Savagery of The Mountain Man Page 7

  “I hope you come in a buckboard, ’cause ole Billy Ray sure as hell ain’t goin’ to be able to ride back.”

  “I did,” Cole Mathers said. He walked over to Billy Ray, looked down at him, then sighed. “You boys get him outside, throw him in the back of the buckboard,” he ordered.

  Cole was able to give them orders because he was the ranch foreman. “And tie his horse to the back.”

  “All right, Reeves, Lewis, you heard the man,” Kelly said to the other two. “Let’s get him out there.”

  “You think he’ll remember in the morning that he owes the three of us a dollar each?” Reeves asked.

  “Hell, if he remembers anything, he’ll probably insist that he did it and we owe him,” Kelly said. “I think it best we don’t say anything about it.”

  Cole watched as Reeves and Lewis picked up the unconscious man and carried him out.

  “You might want this,” Kelly said, handing a pistol to Cole.

  “Why would I want that?”

  “It belongs to Billy Ray.”

  Cole nodded, then took the pistol and stuck it down into his belt. He started toward the door, then stopped and looked back at Kelly. “You comin’, or are you stayin’?”

  “Mr. Quentin didn’t send you after me, did he?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m stayin’.”

  Cole nodded, then walked outside, just as he saw Billy Ray being unceremoniously dropped into back of the buckboard. With a nod of thanks, he climbed into the seat, then drove off.

  Two hours later, Billy Ray Quentin was back home at the Tumbling Q sitting at the kitchen table and drinking a cup of hot coffee. He made a face. “What’s in this coffee? Horse piss? It tastes awful.”

  “I had the cook make it very strong. I want you to sober up,” Pogue Quentin said.

  Pogue was sitting across the table from his son, and these were the first words he had spoken.

  “All I did was have a few drinks,” Billy Ray said.

  “And make a damn fool of yourself,” Pogue Quentin retorted.

  “What did you have Cole bring me home for?”

  “We’re goin’ to Colorado Springs tomorrow,” Pogue said. “I want you sober when we get on the train.”

  “Colorado Springs?” Billy Ray brightened up. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve heard of Colorado Springs. They have a lot things you can do there. I’ve heard they even have a fancy gamblin’ house and theater there, just like they have in the big cities.”

  “We aren’t goin’ to Colorado Springs to have a good time,” Pogue said.

  “Then why are we goin’?”

  “We’re goin’ to buy a bull.”

  “We’re goin’ to buy a bull? Pa, what are you talkin’ about? You can buy a bull anywhere.”

  “Not like this one, you can’t,” Pogue said. “This here is a purebred champion Hereford bull, and I aim to get him.”

  “Ain’t we already got a herd of Herefords?”

  “We’ve got a start,” Quentin said. “But soon, there will be no longhorns left, ever’ rancher in the West will be raisin’ Herefords, and whoever gets started first, and with the best bloodlines, is goin’ to be top hog in the lot.”

  Billy Ray laughed. “Hell, Pa, the way you managed to get hold of all the other ranches in the county, you are already top hog in the lot.”

  “Yeah, I am,” Pogue said. “And I aim to stay here. So you get yourself packed, then get a good night’s sleep. We’ll be leavin’ on the mornin’ train.”

  “To buy a bull?” Billy Ray asked.

  “To buy a bull,” Pogue said.

  Chapter Six

  Los Brazos

  An article in a Western newspaper gave hints for those who traveled by stagecoach, and the proprietors of the Sunset Stage Line had it printed up on flyers to be handed out to the passengers as they bought their tickets. Pearlie, who had been a shotgun guard for the stage line for nearly six weeks now, leaned back against the wall with his arms folded across his chest as he watched the passengers take the little handbill, then find a seat in the waiting room to read the material.

  Helpful Instruction for Stagecoach Passengers

  1) When a driver asks a passenger to get out and walk, you are advised to do so, and not grumble about it.

  2) If the team of horses runs away, remain seated and let the skilled and experienced driver handle it. Passengers who attempt to jump from the rapidly moving coach may be seriously injured.

  3) Smoking and spitting on the leeward side of the coach is discouraged.

