Catlow (1963) (3 page)

"You came along at the right time."

Merridew shrugged, and filled another cup, then added a dollop of whiskey. He brought it to Cowan. "I dunno ... you might have made it."

Cowan drank the whiskey and coffee and felt better. "Who are you driving for?"

Merridew glanced up; his hard old eyes were level. "Ourselves ... who else? When the big outfits dropped the bonus we struck off for ourselves." He looked suspiciously at Cowan. "You mean you ain't heard?"

"That Bijah's wanted for rustling? I heard, but I never believe all I hear. Before I'd believe a thing like that I'd have to hear it from Bijah." He finished the bit of coffee in the bottom of the cup. "As far as I'm concerned, Bijah has as much right to brand mavericks for himself as for the big outfits."

Johnny Caxton rode up to the fire and stepped down from the saddle. Ben Cowan noted the sleeve folded over the stub of the arm, but he offered no comment. When he had last seen Johnny he'd had two good arms, but as far as he was concerned Johnny would be a top-hand under any circumstances.

Johnny glanced his way. "Hi, Ben. Anybody feed you?"

"Just woke up. The Old Man here gave me some special coffee."

Ben Cowan eased his wounded leg out from under the blankets. A thought struck him and he looked quickly around the camp. "You boys missed a day on account of me, didn't you?"

All the signs were there, the question needless. He knew what a camp looked like after a day, and after two days. He also knew how important it was to all of them to get this drive through on time--before Parkman or the law could interfere.

Johnny brought the pot over and refilled his cup. Ben stared bitterly at the coffee. Bijah was a wild one, but he was no thief ... at least, he never had been. Yet it was a time when many a man was being called an outlaw for slapping brands on cattle. To get away with that, you had to have a big outfit and breeding stock.

"We missed two days," Johnny commented, "one findin' you, one while you're restin' up."

Bijah came in when the guards changed. "Hiya, Shorthorn!" he said. "Surprised somebody hasn't shot that badge off you by now."

He squatted on his heels and studied Ben Cowan with a hard grin. "You packin' a warrant for me?"

"No. If I was, I'd serve it."

Bijah chuckled, and rolled a cigarette. "You ain't changed none." He touched his tongue to the paper. "We goin' to have trouble in Kansas?"

"You know Parkman."

Bijah lighted the cigarette with a stick from the fire. "Nine of us teamed to make this drive, and we rounded up the stock and did the branding. Johnny there, he lost his arm on the job, an' Nigger Jim was killed. Well, Jim left no kin that anybody knows of, but he thought a sight of that girl he was seeing down on the Leon River. Seemed to me we would take his share to her."

Ben Cowan accepted the plate he was handed, and then he said, "Bijah, you drive on to Abilene. When you're a few miles out, I'll ride in and see how things stand."

"I know Bear River Tom Smith," Merridew commented. "He's a reasonable man."

Cowan glanced at him. "Smith's dead. They've brought Wild Bill Hickok in as marshal."

Catlow looked up quickly. "The gunfighter? I've heard of him."

"He's the real thing, and don't forget it," Ben said. "A lot of the boys from down our way underrate him, but don't you make that mistake."

"I'm in too much trouble now," Bijah said. "I'm not riding into Kansas for anything but a chance to sell this herd."

Night threw a shadow on the world, and the night guard looked up from their horses to the circling stars and followed the pointers to the North Star, which was their guide to Kansas. Ben Cowan turned restlessly in his blankets easing his wounded leg against the throbbing pain. He stared up at the stars, reflecting again upon the strange destiny that seemed to tie his life to that of Bijah Catlow.

The thought worried him, for Catlow was a reckless man in many ways--never reckless of his life, although to the casual observer he might seem so, but reckless of the law. But in this case Ben Cowan, like many another Texan, believed Catlow was right, and the branding of mavericks was an old custom.

At dawn they were moving north, Ben Cowan riding his own horse, and easing his leg against the pain.

Bijah dropped back beside him. "Ben, I'm holdin' them west of the trail; figurin' we ain't so likely to run up against any trouble, that way."

