Matagorda Page 5

  Darkly turned to him. “No need to be sorry. Lightly lived a full life, and a good one. Feel sorry for those who did him in.”

  He took a tin cup from his saddle pack and moved to the fire. When he had filled his cup and squatted on his heels he said, “I have come to meet the man who buried my brother. It was a fine thing you did.”

  Tap filled his own cup. “I never knew him,” he said, “but he had the look of a good man.”

  “He was that. A solid man, a trusted man, and a man of courage. Not many would have dared to do what you did, burying him, with Shabbit and the Munsons looking on. Especially after what happened on the wharf.”

  “What happened?” Joe Breck asked.

  Foster gestured toward Duvarney. “He treated Wheeler and Eggen Munson to a whipping. They started it—picked him for a tenderfoot, and he whipped the two of them so fast he never even mussed his hair. The town’s talkin’ about it.”

  “You never mentioned that,” Breck commented.

  “No need. They were feeling their oats and decided to try me on. Neither one of them could fight.”

  Joe Breck was silent, and in the silence the fire crackled, and off in the brush one of the horses stamped and blew. A nighthawk wheeled and turned in the sky above.

  “Whatever you’re planning,” Darkly Foster said, “I’ll offer a hand. I can use a gun as good as average, and I can handle horses or cattle.”

  “We’re driving to Kansas…nothing more.”

  “You got yourself a hand,” Foster said. “I like the way you travel.”

  It was long after midnight when Duvarney awakened suddenly. The fire had died to coals, with one thin tendril of flame winding itself around a dry branch. The only other man awake was Darkly Foster, who sat across the clearing, back from the fire.

  Tap listened for a moment, then sat up and reached for his boots. Riders were coming.

  Foster had disappeared from his seat, but could be vaguely seen, well back in the darkness. Duvarney stamped into his boots and skirted the clearing toward Foster.

  “It could be Tom Kittery,” he said. “He’s due back.”

  They waited. Several horses were coming, moving slowly. When they rounded into the clearing, Tap Duvarney swore bitterly.

  Roy Kittery was swaying in his saddle, his face drawn and pale. Pete Remley lay across his saddle, tied on to keep him from slipping off. Tom Kittery had a bloody shirt; only Johnny Lubec seemed to have come off without a wound.

  “They were laying for us,” Tom Kittery said as he slid from the saddle. “They’d been watching the Coppinger place, and when we left they let us have it. They killed Pete.”

  Duvarney helped Roy from the saddle. “Get over by the fire, Tom,” he said, over his shoulder. “Let’s have a look at those wounds.”

  He turned to suggest the Cajun keep a lookout, but he was gone.

  “Did you get any of them?” Breck asked.

  “I doubt it. We never even saw them. They were down in the brush off the road, waiting until they had us full in the moonlight. We’re lucky to have any of us alive.”

  Neither Tom nor Roy was hit hard, but Roy had lost a lot of blood. Tap bathed and bandaged the wounds, treating them as well as he could under the circumstances. He’d had a good deal of rough experience in the handling of gunshot or knife wounds, picked up while in the Indian-fighting army.

  He was beginning to have his doubts. Nothing was said about the horses they had supposedly gone to get. It began to look as though the group had actually ridden off hunting a fight, or at least hoping to run into some of the Munson party.

  Tom Kittery got up and walked to the fire. “It was Huddy,” he said bitterly. “Nobody else could have figured it out. Of course, I figured they’d be watching Mady’s place, so we didn’t go there. We went to a spring up back of the place—at least I did. I left the others a quarter of a mile down the road by a deserted corral. From the spring a man can see Mady’s windows on the second floor, and she can see a fire at the spring…and there’s just no place else a fire like that can be seen. I lit the fire, and Mady came up the slope through the trees about half an hour later and told me it was safe to come on down to the ranch.

  “The Coppingers have taken no part in the feud. Fact is, they won’t allow me to marry Mady until it is settled, somehow. The Munsons want no truck with them, because the old man has about thirty tough cowhands, and the Munsons don’t want to tangle with them.

