festus here to do the hunting and keep an eye on the Apaches,” JJ mused, “and I can send one or two men out with him. I won’t have a problem hiring more, now that you’re offering to back me. It also wouldn’t hurt to cull some of the older cattle and surplus bulls if we run short of meat, and Festus could handle that too. You’ll need to take spare horses, including at least one pack animal. I’ll have the boys start putting a remuda together, and the villagers can take care of rations and such. When did you figure to ask Nick?”

“I’ll work with the hands during the rest of this week, get a feel for how things are going, then if I think I can be spared I’ll head for Socorro three or four days from now. I’ll take Sam and Yep with me, give them a day or two in town to unwind, then as soon as Nick’s ready we’ll come back here. Pick up the remuda and supplies, head out as soon as possible after that.”

I hesitated, but then decided to go ahead. “There’s another reason why I think it would be a good idea for me to be away for a while.”

“Something going on that I need to know about?” JJ asked curiously.

“Maybe,” I admitted. “I was ambushed on the way here.”

“Well, you made it, so the ambush didn’t work,” JJ pointed out. "Robbery?”

“No. They spotted me in Mesilla and thinking back, I’m sure they were watching for me. There was no way they could have known I’d get Buck shod that morning or drop in at Edna’s for pie and coffee, but one of them spent more time watching me than he did Miss Edna. I also noticed his horse, a big black, so when I looked down my back-trail and spotted it, I started looking for a place to hole up until they passed.” He nodded understanding, so I went on. “I wasn’t sure just what they had in mind, but when I noticed that they’d pulled off the trail…”

“Yeah,” JJ said. “I take it they won’t be waylaying any more travelers?”

“They won’t. I turned the black horse loose, but I brought the sorrel with me as a pack animal. I ended up riding him too, after I just about wore Buck out! But now I need to do something with him. I don’t want to put him down, but…”

“No reason to,” JJ said. “I can just turn him in with my horses. If anyone asks, I’ll just say that he showed up one day and since I didn’t know who to notify...”

“Arrowhead brand,” I said, “so he might belong to Tom Archer, but even so that ought to work. I’d just as soon not have any dealings with Archer; he already hates me, and I wouldn’t put it past him to claim I stole the animal. Now that I think on it, there’s a better way. We could take him along when we head for Victoria and not bring him back. Long way from here to there, so they won’t pay attention to the arrowhead.”

“Nothing fancy about it,” JJ agreed. “I’ll bet if you ask Sam, he’ll know how to turn that arrowhead into a pine tree. But the simplest way would be just to add a US brand, same as what the army does to horses they buy.”

“Good idea,” I agreed. “The only other thing was their weapons. I figured to swap the pistols to the hands if they’re interested, and give the rifles to my families. Most of them have muskets, but the ones I took off those two take cartridges.”

“Ramón Garcia will know who should get the rifles,” JJ said, “and how about you hold onto one of the pistols? Sergio Galván needs a better pistol than that wore-out old Colt he’s carrying, and now that I think about it, you should take him back to Texas with you. His family’s back there, and if any of your former hands are around he’ll know how to find them.”

“That makes sense, and I should have thought of it myself,” I nodded. "As for bringing Cliff and Art here, I guess it’ll have to wait until I get back. They should be okay in Mesilla; Angelica has her daughter Rosa Maria to help her, and if she needs money for food and such she knows to talk to my banker. Mariana can help too, as soon as she finishes with her teaching job, but I’d appreciate it if you would send somebody into Mesilla every week or so while I’m gone to check on things.”

“I’ll see to it,” JJ said.

We left it at that. He’d had a long day, and both of us needed food and a good night’s sleep.

***

I headed out the next morning with one of the hands, a man named Enrico Narvaez. We worked one of the side canyons north of the ranch house and delivered the cattle we rousted out to a collection point about noon. After a quick cup of coffee and a hasty meal of elk meat and green chile wrapped in a tortilla, we changed horses and headed back to work.

