Matagorda Page 7

  Jule Simms had gone back for fresh horses, and they took a long nooning by a brackish waterhole near Panther Point. Kittery was to have started horses to them, and with luck Simms would meet them halfway.

  Lawton Bean held his cup in his gnarled, workhardened fingers “You figure this’ll turn into a scrap?” he asked.

  “Not if I can help it,” Duvarney said. And then he added, “But I’d say the odds were against us making it all the way without a fight.”

  “You figure to drive the other herd thisaway?”

  Duvarney shook his head. “No…and this isn’t to be talked about. We’ll drive this bunch in and sell them right in Indianola. If things work the way I figure, they already know we’ve a drive under way over on the Copano; and unless I’m mistaken, that will pull all the Munson crowd out of Indianola.”

  The grass was good, and the cattle, fortunately, showed no inclination to go back. When Duvarney had put out the fire and they had saddled up again, they merely nudged the cattle along. On the landward side of the island there were inlets and coves, and small scattered lakes, and the cattle took shelter from the flies in some of the thick brush there. But Duvarney led the way, working the reluctant cattle out of the brush and starting them north.

  Welt Spicer met him at the end of one of the narrow necks of land that lay between the ponds and lakes. He mopped his face and swore. “Hotter’n hell,” he said. “Cyclone weather, if I ever did see it.”

  “Jule should be along,” Duvarney said. He stood in his stirrups, but it offered him no advantage. He could see nothing but the tops of willows. “My horse is played out,” he added.

  “So’s mine. How far to the end of the island?” Spicer asked.

  “Twenty miles.”

  “We ain’t goin’ to make it today. Maybe not tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow. We should cross over to the mainland before noon. The brush thins out further along, and the island narrows down. I’m going to send you and one of the other boys ahead to keep the cattle to the Gulf side of the island.”

  Their horses started reluctantly. A big red steer lifted his head and stared at them defiantly. His horns would spread an easy seven feet; he would weigh fifteen hundred pounds if an ounce, and all of it ready for trouble. Both men started for him and he lowered his head a little, then thought better of it and turned away.

  Spicer started a cow and a calf from the brush, the cow wearing the Rafter K brand, as the steer had. “We’ll get that brindle calf in the roundup,” Spicer said.

  They had moved no more than two miles from their nooning when Simms caught up with them, bringing ten head of horses.

  Tap Duvarney stripped his saddle from his own weary horse and saddled one of the new ones—a strawberry roan with three white stockings. It was a mustang, but there had been some good blood in it somewhere, for the horse had fine lines. It looked strong and tough.

  Jule Simms sat his horse, studying Duvarney. “I heard some talk,” he said at last.

  “I’ll listen.”

  “They’re goin’ to kill you—Breck an’ them.”

  Tap rested his hands on the saddle and looked across the horse at Simms. “Do they know you heard this?”

  “I was saddling a horse—they didn’t even know I was around. They want you out of the picture. With you gone, they figure to fight the Munsons.”

  “Does Tom know this?”

  “Not from the way they talked. Of course, I couldn’t say for sure. Breck hates you for bein’ a Yankee-lover, and Lubec thinks you rate yourself too high. Mostly they think you’re ridin’ roughshod over Tom and keepin’ them from killin’ Munsons.”

  “Do you know just what they’re planning?”

  “I didn’t hear that part, only it’s supposed to come soon. Maybe at Horseshoe Lake, maybe somewhere else.”

  “Thanks, Jule,” Duvarney said. “Thanks.”

  “The boys and me, we figure you’re our boss. We’re riding for you. If you want us to, you say the word and we’ll ride down there and talk it over some.”

  “I appreciate that. I surely do.” Tap stepped into the saddle. “Let’s get on with the drive.”

  Several times he came within sight of the Gulf. The sea looked sullen and heavy. The water scarcely rustled on the sandy beach. He drew up, smelling the air and looking seaward. There was a sort of swell to the sea, scarcely discernible.

  The island had narrowed, and the cattle could be moved faster. He threw himself into the work.

