The horses traveled easier than Hewey expected, probably because they had been trail-broken coming up from the lower country, so he was early in reaching the outskirts of Upton City. He looked at the sun and tried to judge how much daylight he could count upon.
“Wes,” he said, “I believe we’ll shoot for Walter’s and Eve’s before me and Tommy quit for the night. We’ll circle around town.”
That would probably spare the feelings of housewives who had freshly washed clothing hanging on their lines. Even a small band of horses could stir a lot of dust. They would also rouse up the town dogs and perhaps result in a stampede. There was no limit to the damage twenty frightened broncs could do.
Wheeler said, “I’ll help you.” Some of the complaints would surely be brought to him, so he was saving himself some aggravation.
If anyone should ask, Hewey would say he was simply trying to make all the miles he could, but the principal reason for avoiding town was that he did not want everybody to see this string of third-rate horseflesh and know how badly Fat had snookered him and his boss.
When they cleared the far edge of town Wheeler reined up. “I’ll bid you adios, Hewey. Ain’t no tellin’ what crimes have been committed in my absence.”
Hewey nodded toward the horses. “This one was bad enough.”
“I wish there was more I could do. Nothin’ would tickle me better than to have Fat be a guest in my jailhouse. But don’t you do somethin’ that’ll put you in there. Or that boy yonder.” He jerked a thumb toward Tommy.
Hewey said, “I’ve been a guest in a few jailhouses, but Eve would never let me hear the end of it if Tommy was to be locked up with me. Right now all I intend to do is deliver these horses … such as they are.”
He got to watching the stud in particular, for the black displayed signs of antisocial behavior that bordered on the criminal, biting, kicking at every other horse it could reach. It even took a notion to charge at Biscuit, and Hewey had to beat it off with the doubled end of his rope. He strongly considered leaving the stud behind and telling Jenkins it had gotten away, like the bull he and Skip Harkness had released. But that would be a dirty trick to play on anybody whose good mares took up with this sorry excuse for crow bait.
Just at dusk Hewey saw the familiar homestead and loped ahead to open a corral gate. Walter spotted him coming and reached the gate first. “Thought you might not come back by,” he said.
“I hope Eve has got over bein’ provoked at me. I been tastin’ her biscuits ever since we left C.C.’s place.”
“She gets mad easy, but she don’t hold it long.”
Tommy brought the horses in. Hewey observed his brother’s expression as the horses passed by him and through the open gate. Walter did not have to say anything. His frown told it all.
Hewey said quickly, “Fat has run a sandy on us.”
Walter latched the gate. “If those are of Alvin’s raisin’, I’ll eat your hat.”
“My hat is safe, but I don’t know about my job. I been thinkin’ about lookin’ for work over in the Guadalupes anyway.”
Eve was more cordial than Hewey had thought she might be. She hugged her son and gave Hewey a greeting that was civil enough, though not what he would call enthusiastic. She said, “You-all have got plenty of time to wash before supper.” She pointed that remark especially at Hewey.
Tommy was eager to tell her about the day. “We had some excitement over at Mr. Tarpley’s. Fat … Mr. Gervin … he aimed a shotgun at Uncle Hewey.”
Eve’s mouth fell open. Hewey tried to explain what Fat had done, but all she heard was that a shotgun had been pointed in her son’s general direction. “Hewey Calloway, it’s bad enough that you’ve lured him away to wander around like a gypsy. Now you’ve come close to gettin’ him killed.”
“You know Fat Gervin. He ain’t goin’ to kill anybody. He’s full of wind, and I’ll bet that shotgun wasn’t even loaded.”
He knew better, for he had been shaken all the way to his toes looking into that wide, dark muzzle. But surely the Lord made allowances when a man lied to a woman for her own good.
She burned the biscuits, always a sign that she had lapsed into a bad humor.
After breakfast Tommy stood in the kitchen doorway, a leftover biscuit wedged in his teeth, and fidgeted to be on his way while Eve handed him a sack of food and repeated the previous day’s instructions and admonitions. Giving Hewey a distrusting look, she warned, “Don’t you do everything your uncle Hewey does. Use your head and don’t let him get you hurt.”