By the end of the day, stiff and sore or not, I drove myself harder than anyone. The way I figured, the foremen ran the day-to-day operations, but if the men see the boss working hard, they’ll feel better about what we asked of them. Some owners didn’t see things the same way, but I felt better about what I was doing and that was what mattered. I could feel in my bones how hard we’d been working, but we were back at it the next day, and by the morning of the third day I woke up feeling better.

During the week, several new hands showed up to help. One joined Enrico and me and seemed surprised to learn that I owned the ranch! Enrico grinned at me and made sure he did his share. He was somebody to keep an eye on, I figured. We would need trail bosses who could handle responsibility as well as ordinary hands.

A week later, Sam, Yep, and I headed for Socorro to talk with Nick. He agreed to go with us, and a week after that, the five of us headed for Pope’s Crossing on the Pecos.

We were on our way to Victoria.

 

Chapter Three

Sam and Yep knew what I had in mind: head south until we’d cleared the Guadalupes, then turn east. From there, pick up the trail and follow it to Pope’s Crossing on the Pecos River.

A lot of folks used that ford, and if we encountered anyone driving a wagon and heading west I figured to ask for whatever news they had about matters in Texas. I wasn’t interested in single riders; they might be heading west, hoping to find work, or they might have other things in mind. If so, they would look for easier folks to rob, but three or more riding together likely meant more trouble than we needed. Sam and Yep understood; if that happened, we’d just move off the trail to someplace that offered cover and let them go by. If it came to a fight, well, people that are well-armed and watchful generally don’t need to.

By the second day, the pattern had been set. The two old mountain men scouted out ahead, sometimes in view, sometimes not. I didn’t let it concern me; they would never be so far ahead that they couldn’t get back if they spotted trouble. Sergio led, because he’d been with JJ when he’d brought the herd west and remembered the way. Most days, he rode the sorrel that now sported a US brand on the left hip, and behind him came whoever was leading the packhorse at the time. The remounts followed the packhorse and the rest of us took turns riding drag, not hurrying the animals but pushing them along if they stopped to graze. It didn’t happen often; they’d learned the knack of grazing as they walked. They would spot a clump of grass ahead, the head would swing aside, the long, flexible upper lip would wrap around the clump and the front teeth would snip it off. Chew and swallow as they walked, then do it all over again.

I had expected water to be a problem after leaving the Pecos, and it was. But I had made sure we packed two small barrels on the packhorse, enough for drinking water and morning coffee for the men, plus enough to keep the horses from suffering excessively if we were forced to make a dry camp. That happened twice during that first week, but after that, our scouts found a spring or creek every day. Following Sam’s advice, we watered the animals in the late afternoon, refilled the water barrels, then camped away from the water on grass where the animals could graze while they rested.

Sometimes we had wood for a campfire, sometimes not, but always there was cover where we could put up a fight if it came to that. Might be why there wasn’t one, I thought. Now and then, we came up to branches off the main trail we were following. Any tracks or other sign on those side traces were old, and we never saw any sign of people.

The branches went somewhere, or had once, but now the west-Texas countryside appeared to have been abandoned. If there had been settlements or isolated ranches this far into Comancheria, the people had pulled out during the war.

Wild horses watched us from the hilltops and game was plentiful. Sam and Yep kept us in meat, antelope and venison for the most part, but turkey too when we camped early enough. Sam reported one afternoon that he’d passed an abandoned ranch while scouting north of the trail. The house and outbuildings had been burned, so that all that was left now was the remains of two chimneys. The open fireplaces faced each other across charred timbers that had once supported a roof. No graves, at least none we could find, so maybe the folks who'd lived here got out before their ranch-house was torched, but maybe not. Many a wooden marker fell over in the springtime, when the winds blew strong.

Two days later, we topped a hill and caught sight of a train of freight wagons ahead. I rode up to where Sam and Yep had stopped to study them.

“What do you make of it, Sam?” I asked.

“They’re best left alone, Ed. There are two men about half a mile in front and they’re carrying rifles across their saddles. Look off to the right, behind that last wagon, and you should be able to spot half a dozen others. No idea what they’re carrying, but whatever it is they’re making sure it gets to where it’s supposed to go.”

