Sidestepping a foot stomp from Red, he retrieved his rifle and sat with his back against a rock to clean his guns. The .44-caliber Henry was old by 1878 standards, but like his Navy pistols, he was used to them. They felt right, and that was important in the many gun scrapes he’d dealt with as a Deputy US Marshal. As a marshal, he went on special assignments, but it seemed trouble always dogged his trail. Even if he wasn’t a marshal, life was just that way.
Kansas City was north and east of him, and once he got there he’d have a few days’ rest. He knew a few ladies in the saloons, or maybe a soiled dove or two who could offer comfort, but since the loss of his wife he just didn’t have much interest in that. He’d lost the one thing he longed for most—a good woman and family life. He’d had it once and wanted it again. But deep down inside, he felt it wouldn’t happen. He didn’t believe like some folks that there was a magic bullet out there with his name on it. That happenstance would only occur when he got outsmarted, or old and slow. Or had a run of bad luck. Eventually his number would turn up and God would say, “Everyone has to die, it’s your turn.”
He gathered up his gear, abruptly deciding not to spend the night in this place. It was too comfortable and for some reason he was on edge. His inner reflections had made him morose and he felt the urge to move.
Besides… he needed a beer.
He was tightening the cinch on Red’s saddle when he heard them coming, slow and easy. Easing his pistols in their holsters and his right hand near his belly gun, he calmly waited. The noise stopped a few yards out.
“Hello the camp.” The voice came through in a soft drawl in a matter-of-fact tone.
His reply was immediate. “Come ahead if you’re friendly.”
Two men rode slowly into view. Both had their hands near their pistols, but in this situation, he’d do the same. He could tell they were working cowhands just by their dress and manner. Both wore wide-brimmed hats bordering on sombrero size covering weathered faces with piercing eyes and faded shirts tucked into homespun pants. Their leather chaps were weathered and scratched. Leather, hand-braided, California style riatas were looped next to the oversized pommels of their saddles—and again, they’d seen a lot of use.
He relaxed and walked out in front of his horse, keeping a tight hold on the reins. Not that the horse would run away—Red was a back biter. “I just broke camp or I’d offer you boys some coffee.”
The larger man nodded. “Just our luck.” He gestured at the other man. “This here’s Otis. I’m Jake Wheeler. We got a mixed herd yonder we’re pushing up to KC and the stockyards. We figured to see if any strays were along this creek.”
One glance at their horses showed a JW brand and it made him relax a little more. “I didn’t see any, but then I haven’t been up or down the creek any—just came straight to it.” He knew the routine. Any cow outfit was always looking for unbranded strays that lacked ownership and would round them up as they went. “You boys are a little east of the normal track, but you’ll catch the Kansas Pacific a little farther north. There’ll be some holding grounds to the east, if they’re not already grazed out. You’re on the home stretch.”
Jake offered him a friendly plug of tobacco before he spoke. “Much obliged for the information. Actually, we come over here because we thought we heard a catamount a while ago. You seen any big cats? Wouldn’t want them to scratch up the cattle.”
He smiled sourly at them, and then pointed at the red smudge on his shirt. He figured they’d already seen it and were pushing a little cow pusher humor at him. Both men looked like they were trying to hold in a smile.
“After I cleaned up this scratch, I put some Sloan’s on it.”
Both men grimaced. Anyone who rode a horse knew about liniment.
Otis shuddered and spoke for the first time. “That had to hurt, some.”
Coble shared a laugh with them. “Damned right it hurt. Like to peed my pants.”
Jake’s expression sobered. “I see the star on your shirt. I didn’t get your name?”
He’d neglected that courtesy, and the man shouldn’t have had to remind him. “Sorry. I’m Coble Bray.” It pained him to see both men kind of set back and settle in their saddles. “I’m on my way to KC myself, but I’m in no hurry.”
It was clear Jake would carry the conversation—Otis didn’t say much. “Pleased to meet you, marshal. You the one they call The Deacon?”
He tipped back his hat and then stiff armed Red away from his back. “Well, as you can imagine I get called a lot of names. That’s one of them.” He grinned at them. “Don’t worry… I won’t preach at you.
“That’s a mean horse you got there. I’d let him loose to run with the mustangs, was it me.” Jake just shook his head. “Why do you keep him?”
He shrugged, appreciating the change of subject. “He’s not too bad. Besides, he’s the best trail horse I’ve ever had—go all day and night. Sometimes I need that in my line of work.” Both men were guarded, but still relaxed. As they started to leave, he spoke to them. “Boys, if you travel straight north from here, you’re going to hit some small farms. They’re mostly new folk up there, and probably have unbranded cattle. They’d get kind of lost in that mixed herd of yours. The thing is, that meat will be life or death for them come winter. I’d consider it a favor if you go around them. I wouldn’t want to hear any complaints.”
Jake gave him a hard look. “We don’t take anything that belongs to someone else.” When Coble didn’t comment he continued. “I’ll pass the word on. We might even have some calves we could drop off.”
Calves were hard to deal with on any cattle drive. Usually, they died because they couldn’t keep up or cluttered up the chuck wagon.
“I’m obliged, gentleman. If you’re around the Cattleman’s in KC, I’ll buy you a drink.”
He lost sight of them immediately in the trees and brush, but could hear their progress for a few minutes. They were working north along the creek, looking for strays—it was nice to see some honest folks for once. The people he met in his line of work usually weren’t. He gave Red a little nudge. Time to cross the creek and go find that beer.
Also from Galway Press
Cowboy up with Dusty Richards’s Spur Award-winning novel, The Mustanger and the Lady!
“Dusty Richards is a natural born storyteller, and Vince Wagner is the kind of straight-talking, straight-shooting hero that won the West one bullet and one woman at a time.”
Copyright
Copyright © 2017 by Darrel Sparkman
Second Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book or any of the stories herein may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.