It was only six thirty in the morning, and Simon and Buell were already dust-covered and cotton-mouthed. September first, delivery day for the herd of cattle to Fort Hartwell, had arrived, and for five long days prior, Simon, Buell, and the Texans searched the draws and secluded copses along the river for the cattle. They now had five hundred animals up on the prairie and headed east, with another hundred and forty-four in the corrals just outside Carlisle.
It had been a hot, dusty and frustrating job, but the boys had jumped at the chance to go when Paul and Mace had offered. Nathan Greene figured they could be at the fort by early afternoon if they kept the herd moving steadily, but they were finding that easier said than done. The cattle had meandered all summer, and didn’t take kindly to being hurried; the cowboys constantly riding out to angle a stray back into the herd. Sweat-soaked and tired, Simon and Buell exchanged knowing glances as the squalid settlement of Adobe came into view.
By two o’clock, they circled the herd to a stop just south of the fort and near four huge corrals, now empty except for a few sad-looking horses in one of them. The cowboys held the cattle in a tight group while Paul and John rode off to the fort. They soon returned with Captain Atkins, Mr. Ledbetter, and four soldiers. They approached Nathan Greene.
“Captain Atkins, Mr. Ledbetter, I’d like you to meet Nathan Greene of Texas,” Paul said. Nathan jockeyed his horse between the mounts of the two men, and extended his hand to each in turn.
“My pleasure, I’m sure,” he said.
“Mighty fine-looking herd of cattle, Mr. Greene. My compliments. Mr. Steele told me they were fat and sound, but I didn’t expect anything near as prime as these. I’m pleased, very pleased indeed.”
“Yer good Nebraska river bottom gits most of the credit. Like I told Paul here, that there’s gotta be a longhorn’s heaven.”
“Well, if you would be so kind as to direct your drovers to put one hundred and twenty-five in each of the four corrals we can finish this transaction.” Captain Atkins turned to address a three-striped older soldier. “Sergeant, have your men move those horses back to the fort.”
“Yes’ir.” The sergeant saluted and the four men rode to the farthest corral and hustled the half dozen horses out, and herded them away.
“Mr. Ledbetter and I will tally. Please don’t move them too quickly.”
The two men moved their horses to either side of the now-open gate and took out small notepads and short pencils. Poised, they waited for the first of the cattle to move between them.
The equine ballet that followed displayed the experience and skill of the Texans. Cutting left and right, spinning on the spot, and moving back and forth with apparent ease, the silent, serious men never allowed more than two cows at a time through the gates. They ran the prescribed numbers past the tallymen in an uninterrupted stream and soon had the five hundred cattle in the corrals. It was three thirty.
“I count exactly five hundred, Mr. Ledbetter. What does your book say?” the captain asked.
“The same, five hundred. Never quite had such an easy time of it. Your hands are very expert at that Mr. Greene. I’m impressed,” Ledbetter said. He moved his horse closer to the Texan and stuck out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
“Reckon the same. And thanks. Them’s a good bunch o’ boys.”
“Excellent maneuver, Mr. Greene. I, too, offer my appreciation for a job well done. Now, Mr. Steele, if you will accompany me back to my office, we can conclude this.” Captain Atkins swung his horse around and waited for Paul to fall in beside.
Nathan turned to the men. “If’n ya wanna, y’all kin head out fer that Soldier’s Roost place in Adobe. I’ll swing by and pick up the two young’ns when Simon’s pappy gits done. I asked your pa, Simon, and he figgered it weren’t any harm in you boys seeing that place up close.”
He barely had the words out of his mouth before the whole crew wheeled their horses and set off at full gallop, headed west in a cloud of brown dust.
“I’m a little surprised that Paul let Simon and Buell visit that place,” John said as he looked at the quickly vanishing riders. “Just from the one look we had this spring, it didn’t impress me as all that sophisticated.”
“Fact is, he weren’t all that quick to agree. Chewed on it fer most of the mornin’. Don’t exactly know what turned him, but about noon he rode up to me and said it were okay.”
“Hmm. I suppose they have to see it eventually, and they are getting to be men. Especially Buell. I get the distinct impression that boy is much older than his years.”
“I read ’im the same way. Him and Lacey hit ’er off real good, and Lacey’s always walked a mite on the wild side. Good man, jist a bit touchy.”
“No sense sitting out here like a couple of prairie dogs. Let’s go up to the trading post and wait there for Paul. I’ve about had enough of this sun.”
Nathan nodded agreement and they rode toward the fort.
John rode thinking about the perfectly executed business deal they were about to finish up.
Nathan’s thoughts were about how good a cool beer and a shot of whiskey would have tasted had he gone with the boys to the Soldier’s Roost in Adobe.
Simon rode hard beside Buell as the crew whooped it into Adobe, Randall Quigg out in front, deference given to his age. Skidding to a stop, they all dismounted in front of the Roost and tied their horses to one of the many rails. Simon paused as Buell undid the flap on one saddlebag and took out his pistol, now secured in a holster and wrapped in a belt. He unwound the leather and buckled the rig around his waist.