“No business of ours,” I agreed. “We’ll just wait here until they’re out of sight. You think that might be the road to Victoria?”

“Reckon so, unless they’ve built a new town down south of Austin,” Sam said. “How far from here to your ranch?”

“I can’t say for sure,” I admitted. “Could be thirty miles, could be fifty. But I intend to stop in Victoria first and look up a couple of friends. Jeff Bell is a gunsmith, and when we talked before the war, he figured he’d be safe from conscription because the Rebs needed a smith in Victoria more than they did a shooter back east. Milt Harris is a kind of partner of his so he might be there too, but then again, he might have moved on by now. I always felt he was too restless to stay in one place very long.

“People will likely notice us if we ride in together, and anyway Sergio wants to find his family before he does anything else. He can also see how many of my old hands he can locate. Some took to the brush, but some might have crossed over into Mexico to sit out the war with family. I never liked having to leave the way we did, leaving them to shift for themselves, but I had my family to think of.”

Nick had come up while we were talking. “A man does what he has to, Ed. They knew.”

“They were like family too,” I pointed out. “They helped raise me when Pa was off fighting, Uncle Jean-Louis’ family too. Your wife Linda was part of that. The girls spent as much time in Jennings Landing with the families of my workers as they did at home while they were growing up. It takes time to build that kind of relationship, and then the war came…well, anyway, if Sergio can locate them, I'm hoping that we can start ranching again.”

“You figure to have us split up, Ed?” Sam asked. “Yep and me could ask around if we did. If we had money for a few drinks, I mean. Might even want to buy the other feller a drink, ‘specially if he likes to talk. If we had the money, that is.”

“You will,” I said, “just as soon as we get to town. I’ll have your wages ready by the time we get the horses taken care of. You two have fun, but try to stay out of trouble; I’d rather not attract attention if we don’t have to. If you need to find us, Nick and I will be at the gun shop, or if not, Jeff will know where to find us. Victoria’s not that big, so if I need you and you’re in a saloon, I’ll find you.”

They both brightened up at that. Sam had hinted, maybe more than that, but I’d figured on paying their wages anyway.

We joined the others, I explained what I had in mind, and Sergio wasted no time heading south to Victoria. Nick and I followed along, not pushing our animals, and behind us, Sam and Yep choused the spare horses ahead. Likely already tasting the whiskey, I figured.

***

The town hadn’t changed as far as I could tell; not too surprising, since the houses had been built to last, and many were of brick or limestone.

Jeff’s smithy was open, both doors pulled back, and he was working at the bench at the back where it was dim. Bright lights when a smith is tempering steel is hard, at best. A young man was working at a post vice closer to the front of the smithy, but there was no sign of Milt. The boy stopped what he was doing and headed my way as soon as I walked in, but when I indicated that I wanted to talk to Jeff he went back to his task.

After a long handshake and greetings, Jeff explained. “Milt ended up in a shooting scrape over in Austin. He said that the other feller started it, and maybe he did, but the law came around looking and he headed for the brush. That was a couple of months after you left, as I recall. I got a letter later on and he said he was working in a town called Clear Creek up in Colorado Territory. He figured to do some mining, and when he got enough money together he intended to open his own smithy. I haven’t heard from him in the past year, so he might have already done that, or he might have moved on. Milt’s got the itch bad, always wanting to go places. I used to have it too, but what with Penny and the kids…”

“Makes a difference,” I agreed. “I figure to ride out to the ranch tomorrow. John Linn Junior drove a herd to our new ranches in the Territory, and he said the range here is overstocked with wild cattle, horses too.”

“I remember JJ,” Jeff said. “I’m glad he survived the war. So he’s out there in the Territory with you?”

“We’re partners in a sense,” I explained. “He took care of my ranch for me while I read law in Mesilla, but that’s over now and I’m ready to move on.

