Ralph Compton Texas Hills

“Ma!” Mandy whispered. “Look!” And she pointed.

THE IMMORTAL COWBOY

This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cowboy.” His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.

True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.

In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?

It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.

It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.

—Ralph Compton

Chapter 1

A beanpole with hair the color of ripe corn ambled into the Crooked Wheel Saloon in Kerrville early on Saturday night. His high-crowned hat, his clothes, and his jangling spurs told everyone what he did for a living. Cowhands were as common as horses in some parts of Texas.

Smiling, the stranger jangled to the bar, paid for a drink, and brought it over to the table where Owen Burnett, Gareth Kurst, and Jasper Weaver were playing poker. Once every month or so, the three settlers came down out of the hill country to indulge in a few drinks and a sociable game of cards.

Owen Burnett came up with the idea. He’d thought it would be nice to get better acquainted. They were neighbors, after all. So what if they lived ten miles apart, or more? In the West, “neighbors” didn’t mean the same thing it did back east.

Owen was from Kentucky. He wasn’t all that big, but he was solid. He had short, sandy hair, a rugged complexion, and pale blue eyes. When the cowboy came to their table and asked if he could sit in, Owen smiled and gestured at an empty chair. “Help yourself, mister.”

Jasper Weaver grinned like a cat about to pounce on a sparrow. “If you won’t mind us taking your money,” he remarked. Which was a funny thing for Jasper to say given that he was the poorest card player west of the Mississippi River. Everyone thereabouts knew it. So did he, but Jasper never let it discourage him from playing. He was lean and gangly, with a face like a ferret’s and a neck like a buzzard’s. His brown hair stuck out from under his hat like so many porcupine quills.

Gareth Kurst grunted and eyed the cowboy with suspicion. He and most of his sons had the same features: black hair, blunt jaws, and eyes like shiny pieces of coal. “Why’d you pick our table, boy?”

About to set his drink down, the cowboy scowled. “First off, I’m not no infant. I’m eighteen, I’ll have you know. And second, you three looked friendly, although I might have been wrong about that.”

“We’re friendly,” Owen said.

“Speak for yourself,” Gareth said. “I never trust anybody until they prove they deserve it.”

“It’s not as if I’m out to rob you,” the cowboy said.

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Gareth said. “I give a holler, and three of my brood will be on you like hawks on a prairie dog.” He nodded at three of his sons over at the bar.

“What’s all this talk of robbing?” Jasper said. “We’re here to play cards.”

“Me, too,” the cowboy said. He took a sip and sighed with contentment. “They call me Shoe, by the way.”

“Peculiar handle,” Jasper said.

“Not really,” Shoe said. “I got hit by a horseshoe back when I was a sprout, and everyone took to calling me Horseshoe. Later that became just Shoe.”

“I should reckon you’d want to use your real name,” Jasper said.

“My folks named me Abimelech Ezekiel Moses. All three are from the Bible.”

“Maybe not, then,” Jasper said.

“Are we here to jabber or play?” Gareth Kurst said.

“You’re awful cantankerous tonight,” Owen said. He was in the process of shuffling the deck. “We’ll deal you in, Shoe. Jacks or better to open. The limit is ten cents.”

“That much, huh?” Shoe said.

“Ain’t none of us rich,” Jasper said.

Taking another swallow, Shoe offhandedly said, “You could be if you wanted to bad enough. Most anyone can these days.”

Jasper chuckled. “How does that work, exactly? We wish for money and it falls into our laps?”

Gareth uttered a rare laugh.

Pushing his hat back on his head, Shoe said, “Any of you gents know where to find longhorns?”

Owen nodded. “The hill country is crawling with them.” It was a rare day when he didn’t spot some off in the brush as he went about turning his homestead into what he hoped would become a prosperous farm.

“There you go,” Shoe said.

“You’re talking nonsense,” Gareth said.

Shoe looked at each of them. “You haven’t heard, then? How valuable they’ve become?”

“Longhorns?” Jasper said, and cackled.

Owen couldn’t help joining in. The notion was plumb ridiculous. Longhorns had been around since the days when Texas belonged to Spain. Left on their own in the wild, they’d bred like rabbits. To a lot of people, they were a nuisance more than anything. They were good to eat but not much else.

“We don’t like being ribbed,” Gareth said.

“Ribbed, hell,” Shoe said indignantly. “You’re behind the times. Cattle drives will be the next big thing. Everybody thinks so.”

Owen thought he knew what Shoe meant. “You mean those gents who took some longhorns up to Missouri to sell?”

“And now can’t anymore because the folks in Missouri are worried about diseases the longhorns might carry,” Jasper said.

“That’s a lot of trouble to go to for nothing,” Gareth said.

Jasper bobbed his chin. “Rounding up a bunch of contrary longhorns can’t be easy. And for what? Four dollars a head, if that?”

Shoe sat back. “Shows how much you know. How about if you sold them for ten times that much?”

