Chapter Sixteen
Sky Meadow Ranch
Ten cowboys were in the bunkhouse. Four of them were playing poker for matches, one was playing a guitar, accompanied by another with a Jew's harp. One cowboy was sleeping, and Dewey, Woodward, and Martin were gathered around Elmer next to one of the two potbellied stoves, which, in the winter, provided warmth for the building.
“You'll be gettin' paid extra for makin' this drive down to Cheyenne,” Elmer said. “I'm the one that picked you out, so don't you embarrass me. You do a good job, you hear?”
“You know you can count on us, Elmer,” Woodward said.
“Yeah, well, I hope I can. Duff, that is, Mr. MacCallister, needs this deal to go real smooth. I think it's kind of a special thing for him, bein' as this feller he's sellin' the beef to is an Englishman.”
“Damn you! You palmed that ace!” The shout came from the other end of the bunkhouse where the poker game was in session.
Everyone in the bunkhouse looked toward the commotion to see what was going to happen next. Three of the cowboys who were playing were still seated. The one who was shouting in such anger was on his feet, pointing at one of the men.
“Sit down, Louie,” one of the other players said. “You're makin' one hell of a row over nothin'”
“Over nothin' Hank? Over nothin'? Merlin dropped a palmed ace on us. He cheated! That's how he won the pot.”
“Louie, how much did you lose?” Elmer asked, walking to the card game to intercede in the argument before it got out of hand.
“Well, I lost six . . . uh . . . matches.” Louie said the word
matches
very quietly as if realizing the foolishness of his complaint.
“Was you cheatin', Merlin?” Elmer asked.
“I was practicin',” Merlin answered.
“You was practicin' cheatin'?”
“Yeah, I was practicin' cheatin'. Elmer, you know damn well them card sharks in the Wild Hog cheat all the time. I figure if I could get good enough at it, why I could turn the tables on 'em, so to speak. I've lost me a lot of money in the Wild Hog. If I can get this cheatin' down, I could get my money back.”
“And if you don't get it down, you could get yourself kilt,” Elmer said. “Hell, if Louie could catch you at it, how hard is it goin' to be for a professional gambler to see what you're doin'?”
“Yeah, I reckon you're right.”
“You might say Louie just saved your life.”
“Yeah, I reckon you could say that. Here's your matches, Louie.” Merlin slid six matches across the bed toward him.
Louie chuckled. “That's all right. You keep 'em. And you keep on practicin'. I'd like to see someone take them card slicks down a notch or two my ownself.”
Shaking his head, Elmer returned to where he had left Dewey, Woodward, and Martin. “You boys be ready tomorrow.”
West Texas
The little town of Bibb lay twelve miles northwest of Comanche in northwestern Comanche County. By 1880 the community had a school, a church, two grocery stores, two saloons, a cotton gin, and a flour mill. It was a growing and industrious little town with a population of 360. It also had a mayor and a city council, and they'd hired Wyatt Mattoon as a city marshal.
Mattoon came well recommended; he had been a deputy sheriff in Tarrant County, one of the most densely populated counties in Texas. In the beginning, Bibb thought they had chosen wisely. Mattoon managed to keep the peace when the customers got a little rowdy in one or the other saloons.
The problem was that Bibb wasn't able to pay very much, and Mattoon decided to augment his salary. Because of his position, he learned that the owner of the cotton gin had negotiated a loan from a bank in Waco. He was asked to meet the stage so as to escort the money safely into town. Instead, he met the stage, and relieved them of the money box, taking not only the thirty-five hundred dollars that had been borrowed by the cotton gin, but another two hundred and seventy dollars from the passengers.
Of course, Mattoon didn't return to Bibb. He headed for Brackettville, where he passed himself off as a cattle broker for buyers from the East, but in all the time he had been there, he had never bought a single cow.
At the moment, he was sitting in a saloon, nursing a beer. He had spent his ill-gotten gains lavishly, and was nearly out of money. He was going to have to find something else soon.
Sky Meadow Ranch
Dawn broke on the morning the cowboys were to leave. The cattle had never been driven any distance before, and sensing something was about to happen, they milled about nervously, lifting a large cloud of dust that caught the morning sun and gleamed a bright gold.