“John Senior was supposed to sell the ranches here, but that never happened. Far as I know I still own them, except for a sixth of Jean-Louis Lafitte’s headright. I transferred it to JJ in return for the stock he drove out to the Territory. The ranch headquarters buildings might need some work, but if I can find my old foremen and hire the hands that worked for me before…”

“There are people living there now,” Jeff warned. “I haven’t been out that way, but now and again some stop in to have work done. No idea where they came from, just that they never worked for you back then.”

“How long has this been going on?” I asked, feeling the slow burn of anger.

“I can’t say for sure,” Jeff said. “A few months at a guess, and it might have happened right after the war ended. You’re not the only one that’s happened to; some of the original owners didn’t make it back, and if there was no one working the property squatters just moved in.

“And no law to stop them,” I said, already thinking ahead.

“Nope,” Jeff confirmed. “The only law right now is the Army, the bluecoats I mean. The closest detachment is in Austin, but they send a patrol down this way every week or so. Judging from what I’ve seen, they’re more interested in making sure that everybody signs that federal loyalty oath instead of enforcing Texas law.

“There’s a fancy officer in charge up in Austin; he had a pretty good record in the war from what I heard. Until he’s satisfied that we’re not going to start up the fighting, there won’t be a real government. Feller named Custer. You were in that army too, so you might have run into him at one time or another.”

“Never heard of him,” I mused, “but there were thousands of us, and the only ones I got to know were in my division. We got attached to a different corps too, one that was assigned to protect Washington. The others? We moved around a lot, got switched from one brigade to another and finally into a different division, so we never got to know any of them. That’s where I got shot, during the fighting south of Washington, and soon after that I was discharged. Came back west and settled in the New Mexico Territory. After I see about the properties here, I’ll be going back there, but first I’m going to have to move whoever that is off my ranch. How many, do you think?”

“The newcomers? Not many. I’ve only met two, an older man and a younger one I took to be his son. Looked to be pretty down at the heels, judging from their clothes. Pistols, too; old-fashioned, but well cared for. I didn’t get a look at their rifles, if they even have any.”

“Might be worth talking to them first,” I mused. “If they’re just poor people looking for a place to settle down…”

“If I can help,” Jeff offered, “you know all you’ll need to do is send word.”

“I appreciate that, Jeff, but I’m not ready to go out there yet; I promised my scouts a couple of days in town and Sergio Galván…you might remember him, he worked for me before that trouble we had… split off before we got to town and headed south to find his family. He might hear a few things too.”

“We’ve got room," Jeff mentioned, "if you and Nick want to stay with us.”

I decided that made sense, and accepted. He sent the young man who’d been working in the front to tell Penny to expect company, and while Jeff made a fresh pot of coffee, he talked more about what had happened in Texas and I told him about what I’d done since leaving Victoria.

Penny had a stew simmering when we got to their house, but it wasn’t quite ready yet. We took our cups of coffee out to the veranda and talked while she worked in the kitchen.

Jeff’s two kids soon joined us, the little girl too shy around strangers to leave daddy’s side. His son Jacob was more adventurous, and after a certain amount of nervousness, sat down between Jeff and me to listen as we talked.

I also watched the road out front. Victoria had changed more than I’d realized. More houses were empty now, including my former home; I’d sold it to John Linn and he’d sold it again, so I had no idea who owned it now. It didn’t matter; my home now was the ranch in the Territory or the house in Mesilla. I was a visitor in Texas, my only remaining tie to the state of my birth the land I’d inherited.

There was still plenty of land here in Texas, good grazing on most of it, and with herds of horses as well as cattle that were free to come and go. People coming into the state would notice the land, especially speculators; that’s what John Linn had had in mind when we’d talked. But unlike some of the others, he was an honest speculator who wouldn’t sell land he didn’t own. More than a few in the New Mexico territory didn’t bother with that detail, figuring to collect the money and then rattle their hocks before the victim caught up with them.

I had to do something with my ranches or it might happen here too. But what? First thing, I would have to take possession, and that meant facing the squatters.

What would I do if they didn’t leave voluntarily?

 

Chapter Four

Sergio rode into Victoria late, on the third day after we’d arrived.