  Lawton Bean rode in, hazing a mixed lot of stuff, mostly young, with a couple of old mossy-horns. He had been working among the tide-water ponds and stringers of land that ran out among the maze of inlets and channels along the inland shore of Matagorda. His faded blue shirt was dark with sweat, and the dust on his face was streaked with it.

  “I swear that Tom Kittery must’ve branded everything that wore hair!” he said. “A couple of times back in the brush I’m sure I seen a cougar wearin’ his brand.”

  “There was a cowhand over on the Nueces one time roped and branded a razor-back hog,” Simms commented.

  “Now, that ain’t a-tall likely,” Bean objected. “You ever try to dab a rope on a hog? He holds his head down too low. I’d say a man ropin’ one of them razor-backs had his work cut out for him.”

  “There was a hand rode for King Fisher down around Uvalde would dab his rope on anything he could get his loop over. He roped a buzzard one time. It had got so full of meat off a dead crittur it couldn’t get off the ground.”

  “How many head we got up there?” Simms asked. “We must have half the stock in East Texas.”

  “There’s a few hundred head,” Duvarney said, cautiously.

  “You countin’ deer?” Bean asked. “We got four, five head of deer in among them cows.”

  Welt Spicer drifted in, pushing a few head, among them a huge red steer that stood all of seventeen hands high and carried a magnificent head of horns. He rolled his eyes and bobbed his head at them, but went on by.

  “Any you boys want some exercise, you might try ropin’ Big Red there. He don’t take to it,” Spicer said.

  “Knew a cowhand one time over in the brush country,” Lawton Bean said, starting to build a smoke. “He was a reliable man. You sent him out to do something, he done it, no matter what. Well, one time the boss told him to clean up all the stock south of the ridge, and when he came in that night he had a hundred and twenty-seven head of cattle, thirty sheep, three mountain goats, seven tom turkeys, a bobcat and two bears…and what was more, he’d branded ever’ last one of them.”

  “I don’t believe that part about the sheep,” Jule Simm said mildly. “Seems unlikely a man would run sheep with cows.”

  Tap Duvarney looked around, and found a sheltered spot near some dunes, with the Gulf waters within view. There was driftwood about, and some brush. “We’ll camp right here,” he said, “and make a small fire. We’ll take turns on guard tonight.”

  “You goin’ on in tomorrow?” Spicer wanted to know.

  “Uh-huh…right in. We’ll hold the herd a few miles out and I’ll go on in and make a deal.” He looked around at them as they stripped their gear from the horses. “From here on in, you boys act like you’re expecting Comanches. You’ll earn your wages before we leave Indianola, unless I’m mistaken.”

  “How about the cattle? Will that water be shallow enough?”

  “For them?” Welt Spicer grinned at the speaker. “Mister, those cattle don’t know whether they’d rather graze on the prairie or the ocean bottom. They swim like fish. Shanghai Pierce calls his sea lions. You’ll see why.”

  Jule Simms took over the cooking. Earlier in the day he had shot a deer, and they ate venison and the remains of the tortillas they had brought along, and drank coffee. Doc Belden strolled down to the edge of the water and for some time they could see his dark figure against the steel gray of the Gulf. When he came back, he said, “Let me have first watch. I’m not tired.”

  The fire died down, t
he men rolled up in their blankets, tired out with the day’s work. Tap walked to the brackish pond and washed his face and hands. When he went back to the fire all the men were asleep but Doc, who was up on the side of a dune with his Winchester.

  “What’s the ‘Doc’ stand for?” Tap asked him.

  “Courtesy title. I had a notion back when I was a youngster that I wanted to take up medicine. I read for it, worked four years with a doctor…a damned good one, too.”

  “What happened?”

  Doc Belden glanced at him. “I was a kid. The girl I thought I was in love with married somebody else, so I pulled my freight. Away down deep I think that was what I wanted anyway. I wasn’t cut out for a home guard. The army was recruiting, so I joined up. I did a year at Fort Brown, and then they transferred a few of us west. I was at Fort Phil Kearney when Carrington was in command.”

  After that they sat silent for a time, staring out to sea. The night was cool, the sea calm except for that slight persistent swell.

  Tap indicated the Gulf. “I don’t like the look of it…too quiet.”

