CHAPTER 4
On the seventh day they crossed the Colorado River west of Austin. That was their first big crossing. Blue took to the river and swam to the north bank, climbed out, shook off lots of water, and was welcomed by some punchers already over there. The herd followed, swimming over and assembled with little problem. The two wagons went to Web’s Ferry to cross. Harp sent Emory on his horse with them, and they all met up a few miles north of the crossing at the day’s camp.
Under a shade tree in camp that afternoon Emory was seated in a canvas folding chair. He motioned to the other one for Harp.
“We have had a good week.”
“Yes. We lost one horse in the crossing. I told the boys to take the tie downs off them. They will know better at the next one.”
“How?” Emory asked.
“The boy that didn’t listen is doing double herd night patrol for two weeks.”
Emory nodded his approval. “Rank requires decisions. We are moving along well.”
“But we are still deep in Texas. Over half this journey will be on the North’s land. Those days I dread.”
“There is a saying, ‘Dread not. It may never come.’”
“Hell, Emory, I’ve been around long enough to know you have to be prepared. Our father made several trips to trade with the Comanche for a captive prisoner. We rode along. There was always trouble. But we fought and won. He said they were savages. And they were.”
“His lessons tell on you and Long.”
“I hope they do when we have to face opposition.”
“It will.”
It did.
A big man in a suit under a fine beaver hat rode into camp the next day. With him were three pistoleros, no doubt to back and protect him.
“Who runs this sorry outfit?” he said, looking around like Harp wasn’t even there.
“I’m the trail boss.”
“Well, gawdamn, boy. You must just be out of grade school.”
“Mister, state your business or get your ass out of my camp.”
“Hey, young fellar. My name’s Hogan Sargent and I own the Three Star Ranch. All the land north of here is mine, and I don’t want your scrubby stock passing over it. You understand?”
“Is it fenced?”
“I said it was my land. Detour this herd west five miles.”
“That ain’t the Texas way, Mr. Hogan Sargent. If it’s not fenced I can pass over it.”
“Not and live.”
“Oh? I will cross that ground north in the morning.”
“I said—”
“Mr. Sargent, there are six Winchester rifles loaded and ready to send you to the promised land. All of you, drop your pistols with two fingers. Dismount now.”
“You won’t get away with this,” Sargent blustered, but they obeyed.
Harp pushed him aside and told the vaqueros to remove their boots. Again they obeyed. “Now you start walking south. Go back to Mexico. Don’t come back to Texas, ’cause I’ll kill you next time you get in my way.”
“Take the bridles off their horses and shag them back north, boys. They will go home.” They did so and the horses rushed away.
“What about me?”
“Rest easy, Mr. Sargent. Tomorrow you are going to lead us across your ranch for our safety. We get off it you can go home—on foot.”
“My men will—”
“No. ’Cause you will be the first man to die. Sit down, Mr. Sargent. They may ride along but they won’t dare do a thing. Do you understand?”
“You son of—”
“Finishing that will get you killed. My mother is a God-fearing woman who lives near Camp Verde.”
“I’ll have you arrested for this.”
“No jury will find me guilty moving cattle over unfenced land.”
“Then I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
“I’ve killed Comanche, Mr. Sargent, and you won’t be one damn bit harder to kill.”
Harp moved far enough away from Sargent but close enough to watch him. Long came and sat cross-legged on the ground. “What did he do?”
“Came told me I had to drive the cattle five miles around his land. I sent his pistoleros back to Mexico on foot. He’s going to walk with us tomorrow until we get across his land.”
“What then?”
“I guess turn him loose and go on.”
“What if his men come to get us?”
“I guess we do like we did the Comanche. Kill them, too.”
Long nodded and bound to his feet, looked at Sargent, and motioned to Chaw. “Chaw, select two men to take shifts and guard him. If he tries anything, shoot him. He’s paid for.”
“You can’t—”
Long swung around with a finger as a gun, pointing at him. “You have no voice in this deal, mister. Shut up or we’ll gag you.”
“Who in the hell do you think you are?”
Long reached over and jerked the big man to his feet. Then he drew back to hit him. Instead he dropped him. “We are the O’Malley brothers of Texas and don’t you forget it.”
He left him and then walked over and put his arm around Harp’s shoulder. “How is Emory doing?”
