3

Around two o’clock the next afternoon, they were nearing San Saba.

“We’re about twelve miles out of town, Nate,” Hoot said. “Since we’re not pushin’ the horses, we should get there around five, just in time for supper. We’ll put up Red, Sandy, and Walton at the livery, then clean up and have our own meal. Sound good to you?”

“It sure does,” Nate answered. “If it’s all right with you, though, I’d like to stop by my ma and pa and brother’s graves first. We’ll be goin’ right by there.”

“Of course it’s all right,” Hoot answered. “I plumb forgot about that. Sorry. How far off is your old place?”

“About five miles, give or take. It’s a bit south of this road. Lies along Wallace Creek. Won’t be long before we reach it.”

He put Big Red into a slow lope. Hoot matched their pace. A mile down the road, they reined in at a tremendous racket coming from the brush alongside the trail.

“What the devil is that?” Nate asked.

“Sounds like a longhorn or wild boar chargin’ through the brush. And mebbe someone chasin’ whatever it is,” Hoot answered. “We’d better wait here until we’re certain.” He picked up Walton’s lead rope and held it, then eased his Colt out of its holster.

A moment later, a huge steer, bawling in anger, burst out of the scrub, right under their horses’ noses. Its horns measured at least six feet across from tip to tip. Right behind the steer was a young cowboy atop a chestnut quarter horse. He held a lariat at the ready, and as he emerged onto the road started twirling it over his head. He tossed his loop, which settled over the longhorn’s horns, then tightened around its neck. The cowboy dallied the end of his lariat around his saddlehorn. His chestnut gelding leaned back on its haunches and dug in its hooves, tightening the loop and stretching the rope tight. The steer was jerked around and stopped in its tracks. It started to charge the cowboy and his horse, but the gelding was a veteran cowpony, his rider experienced with handling wild cattle, despite his young age. They easily sidestepped the angry steer, dodged its menacing horns, and got the rope taut once again. This time they jerked the steer off its feet. By the time the longhorn regained its footing, most of the fight was out of it.

Big Red had snorted and stepped back when the steer ran in front of him, less than two feet away, but remained steady. Hoot’s dun, Sandy, reared. At the same time, Walton jerked back in fright and pulled Hoot out of the saddle, dumping him to the road. He landed hard on his backside. Braying his terror, Walton turned and galloped off.

“You all right, Hoot?” Nate shouted. He started to dismount.

“I’m fine,” Hoot yelled back. “Go get that mule.” His reply included a string of not very complimentary oaths about Walton’s ancestry.

“All right.” Nate slid his right foot back in the stirrup, yanked Big Red around, dug his heels into his ribs, and put him into a dead run after the fleeing Walton. A quarter-mile back down the trail, he caught up with the mule. Walton’s lead rope was dragging in the dirt, whipping back and forth, occasionally hitting one of his legs or even snapping against his belly, frightening him even further.

“Walton, stop, you son of a …!” Nate yelled an oath. He cursed himself for not yet having learned how to lasso a cow or horse. All he could do was urge Red to an even faster pace, and try to get in front of Walton. Red’s cowpony instincts kicked in. He put on a burst of speed, passed Walton, cut in front of him, and instantly slowed to a walk. Walton’s chest hit Red’s rump, forcing him to stop. Red spun around and faced the mule, his ears pinned. Walton fidgeted nervously, snorting and blowing. Nate eased Red alongside him, picked up the trailing lead rope, and led him back to where Hoot was now standing in the middle of the road, dusting off the seat of his britches. The young cowboy was with him. The steer which had caused all the trouble was still dallied to his saddlehorn, now standing docilely.

“I see you got that ornery critter, Nate,” Hoot said. “Good job.”

“Would’ve been easier if I knew how to rope,” Nate answered. “Soon as we get back to camp I’ve gotta have Phil teach me. You hurt?”

“The only thing busted seems to be my pride,” Hoot said. “And that’ll heal, long as you don’t say anythin’ to the rest of the boys.”

“Fat chance,” Nate retorted. “I can’t keep a tale like this to myself.”

“Misters, I’m sorry,” the young cowboy spoke up. “Didn’t see you, worryin’ about catchin’ this ol’ steer. I’ve been chasin’ him through the brush for three days now, ever since he busted out of his corral. Today’s the first I got close enough to get him.”