  4) Drinking spirits is allowed, but passengers should be generous and share.

  5) Swearing is not allowed.

  6) Sleeping on your neighbor’s shoulder is not allowed.

  7) Travelers shouldn’t point out spots where murders have occurred, especially when “delicate” passengers are aboard.

  8) Greasing one’s hair is discouraged because dust will stick to it.

  As he had written in his last letter to Smoke, Sally, and Cal, the Sunset Stage Coach Line was a small company that ran only from Los Brazos to the railroad depot at Chama. The coach departed Los Brazos at eight A.M., and at an average speed of eight miles per hour, would arrive at Chama just before noon. It would leave Chama at one P.M., and arrive in Los Brazos just before supper.

  Although you could crowd nine passengers into the coach, it would be making the journey today with only five, the passenger manifest consisting of a man, his wife and child, a banker, and a territorial mining official. The official was an overbearing man, impressed with his position and authority. He had already let the ticket agent and the driver know who and what he was, and how important it was that he reach Chama in time to take the two o’clock train.

  “It is vital business for the territorial government of New Mexico,” he insisted. “I’m not sure you quite understand the significance of that, but as an official representative of the territory of New Mexico, it is imperative that I not be impeded.”

  “You are due to arrive by noon,” the ticket agent said. “I’m sure we will be able to get you there by two o’clock.”

  Just outside, the hostlers were hitching up the team and readying the coach for the trip. The driver, a man with white hair and beard, stuck his head in through the door.

  “How many today?” he asked.

  “Hello, Ben. Looks like five, unless someone else comes before we leave,” Pearlie said.

  Ben pulled a pocket watch from his shirt pocket, opened the face, and examined it.

  “Well, if anybody else is plannin’ on makin’ the run, they’d better get themselves here in a hurry,” he said. “Otherwise, they’ll be waitin’ here till tomorrow.”

  “Your team is all hitched up, Mr. Dooley,” one of the hostlers called to him.

  “Thanks, Mike,” Ben said. “Pearlie, you go ahead and climb up to your seat. I’ll get the passengers loaded.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pearlie used one of the horizontal spokes of the front wheel to climb up into the high seat. Scooting over to the left, he looked down into the boot and saw both a double-barreled shotgun and a Winchester, 44.40 rifle. Breaking down the shotgun, he saw that both barrels were loaded. He closed it, then let the hammers down. The rifle was loaded as well.

  A moment later, Ben came out of the depot with the passengers and stood by the door as they boarded. That done, he climbed up beside Pearlie, released the brake, picked up the reins, and snapped them against the back of the team.

  The coach left the depot with the team moving at a rapid trot. Ben always did this, holding the trot until they were well out of town. Not until then would he slow the team to a more sustainable gait.

  Shortly after he came to work with the stage line, Pearlie asked Ben why he did that.

  “It’s to make a show for the people in town,” he said. “Most folks, when they see the stage leave town like that, have the idea that we keep the speed up all the way to where we are goin’. That way, if they’re
thinkin’ on goin’ somewhere, the idea of usin’ a stage ain’t all that hard for ’em to take. But if they was to see us leave at a slow walk, they would, more than likely, want just about anything other than a long, slow stagecoach ride.”

  Pearlie chuckled. “I reckon there’s some truth to that when you think about it.”

  “Of course there is,” Ben said. He leaned over to spit out the quid of chewing tobacco he had been working on.

  Ben was married and had a daughter who was just a little younger than Pearlie. When Pearlie first came to work for the stage line, Ben hinted that his young shotgun guard might take an interest in Mindy. Mindy was a pretty girl, and any other time, Pearlie might have been interested. But the loss of Lucy was still too fresh. Pearlie told Ben about Lucy, and how she had died. Ben understood, and never brought up the subject of his daughter again.

  Up on the box, Pearlie rode silently while the driver worked the horses. Ben had named the horses and he was constantly talking to them, cursing one of them for slacking off, praising another for doing well, often playing them against each other.

  “Well now, Rhoda, what do you think? Do you see how Harry is showin’ off for you? You aren’t going to hurt his feelings now, are you? Come on, pick it up, show him what you can do.”