Even though Elmer, Woodward, Martin, and Dewey were the only cowboys who would actually be making the drive, every cowboy on the ranch was mounted and helping to get the 600 cows herded together for the four-day push south. Finally the cattle gathered four abreast, and, under the urging of the cowboys, began the slow, shuffling walk that would take them to Cheyenne.
Duff slapped his legs against the side of his horse and urged Sky into a gallop, dashing alongside the slowly moving herd until he topped a small hill, then looked back down on the herd. Six hundred cattle were but a small percentage of his herd, but moving out at four abreast as they were, they made an impressive sight, the line stretching over a quarter of a mile long. The cattle moved slowly but inexorably toward the Laramie Mountains.
From his position Duff could see the entire herd. The cowboys who would remain behind had already dropped off and returned to the ranch. Woodward was the flank rider on the left side, near the front, and Martin was riding flank on the right side, with Dewey riding drag, bringing up the rear. Duff had assigned Elmer to stay with Hanson, to “keep an eye on him” and the two men, with no fixed position, rode with the herd, moving from one side to the other, more as observers than participants.
Wang was driving the wagon, which was already a mile ahead of the herd. Duff wasn't riding in any specific position, but kept himself on the move, ready to react to any trouble that might present itself. Sometimes he galloped ahead to check in with Elmer and Hanson, sometimes he rode squarely in front of the herd.
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The first day of the drive was uneventful. They stopped for the night, and Wang prepared a meal of fried pork rice with a hot mustard sauce he made himself. In addition, he had egg rolls.
Sitting next to Duff, Woodward said, “I tell you what, boss. I've been on a dozen or more trail drives, and most of the time I ain't never et nothin' more 'n beans 'n bacon 'n maybe some biscuits. This here is sure some good eatin'.
“What do you think, Mr. Wang? The boys like your cooking,” Duff said.
Wang might have beamed in pride, but his face, as always, was inscrutable.
“Elmer,” Duff said. “Why don't you tell us a sea story?”
“I got so many, I don't know what one to tell.”
“Were you ever in a storm at sea, Elmer?” Hanson asked. “I mean one that had you thinking you would be transported to the Pearly Gates at any moment.”
Elmer laughed. “Sonny, with the life I've lived, I ain't all that sure that it'll be the Pearly Gates for me. More 'n likely it'll be the fiery pits of Hell. But, I can sure spin you a yarn about a storm. 'Twas six days out of New Caledonia when up come the damndest storm I ever been in. It come up on us so sudden that the moon rakers warn't naught but strips of canvas, flapping from the arms, a-fore we could get 'em took down. We had to get other sails took in, 'n the bosun ordered men aloft, but nobody would go. The sails had to be took in or else we woulda foundered. More 'n likely all of us woulda drownded right then.
“Finally, me 'n two other men said we would climb the rigging, so up we went. Well, sir, I'm a-tellin' you, that ship was rollin' from side to side so much that I was hangin' out over the sea 'bout as much as I was over the deck.”
Elmer stopped talking and took a swallow of his coffee, then bit into a sweet roll. “This is the best eatin' I ever done outdoors.”
“Yes, well never mind all that. Just finish the story, will you, please,” Dewey asked. He, Woodward, and Martin had been riveted to the tale.
“What do you mean finish the story? Seems to me like I purt nigh did finish it.”
“No, you ain't finished it atall. Last you said was that you was hangin' on for dear life, sometimes over the deck 'n sometimes over the sea. So what happened?”
“Yeah,” Woodward asked. “What happened?”
“Oh. Well, once we got the sails reefed, we just tightened up the hawsers that was holdin' the ship tied to the dock, 'n rode the storm out just as pretty as you please.”
“Tied to the dock?” Martin said. “What dock?”
“Oh. Well, that would be the dock at Port Moresby.”
“Port? You said you was in the middle of the ocean!”
“What are you talkin' about? I never said we was in the middle of the ocean.”
“You damn sure did. You said you was six days from New Caledonia.”
“That's right, we was. It took us six days to get from New Caledonia to Port Moresby.”
Duff, and Hanson laughed out loud, but Dewey, Woodward, and Martin didn't appreciate it as much.
“Damn, Elmer, you're as full of it as a Christmas goose,” Dewey said.
Duff put an end to the storytelling. “Elmer, it's time to get the night riders out.”
“All right, I'll take it from now until ten. Dewey, you got it from ten till twelve, Martin, from twelve till two, and Woodward, from two till four. I'll relieve you at four.”
