The Abilene Trail Page 3

  “Sure, Ben.”

  They stopped in a crossroads store en route home. Ben ordered some crackers and cheese. While the clerk was wrapping the food, Ben looked outside and noticed three young men ride up. They looked tough enough and were confronting Mark, who had stayed outside with the horses.

  When Ben saw one of them dismount and swagger toward Mark, he frowned, upset, and headed for the front door.

  “Cowboy, you got a good roan horse there. I think I’ll take him for myself.” The other two smirkers sitting their horses laughed and egged on the one on the ground.

  “Stay there unless you want to die,” Mark said, holding his left hand out.

  Ben stopped outside the doorway in the shadows of the porch and heard the boy’s words issued to his challenger. He was impressed.

  “You got a pistol, no?”

  “Yeah, and don’t ask me to use it,” Mark said.

  One of the young men sitting on the horses had noticed Ben, and cautioned the one on the ground in Spanish about the “hombre grande” on the porch. He glanced toward Ben and then back at Mark.

  “So you win this time, gringo,” he said, and turned.

  “Wait,” Mark said. “Let’s finish this. Ben can watch your two amigos while you and I have it out. If I meet you again, I want you to think different than you do now.”

  “Ho, so you want to fight?” The challenger, a wiry youth, looked impressed.

  “Yeah, I do.” Mark hung the gun belt on his saddle horn and took off his vest, then his shirt. “Let’s see about this.”

  “Oh, you are going to take the whipping of your life.”

  “Same thing I think about you.”

  Ben moved out to the edge of the porch. He used a finger to wave the other two back away from the space in the mesquite, and after a scowl they did as he indicated.

  The fight was on. Mark charged in fist swinging and landed one on his adversary’s cheek. Then he took one to the right eye and gave a three-blow account that sent the Mexican staggering back. He recovered and closed in. It was blow for blow, and both fighters looked like tireless windmills.

  But the battering they both were issuing made Ben think they were close to equally matched. Then Mark drove a hard uppercut and sent his opponent to the ground. Seated on his butt, the man shook his head. “What’s your name, gringo?”

  “Mark Fulton, why?”

  “ ’Cause I want to remember not to fight you again, Mark Fulton.” He rubbed his jaw, shook his head, and never offered to get up.

  “What’s yours?” Mark extended a hand to help him up to his feet.

  “Miguel Costa.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Mark said as he swept up his felt hat and headed for the horse, reshaping the round crown as he went.

  Ben handed him the reins to his horse and nodded.

  Mark pursed his split lip and nodded back. They didn’t need any words. The matter was handled; they started back to the MC.

  “How far was I from needing to shoot him?” Mark asked as they rode up the wagon tracks in the brown grass that split the mesquite and greasewood.

  “How far did you think?”

  “I was watching the other two some and figured I’d never get all of them. But if you hadn’t come out on the porch when you did I reckon I’da done it anyway.”

  “Good judgment,” Ben said, and they began to trot their horses in the growing twilight.

  “ ’Cept I never shot a person before.”

  “Big difference.”

  “I figured so.” They rode on and reached the home place after midnight.

  Chapter 3

  For three days Ben watched the clouds roll in off the faraway gulf, big, thick gray thunderheads full of needed winter moisture. Water would sure help lots of the winter oat crop shriveled up by the dry spell that had grasped the country for over six weeks. The drops pelted his slicker as he headed up the lane for the Basset place. Reo Basset had served in his outfit during the war—by the looks of his tumbledown place, he could use some wages.

  “That you, Captain? Come in; my gawd, it’s a bad day to be out on horseback.” The whiskered face on the man looked unfamiliar, but it had been three years since he had split from Ben’s outfit when they came back from the war.

  He met Reo’s new wife, a girl of fifteen, maybe, and pregnant. Ben had heard the man’s first wife died the fall before of childbirth complications.

  “I’m taking a herd to Kansas this spring. Wondered if you wanted to go along?” Ben asked.