  “I know nothing about the sea.”

  “That’s where I started.”

  Tap continued to stare seaward. It was a lovely night, with a young moon high in the sky. “There’s something going on out where that swell comes from.”

  He got to his feet. “If there’s trouble, I’ll be sleeping yonder, and I’m a light sleeper.”

  He went down the dune, checked the coffeepot, and added a little water and a little coffee for the guards to come. The cattle had wandered off toward the north, and only a few were in sight. There was grass up where they had bedded down, and he doubted if any would start back before daybreak.

  He checked his gun, then peeled off his coat and sat down, tugging at his boots. How many times had he slept out as he was sleeping now? And how many times would he do so in the future? Belden was one of those who did not fit…he was a square peg, and content to be so. Was he, Tap Duvarney, a square peg? If so, he was not content. He wanted a home…and he wanted Jessica.

  How long he had been asleep he did not know, but when a hand touched his shoulder gently, he opened his eyes at once, his fingers already closing on the butt of his gun.

  It was Lawton Bean, who was to stand the third watch. Tap’s mind put that together, and he noticed the position of the stars…it was within an hour of daybreak.

  “Major,” Bean said in a low tone, just loud enough for Duvarney’s ears. “There’s somebody out there…somebody on a horse.”

  Chapter 7

  *

  TAP DUVARNEY THREW back his blanket and got to his feet. For a moment he listened, hearing nothing. He glanced toward the fire, now a bed of red coals. The scattered sleepers were all hidden from sight in the deeper shadows. He sat down again and tugged on his boots, then thrust his gun down into his belt, and picked up his gun belt and holster.

  “South?”

  “Yes…close by.”

  They walked away from camp, keeping to the brush shadows. To the south there was an open space of about three acres, all grass well eaten down. Farther to their right, which was the inland side, there were tall reeds along what was called Pringle Lake, which was actually an almost landlocked cove.

  The approach from the south was difficult, which was one reason for Duvarney’s choice of the position. The night was clear and the stars were out, but the moon was now low in the sky and not of much help. However, the sea and the sand reflected enough light to make anyone hesitant about attempting an approach.

  The two men stood there together, waiting. After a moment or two they heard a sound, the same sound Bean had heard before. It was the whisper of brush over coarse denim…and then the slightest jingle of a spur. A rider was coming up from the south, walking his horse.

  Lawton Bean watched the shadow take shape. “It ain’t the same one, Major, I’ll take an oath.”

  “I believe you.” He hesitated. He had a pretty good idea who it was now; he even believed he could see the horse. “You go back on watch, Bean,” he said. “Keep a good lookout.”

  Tap waited, standing there alone, watching the rider come nearer. When the horse was still a little distance off he spoke. “Come on in, Tom, with your hands empty.”

  Tom Kittery rode on up, reining his horse in as he neared Duvarney. “Hey, you mean it!”

  “Yes, I mean it, Tom. Some of your boys are after my scalp.”

  “My boys? You’re crazy!”

  “They want to fight, Tom. They want to push that feud. They also want me out of the way, because they think I’m blocking them.”

  Tom Kittery chuckled. “Well, ain’t you?” He pushed his hat back, curled a leg around the saddle-horn, and started to build a smoke. “You can’t blame them, Tap. They’ve lost people to the Munsons, same as I have. They figure you’re an outsider.”

  “You tell them to lay off. Tell that to Lubec and Breck, and whoever. I haven’t got time to fight, but if they push me, they can get it.”

  “You surely ain’t changed,” Kittery said. “You always was a right smart fightin’ man, Tap. They got that to learn.”

  He glanced around. “You’re pushing north?”

  “Uh-huh…I’m going to sell cattle in Indianola while they’re watching you at Horseshoe Lake, or about there.”

  “Canny…you always was a canny one. How many head you got?”

  “Eight, nine hundred. Mixed stuff.”

  Tom drew on his cigarette, and the end glowed in the darkness. “Sorry to say this, boy, but you got to go back. There’s no trail across the swamps.”

  “There’s a trail. Just don’t you say anything about this when you get back to camp.”