"You duckin' trouble?"

"The boys have got too much at stake. We worked our tails off to get these steers together. Me, I don't care. Neither does the OH Man or Rio Bray; but Johnny, he's got to get him a stake out of this, now that he's left with only one arm."

They rode along a low hill upwind from the herd to stay free of the dust.

"He figures to start him a restaurant," Bijah went on.

"How about you?"

Catlow shot him a quick look. "You goin' to preach at me again? Damn it, Ben, you know I'm pointed for a hangin' or prison, so don't try to head me off."

"You're too good a man, Bijah. Too good to go that way."

"Maybe ... but I'm a born rebel, Ben. You're the smart one. You'll ride it quiet and come out of it with a sight more than me. I only hope that when the chips are down and they send somebody after me that it won't be you. You wouldn't back up from what you figure is your duty, and I sure wouldn't want you to ... and I'd never back up, either."

"I know it. I've asked for a transfer to another district, anyway. We may never see each other again."

Bijah slapped him on the shoulder. "That's gloomy talk. I figure to whip your socks off four or five times yet." Bijah threw him a quick glance. "Ben, what you figure to do when we hit Abilene? You said you might help."

"First, I'll clear it with Hickok. He's all right. He doesn't give a damn what happened in Texas or anywhere else. All he wants is peace in Abilene."

"You still have to stack your guns when you come into town?"

"That was under Smith. Wild Bill doesn't care whether you wear them or not, as long as you don't do any shooting. If you decide to do any, you'd better start with him, because if you shoot he'll come after you."

"Smith was a good man. I met up with him that time I rode up to Colorado with that Indian beef." Bijah moved downslope to turn a ranging steer back into the drive. "Why are you so willing to front for me with Wild Bill?"

"He'll listen to me. I'm an officer, too. And you might just be cocky enough to try to throw a gun on him and get killed."

"The way I remember it, you fancy yourself with that hogleg you're carryin'. Why, there was a time you claimed you were faster than me!"

Ben chuckled. "Only said it to you, Bijah and you know it, you Irish lunkhead. If anybody shoots you, let's keep it in the family."

Catlow laughed good-humoredly. "When the time comes it'll simply bust my heart to kill you. For a sheriff, you're a pretty good sort."

Ben eased his foot in the stirrup, keeping his face straight against the pain. He had no right to complain, with only a bullet through his calf. Johnny Caxton was riding back there with a stump for an arm; but with one arm or two, Johnny Caxton was a good man, and he drove that team of broncs as though he sat the saddle of a bad horse.

Turning in the saddle, Ben Cowan glanced along the herd. Three thousand head of cattle string out for quite a distance when they are not bunched up, and handling this herd was a good big job for the available men. They had about six horses per man, and it wasn't really enough, short-handed as they were.

Ordinarily a herd of three thousand head would have eleven or twelve riders, and the cost was figured at about a dollar-per-head for the drive from Texas to Kansas. In this case, with the herd owned by the drivers, there would be no outlay for wages, and the men owned their own remuda, so there had been no cost for the purchase of horses.

Dawn to dusk they drove, usually trying to water somewhere late in the afternoon, then pushing on a few miles before bedding down. Cattle watered late had a way of starting off better and traveling better than those allowed to water in the morning.

Abilene in 1871 was a booming town, but the boom was almost over, although few as yet realized it. There were many in town who detested the cattlemen with their vast herds--600,000 head were driven to Abilene that year--and the men who drove them.

Texas Town was wild and woolly, and it was loud. The more staid citizens looked upon it with extreme distaste, and wanted to be rid of the yelling, whooping cowboys, the dusty, trail-seasoned men who were making the town what it was. Only a few months later they were to issue a bulletin saying they wanted no more of it, and to their discomfiture the cattlemen took them at their word and went west to Newton, to Ellsworth, to Dodge. By 1872 the citizens of Abilene were crying for them to come back, but it was too late.