“Forty dollars a head?” Jasper said in astonishment.

“That’s right,” Shoe said. “And not in Missouri, either. You’d take them to Kansas. The people back east are so beef-hungry, they’ll pay anything to have steak on their table.”

“You’re making this up,” Gareth said.

“As God is my witness,” Shoe said. “I left the ranch where I’ve been working to sign up with an outfit planning a drive.” He chuckled. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard about it. Last year a fella named Wheeler took the first herd up to Abilene. They say he made over ninety thousand dollars.”

Jasper’s jaw fell, Gareth’s coal eyes glittered, and Owen set down the deck he was about to deal. “You’re not joshing us?”

“As God is my witness,” Shoe said again.

“If that’s true,” Gareth said, “why aren’t you out rounding up a herd of your own?”

“By my lonesome?” Shoe said. “Might be I could collect a couple of dozen head, sure, but where would I keep them until I start the drive? I don’t own any land. The smart thing for me is to join a drive going north and learn how it’s done.” He grinned. “Besides, the pay is better.”

“Ninety thousand dollars,” Jasper said, and whistled. “Think of what a man could do with a fortune like that.”

“I’m thinking,” Gareth said.

“Sounds like too much risk for my taste,” Owen said. “Longhorns aren’t kittens.”

“It’s not too much risk for me,” Gareth said.

“I bet my missus would like me to,” Jasper said.

“You can’t be serious.” Owen couldn’t begin to imagine the work involved. And then there was all the time they’d be away from their families. The cowboy drained his glass and grinned. “Looks as if I’ve started something here.”

“You sure as blazes have,” Gareth said.

Chapter 2

Harland Kurst took after his ma more than his pa. Tell him that, and he’d wallop you. Harland’s pa was tall and muscular, his ma as broad as a barn door. Harland was tall and bulky. Truth was, he liked being big. He liked throwing his weight around and squashing anyone who made him mad.

Harland was the oldest of the five Kurst boys. On this particular night, he and the second oldest, Thaxter, had gone into town with their pa and their brothers but parted company to go to a different saloon. Harland told his pa he hankered to see a dove, but he really just wanted the freedom to do as he pleased.

His pa had a habit of reining Harland in when Harland didn’t want to be reined in.

Once Harland had enough whiskey in him, he liked to pick fights. Because he was so big, he nearly always got the upper hand. And he made sure to have Thaxter close by to back his play in case the person Harland picked on resorted to a six-gun. Thaxter was quick on the shoot. So much so, folks fought shy of him.

The Kurst Terrors, people called them behind their backs. Which tickled Harland to no end.

So now, while their pa was off playing cards at the Crooked Wheel, Harland leaned on the bar at the Brass Spittoon. The Spittoon wasn’t much as saloons went: a bar, tables, and a roulette wheel. The doves were dumpy and not all that friendly. Not to Harland, anyway. He liked it there anyhow.

“I see how you’re looking around, big brother,” Thaxter said after taking a swallow of bug juice. “You’re in one of your moods.”

“I’m always in a mood,” Harland said.

“Who will it be tonight? That gambler yonder? Him with that frilly shirt and those big buttons on his vest?”

For reasons Harland had never understood, Thaxter was always critical of others’ clothes. Harland didn’t give a damn what people wore. Thaxter, though, took it as an affront if he saw clothes he didn’t like. “Gamblers usually have hideouts up their sleeves.”

“So?” Thaxter patted the Colt he wore high on his hip.

“We don’t want you shooting anybody. The marshal won’t take kindly to that.”

“So?” Thaxter said again.

Harland chuckled. He wouldn’t put it past his brother to gun the lawdog, should it come to that. But then they’d be on the run. “I don’t aim to spend the rest of my days dodging tin stars.”

“Wouldn’t bother me any.”

Just then the owner of the saloon, Rufus Calloway, came down the bar, wearing his apron. “You boys need a refill?”

“When we do, you’ll know it,” Harland said.

Rufus was well into his middle years and had a balding pate and bulging belly. “I don’t like the sound of that. No trouble tonight, Harland, you hear me?”

“Or what? You’ll hit me with your towel?”

Thaxter laughed.

“I mean it, boys,” Rufus said. “I can’t have you causing trouble all the time. It scares the customers off.”

“Oh, hell,” Harland said. “It’s not as if I ever really hurt anybody.”

“My brother does as he pleases,” Thaxter said.

“Your pa won’t like it if you do,” Rufus told them.

Bending toward him, Harland growled, “Anyone tells him, they better light out for the hills.”

Rufus swallowed and made a show of running his towel over the counter. “Just behave, is all I ask.”

“Behaving ain’t fun,” Harland said.

“Go bother somebody else,” Thaxter said.

Rufus went.

“I swear,” Thaxter said in derision. “He’s got as much backbone as a bowl of butter.”