  “I spent the evening there, mostly talking to Mady, then I went back up the hill to the spring, and then back to the corral. The boys had seen nothing and heard nothing. We mounted up and started down the hill toward the Victoria trail. They were waiting for us.”

  Duvarney stared at him in astonishment. “You blame it on Huddy? How could he know you were there?” He was thinking that Tom Kittery must be naive not to realize that somebody had sold him out; that he had been set up for a killing.

  “He’s uncanny,” Kittery said. “Yes, there’s something uncanny about that man,” he insisted. “He ain’t natural.”

  Nobody else was saying anything, but from their expressions Duvarney decided they must agree.

  “Of course,” he said, “I don’t know the people on the Coppinger place, but can you trust them?”

  Tom Kittery looked at Duvarney in surprise. “Them? Of course…Hell, I’m goin’ to marry Mady. That’s been understood. It’s been an agreed-on thing since before the war.”

  Duvarney said nothing more. He was an outsider here, knowing nothing of what had gone before, but to him it seemed likely that someone on the Coppinger ranch was accountable for this. He had no faith in the uncanny cunning of Jackson Huddy.

  Duvarney was feeling that the sooner he could start the herd out of this country the better. There was too much going on here that was no concern of his, too much that might wreck all his plans. And although he kept trying to force the thought from his mind, he was thinking more and more of Jessica.

  Tom looked up at him. “Sorry, Tap. This will hold things up a mite. I mean our getting shot up like this. If you’ll just stand by—”

  “Stand by, hell! We’re going right on with it,” Tap said. “When you boys can ride you can join us. I’m still working cattle.”

  Tom looked sour. “Well, Breck can help, and Spicer.” He looked around, suddenly realizing that Spicer was not there. “Where is Spicer?” he asked.

  Joe Breck answered. “Duvarney sent him to Brownsville.”

  “He what?” Kittery was angry. “Damn it, Tap, what d’you mean, sending one of my men off?” He paused. “What did you send him for?”

  “Men. I’m hiring more men.”

  Kittery was silent, his face set in hard lines. “You figure to pay them yourself? I hope you’ve got the money.”

  “You have, Tom. You’ve got the money I loaned you, or whatever of it was saved to finance the drive. You certainly didn’t spend it all for cattle.”

  Joe Breck was staring at the ground, jabbing at it angrily with a stick. Johnny Lubec, hands on his hips, looked equally angry. Duvarney glanced around at the others. He was alone here, that was obvious.

  “I figured that money was mine. You bought yourself a partnership,” Tom Kittery said.

  “I bought half of a cattle drive, not a gun battle. And we’ll need some of that money to lay in supplies and pay our way north.”

  “There’s money,” Tom protested. “I never used it all. I figured—”

  “Whatever you planned, Tom, that money is partnership money, not a war chest.”

  “All right, all right! Forget it! You want to drive cattle, we drive cattle.” Tom looked at Tap. “Damn it, man, I don’t want to fight you. If ever a man had a friend, you’ve been a friend to me. You saved my bacon a couple of times back yonder, and I ain’t likely to forget it.”

  *

  EACH MORNING AT daybreak, Tap Duvarney was in the saddle. He drifted cattle toward the peninsula, and several times at low tide he swam his horse across to t
he island to check the cattle there. Breck or the Cajun worked with him, and when Roy Kittery had regained some strength he worked as well. Lubec was usually off scouting for enemies, and working out a trail by which they might move the cattle without being seen.

  It was ten days to the day when Welt Spicer rode into camp. With him were eight rough-looking ex-soldiers, three of them still wearing partial uniform. All of them were armed; all looked fit and ready for whatever came.

  Gallagher, Shannon, and Lahey were New York-born Irishmen, Lawton Bean was a long-geared Kentuckian, Jule Simms was from Oregon, and wanted to go back. Doc Belden was a lean, sardonic Texan; and Judson Walker and Lon Porter were Kansans. All had served in the cavalry against Indians and Mexican bandits, and were veterans of the rough and ready life of the frontier.

  Tom Kittery stood beside Tap Duvarney as the men rode in and unsaddled. “With an outfit like that,” he said, “we could run those Munsons clear out of the country.”

  “Forget it. I hired them to run cattle.”

