Texas Drive Read online

  He watched the herd draw closer, and knew that was only part of it. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gutted his brother, stripped off something he used to have. And that it could get them both killed.

  Better him than me, Johnny thought, as he wheeled his pony and started down to the floor of the next valley. And he hated himself for thinking that.

  “It’s your own damn fault, little brother,” he whispered. “Not mine.”

  And Johnny almost believed it.

  The day was empty. Texas stretched as far as Ted could see. And as far as he could see, it was empty. Hot and dry, but featureless, like hell without imagination. Sitting on the porch, he turned his attention to the rest of his life. From here, it looked as empty as Texas itself. Stretching out far enough that he couldn’t see the end, but end it would. In some ways it already had.

  The bottle of whiskey was two-thirds gone, and it hadn’t made him feel any better. Maybe the last third would make a difference. At least he wasn’t afraid to find out.

  He tilted the bottle up and took a long pull of the foul-tasting stuff. His taste ran more to beer, and little of that. He’d tried whiskey during the war, in Tennessee. It was supposed to be the best in the world, except for something from Scotland. But he hadn’t liked it then and three years had done precious little to change his mind. The stuff still tasted like it was trying to burn its way out, scorching him from his tongue all the way down.

  He shrugged and took another pull. “What the hell’s the difference?” He looked around, as if someone else had spoken.

  But the porch was empty, and so was the earth, as far as he could see. He had only felt this lonely once in his life, at Shiloh, staring right up the muzzle of a Yankee rifle. The black hole looked big enough to swallow him, and the black eyes behind it looked deeper and darker still. Only a misfire had saved him, and for a moment he had been sorry, wishing to hell it was all over. He wanted the noise to stop, the terrible thunder of the guns, the screaming of wounded men, the sighing of the wind in those rare moments when no one fired and no one spoke. But most of all, he wanted the stink to go away. The stench of blood, the smell of piss, and the almost-sweet fragrance of gunsmoke, hanging like a shroud over them all, Rebel and Federal alike.

  But it hadn’t gone away. None of it had. The sounds were still rattling around inside his skull, and the stench clung to his skin. He couldn’t rub, wash, or scrape it away, and now he no longer tried. It would stay with him until he drew his last breath. He still wondered why no one else seemed to notice it. Even Ellie, who got closer to him than anyone else, didn’t notice. Or if she did, she chose not to mention it.

  But it was there.

  He emptied the bottle and tossed it into the yard. It clattered across the ground but didn’t break. That made him angry. He wanted it to break, and when it didn’t, he fished his Colt out of its holster and fired, but he missed by several feet. He fired again and came no closer.

  When the gun was as empty as the bottle, it still lay there, mocking him. He wanted to break it in the worst way, but couldn’t. He tried to get up, but he was too drunk and fell back in the chair, fighting to keep from throwing up.

  As the sun started to go down, the bottle changed colors, the white flash of the glass changing to orange, then to red. Finally, in one last wink of purple, it was gone. No longer taunted by the glass, he closed his eyes and slept.

  6

  JOHNNY REINED IN on the hilltop. Rafe skidded to a halt alongside of him.

  “There it is, Rafe, the Arkansas River. We get wet one more time, and we’re in Kansas.”

  “Seems like nothing, Johnny, don’t it? I mean hell, what’s one more river? All them politicians drawing lines back in Washington. Cows don’t pay any attention to lines. Maybe they got more sense than we do.”

  “I guess they do, Rafe. Still, we come all this way, we might as well celebrate, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t have the strength to celebrate, Johnny. I’m an old man.”

  “You got more than I do. More than the boys, too.”

  “Nope, I don’t. But it sure is pretty in a funny way, all them rolling hills. Some kind of paradise, looks like. Almost, anyhow.”

  “I was thinking, Rafe. Maybe we shouldn’t stop here.”

  “You better be kidding, Johnny. The boys are a whisker from half dead. You want to push them farther, they won’t like it. You’ll lose half of them, and them that stay won’t be up to much.”

