Texas Blood Feud (3 page)

“Coming, Russel, dear,” she said, as musically as he had. From the side room, she came with two dishes full of steaming chicken and homemade noodles. With her silver hair braided and piled on her head, she stood less than five feet tall. She handed them out and went back for more and a pan of fresh-made biscuits.

“Sure beats jerky,” J.D. said as if in disbelief. He dug into the food on his tin plate as he stood at the counter.

Reg grinned at the big biscuit in his hand. “My, my, this is living.”

“What brings you gents here?” the storekeeper asked.

“You seen anyone driving horses through here?” Chet asked.

“They went through here last night. Acted strange, bought some food and left—said they had to deliver their horses up in the Nation.”

J.D. pointed a fork at him. “One of them redheaded and lots of freckles?”

“Yes, what did they do?”

“Stole those horses from our ranch,” Chet said, and felt a knot in his throat. They finally knew for certain. He turned to his cousin. “I know, J.D. That sounds like Roy Reynolds. Sorry.”

J.D. shook his head. “He’s the one that’s gonna be sorry.”

“You know one of the rustlers?” the store man asked, looking shocked at them.

“All our lives,” Reg said with a wary look, and bit down on another biscuit.

The rich tasty food had drawn the saliva into Chet’s mouth, but somehow the realization that one of the rustlers was someone they knew made his tongue turn dry and the food become hard to swallow. This wasn’t going to be a nice trip—no way. Nothing he could do about it either.

After they finished the meal, they left the store and rode on. At dark, they made camp at a windmill. Tracks showed the cavy had been driven past there, too.

“They was here last night,” the white-bearded man said to Chet and the boys, who were sitting on horseback. “Tried to sell me some of them horses. But I was wise to their game. Them horses in the herd had a bar-C brand on them. The horses they rode had 6Y and a lazy R on them. I knowed they wasn’t working for the man owned the herd.”

Chet nodded. “They stole those horses two days ago down on Yellow Hammer Crick.”

“I had ’em pegged then?”

“6Y, who’s is that?” Reg asked when they were back on the road and out of the old man’s hearing.

J.D. shook his head. “You know that one, Chet?”

He did, but he shrugged it off. Might just be a horse that Luther Hines had sold someone.

“How many days are they ahead of us?” J.D. asked, sounding weary.

“We must have cut it down to a day—or less,” Chet said.

“Let’s lope then,” J.D. said. “I want to get this over with—soon as we can.”

Late afternoon, they discovered a limping horse from their cavy. A stout dun that was favoring his right front foot and moved aside when they trotted up.

“That’s Sam Bass,” Reg said, recognizing the gelding.

Chet agreed and shook out a rope. He rode in and tossed the loop over the horse’s head, and made a wrap on the horn to shorten it up until he was beside the horse. J.D. pushed his mount in close and held Roan’s reins while Chet dismounted to inspect the damage to Bass’s foot. He lifted the hoof and cleaned it out with his jackknife. He pried a pea-size stone from the horse’s frog and then let it down.

“That ought to help you,” he said to the big cow pony, then clapped him on the neck and slipped the rope off him.

“What’ll we do with him?” J.D. asked.

“Horses go home,” Chet said, finished coiling the lariat and taking the reins back. “He should heal and be back at the home place in a week, if no one steals him again.”

“I never thought about it, but they do.”

“They do.” Chet mounted and they set off again.

“We’re getting closer,” Reg said. “Them horse apples are about steaming.”

“See that cloud bank?” Chet said, indicating the blue-black line that crossed the northwest sky. “It’s going to be a norther.”

“It’s only October,” Reg said.

“Never mind, it’s a-coming in and fast. I’ve been watching it all day,” Chet said.

“I’m getting cold just thinking about it. What are we going to do when it hits?”

“We may have to find someplace to den up.” He was disgusted not only about the threat of bad weather, but also about the time they’d lose as well.

“Any idea what they’ll do?” J.D. asked with a frown, and reined his horse around to look at Chet.

“No telling. Let’s push these ponies harder, maybe we can catch up.”

Both boys agreed. The rolling grass country, occasionally dotted with mesquite, spread out before them. They were somewhere in north Texas—west of Fort Worth by Chet’s calculation. The cold front moving at them out of the northwest had begun to show dark ragged edges when Chet spotted some buildings and pens.

“They might put us up,” he shouted above the rising wind.

With over a half mile to cover, they put on their slickers as the temperature fell. Chet smiled as he buttoned his coat—a man could freeze to death in one of them, but they did shed rain. The three raced for the outfit. They reined up hard in front of the low sod-roofed cabin.

“Hello the house.”

No one came to the door.

He looked around the place for a sign of someone. “Try the door,” he said to Reg.