  Because Ben was busy with his horses, Pearlie was left alone with his thoughts. He wondered what was going on back at Sugarloaf. Did they miss him? Would they welcome him back when he returned? He had already given notice that this would be his last week, that he was going back home.

  Home? Was Sugarloaf home?

  Yeah, the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that Sugarloaf was home. It was certainly more of a home to him than anyplace else he had ever lived in his life.

  A few years earlier, Pearlie had been a gunman, hired by a man who wanted to run Smoke off so he could ride roughshod over those who were left. But Pearlie didn’t take to killing and looting from innocent people, so he quit his job. He had stopped by to warn Smoke of the plan against him, and to tell him that, because he wanted no part of it, he would be leaving the valley. To Pearlie’s surprise, Smoke offered to hire him.

  Since that time, Pearlie had worked for Smoke and Sally. He stood just a shade less than six feet tall, was lean as a willow branch, had a face tanned the color of an old saddle, and a head of wild, unruly black hair. His eyes were mischievous and he was quick to smile and joke, but underneath his slapstick demeanor was a man that was as hard as iron, as loyal to his friends as they come, and very nearly as good with a gun as Smoke was.

  There were three other stagecoaches in Chama when Ben hauled back on the reins and set the brakes at the conclusion of their journey. Like Pearlie’s coach, the other three coaches represented towns that had no railroad of their own, and so their main routes were back and forth from their towns to the depot in Chama.

  A couple of hostlers who worked for Sunset met the coach as it arrived, then unharnessed the team and led them off for a twenty-four-hour rest. Before the coach started back, a new, fresh team would be connected.

  Pearlie laughed the first day when they started back because, when Ben started talking to the teams, calling the horses by name, he saw that he was using the same names.

  “They don’t mind, they’re just horses,” Ben explained. “And if I use the same names for all of them, it makes it easier for me to remember.”

  Pearlie couldn’t argue with that.

  The drivers and shotgun guards of the stagecoaches always took their lunch at the Railroad Diner. They were free to go somewhere else if they wanted to, but if they ate at the Railroad Diner, their meals were paid for by their respective stage lines.

  The drivers generally ate at one table and the shotgun guards at another. Pearlie was neither the oldest nor the youngest of the guards, so he fit in well with them, and generally enjoyed his visits with them.

  Today, two of the other guards were in the middle of an argument when Pearlie joined them.

  “He ain’t nowhere near as good,” one of them said.

  “The hell he ain’t,” the second guard said. “I’ve read books about my man. I ain’t never read nothin’ about your man.”

  The guard shook his head. “First of all, he ain’t my man.”

  “Well, he’s the one you’re sayin’ is so good.”

  “Hello, Mack, Zeb. What are you two talking about?” Pearlie asked.

  “Zeb says that Snake Cates is a better man than Smoke Jensen,” Mack said.

  “No, now, I ain’t said no such a thing,” Zeb said, holding his hand out in denial. “I ain’t talkin’ about who is the better man. There ain’t no doubt in my mind but what Smoke Jensen is the better man. Fact is, I ain’t never heard nothin’ bad about him. All I’m a sayin’ is that iffen it was to come down to a gunfight betwixt the two of ’em, I think Snake Cates would win.”

  “What makes you think that?” Pearlie asked.

  “Well, think about it. Near’bout ever one knows that Snake Cates kills folks for a livin’. What I mean is, if somebody has someone he wants kilt, why, all he has to do is pay Cates enough money and Cates will do it. Hell, there ain’t no tellin’ how many men he’s kilt by now. But this fella Smoke Jensen, now, I’m sure he’s good ’cause I’ve heard a lot about him. But he don’t go around killin’ people as a job, does he? So, when you get right down to it, that means Snake Cates would more than likely kill Smoke Jensen if they was to get into an outright gunfight,” Zeb said, finishing his explanation.

  “What do you think, Pearlie?” Mack asked. “Iffen the two of them was to get into a gunfight, which one do you think would win?”

  “I don’t know,” Pearlie replied. “But I tell you this, don’t sell Smoke short.”