Harland thought that was funny. He tilted his glass to his lips, then narrowed his dark eyes as someone new came strolling in. “Well, lookee there. What is it the parson is always saying? Ask and you’ll get what you want.”

The newcomer was about their age and wore city clothes: a bowler, a suit, polished boots, but no spurs. He had a ruddy complexion and red hair, and smiled at everybody.

“It’s Mr. Perfect,” Thaxter said.

“He sure thinks he is,” Harland said. Nudging Thaxter, he drained his glass, set it down, and moved toward where the man in the bowler was joshing with several men at a card table. Coming up behind him, Harland said, “As I live and breathe. If it isn’t Timothy Pattimore.”

Pattimore turned, his smile becoming a frown. “Hell in a basket. Leave me alone, you two.”

“Is that any way to talk to a good friend?” Harland said, and wrapped his arm around the smaller man’s shoulders.

“We are anything but,” Pattimore said. “Get it over with. Knock my hat off. Call me a dandy. Have your brother make me dance with his six-shooter. I won’t raise a hand against you. I learned my lesson the last two times.”

“Well, listen to you,” Harland said. “You’re no fun.”

An older man at the table said, “Leave him be, you Kursts. You’re always stirring up trouble.”

“Who asked you, you old goat?” Thaxter said.

Another player chimed in with, “You hill folk. Always riding in here like you own the place. This town has grown up. Your sort of antics aren’t welcome anymore.”

“I should pistol-whip you,” Thaxter said.

Harland saw that others were giving them looks of disapproval. He was used to that. The weak always resented the strong.

“There’s something you should know, though,” Timothy Pattimore said. “The marshal is right across the street, having a smoke. You start a ruckus and he’ll be in here before you can blink.”

“Have a look,” Harland said to his brother.

Thaxter stepped to the batwings and peered out. “There’s someone over by the general store smoking, all right. I can see the glow. Can’t tell who it is because of the dark.”

“It’s the marshal,” Pattimore insisted.

“I believe you,” Harland said. “You’re too much of a chicken to lie to us.” His mood suddenly evaporated. Removing his arm, he said, “To hell with all of you. This place has gone to the dogs.”

“We’re civilized now,” Pattimore said. “We have law and order. You Kursts should get used to it.”

“Your law only goes as far as the town limits,” Harland reminded him. Beyond lay hundreds of square miles of mostly uninhabited hill country, of wilderness as wild as anywhere. He strode toward the batwings. “Come on,” he said to Thaxter. “The air in here has gotten too righteous for my liking.” He pushed on out into the cool of the night and heard someone make a remark that simmered his blood.

“Those Kurst boys. Mark my words. They’re going to come to a bad end. Every last one of them.”

Chapter 3

Owen Burnett didn’t give much more thought to the cowboy and his news about the cattle drives. Sure, the notion held some appeal. So did prospecting for gold. But as anyone with any common sense was aware, few gold hounds ever struck it rich.

Owen didn’t deem it worth mentioning to his wife when he got home. He had land to clear, ground to till, daily chores to do. A farm didn’t run itself.

Owen liked being a farmer. He’d liked it in Kentucky, where they were from. He’d helped to work his pa’s farm in Caldwell County growing up, and when he struck out on his own, he continued doing what he liked best. He’d still be there if it hadn’t been for his wife.

Philomena shocked him one day by sitting him down in the parlor and informing him that she’d like to move. It came out of the blue. They’d been happy where they were, or so he thought. Granted, their farm was small, and with their two sons and two daughters, more land and a larger house would be nice.

Recovering from his surprise, Owen had suggested looking for a bigger farm right there in Kentucky. Philomena, though, had been studying up on the homestead law, and she’d taken it into her head that having the government give them one hundred and sixty acres would be just about the greatest thing in the world.

“It’s an opportunity we can’t pass up,” she’d said in that tone she used when she wouldn’t brook an argument.

Then she’d stunned Owen even more by saying that she had thought about it and thought about it, and she’d like for them to move to Texas.

In the past, Owen had been willing to go along with her notions. But Texas? It might as well be the moon. At least the moon didn’t have Comanches and other hostiles. And outlaws. Texas had a reputation for being wild and woolly that put other states to shame. He brought all that up, but Philomena refused to be swayed. Texas was a land of opportunity—there was that word again—where a hardworking family could prosper like nowhere else.

“If it was good enough for Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie, it’s good enough for us,” Philomena had concluded her pitch.

Owen hadn’t seen what that had to do with anything. Neither Crockett nor Bowie were farmers. And Philomena seemed to have forgotten that those men went off to Texas and had gotten themselves killed. Still, in her mind only Texas would do.

Now here they were nearly three years later at their new homestead, the work harder than it had ever been in Kentucky. They had a bigger, if plainer, house, built with their own hands, and had cleared about fifty of their one hundred and sixty acres.

Philomena picked the spot. She liked the hill country. It reminded her of Kentucky, what with the rolling hills, woods, and grass. And the soil was good for growing crops.