“There's no need for you to do a double shift,” Hanson said. “I would be glad to take the four o'clock watch.”
Elmer glanced toward Duff.
“Why not?” Duff said with a smile. “They're his cows, after all. Who would have a greater interest in watchin' over the herd?”
“All right,” Elmer said. “Mr. Hanson, I'll wake you at eight bells.”
“Bells?” Woodward questioned. “What do you mean, bells? Don't you go ringin' no bells in the middle of the night.”
“There'll be no bells rung, you landlubber, you,” Elmer said. “This is talk that only me 'n Mr. Hanson 'n Duff can understand.”
“As long as there ain't no bells rung to wake me up.”
“Don't you worry none 'bout gettin' woke up,” Martin said to Woodward. “When it comes time for you to relieve me, if you don't wake up, I'll get you woke up with a bucket of water from the cook wagon.”
“You no get water from my wagon,” Wang said.
“Yeah, I will, too.”
Wang picked up a knife. “How you carry water, if you no have hand?”
Woodward laughed. “Ha! The Chinaman got your butt, didn't he?”
“Yeah? Well, you just wake up when I come for you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Some nine hundred miles south of where Duff and company had spent the night, Val Cyr dismounted to relieve himself. He had seen a lot in his fifty-three years. He had ridden the outlaw trail even before the war, and when the war started he joined up with Bill Anderson where he continued doing what he had been doing all alongârobbing, burning, and killing. But then robbing, burning, and killing became, according to Anderson, a patriotic duty.
Cyr remembered 1864 as a summer of violence, when the men riding with Anderson went on a campaign that killed hundreds.
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Cyr was the bloodiest of all the raiders, surpassing even Bloody Bill Anderson in his killing. Then, on September 27, Anderson's gang captured a passenger train, the first time Confederate guerrillas had done so. Moving through the train, they robbed all the men onboard, taking almost ten thousand dollars. Twenty-four Union soldiers were among them, and they were taken off the train and shot. The civilian passengers were allowed to leave, but they had to do so on foot, because the train was set on fire.
With the train burning behind him, Anderson set out to pillage the town of Centralia, Missouri. When more than one hundred Union soldiers pursued them, the guerrillas were made aware that they were being trailed, and they turned from the pursued to the pursuers.
The Union soldiers had thought they were chasing no more than twenty or thirty men, but the number was much greater. They were surprised and ambushed.
“Bugler, blow retrâ” That was as far as the captain got before he was cut down. Val Cyr personally shot the bugler when he lifted the instrument to his lips.
For the next several minutes, pistols, rifles, and carbines roared as gun smoke roiled up over the town in an acrid smelling, blue-gray cloud. Soon the saddle of every Union mount was empty, their riders either dead or dying on the ground. After the storm of battle was over, Cyr walked through the street shooting those who were wounded, and even the few who attempted to surrender.
“Ease up a bit there, Cyr,” Anderson called out to him. “There ain't none of them boys goin' to be able to do us any harm.”
“They're Yankees, ain't they?” Cyr asked.
“They're Yankees, all right.”
“Then there ain't no need in leavin' any of 'em alive.” Cyr saw one wounded soldier lying with his head on a young woman's lap. “Get away from 'im,” he ordered.
The woman shook her head no. “This is my husband and I will not leave him.”
“Have it your way,” Cyr said. “But if you get a bullet in your leg when I shoot this damn Yankee, don't blame me.” He pulled the hammer back on his pistol and aimed it at the head of the wounded soldier, but before he could pull the trigger, he heard the click of the hammer being pulled back on another pistol. Looking toward the sound, he saw Elmer Gleason pointing a Navy Colt at him.
Elmer shook his head no. “There ain't no need in killin' that feller, or any of the other ones that's already been shot. There can't none of 'em hurt us now.”
“Like I told Anderson, he's a Yankee, and I'm goin' to kill him.”
“If you kill him, I'll kill you,” Elmer said calmly.
“What the hell's got into you, Elmer?” Cyr demanded. “Me 'n you is cousins. And now you're tellin' me you're goin' to kill me?”
“Yeah, I'm tellin' you that if you kill that man, I'm goin' to kill you,” Gleason said. “Ambushin' these fellers while they was all armed, and comin' after us was one thing. But killin' 'em while they're lyin' there wounded 'n half dead, ain't right. I don't intend to do it 'n I don't intend to let you do it. Leastwise, not with any more of 'em.”