“No harm done,” Hoot assured him. He was surprised at the boy’s slight stature.

The cowboy couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old. He was only about four feet tall, perhaps a bit more, and his weight, soaking wet, wouldn’t top out at more than fifty-five or sixty pounds. Shaggy brown hair peeked out from under the battered tan hat he wore, and his hazel eyes held a mischievous sparkle. Yet he handled his horse and the dangerous longhorn as well as any veteran top hand of many more years.

“I’m Hoot Harrison, and my pard here’s Nate Stewart. We’re on our way to San Saba for supplies.”

“My handle’s Braeden Perry. This dumb ol’ steer belongs to my Grandpa and Grandma Lopez. Their spread’s about a mile north of here. It’s the Box L. Hey, why don’t you come by for some chuck? It’ll make up a bit for the trouble I caused you.”

“I dunno,” Hoot said. “We’re in kind of a hurry.”

“It won’t take long, and I’d be beholden to you,” Braeden said. “My grandma would like the company, too. We don’t get all that many visitors way out here. And she’s a real fine cook.”

“I’m still not sure. What do you say, Nate?”

“I don’t think a couple hours will make any difference,” Nate answered. “And a home-cooked meal sure sounds good. Lots better’n my bacon and beans.”

“Then it’s settled,” Braeden said.

“I guess it is,” Hoot answered. He climbed back into his saddle.

Braeden led the way as they headed for his grandparents’ ranch. The steer which had caused so much trouble mostly followed willingly along behind his horse now. When it did try to pull free, a pinning of the big chestnut’s ears and a nip from his sharp teeth, along with a yank on the rope from Braeden, put the steer back in line.

“That’s some horse you’ve got there, Braeden,” Hoot praised.

“Dude? He sure is.” Braeden leaned forward and patted the gelding’s shoulder. “He’s got a lot of cow sense. My grandma gave him to me. Best present I ever got.”

“I’d imagine so,” Hoot said.

“And thanks to Braeden and Dude now I know exactly what brush-poppin’ sounds like,” Nate added, with a chuckle. “Reckon I won’t ever forget.”

“I don’t imagine you will,” Hoot answered, with a laugh of his own.

A short while later they came in sight of a small ranch. The main house was built of cedar logs and shakes, with a porch along the front. There was a large stable, smokehouse, bunkhouse, cook shack and mess, and spring house. A good-sized pasture held about thirty head of cattle, and several horses grazed in another. Other cows could be seen, further out on the range. A flock of chickens pecked busily at the dirt in front of their coop, and a good-sized pen held a milk cow. Two pigs were in a small sty at a far corner of the place. Two medium mixed-breed dogs, one sandy-colored, the other black, raced from behind the house, barking a warning.

“Nilla, Ketyl! Quiet!” Braeden shouted. Instantly, the dogs stopped barking and ran up to him, their tails wagging furiously.

“Don’t mind the dogs,” he told Nate and Hoot. “They bark a lot, but they’re not vicious. The light one is Vanilla, but we generally just call her Nilla. The other’s Ketyl, K-e-t-y-l. She got that name ’cause she’s black as a coal scuttle or ol’ kettle, but my grandma wanted to spell her name different.”

A man and woman came onto the porch.

“Braeden,” the man called out. “I see you finally caught that ornery steer. Looks like you found a couple more strays, too.”

“The steer popped out of the brush in front of these two men,” Braeden explained, as they rode up to the house and reined in. “Scared their horses and mule. The mule nearly ran off. I invited them to supper to make up for what he done. I knew you wouldn’t mind. This is Hoot Harrison and Nate Stewart.”

“You’re right, we don’t,” the woman said. “We’re always glad for company. I’m Andrea Lopez, and this is my husband Frank, as I’m sure Braeden’s already told you.”

Mrs. Lopez was about five foot six inches tall and slim, with brown hair and eyes. Her husband, Frank, stood exactly about her height in his boots. Stocking-footed, he was probably about five foot two, and had a stocky build. His hair was black, his eyes dark brown.

Hoot and Nate touched the brims of their Stetsons in reply.

“Howdy. Are you certain we won’t be a bother, ma’am?” Hoot asked.