The youth bounded off his horse, pulled the string, and pushed on the door. It went open, and he shouted from inside, “Nobody’s home.”

“Good, we’ll use it. Get the panniers and the saddles inside ’cause in less’n ten minutes it’s going to be hailing here.”

“How do you know that?” J.D. asked, jumping off and fumbling his latigos loose.

“See that green line under the clouds? That’s hail.” Chet carried his saddle inside and set it down on the horn. Reg was undoing the diamond hitch. When it was off, Chet loosened the canvas, and then grabbed the first pannier with the wind whistling in his ears. He packed it in the doorway and hurried back, meeting Reg with his arms full of bedrolls.

Hard drops began to pelt on Chet’s felt hat. “Is there a shed for the animals?”

“I think so, over there,” J.D. said, looking anxiously at the worsening weather.

“Take ’em. We can get that packsaddle later.”

The youth set out leading two horses, and Reg led the other two. Lightning struck close by. The air stank with the sulfurous smell and the crash came right behind it. Chet dodged inside, and watched from the open door for the boys’ return as the rain began to turn to ice pellets.

It grew dark as night. Then, to his relief, they came for the house, making long strides and shouting over the hail’s noisy rattle on the porch roof.

“Horses undercover?” he asked, closing the door.

“Whew,” Reg said. “Yes, that was close to a wreck.”

J.D nodded. “They’re fine, even got some hay.”

“Yes,” Reg said. “They’ll be all right.”

“We should have a candle in the pannier,” Chet said, unbuckling the straps to open the lid, then feeling around for a wax stick. He soon produced one and laid it on the table. He scratched a match and lit it to melt some wax into the cut-down tin-can holder so he could set the candle up to illuminate the room.

“What’ve we got?” he asked, looking around.

“There’s cooking wood by the stove and I guess if we had a bucket of rainwater, we could make some coffee,” Reg said.

“You’re in charge,” Chet said, picking up a letter on the table. It was addressed to Nick Van Rooter, General Delivery, Max, Texas. The letter might tell him something about the absent owner. He took the letter out and carefully read the first page.

“This Dutchman who owns this place is in Fort Worth today, getting his mail-order bride,” Chet said, and thunder drowned out his last words.

“Getting what?” J.D. asked with troubled look on his face.

“A mail-order bride.”

“Sears and Roebuck has them, too?” J.D. blinked in his confusion.

“Yes, brother, and I want one of them I seen in last spring’s copy wearing a corset.” Then Reg dropped his head in wary disgust. “Hell, brother, they don’t sell brides.”

“They sell everything else.”

“I think this has been arranged,” Chet said. “She’s eighteen and if she doesn’t suit him at the train station, he has to buy her a train ticket back home.”

“Guess the bride market out here ain’t holding up too good,” Reg said as his brother took the letter to read. “Maybe we should bake her a cake before we leave.”

“How about an apple-raisin pie?” Chet asked above the noisy storm. “For our use of this cabin.”

“Way it’s raging out there, I’m grateful enough to do about anything.”

“We don’t have any lard to make crust,” J.D. said.

“We’ve got some, but all I had in mind was an apple-raisin crisp. Coffee’s about done,” Chet said, and rubbed his palms together to warm them. The temperature must have dropped forty degrees outside. The cookstove was heating them some and felt good.

“She’s sure going to be disappointed.” J.D. put the letter down after reading it. “This sure ain’t no large fine farm. It’s a patch of grass and mesquite in north Texas with some pear thrown in.”

“Heavens, she’ll think that’s fruit,” Reg said. “Prickly pear cactus beds.”

“I wish I could be here.” J.D. spread his arms out. “And she comes over the rise to the east in that buckboard and for the first time feasts her eyes on this dump. ‘Otto, Otto.’ She elbows him. ‘Give me de train fare to go home.’”

Chet blew on his coffee and chuckled. Those two were more than funny at times. He could recall laughing in his own house growing up—but since he’d turned seventeen, there had not been much fun coming from that place. He’d be thirty-one in May. Had it been almost fourteen years already?

He scrubbed his bristled mouth on his palm. Time sure flew.

“You ever plan to marry?” J.D. asked.

“Oh, if I can find the right woman.”

“You going to serenade her, too?”

“If it suits the occasion and I can find a drunk Mexican fiddler.” They all three laughed.

The storm passed in the night, but the clear sky before dawn was cold as an iceberg. Everyone put on their second shirt over the first for warmth and wore a slicker to break the wind. The sweet-smelling apple-raisin crisp was cooked and cooling in the oven for the newlyweds, along with a note wishing them the best and a thanks for the shelter in the storm.

Late afternoon, they located the cavy spread out grazing across a wide basin. Sitting abreast on their horses atop a rise, Chet looked for campfire smoke, but the strong gusts they faced wouldn’t let any traces stay long.