“You're growin' soft, Elmer,” Cyr said with a sneer. “You might want to think about gettin' into another line o' work.” With that, he lowered the hammer on his pistol, then turned and walked away.
One month later, on October 26, 1864, the Yankees located Bloody Bill Anderson just outside Glasgow, Missouri. Though greatly outnumbered, Anderson and his men charged the Union forces, killing five or six of them, before encountering heavy fire. Only Anderson and Elmer Gleason continued the attack, Elmer riding side by side with his leader. The others retreated.
Anderson was hit by a bullet behind his ear and killed instantly. Not until then did Elmer turn and join the others in retreat. Four other guerrillas were also killed in the attack, but the rest of the men were able to escape.
After that battle, Cyr went out on his own, not to find another venue to fight the war, but to continue to rob and kill, though he was doing it for himself. By the time the war ended, he was too well-known to remain in Missouri, so he drifted into Kansas.
He knew all the saloons and gambling dens in all the wild towns such as Hays City, Dodge City, and Abilene. He spent his ill-gotten gains on the half-nude girls with pretty faces and heavily shadowed eyes who plied their avocation in such places, and lost money to the pale-skinned and thin-lipped gamblers with their broadcloth frock coats and wide-brimmed flat-crowned hats.
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Cyr shook off twenty years of memories and buttoned up his trousers, remounted, and continued to ride through the deep, narrow, steep-walled canyons and flat mesas of the surrounding countryside. He was out of money, he was hungry, and he was thirsty for some whiskey. Then he saw something just ahead that would take care of that problem for him.
The small, ripsawed timber building had only one word on the sign out front. STORE. It was surviving in the middle of nowhere, precisely because it
was
in the middle of nowhere. The nearest town was twenty miles south, and across the line into Verde County.
Cyr dismounted in front of the store, blew his nose onto the ground, and pulled his pistol. Holding his gun down by his side close to his leg, he stepped in through the door. A small bell tinkled, announcing his presence.
The inside of the store was in deep shadows. Dust motes floated in the few bars of light that managed to make it through the dirty windows.
“I'll be right with you,” a disembodied voice called from somewhere in the little building. “I've just been takin' me an inventory of what I'm a-goin' to be needin' to order when the wagon comes through next.” A small, bald-headed man wearing a white apron and wire-rim glasses came out of the back room, rubbing his hands together. “Now, what can I do for you?”
Without so much as a word, Cyr raised his pistol and shot the man in the forehead. “You can die for me.”
Stepping around behind the bar, he pulled out the cash drawer and smiled. “You was doin' all right for yourself, wasn't you? There must be over a hunnert dollars here.” He gathered up all the money and stuffed it into his pocket. Then, taking three bottles of whiskey, a few cans of beans, and a couple cans of peaches, he left the store.
Chugwater
From the
Chugwater Defender:
Cattle On The Move
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Though railroads have nearly put an end to the trail drives of old, it is still necessary for ranchers some distance removed from the nearest railhead to continue with the practice. That is the case with the cattle recently purchased by Mr. Cal Hanson, an Englishman who has come to America to go into the cattle business.
As reported in an article previous, Mr. Hanson chose to come to our own Laramie County where he has made the purchase of six hundred head of Black Angus cattle from local rancher Duff MacCallister. Mr. MacCallister is credited with introducing Black Angus into Wyoming, and indeed, is one of the earliest western proponents of the breed.
One can readily see the advantage of Black Angus cattle when it is realized that but one cow of this superior breed will bring, at the market, two times as much money as a Hereford, and four times as much as a longhorn. The current price of a Black Angus cow at the Kansas City Market is sixty dollars a head.
There were two saloons in Chugwater. One, of course, was Fiddlers' Green, owned and operated by Duff's friend Biff Johnson. The other was the Wild Hog. It made no pretensions toward gentility, nor even sanitation.
The Wild Hog existed for the sole purpose of providing inexpensive drinks to a clientele who didn't care if the wide plank floor was unpainted and stained with spilled liquor and expectorated tobacco juice. The saloon did offer food from a menu that was prepared in its own kitchen, primarily biscuits, bacon, eggs, beans, and fried potatoes. In addition to the plate lunches, a couple jars were always sitting on the bar, the vinegar in the jar discolored by unclean hands dipping into it to extract its contents, mostly boiled eggs and pickled pigs' feet.