  Reo made a pained face. “Captain, I’d love to. But, you know, I couldn’t hardly leave Flossy here all alone, new baby coming and all.”

  “I understand,” Ben said, and rose. “I hate to run, but I need to make some tracks. If you reconsider, let me know.”

  “I sure will. You seen many of our old outfit lately, Captain?”

  “Yes, I have. Seen John Thornton—he’s got a bad leg, broke it in a horse wreck. Nile’s got lung trouble. Morris Green—he’s got a new wife, has to stay there ’cause she couldn’t run the ranch by herself. Fact I’ve seen like near all of them in the past several days.”

  “Anyone from our old army bunch going with you?”

  “One, Dru Nelson, said he’d go.”

  “Never remarried, did he?”

  “No,” Ben said. Nelson didn’t have some child bride he had to stay home with and pat on the butt either.

  “Easy enough for him to go,” Reo said.

  “I guess. Take care, soldier; I’ll see you. Thanks, ma’am. Take care of him; he was a brave man in his company during the war.”

  “I sure will,” she drawled like a person relieved of a big burden.

  Who did he have who could work? Mark, and Dru, the grouchiest man in his old outfit—that meant he needed to try Billy Jim Watts on the drive up from Mexico in a few weeks. Try was the word. Then he needed two more hands besides them. Where would he ever find them?

  He checked the sun—damn, he had no time left to go home and clean up. Why, he’d have to run his roan to ever arrive at her place by a respectable time for supper. Why did he ever get so involved—Oh, well, he’d not disappoint her, and he put spurs to the horse’s sides.

  The last half mile he walked the hard-breathing roan to cool him. Twilight set in over the hill country; days were getting too short. Soon there’d be more darkness than daylight—he always hated this time of year. The closer he drew to her place the more antsy he felt about this entire thing of seeing her under her terms. But that was foolish—she’d only invited him to supper.

  Of course, she no doubt by this time had seen that shiner on her son’s eye. She’s probably give Ben a lecture over him letting her boy become a ruffian. Maybe he deserved a speech, too. And if Mark had worn that six-gun home . . . Probably he had; he never went without it—even to the outhouse, best Ben could tell.

  Her dogs barked a welcome and she came to the open front door.

  “Ben?” she called out as he dropped heavily from the saddle.

  “It’s me, ma’am.” He loosened the cinch.

  “I was worried you had work to do,” she said, coming to meet him.

  “I-I could have. But no, I was looking forward to your cooking.”

  “Good,” she said, and stood before him looking fresh, her hair pinned up and curls spilling down the back of her head. Even in the dimness of twilight he could see she wore a new dress and he could smell the same perfume from the thank-you letter. Lavender was what it was. She fit her hand in the crook of his arm and led him toward the house.

  “I’ll get you some hot water for you to wash up with.”

  “Fine, I intended to go back—”

  “Ben, you’re a busy man with lots on your mind. I’m just pleased you could make it.”

  “Well, I could have done better. Finding hands is sure not easy.”

  She paused in the lighted doorway and turned back to look at him. “Why? I thought everyone needed work.”

  “Needing it
and doing it are two different things.” They both laughed aloud at his words.

  She left him at the threshold and hurried inside for the hot water. He hung his hat on the peg and closed his dry eyes for a moment. Where would he find enough help? The issue had begun to niggle him and might soon fester.

  “Hope it won’t scald you,” she said, pouring some steaming water in the washpan on the table.

  “It’s cool enough out here. Won’t be long it will be just right,” he said, rolling up his sleeves.

  His hands and face washed and dried on the towel, he stepped over the threshold. The place looked spick and-span. No boys? He wondered where the two younger ones were at. She smiled up at him and nodded for him to go to the table set for two while she fixed plates on a dry sink.

  “Boys out?” he asked.

  “They’re spending the night at the Adamses’. Had something at church they wanted to attend and will be back in the morning.”

  “Fine, I just—”

  “Sit down. I’ll bring the food, and you don’t need to stand up for that.”

