Matagorda Page 3

  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 cottonwood 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 3

  *

  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 bein’ 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 handclasp 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 y
ou 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.”

  “Don’t count yourself any friend of mine!” Lubec responded, his tone harsh. “Far as I’m concerned, them as ain’t for us is against us.”

  Tap turned to Kittery, “Tom, if you don’t like the sound of this, just give me back my money and we’ll forget it.”

  Kittery looked up. “You know damn well I can’t give that money back. I spent it. I bought cattle.”

  “Then we’ve got a deal.” Tap reached across the fire for the coffeepot. “I’ll be ready to go after those cattle in the morning.”

  “You got to wait.” Lubec spoke with cool triumph. “We’re goin’ after them as killed Foster.”

  Tap Duvarney sipped his coffee, and when Kittery did not speak he said quietly, “I’ll be ready at daybreak, Tom. If necessary, I’ll get the cattle out and make this drive on my own; but if I do, I’ll sell the cattle and keep every dollar of the money.”

  “Like hell you will!” Kittery was suddenly angry. “Half those cattle are mine!”

  Tap grinned at him. “Don’t be a damn fool, Tom. Our deal was my money and your savvy. If you aren’t in there working and telling us how, what part can you have? I’m here. My money is in the pot. I made an agreement, and so did you. I understood that in Texas men lived up to their agreements.”

  “Are you sayin’ I don’t?”

  “I’m saying nothing of the kind. I am only saying that the Munson feud is your personal affair, but I can’t let it interfere with my business.”

  “You’re right,” Tom said glumly. “Damn it, I am sorry. I got no right to expect you to horn in on my fight.”

  Johnny Lubec leaped to his feet. “Tom? You backin’ down for this—this—”

  Tap Duvarney looked up. “Johnny, if you finish that sentence it better be polite or you’d better be reaching for a gun when you say it.”

  Lubec backed off. “On your feet, damn you! I’ll—”

  “Johnny!” Kittery’s voice rang with authority. “Stop it! Tap would kill you before you got a gun out. I’ve seen him work.”

  Lubec hesitated, still angry but suddenly wary. Tom Kittery was as near to a God as he could recognize, and if Tom said this stranger was good, he must be good. Abruptly, he turned his back and walked away into the brush.

  Tap finished his coffee and got to his feet. “I’m tired. I’m going to turn in.”

  “Sorry, Tap. Losin’ Foster like that—. We’re on edge, all of us.”

  “Forget it.”

  Tap walked back into the brush and unrolled his bed. He folded his coat neatly, then pulled off his boots and placed them for a pillow. He put his Winchester beside him, and also his gun belt. His spare gun he placed under the blanket and near his hand.

  The Cajun came in from watch, drank coffee and ate without talking, and disappeared again. Tom Kittery sat alone by the fire. After a while Lubec returned and crawled into his blankets.

  The fire sank low, and Tap slept.

  What made him awaken he did not know, but a dark figure loomed above him. The fire was only a few red coals, the columns of the trees against the stars were dark and mysterious. A faint light gleamed on the gun held in the man’s hand. The gun was not aimed, it was simply hanging at arm’s length against the man’s leg. The man was Tom.

  Tap’s own hand held his gun, pointed up at Kittery through the blanket. “Go to sleep, Tom. You’ll feel different in the morning. Besides, this Colt I’m holding on you would rest mighty heavy on your stomach.”

  Tom Kittery chuckled. “Damn it, Tap, I never knew anybody like you! Nowhere! All right, to hell with the feud! We work cattle.”

  *

  TAP DUVARNEY’S EYES opened on daylight. For a moment he lay still. The fire had been built up, and he could smell coffee. Lifting his head, he saw the Cajun was slicing bacon into a frying pan. Tap slid out of the blankets and into his boots. Standing up, he slung his gun belt around his lean hips and settled the holster into place against his leg.

  He felt good. The air was fresh and cool off the Gulf, not many miles away to the east, and he was a man who had lived most of his life in the open.

