“I hear there’s one more good Indian in the world because of you,” Red said with a grin. They talked for a while over coffee, and he told Wes he was having trouble with the herd behind his, a big Mexican outfit that kept crowding him. Red was already short-handed and had lost a few steers crossing the Red River. If he got in a fight with the Mexes and lost even more cows, Mr. Butler might not be of a mind to hire him on again.
“Tell you what,” Wes said, “when we get to the North Canadian I’ll pull my herd over and you run yours ahead of me.” It’s just what Red hoped he’d say, and when we got to the North Canadian it’s just what we did. For some reason, though, the Mexes had got slowed down the day before and were well off behind us, so we didn’t have any trouble with them, not right away.
W
hat we did have trouble with was more Indians. Three more times while we were in the Nations we were approached by redskins wanting a tax on the herd or a beef from it. The ones in the first two bunches looked even worse off than the one Wes had plugged near the South Canadian. They was bony, hangdog-looking critters, most of them with big sores on their arms and legs, and we run them off by firing our guns in the air and spurring our horses at them like we meant business. But the third time was different. They showed up one morning as we were closing in on the Kansas border, about a dozen of them, most carrying bows and arrows, a couple with lances. There wasn’t a bony one in the bunch. Their leader was a big honker with a white stripe across his nose and two feathers dangling from his hair. He sat straight on his horse and had a Bowie knife on his hip big enough to chop saplings with. His eyes looked like fireholes.
He signified through hand-talk that he wanted to cut a steer from the herd, but Wes rode up to him and yelled, “Hell, no!” One of the other braves started nudging his pony into the herd, and Wes pulled his Colt and said, “Get your red ass out from my cows, you heathen sonbitch,” and waved him out of there with the gun. Now their leader started jabbering real fast in injun lingo and made it plain with his hand-talk that he meant to have a steer or know the reason why. Wes waved his pistol like he was saying no with his finger. “Hell no, I said!”
Well, that big redskin slides off his pony, yanks out that Bowie, and walks over to a fat steer. Wes stood up in his stirrups and hollered, “You kill that cow, I’ll kill
you!
” The other heathens were all talking at once and shaking their lances and such. I drew my pistol and heard the boys levering rifles and cocking pistols all around me.
And be damn if that injun didn’t slip that knife under that steer, look over at Wes with a grin, and shove the blade way up into its heart. The animal was still dropping when
blam!
Wes shot the injun through the eye and sprayed his brains out the back of his head.
The shot stirred up the cows and our horses spooked and pulled this way and that—and for a long terrible second I just knew we were about to be killed by either injuns or a stampede. But the cows didn’t bolt, and the rest of them redskins didn’t do a thing but look all big-eyed at each other and jabber all at once. I guess none of them ever expected to see big Mr. Two Feathers get his head blowed apart like that. Next thing we knew they were hightailing away from us. It wasn’t till they rode off that I realized how dry my mouth was and how hard my heart was pounding. That was as close as I ever came to being in an Indian fight, and it was close enough for me.
Wes was still plenty hacked, however. He got off his horse and dragged the injun over to the dead steer and used a piece of lariat to tie him sitting up between the horns. “Let them redskins see what happens when they try stealing from us,” he said.
The news ran like wildfire all along the trail. Hands from outfits ahead of us rode all the way back to the spot just to have a look at the dead Indian. Of course everybody that come along after us seen it. Even a couple of the Mexicans from the outfit behind us came over that night. They had droopy mustaches and wore big hats, silver-studded chaps and mean-looking spurs. Their herd had been gaining ground on us all day. One of the visiting Mexes had been riding point and had seen the whole business with the Indian. “Our
jefe
, Hosea,” he said, “he think you should have cut the head. Scare the
Indios
more if you cut the head.” Wes thanked them for the advice, but said what he’d really appreciate was if they’d give our herd more room than they’d given Red Larson’s. “Ah, the red-hair man,” the Mex said. He shrugged and gave Wes a big grin. “You tell your boss I said give us room,” Wes said. “Sure, I tell him,” the Mex said. “Hosea, he don’t like to go too slow, you know. But I tell him.”
We no sooner crossed into Kansas, though, than they closed up tight behind us. Wes didn’t say nothing but you could see he was chafed. One morning the Mexes moved right up on our heels. Our drag riders suddenly had Mexican cows all around them, and some of our stragglers were mixing with the Mexican animals. We had to stop both herds to cut each other’s steers out of the tangle.
The Mexican boss Hosea came riding up looking like he’d just swallowed a pound of chili peppers. He was tall for a Mex and wore a flat-top hat, and the ends of his mustache hung down to his chin. He didn’t talk American too good, but it was clear enough he was blaming the whole thing on us for moving so slow. “I’ll move my herd as I see fit,” Wes told him. The chili-belly blabbered at him in Mexican, then spat down between them and rode back to his own outfit. “Greasy sonbitch,” Wes said. You could about see the smoke coming out his ears, he was so mad.
