CHAPTER SEVEN
AFTER TWO DAYS’ hard riding, Breckenridge and Pate reached the Texas High Plains. On the third day, Tascosa came into view. They had left the basin of the Red River and traveled west across the flat and windswept countryside. They passed a few sheep ranches, and their horses occasionally shied as tumbleweeds blew across their path. The late-day sky as far as the riders could see was filled with red dust.
“Don’t look like the Good Lord wasted much time creating this part of the world,” Jonesy observed.
The scenery didn’t improve much as they reached the outskirts of town. There were a half dozen adobe structures crowded together, all facing the lone street that ran through the makeshift community. The only wooden structure was a stable with several rows of tents behind it. Like Eagle Flat, Tascosa seemed to have a single purpose. Cattle drivers, looking for a less congested route north to Dodge City, had begun coming this way. The need for a resting place where chuck wagons could be restocked, tired horses could be fed and shod, and cowboys could find whiskey, hot baths, and poker games had given birth to the village.
As Breckenridge and Pate slowly rode through the town, such as it was, they saw no church or school, and no evidence of a jail or any law-enforcement presence.
“Looks like it’s wide-open and every man for himself,” Clay said.
“And this is where you believe your brother was living?”
“Just a guess, but I think it best if we get ourselves the lay of the land before we begin asking any questions.”
There was no evidence of a café, but they found that the saloon served a limited menu. “Seems as good a place as any to get ourselves better known,” Jonesy said.
As they entered, they scanned the room filled with boisterous cowboys and a few buffalo hunters badly in need of shaves and baths. There was no room at the bar, and most of the tables were occupied. The place smelled of stale beer, boiled cabbage, and cigar smoke.
Jonesy leaned toward Clay and whispered, “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess there’s been a jailbreak and everybody’s chose to hide out here.”
From behind the bar, a female voice welcomed them. Her auburn hair was pulled back, held in place by a red ribbon. She was tall, slim, and tanned, maybe thirty years old. “You boys just find yourselves a chair, and I’ll tend your needs shortly.”
When two men left a small corner table to join a poker game across the room, Clay and Jonesy took a seat and continued to survey their surroundings.
“Howdy, strangers,” the woman said as she appeared at their table. “If you’re hungry, we’ve got steak and beans and corn bread. If drinking’s your pleasure, we got whiskey and beer, both homemade.”
“We’ll eat and wash it down with your beer,” Clay said.
The woman nodded and smiled. “Name’s Madge,” she said. “This is my place. You’re welcome so long as you don’t start no fighting, spit tobacco on my floor, or cheat at cards.”
Jonesy laughed. “Fair enough, I’d say.” After she’d left, he glanced across at Clay. “What do you think chances are that all three of those rules get broken on a regular basis?”
One fight, in fact, broke out at the bar even before their meal arrived. They watched as Madge raised a shotgun, pointed it at the cowboys, and demanded they leave or get shot. As the two drunks staggered toward the door, Jonesy said, “You have to admit, we’ve got no entertainment like this back home in Aberdene.”
When she arrived from the kitchen with their orders, Clay asked, “Would you really have shot those fellas?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not. They’re good customers.”
They ordered more beer, enjoying being out of the saddle. A brief argument broke out at one of the nearby poker tables but was short-lived and no cause for Madge to threaten bodily harm. None of the customers said so much as a “howdy” to the travelers.
“So I’d admire to know your thinking on what our plan is now that we’re here. You think some of these rowdy folks might have been associates of Cal?”
“If so, they would have known him as Will Darby, since that’s the name he took on after his leave-taking from the army. Until we get a better idea of who these folks are, I think it best we keep our purpose to ourselves.”
“I think you done already spoke with one person who knows everybody in town and what their business is,” Jonesy said, looking toward the bar, where Madge was busy refilling whiskey glasses.
THE LIVERY OWNER told them that since there was no cattle drive in town or expected in the next few days, there were plenty of tents available to rent. “And there’s a water pump out back of the stables that you’re welcome to use. Rest assured your horses will be fed and well cared for,” he said. “How long you boys stayin’?”
“Not sure,” Clay said. “Couple of days, maybe longer. We’re just passing through.”
They hadn’t been settled in their tent long before Pate was snoring gently. Breckenridge, however, lay awake, his mind racing with questions. Was this godforsaken place where his brother had escaped to? What had drawn him here to associate with people unlike any they had known growing up? Had he become an outlaw, doing harm to others? What had he done to make a murderous enemy? What had he done to be called a coward?
And how far would Clay actually go to make things right if he found answers to his questions? Since the war ended, he’d had a recurring nightmare of that day on faraway Palmito Ranch when he killed the Union soldier. He’d vowed it would be the last act of violence he would ever commit.
Yet now he felt deep and burning anger that was fueling this journey. And it made him uncomfortable. He’d felt no remorse when he’d cracked the skull of the rustlers’ sentry or shot another. And now, God help him, he wanted to kill again.
It was almost daylight when he finally gave way to restless sleep.