  “You’ve made that plain enough,” Tom said dryly. “Come on, let’s have a cup of coffee and hear what Johnny has to say.”

  Lubec squatted on his heels and, taking a twig from the fire’s edge, traced the route as he talked. “The way I see it, our best chance is to head northwest of Goliad, cross the San Antonio east of there, and strike due north. We’re going to have to camp away from streams and hold to sheltered country, but there’s a couple of places where we can bed down without being seen unless somebody rides across country.”

  Lubec paused, and glanced from one to the other. “Unless”—he hesitated—“unless you decide to drive to Indianola and ship from there.”

  “Indianola?” Tom Kittery shook his head. “It wouldn’t work. We’d never make it.”

  “Look,” Lubec suggested. “Before we get that herd together the Munsons will know about it. In fact, they already know we’re planning a drive. So they’ll be expecting us to try for Kansas. They’d never dream we’d have the nerve to try for Indianola.”

  “It’s a thought,” Breck said. “And it just might work.”

  “Supposing,” Lubec went on, “we started our drive like I said, across country to the San Antonio. Then we drive northeast from there, as if we planned to pass Victoria on the south. There’s a chance we could pull every Munson out of Indianola and have the cattle in the loading pens there before they knew what had happened.”

  No one spoke. Tap Duvarney stared into the fire, thinking about the suggestion. It might mean trouble, big trouble; on the other hand, it might mean a quick and adequate return on his money. The profit would not be as great, but neither would the risks be as great as those of the long drive to Kansas and the trail towns.

  Indianola was only a few miles away. If the cattle could be driven there, sold there…

  Then Tom said, “I like it. I think we can do it.” He turned to Duvarney. “What about it, partner?”

  “Let’s wait. We can decide when the cattle start, but once we start nobody leaves the herd, not for any reason at all.”

  “What’s the matter?” Lubec demanded. “Don’t you trust us?”

  “Do you trust me?” he countered. “If nobody leaves the herd, nobody can talk. It is simple as that.”

  Chapter 5

  *

  MATAGORDA WAS ALL of seventy miles long, and anywhere from one mile to five miles wide, depending on the state of the tide and the wind. On the Gulf side there were dunes, and a fairly even beach. The west, or landward side, was cut by many little coves or inlets, most of them shallow. There was also a good bit of swampland, with occasional patches of higher, wooded ground. Down the middle of the island was some good grassland, enough to feed a lot of cattle.

  It was also a land of catclaw, mesquite, and prickly pear, with the usual allowance of rattlesnakes, jack rabbits, and deer.

  Tap Duvarney rode out to the island with Welt Spicer, Jud Walker, and Doc Belden. There were a lot of cattle, most of them wearing the Rafter K, the Kittery brand. Among the others, they found a dozen old cows with calves, carrying no brand at all.

  “Doc,” Tap suggested, “you’re carrying a running iron. You start a fire and heat it up.”

  By noon they had roped and branded fifteen head—branded them with a Rocking TD.

  “Your brand?” Belden asked. “If it ain’t registered, you’d best ride to the county seat and do it. Else somebody will beat you to it. Whoever registers that brand owns the cattle.”

  “I’ll do just that, Doc, and thanks. We’ll ride in tomorrow.”

  Spicer watched the last of the cows walk away, then looked around at Duvarney. “What’s that for? I thought the Kittery brand was Rafter K?”

  “It is…until we’ve road-branded; and until we’ve a road brand for both of us, I’ve nothing to show for my investment, so I’m starting my own brand. I’ll have something to build on, something to use as a bargaining point.”

  Spicer nodded doubtfully. “You got to be careful,” he warned. “Tom may not like it.”

  “He’ll like it. Half the cattle in Texas wearing brands got them just that way. And remember? I bought a piece of this outfit.”

  They rode on, and finally branded two more cows; then they crossed back to the mainland. Now there were not only a lot of cattle on the island, but also a lot of cattle on the peninsulas, and there was no reason why they should not start the drive.

  Tom Kittery had thrown up a brush corral, and there were twenty new horses in it when they returned. They all wore the Coppinger brand. Tap Duvarney studied them thoughtfully, then looked at the tracks on the ground, the tracks of three horses that had carried riders. The men were at the fire when he came up.

