Matagorda (1967) (3 page)

He removed his hat, and began to read, and when he had finished the funeral text he had chosen, he sang Rock of Ages.

His voice was fairly good, and he managed to sing it well. Here and there a voice joined in. When he had finished the hymn he picked up his tools and went back to the buckboard, then returned for his coat. As he lifted it his right hand gripped the six-shooter. He brought it up, and walked back to the buckboard and placed the coat and the pistol on the seat. As he started to get up he lifted the rifle from where it had been hidden and with an easy motion swung to the seat.

He gathered the reins with his left hand, his right holding the Winchester. He drove to the gate, and when he reached it he pointed the Winchester at the nearest man, smiling as he did so. "Friend, I'd be pleased if you'd open the gate for me."

The man hesitated for a moment, then he walked over and opened the gate, standing back with it until Tap Duvarney had driven through.

"Thank you," Duvarney said. "Thank you very much." He glanced at Huddy, still sitting his horse, and regarding Duvarney with an enigmatic expression. "And thank you, Mr.

Huddy. It hurts no man to respect the dead."

He spoke to the team and they moved forward down the road, but at the point where the road to the cemetery reached the main trail he turned sharply and took the trail south from town.

There was no sound behind him, but he did not turn his head to look back. He had a straight quarter of a mile before there was any cover, and despite the bouncing the buckboard was giving him, he could be hit by a good shot. He held the good pace at which they had started, wanting as much distance as he could get. He had no doubt he would be followed, and a buckboard leaves a definite trail.

When he had two miles behind him he drew up, and with a wry grin he loaded the rifle.

"You damn fool," he muttered. "Forgetting a thing like that can get you killed."

The sun was down, the breeze cool off the Gulf, which lay some distance off on his left, beyond Powderhorn Lake, close by. He had a good memory for maps and charts, as a result of both his early training at sea and his years in the army. To go south he must first go inland, find the Green Lake road, and let it take him past the head of San Antonio Bay. Beyond that there stretched a wide piece of country, but between here and there he knew of no place to hide.

The twin tracks of the trail were plain enough, even at night, so he pushed on. The paint mustangs seemed to be glad to be moving and he held them to a good trot, which seemed to be the pace they liked. From time to time he drew up to listen for sounds of pursuit.

He was under no delusions about Jackson Huddy. Whatever else he might be, the man had a code of ethics of his own, and only that had prevented a bloody gun battle in the cemetery. He was sure that under other circumstances Huddy would never hesitate to kill him ... if he could.

He had studied the charts in Wilkes's wheelhouse and had a fair understanding of the country, so after a while he took a chance and left the trail, cutting across toward Green Lake. By day they would find his tracks, of course, but by then he hoped to be far away.

Several times he drew up to give the mustangs a brief rest, but they seemed tireless and impatient to keep going. Give them their heads, he thought, and likely they'll take me right where I want to go.

It was well past midnight when he saw the shine of water on his right. That would be Green Lake. The mustangs were tired now, trotting only when they started down a slight grade . . . which was rare enough. But they had held the pace well.

The last miles before daylight were weary ones, but he kept the team moving until they reached the breaks of the Guadalupe.

The sky was gray with morning when he turned off into the trees and found a hollow screened from the trail. Here he unhitched the team and led them to water, and after that he picketed them on a patch of good grass not far from the buckboard.

Then, a gun at hand, he drew a blanket over him and went to sleep.

It was high noon when the sun woke him, shining through the leaves of a cotton wood tree. For a minute or two he lay perfectly still, listening. Then he sat up.

The horses were not twenty yards off, heads up, ears pricked.

Duvarney came up off the ground like a cat, thrust his six-shooter into his belt, and reached for his gun belt and his other pistol. As he belted it on, he listened.

The horses were looking back the way he had come.