  “I look at the herd, Rafe, and you know what I see? I see money. I see the future. If we can push on, maybe to Wyoming, someplace like that, we can build a spread. Sell off enough of the beeves to get a stake, keep the rest and build on ‘em.”

  “You can’t push them cows no more, either, Johnny. They’re already worn to the knees. Bags of bones, most of ‘em. You make them walk to Wyoming, they’ll be saddlebags on bloody stumps before they get there.”

  “It’s a thought, though.”

  “It is, but it ain’t a good one, Johnny. We come this far, we should thank the Almighty. Take what we can get, and count ourselves lucky to have it.”

  “I wish …”

  “What?”

  “Nothing …” He turned in the saddle and waved his hat to the drovers down behind him. He cut loose with a shout, and the men picked it up. The beeves started to push themselves a little faster, gaining momentum even on the long up slope. As they got closer, they could smell the water and drove themselves even harder.

  Johnny rode on down to the river, leaving Rafe on the hilltop. The old man watched him urge his pony into the water. It was shallow for the first twenty yards, then grew suddenly deeper. Rafe could see by the swifter current in the center that the cattle were going to have a struggle getting across. Johnny was hanging on as his horse swam for the far bank. It was a good hundred yards before the pony touched bottom and another fifty before he climbed up on the grass across the river. Johnny was nearly a quarter mile downstream from his point of entry.

  Every drive had a few steers who led the way in river crossings, and Rafe wheeled down to meet the herd. He collared Dan Harley and told him to cut the swimmers and get them up front, then made a wide sweep to the left. They were down to somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-eight hundred head. But a loss of two hundred had to be considered a success. If the cattle brought anything like the prices they’d been hearing, they’d be in good shape as soon as they found a buyer.

  Rafe found the tail end of the herd, a long, thin line of stragglers, and fell in behind them, shouting and waving his hat to force them up into the herd. If the cows were allowed to hang back, it would complicate the crossing and maybe cost them a few more head.

  As the last of the reluctant beeves started up the incline, he heard gunshots. He strained to hear where they’d come from, but heard nothing over the cattle’s hooves. Rafe charged up the slope, pausing just long enough to send Ralph Dalton back to drag ride. As he broke over the ridge, the leading edge of the herd was already in the water. The swimmers were out front a few yards, about to break into deep water. On the far side, he spotted Johnny, surrounded by a good dozen men.

  Three hands had already started into the water, urging their horses across the river and drawing their guns. Rafe charged down the slope, afraid of Johnny’s temper. All of them were frazzled, and it wouldn’t take more than a wet match to light the fuse.

  At the water’s edge, Rafe leaned forward clinging to his pony’s neck and braced himself for the water. He had closed the gap between himself and the other three, but once in the water, he had to be content with keeping pace.

  Halfway across, he shouted to Johnny, but the bellowing cattle drowned out his voice. The first of the drovers was already in shallow water and Rafe shouted again. If they heard him, they showed no sign. Rafe drew his gun and fired into the air. The hands turned and he waved at them, shouting for them to hold up.

  He couldn’t tell whether they heard him or not, but they were con
fused enough to stand still until he was able to get to them.

  “What in the hell’s going on?”

  Harley shook his head. “Dunno. A bunch of damn farmers come up out of nowhere. They fired a few times, and then Johnny started talking to them.”

  “You wait here,” Rafe said. “No use spookin’ them. Me and Johnny will handle it.”

  He dug in his spurs and his horse spurted up the bank. He dismounted ten yards behind Johnny and let the reins dangle while he joined his boss.

  “What’s the trouble, Johnny?” he asked.

  “No trouble. Gentlemen, here, tell me we can’t bring our herd across. Told them there was no way we wasn’t. That’s about where it stands.” He looked at the farmers, several of whom were armed with rifles, the others with pitchforks and ax handles.

  One of the farmers, a big, rawboned Irishman with hands like freckled grappling hooks, shook his head. The way the other farmers watched him, he must have been the leader. Rafe decided to treat him that way and see where it went.