Dusty, and showing fresh scratches on his chaps as well as other signs of spending time out in the brush, he still looked far more relaxed than when he’d left us. “I was worried, what with the strangers that have been showing up,” he said. “My cousins, too, but so far the newcomers have been pretty quiet.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said. “Any word on our workers?”

“Not yet,” Sergio confessed, “but I can hire as many new hands as you want. Mexico is pretty unsettled right now, and it’s just like what happened with your war. Some have a reason to fight, but there are a lot more who just want to get on with their lives. And many have families.”

“Don’t start hiring yet,” I cautioned, “I’ll let you know when I’m ready, but you can tell the ones you talked to that it’ll be soon.”

He told me how I could reach him when I was ready and left, with me thinking that I might have found my new foreman, but that would depend on whether he wanted to live here with his family. If he decided to take them back to the Territory, I’d make him trail boss. It’s a full-time job, and I would have other things to do during the drive, and when we got back we could talk about him taking over as my segundo.

Nick was helping Jeff in the smithy when I got there. “It’s time to see what Sam and Yep have been up to,” I suggested. “They’re probably broke by now, or the next thing to it. Feel like touring Victoria’s saloons with me?” He nodded, and I added, “You could come with us if you’re a mind to, Jeff.”

“No,” Jeff said, “I promised Tom Satterfield I’d have his rifle back in working order today, “You two go ahead, and thanks for helping out, Nick. If you ever need a job, I can always use a good farrier.”

“Thanks, Jeff, but no. All that bending over is hard on a man’s back!”

“And chasing cows ain’t?” Jeff snickered. “But every man to his own likes. I’ll see you when you get back.”

Nick grinned at him and we headed out.

The second saloon we tried was the Red Hound, and that’s where we found them. They appeared sober, but pale and shaky like they’d drunk up every dollar themselves instead of buying drinks and talking to others! Or maybe they had bought a few rounds, and the ones they’d been drinking with had returned the favor.

We joined them at their table and I bought a final round of drinks, which helped the two recover a bit. Their faces gained a little more color, although they winced at every loud noise when we escorted them to the barber shop for a bath and whatever else they might need to rejoin the human race.

We left them there, Nick and me, and walked south along the main street to get a better feel for the town.

Victoria had had only one ‘street’ when I left, with a couple of dirt paths out behind the privies that led somewhere or other, but things had changed during the war. People had enlarged the former paths and built houses on each side, causing the town to spread out. Instead of the fine brick and limestone homes I remembered, the new dwellings were framed houses made with sawn-board walls. There had been a grist-mill west of Austin for grinding grain, and the Germans would know of sawmills and such things. Another reason for locating a sawmill in the hill country was that mills need fast-moving water to turn their wheels, which ruled out the Guadalupe River and the local creeks. Hauling lumber from the German towns west of Austin to Victoria would be easy enough, easier in fact than hauling the limestone blocks had been.

Now and then we saw folks out and about. They looked us over, but none showed any sign they recognized us. They also didn’t seem inclined to talk to strangers. Likely had to do with the war, I thought, or the ones who’ve been drifting in ever since are different and maybe dangerous.

Two hours later, we collected Sam and Yep and headed for a café we’d spotted on our walk-around. Not much to look at on the outside, but it seemed busy enough. The coffee was hot and strong, and when the woman who brought it mentioned that they had sugar-cured ham on the menu we decided to give it a try.

While we waited for our food, Sam and Yep told me what they’d found out about my ranch and the people squatting on it. “The family head is an older man named Lee Graham, Ed. He’s been telling people that he bought your place. As for what he’s like, folks got the idea he left east Texas because he didn’t have a choice. There’s an older woman who might be his wife and at least one girl, maybe his daughter, and four or five younger men living there too. They’re all relatives of one kind or another, so folks say, and one mentioned they’d had trouble back east before the others shut him down.”