“Of course not,” Mrs. Lopez replied. “Besides, you boys look like you haven’t eaten very well for quite some time now. Perhaps some of my cooking will put meat on your bones.”

“You’re right about that, Miz Lopez,” Hoot said. “I can’t cook worth a darn, and Nate’s is a bit better, but he’s pretty limited to bacon, beans, and biscuits. It’ll be nice to get some real grub in our bellies for a change.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” Mr. Lopez said. “My wife’s the best cook in the whole county. Braeden, after you get the steer back where it belongs, show these boys where to put up their horses and feed and water ’em. Then wash up. By the time you’re done, Grandma will have supper on the table.”

“All right, Grandpa,” Braeden answered. “Hoot, Nate, follow me.”

He turned Dude toward the pasture. A short time later, the steer was back in its enclosure, Dude, Big Red, Sandy and Walton settled in stalls, with plenty of grain, hay, and water. After washing at the pump behind the house, the boys headed into the kitchen.

“I hope y’all are hungry,” Mrs. Lopez said. “Something told me to make a little extra tonight. And you’re welcome to bunk here overnight.”

“We appreciate your offer, but we have to be in San Saba tonight, so we can’t stay. But we’re grateful for supper, and we’ll be plumb pleased to work off our meal doin’ some chores before we leave,” Hoot said.

Western hospitality dictated any travelers passing through in this sparsely settled land be offered a meal and bed for the night. In return, while not required nor even expected, the traveler would offer to repay his host’s generosity by helping out with some of the day’s work.

“That’s not necessary at all,” Mrs. Lopez answered. “There’s plenty for all, and we’re happy to share. Now, take a seat and get ready to dig in. Braeden, take off your hat. How many times do I have to remind you hats are not to be worn at the table?”

“Yes, Grandma.” Braeden pulled off his hat and hung it from a peg.

Once everyone was seated, Mr. Lopez said, “We always thank the Lord for His generosity before we eat.” He bowed his head, as did the others.

“Lord, we thank Thee for Thy bounty, for the food on our table, and for our guests this evening. Grant them safe travels, Lord. Amen.”

“Amen.”

“Now, let’s eat.”

The table loaded with platters piled high with ham and roast beef. There was a bowl laden with mashed potatoes, others filled with black-eyes peas, cooked carrots, and turnips. There were two loaves of freshly baked bread, crocks of just-churned butter and honey. A pitcher of milk and pot of steaming coffee were at one end. After everyone ate their fill, Mrs. Lopez took two apple pies from the pie safe. She cut generous slices for everyone.

Nate finished his pie first, and pushed back from the table.

“Miz Lopez, that was the best meal I’ve had since… since my Ma died. You’re a fine cook, ma’am.”

“Nate’s right,” Hoot added. “Everything was delicious.”

“Why, thank you both,” Mrs. Lopez said. “Are you certain you don’t want some more?”

“No, thank you. I’m stuffed. And we need to get back on the trail if we’re going to make San Saba tonight,” Hoot answered.

“I’m plumb full too,” Nate added.

“Are you certain we can’t convince you to stay?” Mr. Lopez asked.

“I wish we could, but we have to get back to our outfit as quick as possible,” Hoot answered. “We’re much obliged for the fine chuck, though. And for the feed for our animals.”

“It’s the least we could do,” Mr. Lopez said. “If you have the time, stop by on your way back through. You boys’ll always be welcome here.”

“We’ll do that,” Hoot promised. “Should be by the day after tomorrow.”

“We’ll look forward to seeing you then. If your business in San Saba is done soon enough, why not spend the night here, rather than in town?” Mr. Lopez suggested. “We have plenty of room, and that way you can stoke up with another of my wife’s home-cooked meals before you go.”

“We might just do that,” Hoot said. “Are you certain there’s nothing needs doing that we can help with before we leave?”

“Not a thing,” Mrs. Lopez said. “Just keep yourselves safe. There are plenty of outlaws in this territory who are always looking to rob folks.”

“Don’t we know that,” Nate answered. His eyes watered, but he said nothing more as memories of the attack on his family flooded back.

“Well, if there’s nothing, we’d best be on our way,” Hoot said. He stood up. “Let’s go, Nate.”

“Huh? Oh, right, Hoot. Let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later, they resumed their journey to San Saba.