  The War Between the States had been a blood bath, a desperate, bitterly contested war in which he had been constantly in action, often on secret missions behind the enemy lines. He had been born in Virginia, and his southern accent was a distinct advantage on such jobs. But it was the frontier that honed him down, made keen the edges of his senses, his will to survive. For he had faced the American Indian—a wily, dangerous adversary, a fighting man of the first rank, and one familiar with every aspect of wilderness warfare and survival.

  The Cajun glanced up as Duvarney approached the fire. Tap gathered a few sticks for additional fuel and placed them close at hand. It was evidence that he was expecting nobody to serve him. He was here to pull his own weight, no matter what the circumstances.

  The future looked bleak enough to him. Every cent he’d owned was tied up in the cattle; a feud and the violent hatreds it generated hung over them. When such a fire burned no man within range was free from it, and the very fact that he was riding with the Kitterys would make him a target. The Kittery faction, too, was filled with hatred. The cattle drive, Tap was quite sure, had been put aside because of the feud; and had he not come along might never have been carried out. They could think of nothing now but striking back, striking hard.

  When the coffee was ready, he filled his cup and squatted on his haunches by the fire. Tom Kittery was tugging on his boots. Lubec was nowhere to be seen.

  “We got our work cut out for us,” Kittery said. “If we round up cattle now we’ll be likely to lose ’em. The Munsons will stampede them some night, scatter ’em from hell to breakfast.”

  “Then we’ll find a place where they can be guarded, and hold them there until we’ve completed the gather.”

  “You got any idea what you’re gettin’ into?” Kittery asked. “Most of those cattle are back in the brush. It won’t be easy to get them.”

  “And you’re holding some on Matagorda Island? All right, we’ll just round the others up and push them out to the island. Or hold them on Black Jack Peninsula.”

  Tom Kittery looked
over his cup at him. “You said you’d never been in this country before.”

  “I can read a map,” Duvarney answered dryly.

  By the time the sun was over the horizon they had pulled out, Duvarney riding the buckboard with Tom Kittery, whose horse was tied behind. The others rode on ahead, or scouted off to one side or the other.

  “They’re hunting us,” Tom said matter-of-factly, “and one day they’ll find us. All we’ve been hoping to do was thin them down a mite before the showdown.”

  “How many can you muster?”

  “Mighty few. Eight or ten at most. We’re outnumbered, four or five to one.”

  “Tough.”

  They rode on, and from time to time they saw cattle grazing, and several times saw the tracks of horses.

  “Comanches raided clear to the Gulf coast some years back,” Tom commented, noticing some tracks. “We don’t see them anymore. At least, I haven’t. Back around 1840 they burned Linnville and attacked Victoria. My folks were at Linnville, and nobody expected any Indians. When they came, everybody who could climbed on a barge and pushed out on the water. Saved their lives, but lost everything they had but the land.”

  “Was Indianola a port then?”

  “No…not until sometime around 1844, I think. It was started by a German prince, and he called it Carlshafen, after himself, I guess. His name was Prince Carl ZuSolms-Braunfels. He brought a colony of immigrants into Texas.

  “Back in those days they came from everywhere—Germans. French, Swiss…we still have a lot of them. Castroville, D-Hanis, Fredericksburg, all those places were settled by foreigners. Over by Fredericksburg half the talk a body hears is in German.

  “Indianola picked up for a while, then about 1846 the cholera hit the town—nearly wiped it out. I’ve heard tell of it. I was too young to remember it.”

  “Where’s Shanghai Pierce’s outfit?”

  “You’ve heard of him? I guess ever’body has. He’s north of here, up on Tres Palacios Creek. He’s got the biggest outfit around here, unless it’s Cap’n King.” Tom Kittery glanced at Tap. “You two should get along, you going to sea, and all. He was a steamboat captain before he settled in this country. A mighty good man, too. I met him a couple of times.”