Hewey said, “Tommy’s levelheaded Like as not he’ll be lookin’ after me more than I’ll be lookin’ after him.”
“That is exactly what I’m afraid of.”
Tommy finished the biscuit and peered into the sack to see what his mother had fixed for him. “Mama, I’m grown, almost.”
“I want to see you live to get grown. It’s a wonder to me that your uncle Hewey has survived this long.”
Hewey said, “Caution and clean livin’ is what has done it.” He swung into the saddle. “We’d better be startin’. It’s a long ways to Alpine.”
As Hewey had expected, Old Man Jenkins’s reaction to the horses was not pleasant to watch. He feared at first his employer would burst a blood vessel, the way the veins rose in his neck.
Hewey said, “I talked to the sheriff. He said there wasn’t nothin’ he could do. Said you’d ought to get you a lawyer.”
“I don’t trust lawyers, and from now on I ain’t trustin’ bankers, either. Since you knew him, why didn’t you warn me about Frank Gervin?”
“I did. I said all you could be sure of was that he would do the wrong thing. Anyway, you’d already made the deal.”
Jenkins stewed, studying the horses corraled at the J Bar headquarters after a three-day walk and trot from Upton City.
Hewey offered, “At least we got them here in good shape. Didn’t lose a one.”
“Might’ve been better if you’d lost them all. Especially that one yonder.” He pointed to the black stud. “Acts like he’s been on locoweed.”
“He needed a good cuttin’ and didn’t get it.”
“We’ll do it when the almanac says the signs are right. ’Til then, watch out for him. He’ll hurt somebody.”
Hewey had never liked castrating studs, but in this case he would consider it a privilege. “You goin’ to do anything about Fat Gervin?”
“I paid seventy-five dollars a head. That’s fifteen hundred dollars for twenty head. Takin’ him to court would cost me that much or more, and it’d all go into the lawyers’ pockets.” Jenkins’s eyes
took on a wicked gleam. “But there’s a Mexican curandera woman over in town that claims she can put a curse on anybody she wants to. She put one on me once, and I never had so much bad luck at one time in my life. I’ll see what she can do about Frank Gervin.”
Hewey would have favored something more direct, but it was Jenkins’s money. “If she can put a curse on people, reckon she could turn it the other way around and do somebody some good?”
“I’ll ask her. You got anybody in mind?”
“Old C. C. Tarpley. Considerin’ the sort of man he is, he ain’t a bad feller. He needs all the help he can get.”
“I’ll talk to her, but you’d do better with a preacher.” Jenkins watched Tommy unsaddle his dun and begin brushing him down. “I wasn’t sure you’d bring the boy back with you.”
“I hinted every way I knew how for him to stay home, but he’s bound and determined to learn the trade. Says he wants a ranch of his own someday.”
“He’s got a good spirit, and there’s a lot he can learn from you.”
“I didn’t set out to be no teacher.”
“For forty dollars a month you can add that to your job.” Jenkins turned his attention back to the horses. “They ain’t much, but I’d like you and the boy to take them down to the Circle W. Maybe the hands can teach these skates a little somethin’. Then I can resell them and recover some of my investment.”
“What you want us to do after we’ve made delivery?”
“Stay there. The crew’s brandin’ calves, and you’ll be a right smart of help.” Jenkins squinted one eye again. Hewey had learned that was a sign he had something on his mind, sometimes good but more often not. “Since you couldn’t see your way clear to take the foreman’s job I offered you down there, I’ve hired another man. Name’s Ralph Underhill. You’ll report to him.”
Hewey nodded. For forty dollars he didn’t much mind who he reported to.
Jenkins added, “I’ve made it clear to him that I don’t want you ridin’ any broncs.”
Hewey protested, “You know I can do anything them boys can, and make a better job of it.”
“Dammit, Hewey, I know how old you are even if you’ve forgot. These broncs are for Aparicio and the younger hands.”
Hewey felt a spasm of insubordination coming on. “Next thing, you’ll be tellin’ me to swamp for Blas around the wagon.”
“There’s plenty of cow work you can do better than most. Ain’t no call for you do it ridin’ a bronc.” Jenkins turned away, then came back. “Underhill’s a top hand with horses and cattle, but he don’t get along with men too good. You’ll find him a little on the touchy side.”