“They fed him and he went to bed. Said the day wore him out. He may need to ride in the food wagon tomorrow to rest up.”
“He won’t like that. But we’d better enforce it.”
“How’s tomorrow night’s campsite look?”
“It will do. They say we’re two days at our speed from the Brazos.”
“We will be there by then. The spring grass is making the cattle fat.” Harp poured himself a cup of coffee. “The boys wasted no time getting them guns when we needed them to back us. Things worked like a clock.”
“Yeah. We could use some rain. But no storms.”
Harp agreed.
“They’ll be even quicker next time we get threatened. I took that boy off double guard duty. He’s the one organized things with the crew here tonight.”
“That’s good.”
“Good night, bro.”
“Same to you.”
They fed their prisoner in the morning, loaded him bareback on a sluggish horse, and took him along, grumbling. When they reached their next site, he agreed they were off his place. They gave him his horse and pistol back. He left telling them they had not seen the last of him.
Long shouted after him, “We better have.”
That night it rained. Hard. Most of the lightning was north of them and the cattle were held in the herd, but Harp had extra hands circling them. In the morning they wore slickers and went on. The Brazos River was swollen and muddy, but they crossed it all right and made camp north of it. The two wagons took a ferry downstream. Emory rode with the cook and said he got along fine.
Harp told his brother they needed to make him ride the wagon more often. Long agreed. But Emory was back in the saddle the next day when the sun came out. Over the following few days the big news came that Robert E. Lee had signed the treaty at a place no one knew—Apple-Mattox.
Harp told Emory he had been right and that now the damn war was finally over. “I know you fought in it. But there’s no telling how the country could ever be like it was before.”
Ira had gotten hold of a secondhand newspaper from a man at the ferry crossing, so Emory could read about it while riding with the cook.
A man came with two black men to their camp. His name was Steven Knight and he asked what Harp would sell two fat steers for. The blacks were his ex-slaves and they worked for him. Harp went to find Emory and ask him what he thought.
“I don’t think he’d pay it but sell him them for forty bucks apiece. We want silver or gold, not paper money.”
Harp was surprised that Knight agreed to the terms and paid him with eight ten-dollar gold pieces. The boys cut out the two steers. Knight asked the cowboys to shoot both, then he and his help went to butchering with a block and tackle and loading the cuts on the wagon they had with them.
Harp asked him what he’d do with that meat. He said he had cash customers and all of it would be sold before dark the next day.
Emory told Harp to keep the money. He’d have some expenses he’d need it for. The money was a novelty. He’d not seen much since the war began. He, Long, and their dad had lots of script. The state of Texas paid them for ranger work in script, and it would pay all taxes due for them and their neighbors. But there were no plans to ever pay anything in cash that he knew about.
They were north of Fort Worth after a few more passing days. They had the cattle set up and someone mentioned they heard about a nearby schoolhouse dance. Could they go see about it?
Harp gave Doug a ten-dollar coin and told him not to spend it all. Six hands rode over there that evening and the rest stayed with the herd. There was lots of grass and a good spring-fed creek to bathe in. So plans were to spend Sunday there, washing and cleaning up. And resting.
Emory wrote his wife and Harp wrote his mother and dad. They were about three weeks along and things had gone well so far. Plus the war was over.
He and Long had stayed with the herd. Both could dance but didn’t feel any urge, and besides, they wanted all the rest they could take on their layover. When the boys came in singing, Harp knew one of them had bought some white lightning. No one got in a fight and all that went had a good time.
Pretty peaceful times.
Bathed and shaved, the outfit looked better. Clothes were washed and hung on a bush to dry. They passed the time sleeping and doing herd duty in shifts.
Three days later they faced the tree-filled Red River. First time Harp had seen it since they crossed it as a boy on a ferry coming from Arkansas. He didn’t have a herd back then to get across, either. Harp sent two boys with the wagons, by ferry. They were too damn scared of water and he didn’t want to tell their mothers he made them swim the Red River and they drowned. They could greet Blue and make sure the wet cattle got up on the north bank safely. All the water coming off them would make that slope slick and cattle would slide back down, so he needed hands to keep them moving.
He said if any steer got swept away—just let him go. They’d gather them later when they came to shore. No better swimmer than most of his hands, the order was to slip off your horse and hang on to his tail when the horse began to swim. Things went smoothly till one rider lost his tail-hold. Long swam after him and got him safely onto shore.
