Centennial (76 page)

“He knows how to cook,” Mrs. Poteet said as she placed the food on the table.

There were only eight chairs, which meant that Nacho had no place to sit, so he supposed he was meant to eat in the kitchen, but Poteet pulled out a box and said in Spanish, “You sit here,” and Lem Frater said, “A Mexican? At table?” and Poteet said, “At this table, yes.”

The steaks were cooked Texas style, which meant they were practically inedible. With the best beef at hand, and the best steaks cut from it, the Texans never let the meat age or become tender in any other way. Cutting it from the fresh carcass, they plopped it into a hot pan and kept it over the coals interminably, according to the ancient Texas law: “If it’s brown it’s still cookin’, and if it’s black it’s almost done.”

“Mighty fine steaks,” Frater judged as he gnawed away at the hard and tasty beef.

“Thank you, Lem,” Mrs. Poteet replied. “He baked the bread,” she said, pointing to Nacho.

“If he can cook that good,” Frater said, “I wisht I was goin’ north with you.”

“I want you to,” Poteet said. “Early tomorrow mornin’ you ride north to Jacksborough and round me up about fifteen hundred head.”

“I better stay here tomorrow,” Frater protested. “I’ve got to make my count.”

“I’ll count for you,” Poteet said, and no one at the table thought it improper that one man should offer to serve as both buyer and seller, for if you couldn’t trust R. J. Poteet, you couldn’t trust anybody.

So at dawn Lem Frater beaded north to the town of Jacksborough while Poteet and Skimmerhorn moved swiftly to the local ranches inspecting cattle and making their selections. By midafternoon they had picked out and paid for thirteen hundred head plus eighty horses. On the way back to the home ranch Poteet explained, “I’d like to carry north about twenty-eight hundred head, and twelve cowboys includin’ you and me and the Mexican. For each man I’ll need twelve horses.”

“So many?”

“We’re takin’ the hardest trail in the world,” Poteet said simply. “We won’t skimp on the horses, because we’ll be ridin’ like you never rode before.”

Next morning he began the selection of his crew. He needed nine additional men who could be trusted with serious responsibility, and he knew of only two, Nate Person and a man called Mule Canby. Trailing an extra horse, he led Skimmerhorn to a mean log dugout along the banks of Pinto Creek, where a man, his wife and three children were trying to eke out a living. They were black and had once been slaves in South Texas; freedom had brought them little beyond an abandoned shack and squatter’s rights to a miserable plot of land which barely provided the vegetables on which they subsisted.

Tossing one of the children a paper bundle, Poteet said, “The missus cooked up more steak than we could handle, Dora Mae. Where’s your pappy?”

The child grabbed the parcel, smelled it and broke into a joyous smile. “Mom!” she shouted. “Meat!”

From the door to the dugout appeared a very thin black woman with flashing white teeth. “Thank you, Mr. Poteet,” she said effusively yet with dignity. “The children will love you for this.”

“There’s enough for you too,” Poteet said. “Where’s Nate?”

“He’s grubbin’ for Mr. Goodly.”

“You send Dora Mae to fetch him,” And while the little girl ran to the Goodly place, Poteet asked Mrs. Person how things were going.

“Not bad,” she said cheerily. “We got the children dressed and Nate gets work here and there. When you and Mrs. Poteet gonna start bringin’ me your washin’?”

“One of these days,” Poteet answered.

Nate Person now ran up, out of breath. “Sorry not to be at home, Mr. Poteet.”

“You’re home,” Poteet said abruptly. “We’re headin’ for Colorado.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“I don’t have no horse, Mr. Poteet.”

“Put your saddle on Baldy.”

Nate turned to study the horse, then said, “He looks strong,” and Poteet said, “He is. Get your bedroll.”

And within minutes Nate Person had his roll, his pistol and his saddle. Lifting Dora Mae in his arms, he kissed his wife goodbye and said, “Tell the boys goodbye for me,” and he was off.

The three men rode along Pinto Creek till they came to a homestead marked by a certain affluence; whoever occupied it understood ranching and had already established a good foothold. “Canby!” Poteet shouted, and Person said, “He’s yonder,” and across grassland came a cowboy astride a handsome gray.

“Hello, Poteet,” he said gruffly. “Hear you’re buyin’ cattle like crazy.”

“We leave for Colorado.”

“Sort of figured you might need me. When?”

“Now.”