“Feud, I’m thinking,” Yep guessed. “We heard tell of trouble back east between families, and that seems to fit what we know. Anyway, it looks like he left and brought his women and kids with him. If they sold what they had back there, they could have paid a speculator who claimed to own your place. That’s been going on for years, ain’t that right, Sam?”

“Yep. Goes all the way back to when the Spanish were in charge here. Slick-talkin’ speculators sellin’ land grants they didn’t own, and now that grandpa ain’t around to tell who he bought it from, the ones that took it over ain’t gonna give it up without a fight.

“Sometimes they take it to court, but nobody knows what a judge might say. Them that can wait just fort up until the other feller gives up. Or gets shot; folks are a mite testy right now, what with the Yankee Army in charge. Folks say that General Custer feller seems like a fair-minded man, but he don’t much care if all the former rebels kill each other off.”

“So,” I said, thinking aloud. “One older man, four or five younger ones, and a woman who might be his wife and their kids. Not just common thieves, you think?”

“Not according to what we heard,” Sam confirmed. “I don’t reckon it matters, though. They’re squattin’ on land they don’t own. The old man’s only been to town once or twice, but the younger ones drop into the Red Hound now and then. Always packin’ iron when they do, and most have at least one knife on the other hip. Runnin’ ‘em off might take some doin’, but you mentioned that the men that worked for you before are willin’ to fight?”

“They were,” I said, “but they left after I did, and some went back to Mexico. Sergio says he can find workers, as many as I need, but not the ones that worked for me before. Which brings up a different problem; this being south Texas, there are a few old timers around who fought in the Revolution, and a lot of others fought in the Mexican War. There’s still hard feelings on both sides about that.

“You said that older man is named Graham, and if the others are family that means they’re white. If I hire Mexicans to force them out, there are folks around Victoria that won’t care that I own that land, or that my Pa and my uncle Jean-Louis got those headrights because they fought in the Revolution. They’ll side with the Grahams.”

“There’s some of that in the Territory too,” Nick pointed out. “Not as bad as here, but it’s there. Folks say that Lincoln freed the slaves, but he forgot to include the peons. They’re still tied to the land, at least they are as long as they can work. After that, they get turned out to starve to death unless they’ve got family who’ll take ‘em in. You don’t do that to yours, but some do.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Nick?” I was mad clear through that people might believe I would do something like that! “I don’t have peons, never have had!”

Nick raised his eyebrows, then glanced at Yep and Sam. “You boys know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Sam nodded. “They’re talking about the people that settled on the ranch after they got done with the ranch buildings. Ain’t that right, Yep?”

“Yep.”

“Ed, do you pay those folks?” Nick asked. “I mean, pay them cash money?”

“Well, no,” I admitted, “but I never intended to hire them either! I just needed a few men, that's what I told Sheriff Candelaria, and then a whole bunch showed up, families too! They could leave right now if they had a mind to, and as for being peons tied to my land by debt, they don't owe me a dime! That’s what happens to the peons, the hacendados claim they owe them money, and they have to pay it back before they can go! I’ve never said anything like that!”

“Where would they go, Ed?” Nick said softly. “That little community they live in? It’s the only home some have ever had. They depend on your water, because it comes from the springs that are up in your canyons. You told them they could build there, but you never transferred the land to them. And even if you had, their homes are surrounded by your land. I’m not sayin’ you mistreat them, because you don’t. Neither does your Segundo Ramón, the who oversees that little village, or Jeffers.

“As for JJ,” Nick paused for a long moment, deciding what he wanted to say, “I hear that given a choice, they’d rather not work for him. But they do, because he never asks, he just shows up and gives them orders. You may not think they’re peons, Ed, but others do, and that’s what counts.”

“One difference, Nick,” I was still mad, and it showed, “one of the first things I did was swap beeves to the Army for guns. Guns for them, Nick, and nary a word about pay! Ever since, whenever I could, I got them better guns! I not only did that, I gave them those guns and the ammunition for them. I never mentioned costs or pay! Answer me this, Nick; how many hacendados arm their peons? How many, Nick?”

“Well…none I know of,” he admitted, “and if they did, they wouldn’t just give them the guns.”