When they first settled there, they’d had their part of Creation all to themselves. Jasper Weaver and his family showed up about six months later. Jasper, his wife, Wilda, and their son, Reuben, lived farther back in the hills, practically hidden from the world.

Gareth Kurst and his large clan had only been there a year or so. Gareth chose a site on Wolf Creek, about ten miles from Owen. With his five grown sons to help, Gareth could easily have cleared his land and had a fine farm by now. But the Kursts weren’t farmers. They were hunters. They’d built a cabin barely big enough to contain them, and that was it.

Which was why what came next surprised Owen so much.

On a sunny spring morning, Owen was downing trees. He’d stripped to the waist and was wielding his axe with relish. He liked the exercise, liked the feel of working his muscles, liked the sweat it brought to his brow. With each stroke, the axe bit deep into the oak he was cutting down and sent chips flying. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t realize riders had come up until a horse nickered.

Stopping, Owen turned. He thought it might be one of his sons come to help, but it was Gareth Kurst and two of his own boys, Harland and Thaxter.

“Neighbor,” Owen said, nodding. “Don’t see you over this way much.” He mopped his forehead with his forearm.

“We need to talk,” Gareth announced. “I’ve been to Jasper’s and he agrees, so now I’m paying you a visit.”

“You make it sound serious,” Owen said.

“It’s life or death,” Gareth said.

Alarmed, Owen said, “Are the Comanches on the warpath?”

“No,” Gareth said. “I’m here to talk about that cow business.”

“Oh.” Owen smothered a snort of amusement. “That’s hardly life or death.”

“In a manner of speaking, it is.”

“How so?” Owen asked. He’d never cottoned to Gareth all that much. The man could be surly, and ruled his roost with an iron fist. When he told his brood to do something they jumped, or else. Philomena once confided in him that Gareth’s wife, Ariel, had confided in her that Gareth slapped her on occasion. Owen never could abide men who abused their womenfolk.

“Moneywise,” Gareth said.

Owen rested the handle of his axe across his shoulder. “The ninety thousand dollars got to you, did it?”

“Hell, twenty thousand is a fortune as far as I’m concerned,” Gareth said. “However much, it’s more than any of us would make in our entire lives.”

“What are you saying?”

“It should be as plain as the nose on your face,” Gareth said. “I’m proposing that you and me and Jasper go into the cattle business together and fill our pokes with more money than we ever imagined having.”

“God in heaven,” Owen blurted. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“God,” Gareth Kurst said, “has nothing to do with this.”

Chapter 4

Philomena Burnett didn’t like some of the Kurst clan. Not from the moment she met them. Gareth Kurst was one of those men who looked down their noses at everyone female. Gareth’s boys—most of them, anyway—were ill-mannered. Gareth’s daughter was a flirt. And Gareth’s poor wife worked herself to death to please her man and keep her brood happy. Ariel, her name was, and she wasn’t much more than their servant.

Philomena could never live like that. She had too much pride. Too much gumption. And she wasn’t shy about giving someone sass if they imposed on her in ways they shouldn’t. Fortunately, her Owen was as considerate a man as was ever born. She loved him dearly, and the feeling was mutual.

When Owen showed up with Gareth and the two oldest Kurst boys, she picked up right away that this was more than a social visit. The men had something serious to talk about. They roosted at the table while she put coffee on the stove. They didn’t ask her to sit in but she could hear every word. And she didn’t like what she heard.

“Something like this doesn’t come along very often, if at all,” Gareth was saying. “It’s a godsend, dropped right into our laps.”

“I thought you said God doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Owen remarked.

“We’re in the right place at the right time,” Gareth said. “There are more longhorns in these hills than you can shake a stick at. Hell, in a month, I bet we could round up a couple of thousand.”

“I’ll thank you to watch your language around my wife,” Owen said.

Philomena grew warm inside, and not from the stove. She liked how he always insisted she be treated like a lady. It showed Owen respected her. Which was more than could be said about Gareth’s feelings for Ariel.

“And that seems a mite high,” Owen had gone on.

“Maybe, if only one family went about it. But not if all three of our families work together,” Gareth said. “We do it right, each of us stands to make twenty to thirty thousand dollars.”

Philomena couldn’t understand why they were talking about such large sums of money. Make thirty thousand dollars? Why, they should walk on air while they were at it. She wanted to take the coffee over and stand next to Owen, but when she touched the pot, it wasn’t hot enough.

“A third for each of us,” Gareth said.

“And all we have to do is round up two thousand longhorns and drive them, what, almost a thousand miles?”

“Only about seven hundred,” Gareth said. “I did some asking around in town and that’s how far a gent who has been there told me it was.”

“Still a long way,” Owen said, “and we’re not cattlemen.”

“How hard can it be? There’ll be more than enough of us. There’s me and my five boys and you and your two and Jasper and his son. That makes eleven. Plus Lorette wants to help, too, and she can ride as good as anyone.”

