CHAPTER EIGHT
As Caplock reentered his office moments later, he was surprised to see Jake Motley still sitting there with the bank draft in his hands, staring.
“That’s a lot of money, Jake,” Caplock said.
“Yeah, it is, Ben,” Jake said. “Too bad I can’t keep it all.”
“But you can,” Caplock said, seating himself behind his desk. “You don’t need to cover all your debts now. You can make payments—”
“I’ve been makin’ payments for years,” Jake said. “I’m tired of it. Besides, I don’t have any idea if I’m gonna be comin’ back from this trail drive.”
“You expect to die?”
“I might,” Jake said. “I’m a worn-out old cuss. I might die on the trail. But even if I don’t, what reason would I have to come back here?”
“I understand,” Caplock said. “No home, no family, and . . .”
“. . . no friends, I know,” Jake said.
“You had friends here, Jake,” Caplock said, “once.”
“Abby had friends,” Jake said. “I was . . . tolerated.”
“Now, Jake—”
Jake held the bank draft out to Caplock.
“Take what I owe and I’ll have the rest back in cash,” Jake said. “I’ve got some purchases to make.”
“Well then,” Caplock said, “I better get to it.” He stood up. “Wait here.”
When Caplock returned he was carrying a canvas bag with the bank’s logo on it. He set it down on the desk in front of Jake, and then sat back down.
“There’s your cash,” he said. “Still quite a bit of money. Why don’t you just . . . live on it?”
“I’m not livin’, Ben,” Jake said. “I’m just existin’. I need this trail drive to . . . wake me up. Then, if I live through it, I can decide what I’m gonna do with the rest of my life.”
“With the money you get from selling your cattle.”
“Yes.”
“Which may not be as much as you have right here,” the bank manager pointed out.
“I know that.”
Caplock sat back in his chair, ran one hand through his shock of white hair.
“All right,” he said. “I suppose you’ve made up your mind.”
“I have.” Jake picked up the bag of cash and stood.
“Aren’t you going to count it?”
“I trust you, Ben,” Jake said. “After all, you trusted me every time I came to you for a loan.”
Caplock stood up and extended his hand. Jake shook it.
“Good luck, Jake,” he said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“So do I, Ben,” Jake said, “so do I.”
Chance was waiting when Jake stepped outside the bank.
“All done?” he asked.
“Done.”
“That the money?”
“What’s left of it.”
“Well, I got the horses picked out,” Chance said. “You wanna go over and settle up?”
“I do.” What Jake really wanted was a drink. But he didn’t want Chance to have one. “Let’s go.”
They walked to the livery, where the hostler was waiting for them.
“All the horses are in the corral,” he said. “Four colts, four geldings.”
“I just feel better with all male—” Chance started to explain to Jake, but his friend cut him off.
“You don’t have to explain. I told you to pick them out.” He looked at the hostler. “How much?”
“A hundred a head,” the man said.
“We’re takin’ eight of ’em off your hands,” Chance said. “How about eighty?”
The hostler looked at Chance and said, “Ninety.”
“Ninety it is,” Jake said. He took the money out of the bag and handed it to the man. “We’ll come for them at the end of the day.”
“They’ll be ready,” the hostler said, “with bridles.”
“Come on,” Jake said to Chance, “let’s find those other two hands.”
“Your friend told me what you’re lookin’ for,” the hostler said. “Try the Oakwood Saloon. There’s some young fellas there who came into town a couple of days ago. They’re lookin’ for work. I don’t know if a trail drive is what they had in mind, but . . .” He shrugged.
“Thanks,” Jake said. “We’ll try it.”
They left the livery, stopped just outside.
“Did you see the way he was lookin’ at that bag?” Chance said, indicating the money.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “I guess we better get rid of it. It’s too damn obvious.”
“And let’s do it before we talk to anybody else,” Chance suggested.
They went back to where they had left their horses, in front of the bank, and quickly transferred the money to their saddlebags. Jake put equal portions on his horse and Chance’s.
“All right,” he said, “let’s try that saloon.”
“You think we can trust him not to set us up?” Chance asked.
“Well, he didn’t know about the bag until we got there. He hasn’t had time.”
“Just in case,” Chance said, “I guess we better start carryin’ our rifles.”
They mounted up and rode to the Oakwood Saloon, which was on the other side of town. When they dismounted in front they saw five horses standing there. Two looked fit, three looked done in. They took their rifles and saddlebags into the saloon with them.
They went directly to the bar and ordered two beers. The bartender was a stranger to them, which they preferred. No need to exchange any kind of false pleasantries. There were other men at the bar, and some at tables, but they assumed that the table of five in the rear should be their concern. The men were young, white, and playing poker for matchsticks.
When they had their beers they both walked over to the poker table and watched a few hands. Finally, one of the young men looked up at them.
“You old-timers are interested in watchin’ a poker game for matchstick stakes?” He laughed. “Not much to do in this town, is there?”