  “I’d seat you.” He showed her the chair he had ready for her.

  She wrinkled her nose and shook her head to dismiss his gentlemanly ways as unnecessary. “Be comfortable, Ben. I’ve got to get this and that.”

  “Fine.” He took his place.

  “Hope you like this,” she said, putting a heaping plate before him.

  “After eating Hap’s food for so long, I suspect it will suit me fine.” He looked over the homemade dumplings and chicken, and saliva began to flow in his mouth in anticipation. It had been ages since he had eaten any.

  “You’ve done fine here,” he said, indicating her spread on the table.

  When she was ready to seat herself across from him, she folded her new dress under her and sat down. For a long moment their eyes met, and he felt the magnetism pull on his entire body.

  “Guess we better eat before it gets cold,” she said with a smile, and he agreed.

  “Mark sure likes working for you,” she said after a moment. “I hope you knowed that.”

  “I like him. He’s making a man.”

  “I was kinda upset about the black eye. Not at you—I mean, I didn’t want him going around looking for trouble, but he said it came looking for him and he settled it.”

  Ben finished chewing his mouthful and nodded. “He did it like a man. I never interfered. It was his thing; he resolved it.”

  “Kinda hard for me to be a father to boys. You know what I mean? I try not to be a busybody mother and . . .” She put down her fork on her plate and sighed. “I guess I’m just talking your ear off about my own business.”

  “No, Jenny, you talk; I’m listening. It would be hard being a single parent.”

  “Three boys don’t put me on the most eligible list either.”

  “I’d think those strapping boys of yours would be an asset.”

  “Well, they ain’t.”

  “You’ve done well with them.”

  “I hope so. I can see Tad wanting to do what Mark does, and he’s only thirteen, and the ten-year-old, Ivory, is coming on strong. Why, they’d go to Kansas with you in a minute. But they’re too young to drive cattle, I know.”

  “Hard to keep boys down on the farm.” Ben laughed, and she did too.

  After the meal for dessert she fed him two slabs of her pecan pie and hot coffee. Real coffee, too—strong and not like tea. Jenny knew how to make real coffee.

  The candle in the reflector cast a flickering light. Outside, the wind picked up, and he figured a northern was blowing in—this close to the end of November, it was time for some frosty weather.

  “Guess that north wind’s going to blow the rain out,” she said.

  “Maybe, hoped all day for some.”

  Seated across from him, she wet her lips. “Ben, I made something for you. I-I didn’t . . . I hope it won’t embarrass you.”

  “Oh, you couldn’t do anything to embarrass me.”

  “Close your eyes, then.” She started to get up. “No peeking.”

  He shut his lids. She didn’t have to get him anything. He heard her soles rush across the room and back.

  “Stand up,” she said, and he felt her guiding his hands into leather sleeves; then she put the garment upon his shoulders and he opened his eyes. He wore a buckskin shirt, complete with fringe.

  She stepped before him, drew the front together and buttoned it, then stepped back. Her right hand over her mouth, her left hand holding that elbow, she looked hard at him. At last she nodded her head in approval. “I made some good guesses.”

  He walked around her great room, ran his palms over the sleeves, and nodded in approval. “You did wonderful. But you didn’t—”

  “Do you realize that you sent five deer over here for us to eat? That’s where the buckskin came from. The boys and I tanned the hides.”

  “Take all five hides for one shirt?”

  She made a face at him. “No, you want the rest?”

  “No, no. I just wondered.”

  Then she was in his arms and he kissed her. It felt like the thing to do, what he wanted to do, and he closed his eyes to savor the sugar in her mouth. Then, when he figured he’d gone as far as he dared, he pulled back.

  It felt comforting to have her clean-smelling hair in his face, her subtle body pressed to his. They stood and he rocked her back and forth. Why had he waited so long? He could have lost her with his stubborn waiting.

  “I love the jacket. Almost too pretty to wear.”

  “No, you wear that to Kansas for good luck.”