  “What do you mean by don’t sell ‘Smoke’ short?” Mack asked.

  “What do you mean, what do I mean?”

  “I mean the way you said ‘Smoke’ as if you know him. You ain’t goin’ to try an’ tell us you know him, are you?”

  “No,” Pearlie said. “I’m not going to tell you I know him. All I’m saying is, if it came right down to it, I wouldn’t bet against Smoke Jensen.”

  “There you are, Zeb,” Mack said. “Pearlie agrees with me.”

  “Ha! And that’s supposed to change my mind, because Pearlie agrees with you?”

  For the rest of the meal, Pearlie made no more contributions to the conversation. He had never told anyone of his relationship with Smoke Jensen, and he really didn’t plan to tell anyone. He had no specific reason for keeping quiet about it, though he knew, intuitively, that if he did tell someone, he would face two types of people. The first group would be those who would attempt to get a rise out of him by heaping scorn on Smoke Jensen. The second group would be those who didn’t believe him, and they would be just as uncomfortable to be around as the first.

  Because Pearlie did not participate in the conversation, the subject soon changed so that, by the time they were all ready to leave the diner to make their return run, there were no arguments and they were laughing and joking together.

  “So, this here feller,” Zeb was saying, “went into a bank pullin’ his wife along with him. ‘Look here,’ he says to the bank teller. ‘Iffen I was to give you forty dollars, would you give me two twenties?’

  “‘Why, yes, I would,’ this here bank teller answers.

  “So this feller, what he done is, he pushed his wife up in front of the teller and he says, ‘This here woman is forty years old. I’d like me two twenty-year-olds, please.’”

  Zeb laughed hard at his own joke.

  “I don’t get it,” Danny said. Danny was the youngest of the shotgun guards.

  Now all of them laughed even harder.

  “Mack,” one of the drivers called from the other table. “Time for us to be gettin’ started back.”

  “Yeah, us, too,” another driver said, and the four drivers and four shotgun guards left the restaurant to the good-byes of the regulars who ate there every day
.

  “Pearlie? Can I speak to you for a moment?” Ben asked as they walked from the diner back to the coach. The new team had been attached and the six horses stood waiting in their harness.

  “Sure thing, Ben,” Pearlie replied.

  “Can you use a gun?” Ben asked.

  “Well, sure I can, if I have to,” Pearlie replied. He chuckled. “I wouldn’t be much good in this job if I couldn’t now, would I?”

  “The reason I asked is, you might want to be particularly ready for this trip.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’ve just been told that there is over ten thousand dollars in cash in the strongbox,” Ben said. “It’s for the New Mexico Mining Company, cash comin’ back to ’em for the last shipment of gold they sent out.”

  “We’re goin’ to be carrying ten thousand dollars?”

  “That’s what the dispatcher told me.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “It sure is. Of course they’re tryin’ to keep it quiet, but when there’s that much money, it has a way of getting out. So I think you better be on your toes.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I will be,” Pearlie said.

  Pearlie thought about the money they were carrying. Ten thousand dollars was a lot of money, and the truth was, there was a time in his life, before he met up with Smoke, when ten thousand dollars would be a big temptation to him.

  He looked over at Ben as the older man concentrated on driving the team.

  Pearlie wouldn’t have to hurt Ben. All he would have to do is point his gun at the driver, reach down into the boot, pick up the strongbox, then jump off the coach.

  “No!” he said aloud.

  “What?” Ben asked, startled by Pearlie’s unexpected outburst.

  “Oh, nothing,” Pearlie replied. “I was just thinking aloud, that’s all.” Thinking thoughts he had no business thinking, Pearlie told himself. There was no way he would ever do anything like that. In fact, there was no way he would have ever done anything like that, even when he was at his wildest.

  Still, if he wanted to foil a holdup attempt, it probably didn’t hurt to think like the outlaws. Take this route, for example. He knew that if anyone had a notion to jump the stage, the best place to do it would just ahead of where they were right now, where the canyon walls squeezed in so tight alongside the road that the coach would have to move at a snail’s pace.