  Tap’s own men had drifted in and were gathered around a smaller fire.

  Two of the Coppinger riders were Mexicans—tough, salty-looking vaqueros. The third was a lean, stoop-shouldered man with a perpetual smile that did not quite reach to his eyes. He wore a tied-down gun and bowie knife.

  “Lin Stocker…Tap Duvarney, my partner.”

  “Howdy,” Stocker said, sizing him up coolly as Duvarney acknowledged the greeting. He started to speak, but Duvarney squatted on his heels near the Mexicans.

  “That grulla looks like a tough little horse,” he commented: then addressing the shorter Mexican, he asked, “How do you like him?”

  “Bueno. That one is my own horse.”

  “I figured so. I like him.” He turned to the other Mexican. “How do you like the paint?”

  The Mexican shrugged. “He runs fast.” He grinned. “He pitches a leetle, too.”

  Duvarney had already decided that Stocker was a trouble-maker, and he wanted to have as little to do with him as possible. The three had brought the horses over from the Coppinger outfit, which meant they knew where to find Tom Kittery, and also that a drive was in prospect. Tom Kittery did not seem to be as wary as Duvarney remembered him. Either he had changed or he was inviting attack…perhaps inviting attack because the Munsons could not know of the new men Duvarney had brought in.

  Tap found himself growing more and more irritated and more anxious. He had bargained for no feud. What he had made was a simple business deal, and that was exactly what he wanted.

  “How’d you know Pedro rode the grulla?” Stocker demanded. “Did you see us ride in?”

  “He wears Mexican spurs, with big rowels. He left some sign where he tied his horse and where he dumped his saddle.”

  Duvarney felt sure that Stocker was not to be trusted. The tall, stoop-shouldered cowboy did a lot of looking around. Duvarney drifted over to where Tom Kittery sat, and dropped to the ground beside him.

  “I’m taking some of my boys and riding into Refugio,” he said, “and then we’ll swing around by Victoria. Any business I can do for you?”

  Tom Kittery took the makings from his pocket and began to build a smoke. “If you aren’t in this fight,” he commented, “you’d better ride careful. There’s those who wouldn’
t believe it.”

  “Tom,” Duvarney said quietly, “I know you’d like to have me take up this fight of yours, but I say again that I joined up only for the cattle business. I think this feud is a foolish thing. You and the Munsons are fighting a fight that should have died out years ago. I know they burned you out, I know they killed some of your kin, but you killed some of theirs, too. All I want is to make my drive, and I’d like you to make it with me.

  “If we get these cattle to Kansas or sell them in Indianola, whichever proves out, we’ll have some cash money, enough to start ranching up north…in Wyoming or Montana.”

  “I’m a Texas man,” Kittery protested.

  “Hell,” Duvarney said, “I’ve been up there. Half the cattlemen in Wyoming and Montana are from Texas…or England. There’s good grass up there, and I know the country. We could sell our steers, then drive the young stuff and the breeding stock to northern grass. You could leave this feud behind, own your own outfit, marry Mady Coppinger, and live happily ever after.”

  “You make it sound good, Tap. You surely do.”

  “Which sounds better? That, or to roust around the country hunting for Munsons all your life? Until they’re all dead, or somebody dry-gulches you?”

  “When do you want to pull out?”

  “A week from today, with whatever we have. We can try for Indianola if things work out: if they don’t, we can strike north for the Red River, fatten our stock on Indian grass, and push into Kansas when the market is right.”

  *

  REFUGIO WAS A sleepy-looking cowtown that belied its appearance. The four riders rode into the dusty street and tied to the hitching rail in front of the courthouse.

  Boardwalks ran along both sides of the street, and back of the walks were adobe or frame buildings with a few galleries hanging over the walks. The courthouse was open, and Tap strolled across the street and went up the steps. Doc Belden stayed near the horses; Jud Walker and Welt Spicer had gone into the nearest saloon.

  “Rocking TD?” The clerk opened the brand book. “I don’t recall that one, so you’re probably all right on it.” He registered the brand, studying the name he had written…Tappan Duvarney.