“I’ve never owned slaves, Nick. Never had peons, never will. And just as soon as I can, I plan to hire a teacher for the kids you see running around my ranch. Hacendados don’t do that either! First thing after we get back,” I said, finally calming down, “I’ll make damned sure Ramón knows how I feel. If you hear people say otherwise, I expect you to set them straight! Or tell them to talk to me, and I will.”

“I’ll do that, Ed,” Nick said, “and I personally accept everything you say. But how do they feel, the people that work on your ranch? The ones that do your laundry and clean the house and make sure that you’ve got a hot meal and fresh coffee? The ones that keep the water flowing and all the other little things that get done? How do they see themselves?”

I didn’t have a good answer to that, and it made me think. “I don’t know,” I finally admitted. “Ramón manages that, but I’ll make sure he knows how I feel. In fact, I think I’ll call them together as soon as we get back and explain it directly to them! As for turning them out when they’re old or injured, that won’t happen either. They can keep right on living where they are. I’m not sure how I’ll handle it, transferring their land to them, but my banker probably knows a way. Did you know about the cemetery?”

“What cemetery?” he asked, confused.

“There’s one on a little knoll down the canyon a ways,” Sam confirmed. “It started with an old-timer named Hector that died about a year after they arrived, and after that there were three babies that didn’t make it. Me and Yep picked up the priest in Tularosa so he could do the services, and took him back afterwards. He’s been coming around every month or so since then, but he’s willing to make a special trip if he’s needed. Ain’t that right, Yep?”

“Yep.”

“Maybe you ought to visit more often, Nick,” I said, “before you start believing gossip. Do you remember who it was that claimed my people were peons?”

“No, but when I get back to Socorro I’ll make it my business to find out!”

“You do that,” I said. “That still leaves me with the question of what to do about Graham and his people. He’s not going to want to talk to me, and he’s not likely to just pack up and go after I tell him he was swindled. As for the vaqueros Sergio finds, I doubt they’ll be fighters. Most probably won’t own a gun. If they do, it’ll probably be an old flintlock musket. My men, the ones that worked for me before, not only had modern guns, they had been taught to use them. They had good teachers, same as me, and they practiced right alongside me. They were Tejanos too, same as me, so I wouldn’t hesitate to brace Graham if they were backing me up. But with the new men? It would mean starting over, and this time I wouldn’t have the resources my Pa and my uncle Jean-Louis had.”

“Jeff does,” Nick pointed out. “He either has the guns or he can get them, and you’ve got the money to pay him. You might need to talk to the banker here in town, have him transfer what you need from that bank in Mesilla, but you could do it if you had a mind to.”

“I’ll need to transfer money in any case,” I mused. “Sergio will find the workers, but they may not have their own horses or tack. Horses I’ve got, or will have as soon as I send Graham on his way, but I can’t have them waiting until they get paid to buy their own outfits. As for arming them and teaching them to shoot, I’ll talk to Jeff. I don’t see it as a problem. About Graham’s women and children…Nick, you know about Art and his sisters, the ones we took in.”

“Yeah. Linda and I love those little girls like they were our own, and Art has turned out better than I expected. But only because we kind of adopted them after that gunfight.”

“That was my thinking too,” I said. “It had to be done, because he’d already shot you from ambush and if I had turned him loose he might have tried again. But orphaning the kids…” I stopped, because I never had worked out the question of right or wrong about that shooting. He was a back-shooter and not much of a pa, but his last thoughts were of his kids.

“Ed, you need to remember that those kids were in a bad situation,” Nick said earnestly. “No telling what would have happened or when, but sooner or later a rope would have caught up to their pa, a man that just plain needed killin’. And then what? If they were lucky, the girls would have been married at fourteen, widowed or abandoned before they were twenty. Girls that aren’t lucky end up in the cribs, and Art? You know what he was like. But now they’ve got a chance at a real future, as good as anyone.

That was a preview of Edward Jennings: Cattleman. To read the rest purchase the book.

Add «Edward Jennings: Cattleman» to Cart