“It sounds too much like wishful thinking,” Owen said.

Gareth placed his elbows on the table. “Look. Let’s say we only round up a thousand head. That still comes to forty thousand dollars. Which is pretty near fourteen thousand for you, me, and Jasper. I don’t know about you, but to me, even fourteen thousand is a lot of money.”

Philomena was unable to contain her curiosity any longer. She left the stove and went over and stood beside Owen. Forcing a light laugh, she said, “The sums you’re throwing around. What’s this business about, anyhow?”

“If you’ve been listening, you should know,” Gareth said archly. “I’d like your man to join me and Jasper Weaver in a cattle drive to Kansas.”

“Word is,” Owen said when Philomena looked at him, “up there they’ll pay forty dollars a head.”

“For a longhorn?” Philomena found the notion amusing. Longhorns were big but they were spindly critters. All horns and legs, was how she thought of them. And they didn’t fetch more than four dollars a head in Texas.

“Cattle is cattle,” Gareth said. “And the brush is crawling with the critters, just waiting to be rounded up.”

“I can’t farm and go after longhorns, both,” Owen said. “I couldn’t grow the crops I need. My family would suffer.”

“Not much,” Gareth said. “Your root cellar is well stocked, you once told me. And it’ll be worth it once you have more money than you’ll know what to do with.”

“I don’t know,” Owen said.

Philomena was startled. She knew that tone. Her husband was considering the idea. “Owen?”

“It’s tempting, is all,” Owen said.

“It’s what anyone with half a brain would do,” Gareth said, and then gestured. “Not that I’m saying you don’t have one, Burnett. But a chance like this doesn’t come along but once in a man’s life, if then.”

“You’ve made your point,” Owen said.

“And?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

“Jasper didn’t hesitate. He jumped right on it. Or, rather, his wife did and he jumped on right behind her.”

“I’m not Jasper. I have to talk it over with Philomena and ponder on it some.”

Gareth gave Philomena a glance that hinted he would be happy if she made herself scarce. She wasn’t about to. “Maybe I should sit in,” she suggested, “and we’ll hash this over right here and now.” She tactfully added, “So Mr. Kurst won’t have to wait days for our answer.”

“A good idea, woman,” Gareth said. “Beats me why he has to consult you, anyhow. A female needs to know her place. My Ariel, I tell her how things will be and she goes along.”

“Isn’t she lucky to have you for her husband?” Philomena said.

Chapter 5

Luke Burnett had snuck off to practice. His ma would have a fit if she knew. She was always on him about it. “Stop playing with that thing,” she’d say, and warn him, yet again, that no good would come of it.

The “thing” was a revolver. A Remington Navy given to him by an uncle before the family headed West so he could deal with “snakes and Injuns and such.” The gift had almost brought Luke to tears. No one had ever given him anything so grand.

On their long trek to the Mississippi River, Luke kept it bundled in an old blanket and only took it out at night to admire it and practice drawing and twirling it. Once they crossed into the frontier, where law was rare and the lawless ran rampant, Luke strapped the Remington on and never took it off except to sleep and when doing work that would get it dirty.

His ma didn’t like that. She said he didn’t need to “traipse around with that thing strapped on all the time.”

His pa, though, sided with him. His pa told his ma that in the West, a man had to be able to protect himself and his loved ones. His pa also secretly confided in Luke that he was glad one of them was going around armed. When Luke asked why his pa didn’t wear a pistol, too, his pa had shrugged and said he’d never worn one back east and just couldn’t get used to the idea. Luke suspected there was more to it. Luke suspected his ma was against it. His pa nearly always did whatever his ma wanted.

Luke loved his ma dearly, but he wasn’t about to let her dissuade him. Which was why, every chance he got, he snuck off to practice drawing and twirling and flipping.

Unfortunately, Luke rarely got to practice shooting. Percussion caps, lead, and black powder cost money. And he seldom had any to spare.

In all the months Luke had owned the revolver, he reckoned he’d fired it less than twenty times. He could draw and cock it “like lightning,” as his brother, Samuel, was always saying. But he wished he got to shoot it more.

Now, in a grove of trees not far from the barn, Luke spun the Remington forward and backward, flipped it and caught it by the handle, and twirled it into its holster.

Behind him, someone clapped and chuckled. “That was slick as can be,” his brother said.

Luke and Samuel were born three years apart. At eighteen, Luke had taken on the aspect of the man he’d become, but Samuel was still boyish. Luke more resembled their pa; Samuel had their ma’s hair and cheeks. Both wore homespun and boots, and Samuel was fond of a floppy-brimmed hat that Luke thought looked silly but Samuel liked because it kept the sun and the rain out of his eyes.

“Shouldn’t you be hoeing Ma’s garden, little brother?” Luke playfully scolded.

Sam had leaned the hoe against his side to clap. Gripping it, he grinned. “I’ve done for the weeds.”