Harp fell down twice in the mud when he and his horse reached the far side. But he made it up, and they all bragged on how good they did at the crossing. Three boys rode downstream to collect the half dozen swept away.
He felt pretty good not losing more than a few. This ford, they told him, would be one of his worst crossings. They moved the herd north to graze and to camp. They were in the Indian Territory and the sign posted said that no alcohol could be carried into this territory. By order of the U.S. marshal from Van Buren, Arkansas. U.S. Federal Judge Story, presiding, would strictly enforce the law.
There would be lots of tribes and many Indian Nations to cross through, so Harp was glad Long was his scout. They’d talk to him, being part Indian, though he didn’t know one word of any Indian language and sounded like the rest of the Texans. Harp and his brother knew their origins because their father explained it and he never showed any side to one over the other, unless they were wrong.
Their mother doted on both of them. Harp really missed her great cooking and sweets she made specially for her men. She made them learn schooling and manners. And since he’d left home, he realized how pretty she was and why his father married her on their first date.
That second Texas ranch, at Camp Verde, they’d carved out of the west Texas land below Kerrville; it was a solid place. Someday he and Long would have a place together, or maybe even places of their own—someday. This trip might contribute to getting one if they made it. He had lots to learn about business and law, but he’d find out how. For right now moving these cattle from ten to fifteen miles a day was his job.
Long spoke about what some friendly Indians told him on the road—that there were gangs of outlaws robbing and murdering people along the stage road. That everyone was to go in pairs whenever they left the herd.
The next day six Indians, wrapped in blankets despite the growing heat and with rifles in hand, stopped them in the road. One old man in a headdress of feathers acted like the leader. Long was ahead scouting, so Harp met them before they could stop the herd.
Harp held up his right hand like his dad did when meeting the Comanche in peace. He gave a head toss for them to move aside. They did to allow the stream of steers to go by.
Harp dismounted and the old man did the same. They sat cross-legged on the short grass and faced each other. The old man began telling him how the great white father gave his people this land. For crossing it he owed them many dollars and several steers for his starving people.
“I have no money.” He turned his hands up. “I can give you one steer.”
“No. No. Six steers.”
With one finger held up, Harp showed him what he’d give him. The old man shook his head and went back to talking. He said he had many warriors and they could massacre the invaders and stampede his herd.
About to tell him to go to hell, Harp stopped and asked, “Do you have a shovel?”
“Huh?”
“Do you have a shovel?”
“Why?”
“When you and them warriors come back to kill us, bring a good shovel. My cook broke the handle out of ours this morning. You bring your shovel.”
“Why?”
“I am going to need it to bury you.”
“We take one wahoo.”
“I figured you would. I’ll cut one out when we stop around noon.”
The chief gathered his men and they rode off.
One of the boys came by and asked, “What did you give him?”
“One lame steer when we make camp at noontime.” Harp stood up and brushed off his seat. “Plenty enough . . . the government can feed them.”
“Didn’t he want a lot more?”
“Hell, you can ask for anything. But you aren’t getting it all from me.”
The Indians came after lunch and Harp had a limper cut out from the tail end of the herd. The Indians chased him off, ran him about a quarter away, speared him like they did buffalos, and a dozen squaws set in to butcher him.
The Froggy Bottoms was a real swampy land to cross. They avoided farms all they could and tried to not let any cattle break into crops. Another three weeks and they’d crossed the Canadian, which was at a summer low Long heard. Next to cross would be the Arkansas River and circle around to go north of the river city and get back on the stagecoach route to go over the mountains.
They’d moved along at a good pace and the grass had strength, so the steers were getting slick. They had few losses and the cowboys were all well and the horses doing all right.
Long found a place to ford the Arkansas with the herd. He told the wagon drivers and cook to go through Fort Smith, over to Van Buren, and meet them north of there. The cook said the hill going north through that town was tough for wagons.
“Hire an extra team to pull you,” Long told him.
“They cost money I don’t have.” Ira the cook shook his head.
“Harp, give him some money to get out of Van Buren,” Long said.
Harp did and now he was down to six coins.
“I’m feeling good. I’ll ford with the cattle,” Emory said.