Old Man Jenkins was touchy. Anybody he regards as touchy must be a bearcat sure enough, Hewey thought.
He wished Bige Saunders could be foreman at the Circle W, but Jenkins needed him here on the home place.
Jenkins’s auto driver, Peeler, had stood off to one side, eyeing the newly arrived horses with silent disapproval. He wore jodhpurs and tall lace-up boots, which Hewey thought looked plumb disgraceful on a cowboy. After Jenkins walked away, Peeler sidled over. “Looks like you and Mr. Jenkins took a skinnin’.”
“It was his money.”
“But it’d be your skin if you had to ride any of them outlaws. The whole outfit would be ahead if you’d drive these snides up onto the rimrock and jump them off.”
Hewey had had the same thought. “I’m tempted, but I never killed a horse in my life, no matter how much they deserved it.”
“Had you rather have these horses on your conscience, or some poor cowpuncher?”
“Neither one. But I would like to tie Fat Gervin to that black stud
and turn him loose on the side of a mountain. I could sell tickets to every man, woman and child in Upton City.”
“It’s horses like these that convinced me I’d rather be drivin’ an automobile.” Peeler rolled a cigarette and offered the sack to Hewey. Hewey accepted with a nod. Peeler said, “You want one more piece of advice?”
Hewey knew he was going to get it whether he asked for it or not. “Can’t hurt none.”
“Don’t forget what Mr. Jenkins said about Ralph Underhill. He’s got sore toes on both feet. Even his mama probably didn’t like him much.”
“I get along fine with most people.”
“Ralph Underhill ain’t most people. Me and him almost came to a knuckle-bustin’ before he went down to the ranch. We would’ve if it hadn’t been for Mr. Jenkins.”
“I’ll tiptoe when I’m around him. Got to set a good example for Tommy.”
The only good news he had heard since arriving with the horses was that Bias Villegas was at the lower ranch, cooking for the hands while they branded the J Bar on Jenkins’s newly acquired calf crop. Branding could not be done at the time the cows were being counted because ownership had not been legally transferred. The deal could have collapsed, as it almost did over the value of a crowbar. Because he had bought the rights to the Circle W brand along with the cattle, Jenkins would not have to change brands on the older animals. Attrition would gradually phase out the Circle W.
Trailing had become almost routine for the horses, so all but the black stud gave Hewey and Tommy little trouble. It often tried to pick a fight and kept the other horses in fear except for one wiry little paint, short of leg and shorter of patience. After feeling the sting of sharp teeth, the squealing paint landed a solid kick to the
stud’s belly where it would inflict the most pain. Afterward the black was selective in its bullying and kept a wary eye on the paint.
Ordinarily Hewey had a low opinion of paint horses, but he decided this one had special virtues. He said, “I’d like to set Fat Gervin behind that kickin’ paint and see how fast he could dodge.”
Tommy grinned, savoring the image. “Mama would say revenge is a mean and hollow thing.”
“But thinkin’ about it is like music to the mind.”
It was good not to have to open any more pasture gates once they were inside the Circle W’s perimeter fence. The horses acted as if they sensed that the journey was almost over, and even the stud settled down to purposeful traveling. Hewey let Tommy lope ahead to open the corral gate. He contented himself to stay behind the horses at a slower pace, for jolting across rough ground had stirred a pain in his side. That seemed to be happening a lot lately.
As the horses began filing through the opening, Hewey gave his attention to a horseman who had stationed himself on the opposite side from Tommy to make sure none doubled back. The rider sat rigidly, one hand on his hip, his attitude that of a man who controlled all creation. Even before the introductions, Hewey decided this was the new foreman, Ralph Underhill.
His surmise was confirmed by a challenging tone of voice as the man ordered Tommy to shut the gate, then rode up to Hewey. “I thought you were supposed to be bringin’ me a string of horses.”
The attitude rankled Hewey. “They ain’t burros.”
“I’ve seen burros that looked better. You pick these yourself?”
“I’m not any happier about them than you are. Mr. Jenkins made a deal with a four-flusher, and this is what he got.”
The man frowned. “I’m guessin’ you’d be Hewey Calloway.”