“So you snuck over to watch me.” Luke didn’t mind. He sort of liked how his brother looked up to him.

“And to let you know we have company,” Sam said. “I take it you didn’t hear them ride up.”

About to practice his draw again, Luke said, “Who?”

“Some of those Kursts,” Sam said. “The pa and the oldest two.”

Luke frowned. He didn’t like the Kurst family much. Especially that Harland, and Thaxter.

“Their pa is inside talking to our pa,” Sam mentioned. “The other two are over at the pump with Amanda and Estelle.”

A flush of resentment deepened Luke’s frown. His sister Amanda was seventeen, Estelle sixteen. He adored them both, and disliked the way the Kurst boys sometimes looked at them. “Let’s go see.”

“You’re not too fond of them Kursts, are you?”

“I surely am not,” Luke admitted.

“How come?”

“They’re ill-bred,” Luke said. It was a word he’d picked up from his grandmother, bless her soul. She had been big on manners, and on showing respect for others.

“They sure think they’re God’s gift to the world,” Sam said.

“Even you’ve noticed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I notice things.”

They came around the barn and Luke felt a flush of anger. Harland Kurst had his hand on Amanda’s shoulder and was bent close to her ear, saying something that made her cheeks grow pink. “What’s this?” he demanded loudly to get their attention.

Harland and Thaxter both turned, Thaxter with his hand near his Colt.

“Well, look who it is,” the latter said, and glanced at Luke’s Remington. “The gunhand.”

“Be nice,” Harland said. “You remember what Pa told us.”

Amanda and Estelle stood side by side, their backs to the pump, a bucket at their feet. Their dresses were plain, their shoes the kind a fancy city girl would scoff at. Amanda, or “Mandy” as they called her, was taller, almost as tall as Luke, with the bluest eyes in the family. Folks were always saying how pretty she was. Estelle had their ma’s broad shoulders, and a nose much too long and wide for her face. She hated it.

“They behaving themselves, sis?” Luke asked.

Her cheeks still pink, Mandy nonetheless nodded. “Harland, here, was saying how he’d like to come courting sometime.”

“What?”

“I said it polite,” Harland said. “No disrespect intended.”

Luke stepped up to him so they were practically nose to nose. “You better treat her with respect.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“Be nice, brother,” Thaxter said, mimicking Harland, and laughed. “You remember what Pa told us.”

For a moment Luke thought Harland would take a swing at him. Instead, Harland’s mouth curled in an odd sort of smile.

“That’s right. We need you Burnetts, if it’s to work out.”

“If what is?” Mandy asked. She was staring at Luke, and gave a slight motion of her head. Reluctantly, Luke took a step back.

“We’re going into the cattle business together, girl,” Harland said. “Your family and mine.”

“We’re farmers, not ranchers,” Luke said.

“You thought you were,” Thaxter said.

“Everyone knows we farm,” Luke said, and couldn’t resist adding, “It’s more than you do for a living.”

Thaxter glowered and went to take a step, but Harland held out a hand, stopping him. “Those longhorns won’t herd themselves.”

“Longhorns?” Mandy said.

“Money on the hoof, little lady,” Harland said. “Even as we speak, our pa and your pa are striking a deal to make all of us rich.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mandy said.

“Is it?” Harland pointed at the house.

Their fathers had just come outside and were shaking hands.

“Yes, sir,” Harland declared. “We’re going to be right close from here on out.” He chuckled and winked at Mandy.

Chapter 6

Jasper Weaver was getting drunk. Again. Jasper liked to get drunk. He liked the euphoric feeling that came over him, liked the fact that all his cares melted away and he could drift along, as it were, on inner tides of peace and happiness.

Lord knew, his life was anything but peaceful. For starters, there was Wilda. Or, as Jasper liked to think of her, “the Shrew,” with a capital S. Wilda never stopped carping, never ceased criticizing. She’d complain and she’d complain, and then she’d complain some more. To hear her tell it, he’d never done a thing right in his entire life.

The funny thing was—if by “funny” you meant “sad”—she hadn’t been such a shrew before they got hitched. No, Jasper distinctly recollected that she’d been as quiet as the proverbial mouse, hardly ever saying a word unless he asked for her opinion, and even then, her replies never once gave a hint of her true nature. No, that came later.

Jasper got his first whiff of the foul odor his marriage would become on their wedding night. He’d looked forward to finally being able to do what he’d hankered after ever since their first kiss. Not that the kiss had been all that memorable. It was more of a peck. But it was his first time kissing a girl, and amazingly, she hadn’t slapped him and hit him with a rock.

Jasper knew he wasn’t much of a prize. Not when it came to his looks. His own ma used to call his face ratty, and his neck was long enough for two men. Add that to his hook nose and buckteeth, and he was about the least handsome man alive.

Girls had taken to him about the same as they would to smallpox. When he was little, they were always poking fun. One even went so far as to say he should put a burlap sack over his head to spare them misery.

