TEN
THE next day, Thurman’s trip to the federal courthouse went more smoothly. The supervisor was there and after looking over his receipts, issued him two warrants for fifty dollars each.
“Now of course, these can only be redeemed when there is money in the federal coffer to pay them. However, several folks in Fort Smith will redeem them at a discount.”
“Marshal Morris warned me about that.”
“Good, then you know.”
“Yes. Thank you, sir.”
Thurman left and walked back to Garrison Avenue and the Palace. In the hotel room, Mary was busy sewing, so he went out, found a barbershop, and got a haircut and a shave.
“You new here?” asked the mustachioed barber.
“Passing through. Had a couple of rewards to collect.”
The barber laughed and said to his colleague, “He’s got some rewards.”
“What’ll he take for ’em?” the other barber asked.
“Forty apiece,” Thurman said.
The barber quit cutting his client’s hair and shook his head. “You’re too damn high.”
“That’s twenty percent interest.” Under the sheet, Thurman shuddered at the notion of giving that much away.
“You borrowed any money lately?” his barber asked.
“No.”
“The going rate around here’s twenty-five percent.”
“That’s risk money—this is U.S. script.”
“Governments fail, too.”
Thurman knew there was no way he would win the argument, so he let it go. He listened to their talk that the federal government was going to open up some of the unused Indian lands for white settlers.
Finished, he paid the man a quarter and headed down the sidewalk past the panhandlers, the expensive ladies of the evening in their rustling satin gowns laughing about the night before, and the ordinary folks. Swampers dumped slop buckets and spittoons off the curb from inside the stale-smelling joints. A few blacks with handcarts were sweeping up and shoveling horse manure off Garrison.
He reached Dearborn’s stables and ducked inside.
A familiar rusty voice welcomed him as Thurman petted Blacky, who was tied to a rope.
He turned and asked, “How’re you doing, Sarge?”
“Fine. What do you need? You ain’t leaving already?”
“No, I need a good saddle horse. I’ve got a far piece to ride.”
“How fur?”
“Montana.”
“Woo-wee, you do have a long ways to go. I know a man’s got a good Morgan horse. He’s a chestnut the color of good polished furniture. They used him as a stud for a while—but that only made him a more muscled horse.”
“How old is he?”
“Four going on five.”
“What’s he asking for him?”
Sarge scratched his bushy sideburns and gave a pained look. “Hundred and a half.”
“Wow, he must be some horse.”
“Cap’n, he’s as stout and sound a horse as I know about. He’s a little spooky of things, but I think you riding him hard, he’d lose lots of that.”
“When can I try him?”
Sarge paused. “The man owns him is pretty well stuck on that price.”
“I want to ride him before I even say any more.”
“I’ll have him here in the morning for you.”
“Good, I’ll look for him then.”
“Yes, sir, Cap’n. I wondered a lot about where you went after the war and all. You go home and ranch in Texas?”
“I did that for a while.” He scratched Blacky’s ears. “Traded cattle and horses. Took some herds to Kansas.”
“Your children grown up now, ain’t they?”
Thurman nodded. “That’s who I’m going to Montana to try and find. My oldest son, Herschel.”
“Oh, both my two boys are dead, Cap’n. One got killed in a gunfight over in the Nation. The other drowned. My daughter, Effie, married an outlaw and Parker hung him. She takes care of me—got a couple of kids. You never knew, of course, but my wife, Eleanor, died before I got back home from Mississippi. I just always somehow figured you and your family was doing good at ranching in Texas.”
Thurman nodded. “Been some bumps in the road for all of us since that time.”
“Sure have, sir. I’ll have that good hoss here in the morning.”
Thurman told him thanks and went to see about Mary. The day was warming up and it had the muggy feeling of a storm building. Grateful he wasn’t worried about holding a herd in the face of one of the furious storms that could sweep across the Indian Territory, he moved along the busy sidewalk toward the hotel.
“Baker. Baker, wait up.”
He turned and saw a face that looked familiar. A man in his forties dressed in a cheap suit was hurrying to catch him.
“How have you been?” The man stuck out his hand. “Nelson Manner. You remember me from Fort Worth? I set up the Carlille Cattle drive you ramrodded.”
The man’s face appeared tired, and from the look of his dress, he must have fallen on hard times. His gaze even appeared hollow.
“Yes, I remember you now. What are you doing here?”
“Working on a contract to sell beef to these Indian agencies. Man, the red tape!” Manner glanced up at the saloon sign. “You have a minute? I might have a deal that would interest you.”
When they stepped inside, Thurman noticed the saloon was empty save for two grizzly swampers cleaning up. The bartender drew them two drafts, and Thurman paid for them. Manner guided him over to a side table where enough light came in from outside over the short curtain that kept the street passersby from having to look into the sin pot.
“At last I have a valid contract for delivery of a thousand head to each of three Injun agencies.” He spread the papers out on the table. “Now, before I go to Fort Worth and find me a partner, I wanted for you to take a look at this opportunity. It’ll make us both rich.”
Thurman glanced over the papers, set them back down, and took a sip of the beer.
“It’s a deal, ain’t it?” Manner said.
“If the roads were open and there was no barbed wire in the way, yes, you could make some money. But the only way to get those cattle up here anymore is by rail, and that will kill this deal.”
“Oh, no. No, you have it all wrong. Some tough hands and a good trail boss could drive a thousand head up here, say, from San Antonio.”
“I wish you luck, my friend. I just covered that country. There is no way to get a thousand head up here. The trail’s closed to cattle. It’s a freight route. Jessie Chisholm would turn over in his grave if he knew that—his namesake reduced to a freight road and all the Indians he used to trade with now on reservations with nothing to swap for but government handouts.”
