CHAPTER FIVE
THOUGH THE SUN was not yet up, the aroma of brewing coffee and frying pork already wafted from Sally’s Café. Having settled their account at the livery, Clay, Jonesy, and Lonnie tied their horses to the hitching posts out front. They were planning on breakfast and an early getaway.
While Lonnie had been inside the livery the previous evening, cleaning his saddle with an oil rag Sam Dunham loaned him, Clay and Jonesy sat outside, enjoying the warmth of the spring night and discussing what they should do about their young friend.
“Ain’t like we’re eaten up with good options,” Pate said.
Breckenridge agreed. They couldn’t simply ride away, leaving Lonnie to fend for himself. On the other hand, there was no way to assure his safety if they allowed him to accompany them on the potentially dangerous mission they had in mind.
“He’s got a good head on his shoulders and will do as he’s told,” Clay said. “We’ll just have to do all we can to see the boy’s protected from harm.”
“All things considered,” Jonesy said, “I enjoy the youngster’s company.”
“Me, too.”
SALLY WAITED UNTIL they had almost completed their meal before he took a seat at their table. He placed a bandanna wrapped around a dozen still-warm biscuits in front of Pate. “Don’t want you folks getting hungry on the trail,” he said. “I hope once you’re done with your traveling and headed back home you’ll remember to stop here at Eagle Flat for a visit.”
He then reached over and ruffled Lonnie’s unruly red hair. “Boy, you be sure and watch out for bad men and rattlesnakes,” he said.
THE DAY WARMED quickly once the sun was up, and they rode in single file along the bank of the river. Clay, bringing up the rear, watched Lonnie thoughtfully, trying with little success to put himself in the boy’s situation.
His thoughts drifted to the time when he was Lonnie’s age. Life growing up on the farm had been good for him and his younger brother. Their parents had expected them to do their part of the work but also realized the importance of boyhood fun. On summer days, Clay and Cal fished and swam in the creek that wound through the Breckenridge place. They hunted squirrel and rabbit and turkeys and felt a special pride when their mother would prepare a meal from what they brought home.
It seemed there was always a pie or cobbler cooling on the windowsill above the kitchen sink.
Even when Cal became increasingly rebellious, getting into fights at school, arguing with their father, and talking of running away from home, the good times outweighed the bad. At Lonnie’s age, Clay had felt safe, loved, and happy.
His reflection was interrupted when he heard Jonesy call out, “Whoa. What do we have here?”
The answer to his question was easy. At the mouth of a ravine was what had obviously been a campsite. There were several cold firepits, and debris was scattered about. The ground beneath a nearby stand of trees where horses had been tethered was stomped bare and hard. There were burned-out torches and a stench of rotted food.
Pate and Breckenridge dismounted and slowly walked the abandoned encampment. “Had to been at least a half dozen of them,” Pate said, “and they weren’t Indians.”
“A gang of night rustlers be my guess,” Clay said. “If I was a betting man, I’d wager the folks who was camping here are the same ones who stole Abe Silverton’s cows the other night.”
Jonesy nodded in agreement.
“You know,” said Clay, “that morning I went into town to speak with Marshal Rankin about Cal, he’d just got back from looking into a cattle rustling. Reckon it could be the same folks?”
He had heard tales of such thievery while in the service. Not all men fighting for the pride and honor of the South were upstanding, law-abiding citizens. Around late-night campfires, some would brag of stealing cattle. To hear them talk, it was a simple, low-risk crime.
“Most ranchers, particularly the small ones, don’t bother having hands ride fences of a night,” one slightly drunk private had explained. “So you pick yourselves a moonless evening, bust a hole in the fence, and drive twenty or thirty head out. Long before first light, you’re across the Red River into Indian Territory. There, you meet up with some trail driver who ain’t particular whose cattle he’s moving. Before he gets to where the herd’s gonna be sold, he cuts out those that was stole and sells them separate, earning himself a nice profit. Sometimes, Indians living on reservations in the Territory will meet you just as you cross the river and buy every cow with government money they’ve been given. They’ll take them back to the tribes and sell them off for food. Everybody’s happy as a pig in slop—except for the rancher whose stock got stolen in the first place.”