  “It’ll get all dusty, and the weather’ll be bad—I don’t want to ruin it.”

  “Nothing would make me prouder than to know that you wore it into Abilene.”

  “I will,” he said, and swung her in his arms. “Jenny, you know if I can make this trip and things are as good as this colonel says they are, I’ll own a spread big enough to support a wife.”

  She looked up at him. “You don’t need a big spread—”

  He put his fingertips on her lips. “I need a bigger spread. When I come home from Kansas . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll ask you to marry me,” he managed to get out in a hoarse whisper.

  “Why not now and not worry about what my answer will be all the way up there and back?”

  “Jenny Fulton, will you marry me?”

  “Tomorrow or whenever—yes.”

  A load slipping from his shoulders, he hugged her so tight he feared he might crush her. “Well, damn. Now I’ve done it.”

  “You have.” She nestled her face against his new shirt. “You don’t regret it, do you?”

  “No.” He blew out a deep breath. “I may just fly to Kansas like a big eagle.”

  “When do I need my dress done?”

  He looked at the underside of the shakes on the roof. The soonest he could get back would be August, and if they had any trouble it would be later. Damn—so much he didn’t know about the land between up there and where he stood in her small house.

  “If I can’t be back by September I’ll send word. But soon as I can . . .” He hugged her again. “What’ll the boys think?”

  “They’ll get you on their side and it’ll be four against one.”

  Ben shook his head. How long would he be up north? No way to know. He still had little help for the drive—that concerned him as much as anything. He’d need a larger house. Maybe he’d been foolish asking her? No, he felt good about that, even relieved that it was over and she’d agreed.

  He reached in his vest pocket. “I about forgot. I don’t have a ring, but I do have my grandmother’s gold locket. You can wear it if you want to.”

  “Of course I want to,” she said, and took it from him. With care she opened the latch and studied the faded tintypes. “That her and him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, hook it on me.”

  “Jenny . . . Jenny, I’d love to.”


  Chapter 4

  Mules! Mules! Ben had listened to enough from Hap about needing four stout jasshonkies to pull all that grub they’d need to take with them to ever reach Kansas. His head was rattling about it when he set out to find a half-breed Comanche horse and mule trader by the name of Rain Crow. Ben switched horses to ride that day, and instead of Roan, he’d saddled Tom Jack, a stout bay horse in his string.

  The last he heard, Rain Crow, the trader, was hanging out around Gunderburg, a German community west of Ben’s place. He left the ranch before the rain-soaked dawn appeared and under his yellow slicker struck the road west.

  On a dreary early-December morning, only good thing was the falling rain. A man who made his living with grass and livestock never took rain lightly. Sometimes there might be too little, but in the hill country of west Texas there hardly ever was too much. Droplets pattered on his rubber slicker and felt hat as he put Tom Jack in a long trot. It would be past noon before he reached Gunderburg, and then he still needed to locate Rain Crow. A smile was on his lips. It was a fitting day to go look for the trader. If anyone knew where to find four good mules, the Comanche should, if they were in the country.

  Past noontime he was at Sturdivan’s Saloon with a schooner of dark beer, filling a small plate with food off the free lunch counter. The patter of rain drumming on the tin roof, Ben made himself at home.

  “That hoss trader Rain Crow around town?” he asked the rotund man behind the bar.

  “Yeah, I see him yesterday.”

  “Good, I need to talk to him. Where’ll he be?”

  “Down at the Alamo.”

  “Well, that place any better than before?” Ben knew the joint had several shootings and a few murders to its credit—though the bodies were usually dragged outside the building.

  “Same one runs it as before. Big Louie.”

  Ben nodded that he’d heard the man. The best part about Sturdivan’s table spread was the smoked sausages. He took several slices and crackers on his plate back to the bar to devour them.

  “What you need to buy?” Sturdivan asked, polishing a beer schooner across the bar.

  “Mules to pull a wagon.”

  The German shook his head. “I don’t know where any are for sale, but that breed he can find ’em.”