“That’d be a right fair guess.”
“Mr. Jenkins told me you’d be comin’ along with some broncs,
though he didn’t expect you quite so soon. Said you was takin’ a little vacation.”
“It don’t take me long to vacate.”
“You won’t get any vacation here. This is a workin’ outfit.”
Hewey sensed that Underhill had a mad on about something. He supposed it was the poor quality of the horseflesh, which was understandable, but there wasn’t any point in taking his frustrations out on Hewey.
Underhill didn’t take them out on Hewey alone. He hollered harshly at Tommy, who remained at the gate afoot, awaiting instruction. “Hey, button, don’t just stand there with your thumb in your butt. See them boys brandin’ calves in that corral yonder? Fall in there and see if you can be some help.”
Chastened, Tommy swung quickly into the saddle and rode away in a long trot.
Hewey felt a prickling along his backside. “You got no call to talk to the boy thataway. He’s my nephew.”
“I don’t care if he’s the Prince of Wales. If he works here, he works here.”
Hewey felt a streak of rebellion coming on. He saw Bias Villegas’s chuck wagon standing idle beneath the trees. Bias would be cooking in the bunkhouse kitchen as long as they were at headquarters. “It’s been a long ride. I’m goin’ for some of Blas’s coffee.”
“You can drink coffee when everybody else gets to drink coffee.” Underhill pointed at the horses. “Go in there and show me what you brought.”
Underhill gave orders the way Hewey remembered army sergeants doing it. A thoughtful ranch foreman would usually be more subtle in exerting his authority, framing his orders in the form of a request rather than a command. Hewey said a crisp and exaggerated
“Yes, sir,” the way he had addressed officers in the Spanish war. It was a way of telling Underhill he was two sizes too big for his britches. Underhill got the message, for his face turned red.
Hewey liked the Circle W, but his stay was likely to be short if this was the way he and Tommy were going to be treated.
Underhill pointed his chin at Biscuit. “Is that your own horse or the company’s?”
“He belongs to me.”
“Most places I’ve been, they don’t allow private horses eatin’ company feed.”
“Mr. Jenkins has never had any objections.” I wonder if he’s like this with everybody or if I’m a special case, Hewey thought.
Underhill accepted the situation but not in good grace. “If he sees fit to allow it, it’s his ranch and his feed. But if it was up to me …” He did not finish. He proceeded through the gate and left it for Hewey to close. He walked toward the horses, most of which faced around to watch him suspiciously. A man afoot in a corral had never been good news to them. The stud bared its teeth.
Hewey said, “I’d keep an eye on that one.”
Underhill must have heard, but he made no response. He walked directly toward the black. It backed its ears and made a bluffing start in his direction, paused, then came forward again with serious intent. Underhill stood his ground, waiting until the stud was almost upon him, then shouted loudly and slapped his hat across its nose. Startled, the black pawed at him, missed, then turned and ran back into the bunch, eyes rolling. It looked as confused as when the paint kicked it in the belly.
At least the son of a bitch is not afraid of horses, Hewey thought. It took nerve to stand and call a bluff like that. I’ll give him a little time before I haul off and punch him in the nose.
Underhill walked among the horses, which drew to one side or
the other at his approach, all giving him their full attention. He studied them one by one. Hewey suspected when he was done he could probably turn away and give a pretty good description of each animal without looking back. He had the marks of a horseman, even if he was a son of a bitch.
Underhill said, “You can tell by the saddle marks that most of them have been ridden before, or ridden at. They’re mostly outlaws and knotheads. But we’ll stake some of them after supper like they were all young broncs. Might be somethin’ we can salvage.”
“It’ll be like tryin’ to find a ripe peach in a barrel of rotten apples,” Hewey said. “But we can try.”
“We?” The wrinkles went deeper in Underhill’s face. “Mr. Jenkins gave me strict orders that you’re not supposed to ride any broncs. Seems like you’re some kind of privileged character.”
So that was it, Hewey thought. Underhill resented his being considered a special case.
“Mr. Jenkins has a notion I’m gettin’ a little too much age on me to ride the rough string anymore. But what he don’t see he don’t need to know, and what he don’t know won’t hurt him. I’ll do my share of the ridin’ along with everybody else.”