He got the team and brought them back. Not wanting the jingle of trace chains to warn anyone of his presence, he tied them to the buckboard. Taking his rifle, he worked his way through the trees and brush to a place where he could watch the tracks he must have left.

He recognized the girl before he could make out any of her features. It was Mady Coppinger.

She was riding in a buckboard driven by a stalwart Negro. Two riders followed close behind. As they drew nearer he could see that the Negro's features looked more like those of an Indian. He was a lean, intelligent-looking man with watchful eyes.

He drew up as he neared the place where Duvarney had turned off. "I'm thinkin', ma'am, that he wouldn't have gone no further than this. That team will be plumb wore out by now. You want I should find him?"

"No. ..." She hesitated, then turned to one of the riders following. "Harry, do you think Huddy will follow him?"

"Huddy? No. He won't foller, but Shabbit will. Shabbit and those boys Duvarney whupped down to the dock. They'll be after his scalp, an' you can bet on it. Huddy won't do anything until Duvarney declares himself."

"We should find him and warn him."

Tap Duvarney made no move to leave the shelter of the brush. He did not know these men, and although they seemed to be riders from the Coppinger outfit, he did not want to chance it. His attention was on the girl. Mady was lovely, no question about it, and the figure that filled out the dress she wore was something to think about ... or for Tom Kittery to think about. She was his girl.

Besides, Tap had a girl. Or he had one when he left Virginia.

The Negro spoke. "Ma'am, I think it best we leave him alone. I've been watching his trail, and he's a cautious man. The way I see it, going into the brush to hunt for him might prove a chancey thing."

"Caddo's right," Harry agreed.

Caddo spoke to the horses and they moved out. Harry turned slightly in his saddle and glanced back at the pecan tree under which Duvarney was crouched. Had something given him away? Some bird, or perhaps a squirrel? Some movement he had not seen or felt?

When their dust had settled he harnessed the horses and emerged from the copse where he had been hiding. At the point where he went back on the trail he got down and wiped out the tracks as best he could, then drove on. An Apache would have read the sign without slowing his pace, but these men might not be as good at reading sign.

The air was fresh and clean, and the mustangs, rested after their morning grazing and rest, were prepared to go. They were tough, wild stock, bred to the plains, and only half-broken. Duvarney drove on with only an occasional backward glance, holding to the trail followed by Mady Coppinger.

Somewhere to the south he would find Tom Kittery and whatever was left of his seven thousand dollars. He had already made up his mind about that. He would take whatever money was left and ride out, writing off the rest of it as a bad investment.

He had no part in the Kittery-Munson feud, and he wanted none. No mention had been made of it when they had discussed the buying of cattle for a drive north.

Having no knowledge of exactly where Tom Kittery might be, Duvarney decided just to drift south, scouting the country as he went. He had supplies and ammunition enough, and the terrain was easy for buckboard travel, being generally level or somewhat rolling, with good grass and clumps of trees. Along the rivers there were oaks and pecans, as well as dogwood, willow, and redbud.

Taking a dim trail, Tap drove down toward Blackjack Point, following the shore of the peninsula whenever possible. On the third day after seeing Mady Coppinger, he was camped near some low brush within sight of the sea. He had made a small fire of driftwood and was brewing coffee when he heard a rustle behind him.

He reached for the coffeepot with his left hand, drew his six-shooter with his right.

Moving the coffee a little nearer the coals, he straightened up, then took a quick step back to his left, which put him into the deep shadow of a pecan tree, gun ready.

There was a chuckle from the brush, and Tom
Kittery
stepped out, followed by two other men, "See? I told you," Kittery said. "Ain't no catchin' him off-guard. I never knew such a skittish hombre."

Tom Kittery looked good, but he was thin. He was honed down by hiding out, worn by constant watching, but humor glinted from his eyes as he stepped forward, hand thrust out in greeting.

Chapter
Three.

Man, you are a sight to behold! Look at him, boys. This here's the on'y man ever took me. Captured me alive an' on the hoof, and I'd never believed it could be done!

