CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AS THE HORSES carefully made their way down a narrow trail, the horizon disappeared, replaced by towering walls of jagged rock formations. Darby had never seen anything like it. “What is this place?” he called out to Bootsy, who was leading the way.
“It’s called Palo Duro Canyon,” he said. “Runs for miles and miles, getting deeper and deeper. The history books say the Spanish explorers came on it hundreds of years back. Wasn’t too long ago that the Apaches, then the Kiowas, then the Comanches settled in, using it as a place to do their hunting and to trade horses to the Comancheros. Now it’s just us.”
“Us?”
“Yep, this here’s where Mr. Baggett headquarters.”
Shortly, they reached the canyon floor and arrived at an opening where a rambling encampment was alive with activity. Against both canyon walls were rows of small log cabins. In the middle was an open-sided pavilion, where meetings were held and meals taken. There were a holding pen for the horses and a cistern that provided water for a fenced garden. There were tents and dugouts, firepits, a smokehouse, and a storage building that housed everything from saddles to extra parts for a couple of wagons.
A flock of chickens scattered as the riders approached.
“You’ll be bunking in one of the tents,” Bootsy said. “The cabins are reserved for those who have been on the payroll longest.” He explained that when not on the trail, rustling and robbing, everyone had duties to perform at the camp. “Ol’ Duster, for instance, he’s the cook. Done the same for a cattle company down south before he joined up. He’s got a couple of boys who help him with tending the smokehouse and his garden, which he’s mighty proud of. We got fellas who are good at building things or cutting firewood and hauling water. The young Baggett has two or three he handpicks to occasionally accompany him into town for supplies.”
“What town’s that?” Darby asked.
“There’s a little place known as Tascosa that’s not too far north. Mr. Baggett don’t cotton to us visiting except on special occasions, so don’t be thinking about wandering off. I expect in time we’ll know what chores you’re best suited to. No doubt, there’ll be something that’ll keep you busy.”
As they pulled their horses up to a watering trough, the elder Baggett emerged from one of the cabins. “I see you boys made it back in one piece,” he yelled. “The other group’s already home.” He approached Bootsy, who was lifting the money bag from his saddle horn.
They walked to the pavilion and sat down at a table, where the cook had already placed a pot of coffee and tin cups. Dell Baggett joined them as his father shook out the contents of the canvas bag. “How many?”
“Twenty-eight,” Bootsy said. “One of ’em appeared a bit wormy, so I cut the price by a dollar, thinking that to be good business.”
Baggett nodded as he began silently counting the money. Once done, he made four small stacks of bills and pushed one in the direction of each man. Before he could ask, Bootsy assured him that the two newcomers had carried out their jobs well.
“Good to hear,” Baggett said. “Get yourselves cleaned and rested,” he said. “Then look to enjoying a home-cooked meal this evening. You’ll not be going out again for a few days. We’ve got a group that rode out earlier today, and Renfro’s on the trail, doing his scouting. When he comes back with news, we’ll consider plans for your next trip.”
He folded the money, placed it back in the bag, and left, Dell following. “You boys enjoy your coffee,” he said.
Once the pot was empty, the men led their horses to the corral and unsaddled them. “Which tent will be mine?” Darby asked.
Bootsy pointed. “That one over yonder.” He placed a hand on Darby’s shoulder. “How does it feel, having money in your pocket with more to come?”
“Can’t say I mind it.”
“My advice is save it and not go spending it needlessly. That’s what I’ve been doing for quite some time. One of these days, I hope to have me a grubstake large enough to start up my own cattle business.”
“Same as Baggett’s cattle business?”
Bootsy laughed and rubbed his hand across his blind eye. “What else?”
WILL STRETCHED OUT in his tent, enjoying the first moment of solitude he’d had since leaving Las Lunas. Several times he slid his hand into his pocket to touch his money. Earning the wages had not been difficult yet he had a disquieting feeling that would not go away. Not that he hadn’t stolen before, but taking from people who depended on what he’d taken for their livelihood troubled him. Thieving for a living, being part of an outlaw gang, was not a future he’d imagined for himself.
He felt his wages again, seeking some manner of justification for his actions. He attempted to turn his thoughts to other things. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize his pa and his brother, Clay, back on the farm, but the visions were marred by his awareness of the disapproval they would feel. The same happened when he thought of Father Bradley and his family. Will Darby felt desperately alone as he struggled with the most recent of his bad decisions.
IN THE MONTHS to come, his concern only grew.
The routine was always the same. One of the scouts would return to the camp, describing some hardscrabble farm or ranch where cattle could be easily stolen. They would ride out, do their midnight rustling, then meet up with trail drivers who paid for the herd and rode away.
For reasons Darby never understood or questioned, he wasn’t assigned a regular chore. With time on his hands, he occasionally volunteered to help cut firewood or haul water. He even took it upon himself to gather the eggs, making a game of seeking out the hidden nests of the free-range hens.
One evening after supper, he was returning to his tent when the cook called his name. “The boss wants to see you up at his cabin,” he said.
Baggett was sitting on the front porch, a glass of whiskey in his hand. “Thanks for coming, Will. Let’s go inside, where I can find you a glass. I recall you being a whiskey man, right?”
“Yessir.”
“Well, then, let’s have us a drink and do a little talking.”