No, when it came to females, Jasper had about resigned himself to living his life alone. Then along came Wilda. They had a lot in common. She was an only child, like him. She was shy, like him. Awkward, like him. And, the truth be known, about as attractive as a bedbug. She was all bone, with a face as ratlike as his own. When he first saw her, he had the impression he was looking into a strange sort of mirror. She was a female version of him. So, naturally, they were drawn to each other.

Jasper courted Wilda for a year before she agreed to say “I do.” With her mother as chaperone, he’d sit in their parlor and make small talk the best he knew how. Now and then they’d go for a stroll, and after eight months or so, she let him hold her hand.

Jasper remembered that day fondly. It had been in the fall. The leaves were rustling. It was a windy day with a chill in the air. They’d bundled up and gone for a stroll to a pond near her house, and halfway around, without really thinking about it, he’d covered her hand with his. He did it because his fingers were cold and he thought hers would warm him. But her fingers were ice. She didn’t pull away, though, which encouraged him to squeeze her hand. When she squeezed back, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

The day of their wedding, Jasper was so nervous he could hardly get his brain to work. It was a small ceremony: her folks and his, and a few kin and friends.

The pastor was old Reverend Willis, whose perpetually red nose was a testament to his fondness for whiskey. When Reverend Willis said that Jasper could kiss the bride, Jasper had eagerly pressed his mouth to hers. All Wilda did was stand there as stiff as a board. She didn’t kiss back. That should have told him something right there.

That night, the true Wilda, as Jasper liked to think of her, showed her real self for the first time.

They had prepared for bed. Jasper put on a nightshirt and couldn’t wait to strip it off again. He’d entertained naughty notions about Wilda for so long, he was anxious to consummate their marriage, as folks put it. Unknown to him, his idea of consummation and hers were two different things.

“Now before you start in,” Wilda had said, sitting with her back to the headboard and pressing her hand to his chest to stop him from reaching for her, “we have to set the rules.”

“The what?”

“The rules. Like my ma taught me. She says that without rules, all sorts of unpleasant things can happen.”

His body so hot he felt like he was on fire, Jasper had said in confusion, “All I want to do is to make love to you.”

“And that’s your right as my husband,” Wilda said. “So long as you do it proper.”

Jasper had wondered if maybe his pa had neglected to pass on an important fact of life with regards to matrimony. “We can’t just do it?”

“I should say not. The proprieties must be observed.”

“I didn’t know there were any.”

“Exactly my point. So here’s how it will be.” Wilda had paused. “We do it clothed—”

“What?”

“Don’t interrupt. We do it with our clothes on. Or our nightshirts, rather, since we’re only to do it at night, after we retire, and then only on nights when I feel up to it and don’t have a headache or a womanly complaint. I’ll allow kissing but only with your mouth shut. None of that tongue stuff. Tongues are too wet for my taste. And don’t touch me more than you absolutely have to. I don’t like being touched. Now, I don’t know how many times a month you expect me to give in to your needs but my ma says once a month was good enough for my pa and it should be good enough for you.”

Jasper had been so stunned, he hadn’t known what to say. So he’d blurted the first thing that popped into his head. “What the hell?”

“None of that,” Wilda had said sternly. “My ma didn’t put up with any of that kind of language from my pa, and I won’t abide it, neither. There’s not to be any swearing around me.”

Jasper had sat back in bewilderment. No cussing, and hardly any lovemaking? What had he gotten himself into? “Is there anything else?” he’d asked, half in jest.

“There are lots of things that will help us get along better,” Wilda said. “You’re not to track dirt in. You’re not to use the chamber pot when I’m in the room. You’re not to try and boss me around like some men do because I simply won’t stand for it. You’re to always open doors for me and treat me like a perfect lady. And once we have a child, we’ll sit down and have another of these talks since I’m not sure I want more than one and it seems pointless to keep on doing, well, you know, if nothing is ever going to come of it.”

Jasper had actually pinched himself, pinched his own leg, half-thinking he was imagining this, but no, there she sat, as rigid as at the altar and as cold as winter snow, smiling happily now that she had laid down the matrimonial law.

That was the start. The next morning, at breakfast, she’d mentioned how she didn’t like that he chewed with his mouth open, and did he have to slurp his milk instead of swallow it, and he should do something about his cowlick.

Now, alone in their kitchen, Jasper glumly raised the whiskey bottle to his mouth and took a long swallow. The sound of footsteps on the stairs galvanized him into quickly rising and shoving the bottle into the cupboard and sitting back down again, his hands folded in front of him, before she came down the hall.

“What are you doing?” Wilda asked suspiciously.

Jasper shrugged. “Thinking about things.”

“Don’t think too much. It’s not good for you.” Wilda went to the counter and filled a glass with water from the pitcher. “I’d like a few more words with you about this longhorn business.”

“You already made it clear you want me to do it,” Jasper said.