Underhill shook his head. “When I work for a man, I do what he tells me. These broncs are for the young hands.”
Hewey wanted to argue the point, but he had already lost that argument with Jenkins, and it was clear that once Underhill took a stand, wild horses could not drag him from it. Hewey had never understood such stubborn people. He said, “I’ll ride broncs if I’m a mind to.”
“Do and I’ll fire you.”
“Try to fire me and I’ll quit.”
Underhill turned to face him. “Looks like me and you ain’t goin’ to get along very good.”
“Sure looks like.”
“Mr. Jenkins says you’re a top hand, so I’ll try and put up with you for a little while. Maybe we can come to an accommodation.”
“Ask anybody. They’ll tell you I’ve always had a smilin’ disposition.”
Underhill peered closely at him, and Hewey tried to force a smile. Underhill stalked through the gate and left it open. Hewey hurried to close it so the horses would not get out.
He sensed that even in silence, Underhill had had the last word. Almost, anyway. Hewey walked up to the bunkhouse to get that cup of coffee.
While he sat at the long table, the cup in his hand, he questioned Bias about the new foreman. Bias shrugged, evasive. “He is a boss. I have had many bosses. He is not the worst.”
“How do you get along with him?”
“I do as I am told.” He left unstated the fact that as a Mexican working for gringo bosses, he had always done as he was told. That was the key to survival.
Hewey said, “He seems to have a burr under his blanket. Maybe a bunch of them.”
“It is said that his wife left him and took their child. That is a hard thing for a man to bear.”
“She probably had reason enough.”
It occurred to Hewey that he did not know if Bias had ever even had a wife. He had accepted Bias for what he had become, a wagon cook, and had never asked questions about his past. Feeling guilty, he asked now, for he realized that the old man’s friendship was important to him.
Bias said, “Once, in Chihuahua. She was the daughter of a farmer, a campesino. The fever came, and she died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a very long time ago. It is hard even to remember her face.
I try to see her in my mind, and I cannot It would be an old face now, so perhaps it is as well.”
Hewey stared into the cup. He found it easy to conjure up Spring Renfro’s face in all its detail. It was hard to imagine that someday he might not be able to. “You ever still miss her?”
Bias stared across the room at nothing in particular. “Sometimes at night, when I am dreaming, she comes and lies beside me. I can feel her body, but in the darkness I cannot see her face.” He turned back to Hewey. “At least I have something to remember. What have you to remember, Hooey?”
Hewey had never spoken of Spring to anyone here. “A lot of country, a lot of horses, a lot of good times.”
“But there should be more. For every man there should at least be one woman.”
The remnant of coffee had become cold in the cup. Hewey walked to the door and flung it out onto the ground. He put the cup in Bias’s tub. “I reckon the boys may need some help with the brandin’.”
Bias said, “At night, when you dream, is that all you can dream of, the branding?”
“No, sometimes it’s horses.”
Aparicio was roping calves by the heels and dragging them toward the branding-iron fire. Tommy was partnering with one of the young Mexican hands to throw the calves down as Aparicio brought them by, then hold them still for branding.
Aparicio motioned as Hewey climbed over the fence rather than walk all the way down to the gate. He would sooner ride a mile than walk a hundred yards. “My arm is tired, Hooey. Would you like to heel for a while?”
Anybody could flank calves or wield the hot irons, but not everyone was good at roping heels in a branding pen. As Aparicio handed
the reins to him, Hewey glanced toward Underhill. The foreman was watching. Hewey promised himself he would make every loop a good one, and he roped at least twenty calves before he missed one. By then Underhill was no longer paying attention, or appeared not to be.
At last Hewey searched through the calves, his loop ready, but found none still unbranded. Underhill counted the bloody-edged pieces of ear notched from every calf. That tally jibed with the one he had taken before the calves were branded. “All done,” he announced.
Hewey could have told him so. He felt as if Underhill was checking up on him. They turned the calves into a larger pen with their mothers to allow them time to pair before being released back into the open. The bawling was loud but more pleasant to Hewey’s ears than a lot of human conversation he had heard lately.
Tommy dusted himself off. “I’m sure ready to put away some of Blas’s cookin’.”