  “Gents,” Rafe said, “name’s Rafe MacCallister, from Baker, Texas. This here’s Johnny Cotton.” He stuck out a hand, but no one moved. Rafe shrugged, then continued, “We come a long way with them beeves. What do you expect us to do with them?”

  The big Irishman shook his head. “Don’t matter, as long as you don’t bring ‘em across the river. You can do what you want, otherwise.”

  “What’s your objection, Mr….?”

  “O’Hara, Kevin O’Hara. And the objection is them cattle are full of Spanish fever. You can lose half your herd without no problem. Most of us”—and he swept a hand out to take in his compatriots—“don’t have more than a few head apiece. We lose them, we starve. Can’t allow that.”

  “Listen, everybody’s got to eat. Folks back east need the beef. We got it. All we want to do is drive the herd on to the railroad. What’s the harm in that?”

  Johnny was getting fidgety, and Rafe talked faster to keep him busy. “Be out of here in a day, two at the most.”

  “Can’t allow it,” O’Hara said. “Fact, there’s a law against it. We can get the sheriff, if you want. He won’t tell you no different.”

  “Hey, look,” Johnny said. “This is a free country.”

  “No thanks to you, Reb,” O’Hara said.

  Johnny took a step forward, but Rafe grabbed his arm. “Now hold on, Johnny. Man’s right. Maybe we should talk to the sheriff, see can we work this out peaceable like.”

  “Sheriff won’t tell you nothing different,” O’Hara said.

  “Maybe not, but we’ll wait here, all the same. You can send him out tonight, if you want.”

  “Sheriff’s been in Abilene, won’t be back till morning.”

  “Fine. Then you bring him out in the morning.”

  “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Neither do we.”

  “But we ain’t afraid of it, neither. Man’s got to protect what’s his.”

  “We understand that. But you got to understand a coin’s got two sides, Kevin. You got to look at our side, too. What’s ours ain’t dirt, it’s beef, and it’s swimmin’ the river right behind us. It’s what we got, same’s your farms are what you got. Seems like we can work this out so’s nobody gets hurt.”

  O’Hara seemed off balance, as if the unexpected proposition left him without options. “Wait here a minute,” he said. Stepping away about fifty feet, the farmers conferred among themselves. They whispered, but the violence of the conversation told Rafe at least a few of them weren’t satisfied with conciliation.

  “Johnny,” Rafe said, “you have to keep your pants on. These men are farmers, not Comanches. We can work this out, if you hold your water.”

  “I’m out of water, Rafe. All I got left is piss and vinegar.”

  “You want to get them steers through, you’ll bite your lip. Let me handle things, will you?”

  “This time. It don’t work out, though, Rafe, and it’s up to me from now on.”

  “Fair enough.”

  O’Hara returned with two or three of the other farmers. “You mind if we leave a couple or three men here with you? Make sure you don’t try nothing?”

  “You think we’re liars, farm boy?” Johnny snapped. He took a step toward O’Hara, who outweighed him by a good thirty pounds and stood four inches taller, at least.

  Rafe grabbed him. “Hold on, Johnny. The man don’t mean nothing. He just wants to see we play fair. He don’t know us from Adam’s all he’s saying.”

  “I know what he’s saying. I just don’t …”

  “Shut up, Johnny.” Rafe turned back to O’Hara. “Seems fair enough, Kevin. You leave whoever you want. You boys are welcome to eat with us, if you want.”

  “Now hold on, Rafe, we …”

  “Johnny, I said shut up.” To O’Hara, he said, “It’s been a long trip. We’re all a little short-tempered. But we’ll work it out. A day’s rest would do us all good, I reckon. Especially Johnny, here.”

  O’Hara nodded. “Alright then. We’ll be back tomorrow, probably around noon, soon’s the sheriff gets back. Don’t expect him to tell you anything I didn’t already tell you, though. We had the fever rip through here twice in the last four years. Tore hell out of the few cattle we have. Oscar, here, lost near a whole herd of dairy cows.”

  Johnny snorted. “Dairy cows. Hell, man, no wonder. You might as well keep kitty cats or butterflies. What we got is sure enough Texas beef, tough as nails and mean as a grizzly.”