“Why wouldn’t I? You expect me to live like this forever?”

“You knew I was a farmer when you married me. And living out in these hills was your idea, not mine.”

“Don’t nitpick,” Wilda said. “As for the longhorns, Gareth Kurst is right. This is a once-in-a-lifetime proposition. Think of what we could do with ten or twenty or thirty thousand dollars.”

“I never gave much thought to being rich.”

“Another of your faults. But that’s all right. I’ve been doing the thinking for both of us for a long time. You’re to help the Kursts and the Burnetts, and when you get our share of the money, you’re to come right back here and give it to me.” As an afterthought, Wilda added, “And don’t forget to take Reuben. It will do him a world of good.”

“I never knew making money mattered that much to you,” Jasper said, not without a touch of bitterness.

“Why wouldn’t it? I’m normal, like everybody else. We can start a whole new life. Be happy, for once.”

“I wouldn’t mind more happiness in my life,” Jasper bleakly conceded.

“Just so you don’t get carried away with it,” Wilda said.

Chapter 7

Gareth Kurst heard himself whistling and stopped. He hardly ever whistled—or hummed, for that matter. People who did were usually in a good mood. He was hardly ever in a good mood. But at the moment Gareth was as pleased as he’d ever been about anything. The prospect of being rich did that to a man.

His two oldest were riding single file behind him, on their way home after their visit to the Burnetts. They came to where the trail widened, and his sons gigged their mounts up on either side of his.

“That was slick, Pa,” Harland said, “you talking them into it.”

“Burnett did most of it,” Gareth said. “He was the one who convinced his missus. That contrary female had her nerve. Why he lets her get away with it, I’ll never know. But then, a lot of men do. They go around with whip marks on their backs.”

Harland laughed. “At least she agreed we can try the roundup for a week or so, and see how things go. If they go well, we can keep on until we have our herd, and off to Abilene we go.”

“I can’t believe how he lets his woman butt in like she does,” Thaxter said. “None of his women know their place.”

“It’s not like the old days, boys,” Gareth said. “A lot of women think they should have the same say as men.” He remembered something he’d heard a while back. “There’s even talk of giving them the vote.”

“The hell you say, Pa,” Harland said. “Female brains don’t work like ours. They can’t savvy stuff like that. Giving women the vote will send this country straight to the dogs.”

Thaxter grinned. “That Burnett gal must have a good brain, seeing as how you’re so sweet on her.”

“Just because I might court her doesn’ t mean I think she’s smart,” Harland said.

Gareth’s interest perked. “What’s this about courting?”

“Harland is smitten by that Mandy,” Thaxter said. “He probably dreams about her at night.”

“Keep it up,” Harland said.

“Is this true?” Gareth asked, and could tell by his oldest’s expression that it was.

“She’s the prettiest gal in these parts, Pa,” Harland said. “Who wouldn’t want to court her? I let her know I’m of a mind to, is all.”

“No and no,” Gareth said.

“Now hold on, Pa,” Harland began.

“No. You listen, and listen good,” Gareth said. “I won’t have anything spoil this longhorn business. We need the Burnetts and we need the Weavers. Doing it all ourselves would take forever. You picked a bad time to be randy. Save your courting for after we’ve sold the herd and have our money.”

“Damn,” Harland said.

“Think about it, boy,” Gareth said. “Think of the courting you could do with a thousand dollars in your poke. That’s how much I aim to give each of you if this comes to pass.”

“A thousand dollars?” Thaxter said, and did some whistling of his own. “Why, I could get a new Colt, one with ivory handles.”

“You can get anything your heart desires,” Gareth said, and turned back to Harland. “So long as you keep your pecker in your pants.”

“She’s not like that, Pa,” Harland said sulkily. “She doesn’t work at a saloon. I’d have to court her proper.”

“No courting, and that’s final.” To soften the sting, Gareth said, “I’d take it as a personal favor, son. I don’t often ask much. But this here is one of those golden opportunities folks talk about. We can have more money than we’ll know what to do with if we play our cards right.”

“I suppose,” Harland said.

“How hard do you reckon it will be?” Thaxter asked. “Corralling all those critters?”

As fate would have it, just then there was a loud snort from up ahead, and a longhorn strode out of the brush into the middle of the trail and stood staring.

Gareth and his sons drew rein, Thaxter exclaiming, “Lordy, look at the horns on that thing.”

A brindle bull, it packed close to a thousand pounds on its big-boned frame. The horns had to be pretty near seven feet from tip to tip.

Gareth suddenly had an inspiration and reached for a rope. “Let’s give it a try and see how it goes.”

“Pa?” Harland said.

“Help me catch it.” Gareth wasn’t much of a hand at roping but he had roped cattle before and could toss a fair loop. He got ready, watching the bull. All it did was stand there and stare.

“You ask me, I’d rather shoot it,” Thaxter said uncertainly. “It’d be safer.”