Underhill said, “Before anybody stops for supper, we’ll stake out some of these broncs.”
The job consisted of roping the new arrivals, earing them down and in a few cases even throwing them to the ground to get a hackamore over their heads. Horsebackers then led them to a stretch of open ground, where a scattering of heavy logs and a couple of big wagon wheels awaited. Most resisted the lead rope, so the riders had to wrap the long hackamore reins around their saddle horns and half lead, half drag the broncs.
Hewey saw that Tommy was eyeing the black stud with misgivings. He said, “You’re still a little short in the britches to be handlin’ one like that. He’s for somebody like Aparicio.”
The black seemed to go out of its head when the rope tightened around its neck. It fought wildly, threshing like a fish on a line, even falling on its side, hooves flailing. After it scrambled to its feet,
Hewey worked his way up the rope and grabbed the ears, dodging as the bronc tried to paw him.
“Put the hackamore on him, Tommy.” All the time Tommy and Hewey struggled, the stud squealed and kicked. It landed a glancing blow against Tommy’s leg, and Tommy fell. Hewey feared the black would stomp the boy, so he bit down on the left ear to give the animal something else to think about. He knew he would be spitting horsehair from now until supper.
Tommy got to his feet and finished knotting the hackamore. Hewey stepped away quickly so a hoof would not strike him. He took a firm grip on the long rein. “Go bring Biscuit.”
Tommy limped as he hurried to fetch Hewey’s brown horse.
Underhill had been watching while he hackamored the paint that had given the black a dose of humility. “I’ll give you this, Calloway: you know what you’re doin’.”
“I didn’t just start yesterday.”
“Or twenty years ago, either. You better let one of these young hands wrestle with that black.”
“I’ve got him under control.”
The stud tried to shake Hewey loose. Hewey bit down on its ear again, venting on the horse the resentment Underhill had roused in him. Turning loose, he mounted Biscuit and wrapped the long hackamore rein around his saddle horn. “Come on, damn you!”
In response to the tugging of the rope, the stud bared its teeth and charged. Biscuit dodged, almost unseating Hewey but causing the black to stumble and fall.
“You’re makin’ things rough on yourself,” Hewey growled. “But sometimes the worst things that happen to us are the things we do to ourselves.” As the black regained its feet, Hewey put Biscuit into a trot that did not allow slack enough for a fight. Instead the stud pulled back on the rein in a contest of wills. Biscuit plodded ahead, the black hopping unwillingly on braced legs.
Hewey chose a heavy log that lay a safe distance from where the other broncs were being staked. Tommy rode along behind, ready to help.
Hewey said, “When I get down, you take Biscuit and lead him out of the way. I’ll tie this outlaw.”
He expected the black to run at him once he was afoot, so the sudden lunge did not surprise him. He jumped to one side and jerked on the long rein, bracing it around his hip. While the black floundered, Hewey wrapped the end of the rope around the log and took a quick half hitch. He stepped back out of the way as the black ran at him again. The log’s weight brought the bronc up short at the end of the rein, almost throwing it off its feet.
Hewey watched in satisfaction as the black transferred its frustrations and began trying to drag the log to death. Each run moved it only a few inches.
“Time you’ve jerked that thing around for an hour or two,” Hewey said, “you’re liable to be about half civilized.”
The stud fought its head, trying in vain to free itself from the tyranny of the hackamore.
Tommy watched with doubt. “Reckon he’ll tame down?”
“There’s only one thing he’ll ever be fit for, and that’s a bar of soap. It’d probably blister the hide off of anybody who used it.”
Underhill finished tying the paint to a log. He came over to look at the black.
Hewey said, “Luckiest thing that could happen would be if he fell over that log and broke a leg.”
Underhill shook his head. “Mr. Jenkins spent good money for that skate, so it’s up to us to try to make somethin’ of him.” He turned to Tommy. “You think you can ride him?”
Tommy swallowed. “I don’t know.”
Hewey quickly put in, “He’s just a boy. He’s got no business on a loco outlaw like this.”
“He’s bein’ paid a man’s wages. He’ll do a man’s work.” Underhill rode away.
Hewey felt a rising dread as he studied Tommy. “I sure wish you’d stayed home.”