And then he smuggled me right by some renegades that would have strung me up like a horse thief for being' a Johnny Reb. And him a Yank!"

"Hello, Tom," Tap said. "It's been a while."

Kittery grinned at him. There was genuine welcome in his eyes, and his hand clasp was firm and strong. "I've thought of you a good bit, Tap. I surely have."

"Have we got a herd?"

Some of the smile left Kittery's face. "Sort of. I've got to talk to you about that."

He turned. "Tap Duvarney, this here's Johnny Lubec. And that's the Cajun ... a good man, right out of the Louisiana swamps."

Lubec was a small, wiry man, scarcely more than a boy, but a boy with old eyes, a boy who had seen trouble. The Cajun was tall, thin, angular, sallow of face, with dark, lank hair and a gold earring in each ear.

"What about the cattle?" Tap asked. "That was every cent I had in the world, Tom.

I gambled on you."

"And you won't regret it, Tap. I've had troubles-I suppose you've heard about that?"

"I heard about it."

"When we talked I thought the feud was a thing of the past. It was just a matter of rounding up some of Dad's cattle. I didn't have any money, so with your money, our cattle and know-how, we could drive to Kansas and make some money. That's what I planned. The trouble was, the cattle had been stolen. Most of them, at least."

"So the drive is off?"

"Not on your tintype! We're rounding up cattle now. Fact is, we've got a good part of a herd stashed away. But that's a small part of it. Somehow we've got to slip three thousand head of cattle out of the country without the Munsons gettin' wind of it."

They walked back and sat down around the fire, and the Cajun disappeared into the darkness. "He'll keep watch, so don't you worry none. He's one of the very best."

"I met Mady Coppinger on the boat."

Tom Kittery shot him a quick glance. "Came back did she? I wouldn't have bet on it."

"I thought you two had an understanding."

Tom shrugged. "We have, sort of. Mady's fed up with Texas, fed up with dust, cows, bronc riders, and cookin' for ranch hands. She fell heir to a stack of Godey's Lady's Books, and since then all she does is pine. I keep tellin' her I ain't no city man, but she won't listen."

With another glance at Duvarney, he said, "How'd she look?"

"Great. She's a very pretty young woman."

Tom filled two cups with the hot coffee. "Did you see any Munsons? I mean, around Indianola."

Tap ignored the question. "How did you know I'd arrived? Or did you know?"

"Cap'n Wilkes. He dipped the flag when he passed the point. We'd agreed on the signal."

He paused a moment. "You're drivin' the rig ... where's Foster?"

"They killed him. He was killed just about the time we were coming up to the wharf.

I buried him in your family lot."

"You what?"

"You didn't want him buried there? Didn't seem that I had much choice."

"They let you bury him? Of course, we'd want him in our lot, or anywhere we could manage, and the best. But Indianola is mostly a Munson town. There's two or three of the clan live there, and always some of them are circulatin' about."

Over coffee, Tap Duvarney told about the burial and the brief encounter with Shab, or Shabbit. Of the brief fight on the wharf he said nothing at all.

"Tom," he said abruptly, "let's get the herd together and get out. The feud is none of my business, and I don't intend to make it mine. Every dime I've got in the world is tied up in that venture."

Tom Kittery looked at him, his eyes suddenly hard. "That's right. It isn't none of your affair, and I'm not expecting you to take a hand in it. Nonetheless, you may have to before we get those cattle out of the state."

Johnny Lubec got up angrily. "I thought you said he was a friend of yours? He sure don't sound like it to me!"

Kittery said nothing, but stared into the fire. Tap Duvarney looked at Lubec. "I consider myself Tom's friend, but that does not involve me in a shooting war that began God only knows how-and years ago, from all I've heard. If I were a member of his family, I might feel otherwise, but I am not. Furthermore, Tom and I made an agreement, and I expect him to live up to it."