Manner drew his head back in shocked disbelief. “You’ve lost all your nerve?”
Thurman looked over at the man mildly. “I’m not the man I was ten years ago. But I just rode up here from south Texas. The western routes are all that’s left to drive cattle over.”
With the back of his fingers, Manner rapped the contract on the table. “There’s twenty thousand dollars in this deal. I’d split it with you. Having a professional like you in charge, I can raise the money and then we can buy the cattle—buy them cheap in Mexico.”
Calmly, Thurman shook his head. “I ain’t going back there either.”
“Aw, hell, where’s your guts? I’m offering you over ten thousand dollars to head up this deal.”
“Gawdamnit, it’s not there. The cattle ain’t down there in Mexico anymore. The roads are fenced. There’s not any free range to drive them over. I can’t help you.” He rose over the chair and then downed his mug of beer. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he asked, “You need some money?”
Red-faced, Manners looked up at him. “I didn’t come to beg money off you. I have a valid deal here.”
“I’ll stake you to thirty bucks. That’s more than the train fare to Fort Worth. Maybe there’s men there more foolhardy than I am.” Thurman tossed the three tens on the table. “Good luck, but I’ve warned you.”
Collapsing in defeat, Manners slid the bills between his fingers, not looking up. “Thanks, Thurman.”
With a nod, Thurman left the saloon.
Out in the warm daylight, he felt free. He had a deal of his own. A project he wanted to complete. He stuck his head in a delicatessen and spoke to a square-shouldered, blond Dutch woman. “I want a picnic basket with fried chicken, fresh bread, butter, some sweet rolls or pie, silverware, plates, and two bottles of good wine. I’ll bring the basket and silverware back.”
“I have it ready at eleven o’clock,” she announced. “And what is dee name?”
“Thurman Baker.”
“Fine, Mr. Baker. It vill be delicious.”
“I’m counting on that.” He waved and went back on the street. Outside in the bright sunshine, he caught an older street urchin by the sleeve. “Can you drive a horse and buggy?”
The youth swept the dark lock of hair back from his face and looked hard at Thurman’s hand holding his sleeve. “Sure. Why?”
“Go to Dearborn’s Livery and talk to Sarge. Have him hitch Captain Baker’s mule to the buggy, put my dog in back, and drive him down here to the Palace Hotel. You park in front and wait for me.”
The boy’s brown eyes bugged out when Thurman tore a dollar bill in two, giving him half of it. “You get the other half when you deliver my buggy.”
“Yes, sir, Cap’n Baker, sir.”
The brat did have manners. Thurman nodded and looked at the sun time, then spoke again to the boy “Walk, don’t run. You have an hour to get back there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Repeat what I told you.”
He flipped back the hair. “Tell Sarge at Dearborn’s that I am to drive Captain Thurman’s buggy down to the Palace Hotel for him—and get his dog.”
“Not bad. See you in an hour.”
“Yes, sir,” And the boy was gone down the crowded sidewalk.
Thurman went into the hotel and up to their room. Mary sat on the bed, sewing on the new dress material he’d bought her for the more loosely fitting dress she’d need on the trip. He removed his hat and placed it on the dresser, crown side down.
“I have a surprise. We are going on a picnic,” he announced.
“A what?”
“Lunch on the ground.” He went to the window and looked down at the traffic. Poor girl, she had no idea what a picnic was. For his part, he hadn’t been on many. The better ones were with that other woman in his life on the river outside San Antonio. Maybe she’d taught him picnic etiquette.
“We’re going over to the free ferry side of town and spread a blanket on the ground, eat some lunch, sip some wine, and watch the paddleboats go by.”
“That sounds nice. What about the saddle horse?”
“I am supposed to look at him in the morning. Today is your day.”
She nodded, gathered the dress-to-be from her lap, and scooted off the bed. “Would I look less like a squaw if I cut my braids?”
He hugged her by the waist and rocked her. “Don’t cut your braids. You’re fine for me. Where we are going, it won’t matter anyway.”
“The horse?”
“My old sarge says he’s a helluva horse.”
“Picnic?” She looked up at him. “Are they fun?”
“With you along, it will be heavenly.”
She laughed aloud, then hugged him.
Long past noontime, the toot of a riverboat going past accompanied him as he sliced the hard-crusted French bread. On her knees, she was eating a crisp fried chicken leg and laughing. “Now I know what a picnic is all about.”
He buttered some bread and fed her a bite. “This tastes good with wine.”
“The wine tastes good anyway. All I ever had before was made from possum grapes, and it wasn’t near this good.”
“We could get on that boat, go to Memphis, and ride a riverboat clear to Montana.”
“No. It would be too much like a ferry.” She tossed the bare white bone in the bushes and Blacky ran to recover it.
“Fine, we’ll drive Ira, lead my new horse, and go across country.”
“You aren’t mad at me for not taking the boat?”
“I get mad, you’ll know it.”
She looked at him and then she nodded. “I’ll try not to do that. Make you mad at me.”
He raised up and kissed her.
When he released her, she nodded and smiled. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“If your son won’t join you in this ranch business, what then?”
He tossed some pinched-off grass in the air. No wind. It was growing hotter. He put his index finger inside his collar for some more room to swallow. “I’ll deal with that when it happens. Do you know anything more from your visions?”
“No.”
“Then I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”
She nodded, rose on her knees, and threw her arms around him. Her sobbing pulsated in his tight hug and tears ran down her copper face. “Thurman Baker, where have you been for all my life?”
Off chasing elusive sundowns like Manner was today, but not anymore.