But in 1871 the town was still booming, and Marshal Hickok walked the center of the street, a tall, splendidly built man with auburn hair hanging to his shoulders, his clothing immaculate, his gun always ready for action.

He was the first man Ben Cowan saw when he rode into town.

Hickok had paused on a street corner, glancing each way from the Merchants Hotel. He wore a black frock coat, a low-brimmed black hat, and two ivory-butted and silver-mounted pistols thrust behind a red silk sash.

"Mr. Hickok? I'm Ben Cowan."

Hickok's eyes went from Cowan's eyes to the badge he wore. Hickok held out his hand. "How do you do? What can I do for you?"

Briefly, Cowan explained about Bijah Catlow and the herd. "I know the country down there," Cowan said at the end, "and these cattle were mavericks, open to branding by anyone. I have no share in the business, but Bijah pulled me out of a hole down in the Cross Timbers, and he's a good man."

"We've a letter on the cattle," Hickok replied, "but I am not interested in what happened in Texas. You tell Catlow to drive his cattle to the stock pens. He won't be bothered unless he or his men make trouble here."

Hickok thrust out his hand again. "Glad to know you, Marshal. We've heard of you."

Ben Cowan limped back to his horse and rode to the Drover's Cottage, where he took a room, and then sat down to write out his report on the case of the Tonkawa Kid. When he had completed it and left it with the mail at the stage station, he went to the telegraph office and wired Fort Smith.

Hack at his room he arranged for a bath, and after he had taken it he changed into new clothing bought at Herman Meyer's Clothing Store alongside of the Merchants Hotel.

Bijah Catlow joined him at supper in the dining room at the Drover's Cottage. "Twenty-five dollars a head," Bijah said with a broad smile on his face, "and we split it ten ways, two shares for Johnny Caxton."

He reached into his shirt pocket. "Here's the tally sheet, stamped by the buyer. We picked up a few head of Tumblin' SS's and Ninety-Fours drivin' through, so here's their money. Will you see they get it?"

Ben accepted the money without comment, but offered a receipt. "You're rawhidin' me," Bijah said. "Money in trust to you is safer than any bank."

He looked at Ben, and slowly he began to grin. As he did so he reached for another bit of paper and pushed it across the table. "Stopped by the telegraph office. This is for you."

Ben Cowan opened the folded paper and glanced at it, then he looked up at Bijah. "Did you see this?"

"Sure! I always was too damn' nosey."

Ben glanced down again.

OFFICE OF THE U.S. MARSHAL

FORT SMITH, ARKANSAS.

CONSIDER THIS A WARRANT FOR THE ARREST OF ABIJAH CATLOW, RIO BRAY, AND OLD MAN MERRIDEW, WANTED FOR MURDER AND CATTLE THEFT.

LOGAN S. ROOTS

U.S. MARSHAL

Chapter
Four.

Outside in the street, a drunken cowhand whooped as he raced his horse past the Drover's Cottage. In the dining room, with its tables covered with linen cloths, it was very still.

"It's my duty to take you in."

"I know it is."

"The hell with it!" Ben said. "If you were guilty, I'd take you in, but they'll send you to Texas for trial, with Parkman telling the judge what to do. I'll resign first."

Bijah Catlow leaned back in his chair and glanced around the room. Only a few of the tables were occupied by cattlemen, cattle buyers, or land speculators.

"Ben, you're buying me the best supper this place can offer, with the best wine ... and they tell me these cattle buyers have fancy tastes. After that," he leaned his forearms on the table, "you're going to arrest me and take me to Fort Smith."

"The devil I will!"

"Look, you're the law. You couldn't be anything else if you tried. If you resign now you've lost all you've gained. You go ahead and take me in. It'll be all right."

Ben Cowan started to protest, but he knew it was just what might be expected from a hot-headed, temperamental, impulsive cowhand like Bijah Catlow.

"What about Rio and the Old Man?"

Catlow gave him a saturnine grin. "Now, Ben, you know me better than that. I picked up that telegram about an hour ago, so naturally I stopped by camp first. After all, I had money for them.