  At Tom’s odd look, Duvarney added, “You’ve got a spy in camp. Or somebody who comes to camp now and again. They almost had us in Refugio, and they knew we were coming.”

  “One of my boys?” Kittery shook his head. “I won’t take stock in that, Tap. I know my outfit. They’ve been with me for years.”

  “They haven’t been with me, and I don’t know them. No matter…Those riders had to run their horses half to death to get to Refugio in time to meet us.”

  Tom Kittery said nothing, but Tap knew he was irritated. Tom trusted his friends, and he wanted to hear nothing against them.

  Tap changed the subject. “How does it happen you ride in here at night? Is something wrong over yonder?”

  “Mady’s lit out. Her pa came into camp just a-foamin’ and a-frettin’. Figured she’d come to me, but she sure enough hadn’t, so I came over here.”

  “Here?”

  Tom rested his left hand, holding the cigarette on his knee, which was still around the saddle-horn.

  “Heard you was with her in Victoria,” he said mildly. “I figured maybe you two had somethin’ goin’.”

  “Don’t be a damn fool, Tom, and don’t try snapping that cigarette in my eyes when you go for your gun, because it won’t work.”

  Tom gave another chuckle. “Canny…that’s what I said. She ain’t here, then?”

  “She wouldn’t come here, Tom. We talked a little, that was all. I’m an engaged man, Tom, and I take it seriously. I wouldn’t start anything with the girl of a friend, anyway.”

  “All right. You say that, but what about Mady? She’s forever talkin’ of city folks and their ways…and you especially, ever since you came.”

  “Well, she’s not here, Tom. Forget it, and let’s go have some coffee.”

  They went into camp together and took their cups to the fire. The coffee was black and strong.

  Hunching down by the fire, Duvarney studied Tom Kittery carefully. The man looked thinner, harder. He looked like a man with an edge to him, a man ready to strike out suddenly, violently. And Tom Kittery, at any time, was a dangerous man.

  “Let’s get some sleep.” Tap drained his cup and threw the dregs into the fire. “You can use Bean’s bed.”

  “I got one.” Tom got up slowly. “If you ain’
t seen her I just don’t know where to look.”

  Tap sat down and started to tug off his boots. Then suddenly he went cold and clammy. That other sound—the one Lawton Bean said he had heard before…

  Tom Kittery would never believe Tap had told the truth if Mady Coppinger rode into camp. Or if he awakened to find her there in the morning.

  Tap sat there, feeling the damp chill, holding a boot in his hand. Across the camp he could see Tom Kittery unrolling his blanket and tarp.

  Behind him, Tap heard something stir in the sand.

  Inwardly he cursed, suddenly, bitterly. Leave it to a woman to get a man killed. What had she run away for, anyway? Some fool notion about going to the city, as if that was the answer for everything. In a city, without family or connections or money, there was only one way for a girl to go.

  He was tired, dead tired, but he’d be damned if…Behind him he heard a faint whisper. Or had he imagined it?

  Deliberately, he got up and crossed to the fire, filling his cup at the pot. The coffee was strong enough to stiffen the hair on a man’s neck, and hot enough to scald. He tasted it, then put the cup down.

  He had no intention of being killed or of killing anyone over Mady Coppinger. If that had been her back there…but suppose it was somebody else? Some wounded man, trying to reach him? He shook off the idea, and picked up the coffee cup. He needed sleep. He was desperate for it.

  He sat quietly and now sipped the coffee. At last he put the cup down and, after rinsing it, he walked back to his blankets and crawled into them, boots and all. Almost instantly, he was asleep.

  When he awoke it was broad daylight and the camp was still. He sat up, blinking and looking around. His horse was saddled and tied nearby, the coals were smoldering, and the coffeepot was still on the fire. Everyone was gone.

  He got up, shook out his blanket, and rolled it in his tarp. Under a stone beside the fire there was a note, hurriedly written.

  Figgered to let you sleep. Else you ketch up, we will hold this side of Bayucos. K still around.

  Spicer

  Getting some jerked beef and hardtack from the saddlebag, he squatted on his heels and chewed the beef, ate the hardtack, and swallowed the coffee which was bitter as lye. But it was hot, and he enjoyed it.