Lacey stepped up beside Buell. “Whoa, there. I ain’t a gonna say you cain’t, but I gotta say you shouldn’t.”
The rest of the crew stopped short of the door and watched as Buell tied the bottom of his holster to his leg. Sweeney looked at Quigg and both shook their heads.
“I gotta agree with Lacey,” Sweeney said, “You don’t need that in there. Hell, they might make you take it off anyhow.”
Buell turned to Simon, the challenge plain on his face.
Simon shrugged. “There isn’t any sense in my saying anything, so I won’t.” He gestured toward the door of the saloon and waited for Buell to start toward it and then, exhaling through puffed-out cheeks, he followed.
Kerosene lamps hung from the ceiling and blazed alongside and in between the mirrors behind the bar. The street-side wall had them as well, placed in sconces set four or five feet apart. The bar, located opposite the doors, ran the sixty-foot length of the room. Five men behind the counter served the twenty-five or so customers lined up against it, mostly soldiers. Tables, set six or eight feet apart and in two lines roughly paralleling the bar, served even more people; some playing cards or dominos, some just talking among themselves, and some actively engaged in ribald exchanges with half a dozen women. Simon looked for, but didn’t see, the woman who’d bared her breast. Everybody, without exception, had a beer mug or a whiskey glass either in hand or nearby.
Quigg led the cowboys across the plank floor to a vacant spot at the left end of the bar where he hailed a bartender. “We’re from Texas and we’re thirsty,” he said when the man reached them.
“What’s your pleasure, gents?”
“I’d like a whiskey and a beer,” Quigg said. “How about you boys?”
“Yup,” Sweeney said.
“Me too,” Lacey said.
The other two cowboys ordered the same.
Simon looked at Buell, and then at the bartender. “I guess I’ll not have anything.” The heat of embarrassment climbed toward his ears.
Sweeney snorted. “Hell, you say.” He gave Simon a friendly cuff on the back of the head. “Gotta have a drink with us. Least have a small beer.”
“I’ll have a beer then, thank you.”
The bartender grinned at him and clucked his tongue, then looked at Buell.
“I’ll have a beer . . . and a whiskey.” He looked back at Simon with a slight smile. “Can’t kill me.”
“Your pa might though.” He instantly regretted saying it when Buell’s eyes sparked and the muscles in his jaw flexed. Simon had seen that sign many times; Buell had just been challenged and he didn’t like it.
“Coming right up,” the barkeeper said. He moved to the tall handles of the beer pumps and soon returned, scooting six empty shot glasses down the bar with the full beer mugs. With the beer divvied up, he expertly aligned the six glasses and reached under the bar to retrieve a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He pulled the cork, and without pausing, poured all six glasses full in one continuous motion.
“That’ll be one dollar and fifty-five cents, or two bits each if you’re plowing your own row. A nickel for the kid’s beer.” He nodded at Simon.
Six Liberty quarters clattered on the bar. The barkeep looked at Simon for his nickel. The flame of embarrassment that began when he’d ordered, fed on the fresh fuel of the bartender’s gaze. I’m flat broke. Nobody said we’d be visiting any place where I’d need money. It’s all at home.
Sweeney must have seen his problem. “Let me be the one to buy yer first beer. ’Tis yer first, ain’t it?”
“Yes’ir. I’ve had a taste or two in Luger’s storeroom, but I’ve never had one to myself.” He felt like hugging Sweeney as the nickel lit on the bar and spun for a second.
All eyes had followed the flipped coin and watched as the bartender’s hand slapped it still. “Thank you, gents. Gimme a holler when you’re ready for another.” He scooped the coins off the polished wood and headed for a customer who beckoned farther down the bar.
“Here’s to a great summer’s work,” Quigg said. “I think Nathan and Mr. Steele are mor’n happy with us.” He raised his whiskey glass to the rest, and then tossed the contents down his throat. He gritted his teeth, then quickly took a long pull on the beer before setting it down with a grunt. “Ooff, that’s some kinda raw skunk piss they’re pushin’ here.”
Buell followed suit with his whiskey. A look of shock took over his face, his eyes went wide and he swallowed hard, twice. Then, he shuddered like he had a bad chill, and tears started to flow furiously.
Lacey slapped him on the back. “What’s the matter Buell, reckon that’s a little strong fer ya?”
The Texans were grinning at him and winking at each other.
“Damn.” He managed only the one word, then coughed once, shook his head, and coughed again.
“Take a pull o’ yer beer,” Sweeney offered.
Buell wiped the tears from his eyes and reached for the mug.
“Looks to me like he’s still a little wet fer this.” A young soldier in dusty blue trousers and a light-blue shirt stood chuckling at Buell’s discomfort. He didn’t look to be much older than either Buell or Simon.
“He’ll do just fine, Blue,” Lacey said.