“I wish you’d ride in the wagon. We’ve never crossed this before,” Harp told him.
“I am not an invalid. I’ll ride.”
“I am not convinced it is a good idea, Emory.”
“I do own this outfit.”
“But Long and I have to answer to your wife if anything happens to you.”
Long dropped his head and shook it. That meant he would not argue with Emory about the issue. That left Harp upset but he said, “Watch yourself. River crossings can be bad.”
They lined up to cross the shallowest portion of the Arkansas west of Fort Smith in the Indian Territory. There was another spot below Fort Smith but they’d decided this place was better to cross at and go east to Arkansas, then turn north. The camp boys and Ira the cook planned to meet them near Lee’s Creek north of Van Buren.
There was some open land for the herd to graze on there. Then they would turn northeast to get on the Butterfield Stage Road over a range of mountains in the north. The plans were to move north into a land they had a map for. The route was situated east of where the O’Malley brothers once lived at Cincinnati before their father moved the family to Texas.
Harp was down at the river edge with Chaw and Doug. The big steer Blue acted ready. Long had told him that this was the shallowest crossing there was for miles.
“Then, let’s go,” Harp said, and they shooed Blue into the water. Bell ringing, the large steer set out wading headed north in the wide river, crossing toward the far shore with hills behind beach. Harp reined his horse around as the line of steer began entering the Arkansas’s water, some stepping in and others taking a run and splashing into the water. They were bawling their heads off. He met Emory on the hillside.
“We get half of them in, then you and I will move in on the upstream side and cross. Keep an eye where they start swimming so you’re ready.”
“I’ll be fine. You two men are very organized and I can’t believe how well the pair of you have done to get here. Your father taught you a lot. I guess you know that. I commanded experienced soldiers all during the war that couldn’t match you two.”
“I am going to be close. I can swim, Emory. You get away from your horse I’ll do all I can to get to you. There’s lots of current going by. It’s sweeping a few steers downstream but they are gaining the shore and I don’t think we will lose many.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m not wearing a side arm. I could swim.”
“Just try to stay with your horse all you can.”
The cattle, with few exceptions, were streaming across an almost quarter-mile-wide ford. Some of the cowboys were going down the bank over on the other side to get the cattle that were carried away some by the current. Harp sent Emory ahead, told him to get his horse upstream from the cattle stream, and head north.
His buffalo horse followed Emory’s good Kentucky horse into the shallows. Forty feet out in water some steers had a fuss and swarmed around fighting. The big horse shied. Emory was off and in the water in a flash. Harp charged his horse in to aid him.
Those upset cattle blocked his path and he was caught in a flurry of spooked animals. He saw Emory was swimming, but he knew that the man did not have the strength to swim to that north shore. Milling steers blocked his own horse from getting to him to help him before the water deepened. He rose on his horse standing on the seat, then dove over two steers and began swimming to Emory.
He heard the men shouting as he swam through the water to get to the still swimming Emory. Then he was beside him.
“Get on my back. I can get you over there.”
His white face shocked Harp who urged him, “Do it now.”
“Thanks—”
“Never mind that. We need you on shore. Just hang on.”
“I’m sorry, Harp. You said—”
“Save your strength.” He began to stroke for the shore. The current was stronger than it looked, but he wanted his employer in shallow water as fast as possible, and they had a long way to go.
Three of his men were in the river out about as far as he figured their horses could stand in the river’s force, waiting for him to get close to them. Once, when Emory let go of him, Harp’s heart stopped. He swung around and could see him floating away not struggling.
Harp went after him and in minutes he had hold of him. Holding Emory’s head up he fought the river, towing him along going farther downstream but shore bound.
Doug swam his horse out, took Emory’s collar, and swung the horse back for shore.
“He alive?”
“I think so.”
Chaw waited for Harp in the shallower water, tossed him a lariat, and hauled him to shore. “Did you save him?”
Harp climbed to his feet in the shallows. “I hope so. I think he simply passed out and let go of me.”
“Man, where did you learn to swim like that?” Chaw asked, impressed.
“A place on the Illinois River north of here. My father’s first wife drowned and so he made us learn how to swim at an early age.”
Chaw shook his head. “When he let go, I thought he was drowned.”
Harp dropped on his knees beside the man. “Emory, what happened?”