“Actually,” Jake said, “we’re not as interested in watchin’ as we are in the stakes.”
“Matchsticks?” the young man said, again.
“That kinda shows me that you boys might be needin’ some money,” Jake said.
One of the others asked, “You wanna put money up against matchsticks?”
“We were thinkin’ more about jobs,” Chance said. “You fellas lookin’ for a job?”
“That depends,” the first one said. “What kinda job?”
“A trail drive,” Jake said.
“A what?” a third man asked. “We didn’t think there was any more of them.”
“Just one. Mine,” Jake said.
“And who are you?” the first one asked.
“My name’s Jake Motley. I own the Big M, outside of town.”
“Big Jake Motley,” Chance added.
“Big Jake, huh?” the second one said. “I was thinkin’ maybe you was Charlie Goodnight hisself, plannin’ one last drive.”
“We don’t know you,” the first man said.
“That’s fine,” Jake said. “At least you know who Charlie Goodnight was.”
Goodnight had not only blazed the Goodnight trail for future trail drives, he was also the inventor of the chuckwagon.
“Any of you boys ever work cows?” Chance asked.
“I have,” the first one said. “Ain’t you, Curly?”
“Yeah, I have,” Curly, the second man, said, “but I was fourteen at the time.”
“How old would you boys be now?” Chance asked.
“Twenty,” the first one said.
“Nineteen,” Curly said.
The other three were frowning at their cards, showing no interest in the conversation.
“Are all you boys together?” Jake asked.
“Naw,” Curly said, “me an’ Dundee, here, we rode in here together. We met these three just outside of town.”
Dundee, the first man, looked up at Jake and Chance.
“How much you payin’?” he asked.
“Well, that’s the thing,” Jake said. “Twenty-five dollars a week, but I can’t pay until we get where we’re goin’ and I sell the herd.”
“Aw, geez—” Curly said, but Dundee cut him off.
“And where are you goin’?” he asked.
“Dodge City.”
“Dodge, huh?” Dundee said. “I ain’t never been to Dodge, and there ain’t much to do around here.”
“Are you thinkin’ about this?” Curly asked his friend.
“Sure, why not?” Dundee asked. He looked at Jake again. “Sweeten your pitch, Big Jake, and let’s see if we can make a deal.”
“We’re only drivin’ six hundred head,” Jake said. “There’ll be six of us, and a good cook. You’ll eat well . . .” Jake thought a moment, then added, “. . . and I’ll give you each your first twenty-five dollars up front.”
Dundee looked across the table at his friend.
“Which of those horses out front are yours?” Chance asked.
“The dun and the mustang.”
Jake and Chance exchanged a glance. Those were the two that looked fit.
“I’m supplying two more horses each,” Jake said.
“You gonna trust we can do the job without seein’ what we can do first?” Dundee asked.
“You’re young,” Jake said. “If you can’t do the job, we’ll teach ya. By the time you get to Dodge, you’ll be honest-to-God cowpunchers.”
Dundee looked at Curly.
“I say yeah, Curly. What about you?”
Curly thought a moment, then looked down at the matchsticks on the table and said, “Yeah, why not.” He turned toward Jake. “But we get our twenty-five now.”
“Wait a second,” Chance said. Then, to Jake, “Lemme talk to ya, a minute.”
They walked back to the bar.
“If you give these young yahoos twenty-five dollars each now, you’ll never see ’em again.”
“Naw,” Jake said. “I think they’re in. They’re both young and fit, and that’s what we need.”
He dug into his saddlebag, came out with fifty dollars. At least the five youngsters didn’t see him do that, didn’t know they had two saddlebags full of money.
They walked back to the poker table and Jake dropped the money on the table.
“There’s your twenty-five each,” he said. “Be out at the Big M tomorrow morning at eight. Anybody in town can tell you how to get there. You wearin’ sidearms?”
“Yeah, we are.”
“Well, put ’em in your saddlebags. I don’t want pistols around the herd. Too much of a chance one will go off and cause a stampede.”
“What about rifles?” Curly asked.
“We’ll all have rifles, but keep it in your scabbard. Bring your own ammunition, canteen, and bedroll. Everything else will be in our supply wagon.”
Dundee picked up his twenty-five dollars.
“We’ll be there,” he said.
“We got Mexicans on our crew,” Chance said. “You got a problem with that?”
“Not if they do their jobs,” Curly said.
“Everybody’s gonna do their job,” Jake said. “You wanna know anythin’ about me, ask around. But if you decide not to ride with us, I’d appreciate it if you come out and tell me why.”
“We’ll be there,” Curly said, repeating Dundee’s words.
“And if you got it,” Chance said, “bring a second shirt.”
Jake put his hand out and shook with each young man.
“See you in the mornin’,” he said.
As he and Chance left he heard Curly say, “I bet five matchsticks.”
Outside Chance said, “I hope we didn’t just waste fifty dollars.”
“Let’s go over to the mercantile,” Jake said. “We still got some supplies to pick up.”