The other Texans turned to stare at the soldier and the word “Blue” apparently caught the attention of four or five other soldiers standing by the younger one.
“I got my doubts,” Blue said. He smiled at the other soldiers and nodded.
“Can’t even talk,” another one said, chuckling.
“Leave it alone, Blue,” Lacey said. He was watching Buell, now clearheaded and eyeing the young soldier coldly.
“Just messing him a bit. Can’t he take up his own?” Blue winked at the man next to him.
“I can and I will.” Buell stepped away from the bar and faced the young trooper, his jaw muscles working.
For the first time, the soldier got a look at the Remington riding in the tied-down holster. He gave his friends a nervous glance. Passive, their faces showed nothing as they watched the little drama. All the soldiers were armed, their pistols in holsters with flaps that covered them completely.
“Take ’er easy Buell, he was just a funnin’ you a little. Didn’t mean no sass, did you?” Lacey asked the soldier.
“Ain’t saying I did, and ain’t saying I didn’t.” The soldier looked Buell up and down.
“Can’t step in here, Blue,” Lacey said, “but I’ll shine some daylight on somethin’. I wouldn’t mess around. He looks young, but that there can get you hurt.”
Buell’s eyes never left the soldier whose hands hung down loosely.
“I can mind my own here, Lacey,” Buell said. “This here fella seems to want a fight, and I can give it to ’im.”
The other soldiers moved out of the way and the Texans followed suit.
“I ain’t picking no fight,” Blue said, “but I ain’t never run either. I was just funnin’ you a little. You want to make a big pile out o’ that, I reckon we can.” The soldier’s tongue flicked across his lips.
Buell’s cold stare continued. “I didn’t find it funny.”
Simon’s heart started to race when Buell’s jaw muscles stopped flexing, his face perfectly relaxed, like he was about to take a shot at a water-filled soda bottle.
Lacey must have seen the same thing. “Let me tell you some-thin’ Blue. I’ve see’d this feller put two balls in a flushed prairie chicken at thirty feet. You ain’t no thirty feet.”
Buell’s eyes remained fixed on the face of the young soldier whose brow now shone wet with sweat. “Still think it’s funny?” he said quietly.
By now the entire bar watched intently, quietly, and his whispered words carried the length of the room.
“Well?” Buell asked.
The harsh metallic crackle of twin hammers being ratcheted back to full cock brought with it several audible intakes of breath around the saloon.
“I ain’t no thirty feet away either, and I got the right medicine for cocky prairie roosters.” The barkeeper pointed a short double-barrel shotgun straight at Buell. “Uh-uh. Don’t even think it,” he said, as Buell started to turn his head. “Ain’t nobody that quick. Unbuckle the belt, son, and let the holster fall.” A slight sideways gesture with the shotgun emphasized his request.
Buell reached across, undid the buckle, and let the holster fall away. The tie-down on his leg turned the holster upside down and the Remington clattered to the floor.
“Now step back a couple.” Again, a twitch of the shotgun helped make his point. “Please, put his gun here on the bar,” he said to Sweeney.
Sweeney reached down, picked up the pistol, and laid it by the beer mugs.
“Good. Now, you soldier boys take your youngster down’t the other end, and you boys stay right here.” The barkeeper glanced at Lacey, then picked up the pistol, and put it under the bar. “He can have that back when you’re ready to leave.” He uncocked the shotgun as he walked away.
As the soldiers started down the bar with their drinks, Blue made a move to turn around. Another soldier, this one with two stripes, grabbed him roughly by the arm and steered him along. “Consider yourself lucky, stupid. That boy’s a killer. I can see it,” he said in a harsh whisper.
Buell eyed Sweeney coldly and Lacey saw the look.
“Don’t be a lookin’ evil eye at Sweeney, Buell. I’d have picked ’er up if’n he hadn’t. Shit fire, that boy was jist pokin’ at you a bit, and ya cain’t be bracin’ a feller for smilin’ atcha. I thought it were funny too. Thought you was gonna choke fer sure.”
Simon’s breathing slowed as the tenseness in Buell’s face left like it was being poured out.
He turned to Simon and grinned. “That was some nasty shit. You were smart to have the beer.” He picked up his mug, and Lacey’s frown stopped him short. He chuckled. “I wasn’t gonna do nothing, Lacey. Just seeing how far he’d go.”
The cowboys crowded back to the bar, retrieved their beer mugs, and, to a man, drained them, then looked up the bar for the barman. The incident just past seemed to be forgotten, or maybe conveniently ignored, but it was obvious to Simon that all the men, except Lacey, kept just a tiny fraction of extra space between themselves and Buell.
John and Paul arrived about an hour later and, as a group again, they headed for Carlisle. The cowboys seemed pleased to have the job behind them, a payday coming up tomorrow, and with eight thousand dollars in US Army gold safely tucked in his saddlebags, Paul’s lively chatter with them showed his buoyant spirits. John, satisfied to see his friend take a monumental step toward economic freedom, smiled to himself, and the happy crew rode into town just before midnight.