“Think they’ve abandoned them?” J.D. asked.

“Naw,” Chet said, still searching around. “This cold’s disheartened them is all. They’re hunkered down somewhere near here, I’d bet, keeping warm.”

“Disheartened me and I ain’t stole nothing,” Reg said.

“Freezing their asses off is the right thing.” J.D. huddled in his raincoat.

“We better split up. Try to not let them see you if you do locate them. We’ll all meet back here in the next hour.” He checked the sun. That would leave them some daylight if they found the rustlers.

Reg went north, Chet rode west, and J.D. took the south side of the basin. Finding nothing but a few of the horses, Chet rode back in the long shadows and sun rays that glowed red over the tops of the mesquite and grass heads. He spotted Reg’s horse standing hipshot and the boy squatted down out of the wind.

When he rode up to him, Reg shook his head. “Nothing. Sure wish J.D.’d get back.”

Chet dismounted, and saw J.D. coming in a long trot standing in the stirrups. He could tell by the look on his face that the boy’d found something.

“They’ve got a dugout about mile or so up a side draw.” J.D. pointed behind him. “I seen the paint hobbled up there. They’re in that dugout sure enough.”

“We waiting till morning?” Reg asked.

“I try not to put off the things I dread doing,” Chet said with a grim set to his jaw. The next thirty minutes would be tough. Two boys would become men.

They mounted up, drew out their rifles, and loaded the breeches. Not a word was said. They rode close together. Hats pulled down. The sharp wind had stopped being a factor—capturing the rustlers was all Chet had on his mind.

J.D. pointed to the draw. Chet nodded and turned Roan that way. He could see the crude log end of the dugout and the board door—probably cut from some old wagon flooring. They dismounted, and the boys stuck their Winchesters in their scabbards and drew their six-guns. His Colt in his fist, he nodded in approval. This would be the test—he didn’t want to think about what or who they’d find inside—he steeled himself, leading the way.

No sign of anyone, but he could smell the sharp smoke from the rusty stovepipe. It reminded him of being warm again. He put a finger to his lips for the boys to be quiet. Both nodded, but he could see the tension in their eyes. They stole closer.

He reached the side of the door and eased the drawstring. He felt it lift the bar. Then he jerked it open on wobbling leather hinges and stuck the cocked revolver in first. “Hands up or die!”

“Huh?”

“What the hell?”

“Don’t go for a thing,” he said, looking down the barrel at the shocked face of the Reynolds boy in the candlelight. He couldn’t see much more than silhouettes of the other two. This was the moment when things could become a mess. “Come out on your hands and knees and fast or I’m going to start shooting.”

“We’re coming,” Hines growled.

When they went past him coming outside in the twilight, Chet saw Hines’s hate-filled glare. He also recognized the third man, a drifter, Dab Stevens.

“How—how did you find us?” Roy Reynolds asked, holding his hands high, standing on his knees in the dirt.

“Your tracks, stupid,” Reg said in disgust.

Soon, the rustlers were outside on their knees in the dying light, holding up their hands as the two boys disarmed them. Then the two brothers shoved them down one at a time and tied their hands behind their backs. Colt ready, Chet covered them until the tying process was over.

“Now, on your feet. There’s some cottonwoods about a quarter mile north on that creek. J.D., you and Reg saddle their horses and bring them. Get that hemp rope, too.”

“You ain’t going to hang us?” Reynolds asked in a high-pitch voice.

“Hell, yes, they are,” Hines said, scowling in disgust at the boy’s whining.

“Aw, hell, I just came along—”

“Well, you gawdamn sure came along with the wrong ones,” Reg said, and started with his brother for their horses.

“Can we cut a deal?” Hines asked over his shoulder as Chet marched them north in the fading light.

“Better make one with your Maker. I ain’t cutting none.”

“You and I’ve been crossways before, Byrnes.”

“I can’t recall it. Besides, this ain’t about nothing from the past. See those horses scattered all over out there? Those are my horses—you boys stole them.”

“Yeah, but we—” Reynolds sounded ready to cry.

“Aw, shit, buck up, kid. The sumbitch’s got his mind made up. Talking and crying ain’t going to change it,” Stevens said.

“Yeah, but I ain’t ready to—”

“Just shut up!”

Chet made them sit on the ground under the rustling cottonwoods while he waited for the horses. The wind hadn’t cut down much, and the temperature was dropping in the twilight without the sun’s warmth. When the two boys arrived with the mounts, he took the hemp rope from Reg and began to build a noose. J.D. guarded the prisoners. Reg watched how Chet built the noose and then he made one. Then in the faded light, Chet tied the last noose. His fingers were cold and close to trembling. The knot in his throat was hard to swallow.