  “Maybe so, but what we have is what matters to us. You keep them cows down by the river until tomorrow.”

  Johnny shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, I heard you.”

  O’Hara delegated three men to stay, then he and the others trudged back up the hill behind them. A few minutes later, the cowhands could hear the creak of wagons as the farmers departed. Johnny laughed. “Christ almighty, damn wagon jockeys, no less. Rafe, I sure as hell hope you know what you’re getting into. This don’t work out, I might have to take up knitting.”

  “You just knit up them lips of yours for a few hours, and everything’ll work out.”

  The three farmers kept apart, each of them sitting nervously with a rifle across his knees. The herd pushed on across the river, but Rafe strung pickets to make sure they didn’t try to climb the ridge. When the last few stragglers were on the Kansas side, he gathered the hands and told them they were stopping for the night. Most of them took it in stride, although Dan Harley glanced at Johnny as if to ask why he was letting this happen.

  As the sun went down, they sat around their campfire, conscious of the silent farmers on the hill above them, preferring to sit in the dark rather than join the cowboys for a meal. One of them kept jerking the lever on his old Henry carbine in what Rafe hoped was a nervous habit rather than a desire to use the weapon. The first shot fired, no matter by whom, would kill whatever chance there might be for compromise …

  And they didn’t need another setback. Not now, when they had come so far and were so close.

  Johnny walked off into the darkness, down along the river. Rafe wanted to follow, but Johnny sent him back. “You can handle things, Rafe, so handle ‘em. I need a little time to myself.”

  “You sure, Johnny?”

  “Hell, Rafe, I’m not sure of nothin’, no more.”

  7

  THE HALF-DESERTED SPREAD weighed on Ted like a flat rock across his shoulders. Three months without a word from Johnny, and there was no hope of one, anytime soon. And every day, he went through the same routine. The small patch of vegetables he’d started reminded him of his brother. They had fought about it when he put it in. Vegetables were for farmers, Johnny said. Ted told him they were for eating, and Johnny had laughed. That had hurt, but it hurt even more now, thinking about it, and about how much he missed Johnny.

  The summer was starting to fade now, not that it got any cooler, but there was a change in the air. Light looked different, colder, even though your skin couldn’t feel the dif
ference.

  At least this night would be a little better than most. He was having a quiet Sunday meal with Ellie and her father. He ran through the chores, making sure the horses were fed, putting a new shake wall on the shed behind the house. When he was finished nailing the shakes in place, he pulled a few splinters out of his fingers and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

  The new wood made the rest of the place look shabby. He remembered houses like it, back in Alabama, where he was born. That part of his history was so long gone, it seemed like it must have been someone else’s life. Something would jog his memory and he would stand there and look at it, the way he would a skeleton out on the flats. You’d see the bones, poke at them a little, try to picture what they looked like with meat on them, a little color instead of the washed-out gray-white of the skull and the rib cage, lying there like a barrel with every other stave missing.

  Looking at the house was like that now. He didn’t see the porch, he saw Johnny on the porch, swinging in the hammock. He didn’t see the corral without imagining Rafe, one bony leg swinging up over the top rail to drop inside and break a new pony. Everyplace he looked, he saw pieces of a former life. It scraped away at him, like a block plane, slicing his skin away one curl at a time, always closer to the bone, and never long enough between passes to let him heal. He was an open sore, bleeding memory like water running down a sinkhole.

  And Ellie tried to help, but she was no match for the past. He wanted to believe what she told him. But he suspected she was wrong. He wanted to believe, not because he agreed, but because it hurt too much to think Johnny might have been right. Something had gone out of him. He was changed, probably forever, and what mattered most was gone along with whatever else he’d lost.

  When he’d finished the chores, he cleaned up and dressed carelessly. He’d been letting a lot of things go lately. Even Ellie had commented on it. She was right, but he just didn’t give a damn. It seemed pointless to worry about little things when he couldn’t do anything about all the big things that were wrong. That kind of logic made perfect sense to him, and after the third or fourth time she’d complained, even Ellie had stopped noticing.