The cabin was spare and uninviting. There was a single room with a large bed, a table, and chairs. Against one wall were a fireplace and a shelf that held a few dime novels. The rug in the middle of the rock floor was faded and frayed. Will wondered why Baggett spent so much time in such a colorless place.
He poured Darby a drink and motioned for him to take a chair. “I’ve been waiting for you to get settled in before having this conversation,” he said. “You’re no doubt aware you’ve not been assigned any chores here in the canyon. The reason is I have a special job I’d like for you to consider. I’ve had it in mind ever since I seen how you fought off them fellows back in Las Lunas.”
Will was suddenly feeling uneasy but said nothing. Instead, he sipped at his whiskey.
“Don’t know as you’ve noticed,” Baggett continued, “but my boy ain’t what we’ll call assertive. He’s not likely to fight, even to defend himself. I’m aware of a few times when he’s taken a whupping, then lied to me about why he came home with a black eye or a split lip.
“As you’re aware, he occasionally takes the wagon up to Tascosa to buy supplies. And I know that while he’s there, he admires a visit to the saloon. There’s folk who frequent that establishment that don’t look kindly on us. My fear’s that there might be trouble one day that Dell ain’t properly prepared to handle.”
“I thought he was always accompanied by a couple of the men,” Will said.
“That’s true, but I have no confidence they’re capable of taking care of themselves, much less my boy, should things turn drunk ugly. I’ve seen that you’re blessed with that talent. So what I have in mind is for you to accompany Will when he leaves camp, particularly if his destination is Tascosa. It would give me a great comfort.”
For a moment, Will acted as if he was contemplating the suggested arrangement, knowing all the while that Ben Baggett would not accept no for an answer. “I’ll do my best, sir,” he said.
“Fine, fine. I knew I could count on you.” He poured more whiskey, and as Will picked up his glass, Baggett left the table and went to a footlocker at the end of his bed. He returned with a gun belt and a shiny Colt in a hand-tooled holster. “I’d feel better knowing you were wearing this,” Baggett said.
WHEN WILL RETURNED to his tent, Bootsy was standing outside, puffing on his corncob pipe. “With it being such a nice evening and all, I was wondering if you might like some company,” he said.
Bootsy was the closest thing to a friend Will had in the camp. He didn’t even know many of the other hands by name. People, he’d decided early on, didn’t sign up with Ben Baggett to develop friendships.
Two cups of coffee were sitting on a flat rock near the tent’s entrance. “Cook had some left over from dinner, so he obliged me with the dregs.”
“I’ve just come from Mr. Baggett’s cabin,” Will said, assuming that Bootsy already knew. “He had a proposition on his mind.”
“And?”
He outlined the proposal the boss had made. “I didn’t see it as a matter I really had a choice in,” Will said, “so I agreed to do it.”
Bootsy puffed at his pipe. “Seems to me,” he said, “you just got yourself a promotion. Tells me the ol’ man sees you as somethin’ special. Young Dell’s not likely to appreciate having a bodyguard trailing along, doing his bidding, but seeing how it’s his daddy’s notion, he’ll have to make his peace with the idea. Ain’t nobody here, Dell Baggett included, who goes against the wishes of the boss.”
It sounded more like a warning to Will than an observation.
They sat as darkness arrived and the ink black sky filled with stars. “You ever get weary of all this?” Will asked. “Ever want to just ride away somewhere and be by your lonesome, known to nobody?”
“When I was your age, I occasionally considered such notions. But time passes, and a body gets too tired to even think of such matters, much less act on them. You reach a point where you just accept your lot in life, trying to make it through one day at a time. Still, I have to admit, there are times when I think about owning my own place.”
The conversation went silent, the only sounds the wind humming through the canyon and coyotes calling out to their mates.
Finally, Will spoke. “I got another question that I’ve got no rightful cause for asking. If you consider it none of my business, just say so.”
“What’s that?”
“How was it you lost your eye?”
For a time it didn’t appear Bootsy was inclined to answer. “Back in my younger days, before stealing cattle became my trade, I had it in mind that I’d make my fortune as a buffalo hunter, selling skins and gathering the bones of carcasses picked clean by buzzards. The work was hard and stunk to high heaven, but it turned a nice profit.
“We were up on the Kansas plains and had made camp for the night when this band of renegades—Comanches—came riding down on us, hollering and shooting. Before we could get to our feet and raise our guns, my partner was shot dead. One of them come at me with the biggest knife I ever saw. We struggled for a bit before he slashed my face, cuttin’ through my eye.
“The pain was like nothing I’d ever known. It felt like he’d cut plumb into my brain, and I was wishing they’d go ahead and kill me as well. Instead, they bound my hands and feet, propped me up, and forced me to watch as they scalped my dead partner. Then they cut his skin away and opened him up. Last thing I remember was them eating his bloody heart.”
Will shook his head. “But you survived . . .”
“Next morning some other buffalo hunters found me and rode me to Topeka for doctoring. For a time I wore me an eye patch, but soon wearied of drunks and smart mouths referring to me as One-Eye. Last one who did got himself killed.”
He knocked ashes from his pipe. “So now you know my story.”
Then he rose and stretched his legs. “Time to put these weary ol’ bones to bed,” he said. Before walking away, he looked down at the Colt Will had been given by Baggett.
“Fine-lookin’ sidearm,” he said. “Hope you’ll not have cause to use it.”