“Sounds good.”

Canby jumped down from his horse, an agile, wiry man with bronzed face and stern jaw. Running awkwardly, as cowboys do, he cried, “Emmy, I’m off to Colorado,” but before she could appear, he turned back to Poteet and asked, “You want to buy my string of horses?”

“If they’re any good.”

“Look ’em over while I pack.”

Poteet and Person went to the corral, where Canby had eleven strong mounts. “Come over here, Skimmerhorn,” Poteet called, and when the northerner reached the corral, Poteet said, “Canby’s from South Texas. Right on the Rio Grande, so don’t be surprised at how he dresses. He’s stubborn as a mule, but he knows horses and he’s got some beauties here. I’d recommend you buy the whole lot.”

“He’ll charge,” Person warned. “He loves his horses.”

“You won’t find animals like this in Jacksborough,” Poteet said, and before Skimmerhorn could reply, he added, “I’d like to use Canby at point. Along with Nate. We’d make him feel good at the start if we met his price.”

“Point means?”

“When you get the cattle strung out on the trail you want your two best men ridin’ up front, left and right of the lead steer and a little ahead. If somethin’ happens, you don’t have time to explain nothin’. Your points must take responsibility on their own. Nate here’s the best I ever seen. I trust Canby too.”

“Well, let’s buy his horses, if his price isn’t robbery.”

“It will be,” Nate predicted.

Canby now appeared, an astonishing apparition. Because of his training along the Rio Grande, where mesquite thorns cut a man to shreds if he was carried into them by his horse, he believed that a cowboy should go dressed against that possibility. Accordingly, he wore heavy chaps and enormous tapaderos, those leather coverings for the stirrup which protect the feet and ankles from clawing brush; many a South Texas cowboy had saved a leg by the leather armor of chap and tapadero. But when a bowlegged man walked in heavy chaps, he looked comical, and Skimmerhorn had to bite his lip to avoid smiling as Canby came toward them.

“How do you like my horses?” he asked.

“The best,” Poteet said honestly. “How much?”

“Ten dollars a horse.”

Skimmerhorn was surprised that the price was so low, for in Colorado such horses would have brought thirty, but Poteet said, “You drive a hard bargain.” Canby replied, “Those horses have hard feet,” and Poteet said grudgingly, “I’ll give you eighty-five for the lot.” Canby, with a slight smile of satisfaction said, “A deal.” He then went to where Nate Persons sat his horse and shook hands. “You and me ridin’ point?”

“Yes, sir,” Nate said.

“Good.” And the four men started back to the Poteet ranch, but before they had gone far Canby said, “You need another good hand?” and Poteet said, “I need seven.” Canby suggested, “You oughta think about Mike Lasater,” and Poteet said, “Lasater stole horses. Forget him.” But Canby persisted, “That was a long time ago, Mr. Poteet, and you won’t find a better cowboy in Palo Pinto than Mike Lasater.”

“I’m gettin’ the others in Jacksborough,” Poteet said flatly, and the conversation ended.

When they reached the ranch they were met by a lanky man with a sour visage, two pistols, a bedroll and a stout pony. “Mornin’, Mr. Poteet. I’m Mike Lasater.”

“I know who you are,” Poteet mumbled, irritated that this semi-outlaw should have imposed himself this way.

“I want to ride with you.”

“I need no hands.”

“Yes, you do, Mr. Poteet. You need a good dozen and you only got four.”

“Five,” Poteet snapped, pointing to where Nacho stood in the doorway, and as soon as he had done this he felt irritated with himself for having been drawn into argument with this renegade.

“You need me, Mr. Poteet,” Lasater insisted. He was a thin, scrawny young man of indeterminate age, but he sat his horse confidently, and before Poteet could rebuff him again he said, “I’ll ride drag. You need a good man back there in the dust.”

“Take him,” Canby said.

“Come along,” Poteet said unhappily, but as he started toward the ranch house he suddenly wheeled his horse and faced Lasater again. “No gamblin’. No drinkin’,” he snapped. Lasater’s temper flared: “Goddammit, Poteet, if a man is startin’ over, he’s got to start somewheres. Now you accept me as I am, because I’m the best horseman you’ll have on your trail.”

Poteet merely smiled. “If you’re a good horseman, Lasater,” he said quickly, “I’ll be proud to have you along,” and he extended his hand to clasp that of the younger man.