One other major thing set it apart from Fiddlers' Green, and that distinction ensured a brisk business for the Wild Hog. The difference was in the women who were employed by the two saloons. Whereas the girls who worked the bar at Fiddlers' Green provided pleasant conversation and flirtatious company only, the women who worked at the Wild Hog were soiled doves, who, for a price, would extend their hospitality to the brothel maintained on the second floor of the saloon. Nippy Jones, who owned the Wild Hog, made it very clear to the girls he hired that they would be expected to offer that service.
Two of the Wild Hog customers, Vic Forney and Henry Crump, were nursing a beer at a table in the back of the saloon. Unable to afford any of the girls, though the opportunity to enjoy the services of the soiled doves had been presented to them, they had eaten a lunch, of sorts, from the free boiled eggs and pickled pigs' feet in the jars on the bar.
Crump had also picked up from the bar a free copy of the
Chugwater Defender
and was reading a story with great interest.
“Hey, Forney, you know what Black Angus cows is bringin' in in Kansas City?” Crump asked, tapping the newspaper with his finger. âThey're bringin' sixty dollars a head.”
“Well now, ain't that just real interestin'?” Forney replied. “But tell me, Crump, what the hell does that have to do with us?” He punctuated his question by taking a bite from the pig's foot he was eating.
“I tell you what it has to do with us. Money, that's what it means.”
“You ain't talkin' about rustlin' them cows, are you? 'Cause oncet you rustle cows, the next thing you got to do is drive 'em somewhere. Then you got to sell 'em. You damn sure ain't goin' to be gettin' no sixty dollars a head for 'em when you sell 'em.”
“You're right. That's how come we ain't goin' to be stealin' no cows.”
Forney looked up from the pig's foot. “Then where at is the money comin' from?”
“The Englishman that bought the cows is the same one that put thirty thousand dollars in the bank here. Now you know damn well he didn't pay no thirty thousand dollars for the cattle, 'n that means he still has it on him. That's where we're goin' to get the money. We're goin' to take it from him.”
“Where?”'
“We'll find a place.”
On the trail
The herd was three days out, and had stopped on the banks of Lodge Pole Creek. Water and good grass ensured that they would have no problem keeping the cattle together on what would be their last night out. Elmer had given Wang a night off, and cooked a breaded fried steak with biscuits and gravy for supper. Even Hanson had gotten in on it, making a bread pudding.
“Whoa, this is good,” Martin said. “I ain't never tasted nothin' like this before. Who woulda thought you could make old bread taste this good?”
“I do believe that this will be our last night on the trail. That is correct, is it not?” Hanson asked.
“Aye, 'tis correct. We'll be to Cheyenne by noon tomorrow, but the cattle train isn't scheduled to be there until day after tomorrow, so we'll put the cattle in holding pens and spend tomorrow night in Cheyenne. When we get there, I shall send a telegram to Jason Bowles, and I've nae doubt but that he'll meet you with some men to help get the cattle out to your ranch. Elmer, Wang, and I will be along as soon as we can get another train lined up.”
“You're going on, are you, Wang?” Hanson asked.
“I wish to see Texas.”
“Well, if you like Texas, and you want to stay there, I'd be happy to give you a job.”
“I belong to Mr. MacCallister,” Wang said.
“I understand, my friend. I truly understand.”
“Who has first watch tonight?” Martin asked as he cleaned his mess kit and put it back into his saddlebag.
“I think you do,” Dewey said. “I follow you.”
“Good. Don't be late.”
“Don't worry, I'll be there.”
“If you ain't out there to relieve me on time, I'm just liable to dump a whole bucket of water on you,” Martin said. “And it won't cost me my hand to do it, 'cause I won't have to get it from Wang's wagon this time. I can get it right out of the creek.” He chuckled as he mounted his horse and rode out to keep watch on the herd.
“Hey, Martin,” Dewey called. “How 'bout you sing to them cows a bit, get 'em all calmed down for me.”
“Whoa, what are you talkin' about Dewey?” Woodward asked. “You ever heard that boy sing? He sounds like a coyote with his foot caught in a beaver trap.”
The others laughed.