After Clay shared his story, Jonesy felt good about having his own hands patrol the fence line of his place. “You figure that’s what happened with Silverton’s cattle?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
Clay didn’t mention his concern that his brother had always seemed unusually interested in the campfire rustling stories before his decision to desert.
AS THE DAYS and miles passed, Lonnie was increasingly inclined to join into conversations, even occasionally instigating them. He continued to avoid talking of his parents but expressed great interest in his new surroundings and the purpose of the trip they were taking. Clay and Jonesy were glad to explain the geography, the animal and plant life, but remained elusive about where they were headed and why.
The youngster also had a knack for cooking. When they stopped to rest the horses at midday, he would take one of the rifles and hunt squirrels or rabbits to fry in lard for the evening meal. In the mornings, he had coffee brewing and biscuits warming even before the others were awake. He also saw to it that the horses were well cared for.
ONE EARLY MORNING, Lonnie saw a lazy trail of white smoke rising above a distant tree line. “Might be folks living nearby,” he said, “but I ain’t seen no fences.”
“Lot of this country is still open range,” Jonesy explained. “Settlers can’t afford fencing or just ain’t inclined, being as they’re so isolated. I’d suggest we detour in that direction and see if those folks might have some hay or grain we can purchase for our horses.”
As they approached the adobe-and-cedar-log house, chickens scattered and a dog rushed out to greet them. His bark was friendly.
“Hello the house,” Clay called out.
An elderly man with a tangled beard and shoulder-length hair appeared on the front porch. He was frail, dressed in overalls, and pointing a shotgun in their direction. The dog had been far more welcoming.
“State your cause for being on my property,” he said.
“We’re traveling west and wondered if you might be willing to part with some feed for our horses,” Clay said. “They’re getting a tad weary of nothing but prairie grass and bush berries.”
“Won’t be free.”
“We’d expect to pay a fair price.”
“Then climb on down.” He leaned his shotgun against the outside wall as his wife appeared in the doorway.
“I’ve got leftover pear pie you boys are welcome to,” she said.
The interior of the house was clean but spare: just two rooms and little furniture—a kitchen with a stove, a table, and two wooden chairs; the other room was filled by a rock fireplace and a bed. The only thing adorning the wall was a small mirror.
As his wife placed a plate of pie and a glass of milk in front of Lonnie, Nester Callaway was apologizing to his guests. “We’re not normally lacking in hospitality,” he said, “but these have been hard times of late. Causes a fella to have suspicions of everybody.”
Two nights earlier, rustlers had also visited his place. “They made off with the whole herd, even the new calves. Wasn’t but ten cows and a breeding bull, but they were all we had.” He explained that he and his wife had come to Texas from southern Missouri where he’d worked as a sharecropper. They had staked their small claim in this isolated region and used their savings to buy a few head of cattle.
“All I got left now is two stubborn mules and a milk cow. My days of being a cattleman are past. Now either I farm us a living or we go back to planting cotton in Missouri.”
The tired look of defeat on their host’s face distressed Breckenridge and Pate. “Your story is similar to others we’ve been hearing during our traveling,” Jonesy said.
“How far from the river is your place?” Clay asked.
“A shade over a mile,” Callaway said. “I wanted to be close enough for hauling water and far enough away in case of flooding.”
“Shallow enough to drive cattle across?”
“No more than knee-deep, bank to bank.” Callaway changed the subject. “You folks didn’t stop in to hear about my woes,” he said. “Let me go out to the barn and see about some feed for your horses.”
The men followed him, then lagged behind. “Just how quickly is it we’re needing to get to Tascosa?” Jonesy asked Clay when Callaway was out of earshot.
“We got no deadline. Why?”
“There’s probably not much chance, but I’m wondering if we might be able to find this old fella’s cattle. Maybe put a stop to this thieving that’s going on along the river.”
“You saying we ought to take on a bunch of outlaw rustlers?”
“Don’t seem anybody else is of a mind to. We brought them rifles for a purpose other than squirrel hunting, didn’t we?”