They rode north that afternoon, six men more at ease in the saddle than on their feet, leading thirteen hundred longhorn cattle and ninety-one horses in the remuda de caballos, overseen for the moment by Nacho. At Jacksborough they would hire an experienced wrangler whose job would be looking after the horses for the next four months. They would also hire an additional half-dozen raw cowboys, and since the ones already hired were veterans, the new hands could be farm youths sixteen or seventeen years old eager for trail experience. By the time Poteet had his dozen men, he would have a flexible crew able to work eighteen hours a day, subsist on meager rations and operate as a unit, requiring few words and little exhortation. Their job would be simple: take some twenty-eight hundred fractious longhorns safely across thirteen hundred miles of the west’s most bruising country.

Jacksborough in 1868 was a fascinating frontier town built around a spacious square. It was the crossroads of northern Texas, a spot where cattlemen convened from vast and lonely spaces to buy their staples, sell what produce their wives had grown, and make a deal for beef with the army at nearby Fort Richardson.

It was a wild town, with no less than twenty-six establishments licensed to sell liquor, and its inhabitants were not leery of new ideas or radical approaches. For example, when R. J. Poteet entered the smithy of a wagonmaker and said, “What I want, Sanderson, is a special type of wagon,” Sanderson did not whine and say, “Well, I don’t know ...” And when Poteet explained, “At the rear end I’m thinkin’ of somethin’ like a desk—lot of drawers for keepin’ things in and a flat table that will fold out when we stop,” Sanderson studied the idea and said, “Sounds sensible.”

“Start buildin’,” Poteet said.

“You want the drawers to pull out and in, like this?”

“Big drawers.”

“Who said little ones? I ain’t no cabinetmaker.”

“I’m gonna leave my Mexican here with you.”

“I don’t need no help.”

“He’s my cook. And this is gonna be his wagon.”

“Oh! A cook wagon? Why in hell didn’t you say so? We could ...” He stopped, studied the imaginary wagon, drew it in the air and said enthusiastically, “We could hang hooks everywhere. You could carry ... hell, you could carry ... He grabbed a piece of paper and started planning the wagon. “We got to have two barrels,” Nacho said, “one flour, one beans,” to which Sanderson replied, “You goddamned Mexicans couldn’t live without beans, could you?”

Finding the rest of the cattle was easy, but choosing six more cowboys was difficult, because every farm boy in the area wanted to ride with them. They were a sorry lot, young fellows with pimples and scraggly blond hair, ill-at-ease with anything except a horse; shy, often unschooled and lost under their big hats.

Skimmerhorn, coming upon a couple of dozen of them waiting in the square, told Nate Person, “I’d hate to go up the trail with that lot,” and Nate said, “We all looked that way at sixteen,” to which Skimmerhorn replied, “Maybe, but we weren’t trailing cattle,” and Nate replied quietly, “I was.” Later he added, “I guess our job is to take ’em as calves and turn ’em into strong young bulls.”

Poteet did the choosing. He took four gangly boys—Calendar, Gompert, Ragland, Savage—and Skimmerhorn found it impossible to tell one from the other. They were even dressed alike: boots with high heels to prevent the foot from slipping through the stirrup, tight-fitting pants, leather belts with revolver holsters, white shirts, some kind of jacket, a blue or gray bandanna which could be used in a number of ways—over the face as a dust mask, as a sweat rag, a hobble for horses or a signal flag—and a broad brimmed hat to protect eyes and lips from the blistering sun. And of course, each had his own horse.

The ten hands thus far assembled had the common characteristic of the cowboy: unmounted and walking about the town on foot they were awkward; their high-heeled boots and bowed legs made them almost comic creatures, accentuated by the holsters that banged at their sides, but once in the saddle they became proud lean men. Then their scrawny frames and hat-shaded faces assumed a mysteriousness which fitted exactly the landscape through which they moved. Cowboys were a silent breed, accustomed on the trail to communicate mainly by signals flashed when the trail boss or one of the points waved his hat in special ways. At work, they talked more with their hats than with their lips, and to their horses, which became in time a living part of them, they spoke with their knees, or not at all, for sometimes in crucial situations it was the horse who spoke to them by the way in which he moved and anticipated danger ahead. Then the wise cowboy heeded neither the trail boss nor the points nor even the man beside him, but only his horse, and many a cowboy returned to camp alive because in a moment of danger he had allowed his horse to take command.