“My heart I guess. I blanked out. Sorry. You sure risked your life for me.”
“Never mind that.” He looked up for help. “Men, we need a wagon. And find a doctor to check him. The rest of you, gather all the cattle and start them east. That road up there goes to Lee’s Creek and that is where the wagons will be this afternoon.” He pointed east.
His point rider Chaw said, “We’ll send for a wagon and the rest of us will take the herd to Long.”
A hand jumped on his horse and rode off, hard, to find a wagon. Chaw and Doug retrieved the last cattle and drove them to the huddled herd. Several herders rode by to voice their concern about Emory.
Harp told them, “He is alive and will be well. We’ve sent for a wagon to get him to a doctor who will check him out. You guys get those steers to Lee’s Creek.”
“Sure will, boss. You tell him we are praying for him to get well.”
“I will.”
In a few minutes they started the herd east. His point riders left him the young puncher Norm Savoy, a boy in his teens, to help him.
He squatted nearby. “Good thing it’s hot today. All our blankets are at Lee’s Creek huh?”
“I wish we had some. Never can do a good job planning everything all the time.” Harp felt satisfied that Emory was sleeping. Damn, why didn’t he put his foot down when he was already worried about him taking the river. Emory, before the war, was out of the same mold he and Long were—did it all. But his war wound and that bullet still in his chest had rationed his activities, and there was no way he could have swum across that damn fishy-smelling river.
No telling what would happen next. His father told him Arkansas people could be real hard nosed. Most of the war had been centered up there with both sides fighting back and forth across the same ground. And for him to expect anything to happen.
In an hour cowboy Kevin Doones returned, followed by a wagon and team. The overall-wearing man on the spring seat who drove it was black. He reined up his mules and wrapped off the reins, jumped down, and came over to ask Harp what he could do for them. They shook hands.
“My name’s Washington Adams, sir.”
“Harp O’Malley’s mine. Where is the closest doctor?”
“Roland there’s one.”
“We need to take him up there in your wagon. One of us will ride with him. The rest will ride their horses.”
“I ain’t got no blankets.”
“He’ll understand. We’ll be careful loading him. Best we can do is the best we can do, Washington.”
“Yes, sah. I’s help you move him.”
“Thanks.”
On his knees, Harp spoke to him. “Emory, we’re taking you to the doctor in Mr. Washington’s wagon. We don’t have a mattress, but we’ll get you there and get you checked out.”
The four loaded him. Harp told Norm to ride with him. “We’ll catch your horse and bring him on.” Kevin caught his horse and Emory’s and they all started for Roland.
The doctor’s house was a two-story affair on the main road. Harp dismounted and went ahead to knock on the door. Emory was awake and they waited to unload him.
A white-haired woman answered the door.
Harp removed his hat. “Is the doctor in?”
“Yes, do you need to see him?”
“No, ma’am. But my boss had an incident happen crossing the river. I think it is his heart.”
“Can you bring him inside?”
“Yes.”
“The doctor can see him right away.”
“I will get him.” He turned to go back. “Thanks.”
“The doc will see him. We need to get him inside. Mr. Washington, do you have time to wait? I may need him hauled to Lee’s Creek where my herd is waiting.”
“Mr. Harp, I got all the time you need.”
“Thanks.”
They moved Emory inside carefully and put him on a table. To Harp he looked terribly white and drained, but he still could manage a smile.
Doctor Mulligan was a man in his forties. A concerned-looking man who listened to Emory’s heart with his stethoscope first, and then asked about the scar on his chest.
“He was wounded in the war. They never got the bullet out. He said they told him it was too close to his heart.”
Mulligan nodded. “His heartbeat is irregular. What else happened to him?”
“We forded the river about an hour or so ago. His horse got mixed up with some fighting cattle. He almost drowned before I could swim and catch him, then he passed out on me coming to shore.”
Mulligan made a face. “He should have been in a boat and rowed across.”
Harp nodded. “My supply wagons used the ferries at Fort Smith and Van Buren. I tried to convince him to go with them. He told me he could make it.”
“Not much I can do. I have some medicine that will increase his heart rate and if he is not bleeding internally it will help him.”
“Would that business in the river have caused him to bleed inside?”
Mulligan shook his head. “I have no idea where the bullet is or if he’s bleeding inside. I can’t see that part. A small increase in his heartbeat would help him. That is, if he’s not bleeding internally.”
“He’s a pretty strong man.”
“I can tell that. I am recommending small doses of laudanum for the pain and this medicine to increase his heartbeat. You could leave him here to recover, but I get the impression it is urgent for you to move on. With him with you.”
“Yes, it is. I have eight hundred head of big Texas steers at Lee’s Creek to move north.”
The doctor nodded. “He will have to lay flat and hope that his condition improves. I will be frank, moving him may be the death of him, but you will have to be the judge.”
“Take the medicine along—I’ll make it,” Emory managed.
“You heard him, Doctor. Tell me how much and when I need to give it.”
Doc explained the procedure. “A drop on his tongue once a day. If his heart slows, two more drops. One teaspoon of laudanum morning and night. His pain goes down, stop it.”
“What is this drop stuff ?”
“A herb called digitalis. It increases the heartbeat. You can find it if you run out.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Two dollars.”
“You have change for ten?”
“Yes.”
Harp felt grateful for the steer money. And pocketed the change. He went out to see about Washington and found Norm.
“The black man has gone for a mattress and blankets.”
“Guess he read my mind,” Harp said, looking up and down the street. No sign of Washington. Surely he was coming back.
“He’s sure a nice guy.”
“We were lucky to find him,” Harp agreed.
“What about Emory?”
“The doc gave me some medicine for him. I don’t know much about doctoring folks, Norm, but I have the instructions.”
“I hear the wagon coming back. Kevin is letting the horses graze. He’ll hear him and come back.”
“I imagine it will be a good haul to Lee’s Creek.”
“I do, too.”
With Emory carefully loaded on the bed that Washington acquired, they set out east to find the herd. On the river road, he jogged the horses. They’d be out of daylight before they reached the herd, and Harp sure didn’t want to miss them.
About sundown one of the cowboys, Eldon Morehouse, waved them down after they crossed a shallow creek. “We’re up the road on a burned-out farm. How is he?”
“Alive,” Harp said, and thanked him.
Long met them on the road. “How is he?”
“Tough shape. But he’s alive. Doc back at Roland wanted him to stay there and recover. Emory won’t hear of it.”
Long nodded. “This drive is his baby. We have a good place tonight. I think another good place tomorrow. But there’s lots of mountains they say ahead, just timber and no grass.”
“Well, it hasn’t been a joy ride anywhere we’ve gone.”
“Fayetteville is the next big town. Maybe five days or more north.”
Harp nodded. “We need to fix him a bed in the smaller wagon. I simply hope he does not die on us.”
Long agreed. When they reached camp it was dark. He invited Washington to eat with him and the boys.
“Aw I don’t need to do that.”
“Yes, you do. You saved his life today and you got that bedding. We want you to eat with us.”
“All right, Mr. Harp. I will eat with you.”
“Good. What do I owe you?”
“Fifty cents too much?”
“Too little. I’m paying you two dollars. What did the mattress cost?”
“Ten cents.”
“Here’s three dollars; now come eat. Ira has lots of food. And you’ll stay and eat breakfast with us in the morning.”
“Aw, Mr. Harp, that be way too much money.”
“No, Washington, you were a lifesaver.”
“I sure am proud that cowboy stopped me today. Thank all of yous.”
They cheered him.
“By the way, where be this place yous be going?”
“Sedalia, Missouri.”
“Never heard of it. But good luck.”
“Thanks. We will need it.” Harp nodded and sat down, with his plate on the ground, beside the big man.
“How long yous been on the road?”
“A month or maybe more.”
“How far dis place be you going to?”
“Maybe two months. Maybe less.”
Washington nodded. “I pray for you to get there and him to live.”
“Thanks. We need all the help we can get.”
“No. Yous’ll do it. I see in these boys’ faces you bunch are real doers. They worried about the boss man being down but they ain’t no quitters in the whole lot. Mr. Harp, I say these boys would go straight through hell with you.”
“Thanks again. That is a big compliment for me and them.”
“That be the truth.” Washington went to feeding his face.
Later Harp talked to Emory, who ate some watery oatmeal and said he felt better.
But the boss man was miles away from being well, and Harp knew he would worry about him and the wagon rocking miles ahead.
Damn . . . how did I get in such a jam ?