The next day Manning and Gip showed up in camp and clapped Wes on the back for what he’d done to the big redskin. Then Manning told him a drover named Doc Burnett had asked him to take over another herd about fifteen miles back down the trail. The herd’s ramrod had got into a fight with some bad actor and they’d cut each other up good. Looked like they’d both live, but they were laid up in wagons and would be left off in Caldwell to heal. In the meantime Burnett needed a new trail boss for the outfit, somebody he could depend on and who had sufficient sand to ramrod that troublesome crew. He’d offered Manning six hundred dollars to take the herd the rest of the way to Abilene, and guaranteed he’d still get his full wages from Columbus. “It’s too good to pass up,” Manning said. He was taking Gip along to back him in case there was any more trouble with the hands. When Wes told him about his problems with the Mexes, Manning said, “You let a Mex take an inch and next thing you know he’s wanting five yards. So don’t give the greaser that inch, and don’t take his guff if things come to a head.” Then him and Gip headed off south.
* * *
T
hings did come to a head, just two days later, out on the Newton Prairie. By then everybody up and down the trail knew there was bad blood between Wes and the Mexican boss, and expectations of a fight were running high. I was riding swing when I suddenly heard a lot of loud hollering and cussing, in both American and Mexican, coming from the rear of the herd. I reined back some till I could see through the dust good enough to make out what was going on. The lead Mex steers had closed up around our drag again, and Alabama Bill and Big Ben Kelly were arguing with Hosea and another Mex about it.
Wes came galloping back, cussing a blue streak. “I told you keep them cows away from my herd, you greaser sonbitch!” He pulled his pistol—he’d been wearing just one on the trail—and put it square in Hosea’s face. And that damn Mexican was either the bravest son of a bitch you ever saw or pure-dee crazy, because what he did was go for his own gun.
Some fellas I’ve told this story to say they don’t believe what happened next. Hell, I don’t blame them. I
saw
it and
I
couldn’t believe it. Wes pulled his trigger and the gun didn’t fire. We later come to find out there was too much play between the cylinder and the breech to pop the cap. But here’s the hard-to-believe part: Hosea’s gun wouldn’t fire either. There they were on their horses, no more’n two feet apart, cocking and snapping their pistols in each other’s face over and over and neither one’s would shoot. If I’ve ever seen a more unbelievable thing in my life, I sure don’t recall what it was.
Hosea let out a kind of choked-up scream and flung his gun at Wes’s head and just missed—and Wes threw
his
pistol and hit Hosea on the arm—and next thing you know they’re locked up and rolling around on the ground, and us and the Mexicans are in a big circle around them on our horses and cheering our lungs out. And all the while the Mexican cattle’s still moving, going right around the group of us like we were a sandbar in a river.
Wes broke free of Hosea’s grip and got to his feet and tried to box him. He knew the manly art real well and had put on demonstrations for us in camp, hitting with open hands and making one or another of us look like staggering drunks, he was so quick and smooth. He hit Hosea square in the nose with a jab, but the Mexican looked more stunned by the way Wes was dancing up and down in front of him with his dukes up. Wes hopped forward and jabbed him again and Hosea let out a shriek and rushed him. Wes tried to sidestep but the Mex was pretty quick himself and caught hold of his shirt and down they went in a snarling knot.
They must of fought for ten solid minutes without letting up for a second. I’ve seen dogfights that didn’t have as much fury. They was punching and biting and clawing, kicking, butting heads, cussing and spitting, just flat
tearing
each other up. Finally the both of them were breathing like bellows and having trouble getting to their feet. Their clothes was all ripped, their faces all lumped up and smeared with blood and dirt. One of Wes’s eyes looked like a purple egg with a red slit, he had bad scratches on both cheeks, and his lips were blowed up. Hosea’s eyes were swole nearly shut and his nose was puffed big as a potato and he had an ear tore half off.
A couple of the Mex hands tried to help Hosea on his horse, but he shook them off. Wes waved off any help from Jim and Big Ben. It was a wonder either one was able to mount up by himself, but they did. Wes looked at Hosea and said, “This ain’t … over,” said it like that, hardly able to talk for breathing so hard. Hosea spit blood at him and said, “Kill you … son of … the whore mother.”
Wes rode back to our wagon and it was a good bet Hosea had gone off to his—and there wasn’t no question they were going for guns. Keep in mind, both herds were still moving. With nobody keeping them in columns, they’d started spreading out, and some steers had headed off on their own. The swing riders for both outfits had to work fast to cut the strays back and tighten the herds up again. At the same time, every rider on both sides was straining to keep up with what was going on twixt Wes and Hosea. Jim passed the word for us to stick to our positions on the herd and stay out of the fight unless we saw the rest of the Mexicans get into it. He told me to get up on point, intending to keep me as far out of harm’s way as he could. Wes buckled on his two-gun holster and borrowed a pistol from Nameless to replace the one of his that didn’t work, then him and Jim giddapped on back toward the Mexicans. They headed off on the east side of the herd, so I snuck back on the west. I was damned if I was going to stay out of it.
The dust was swirling thick, and I heard shots before I could see what was happening. Then I spotted Wes riding straight for a bunch of Mexicans at the rear of the herd. He had his reins in his teeth and a pistol in each hand and looked like Judgment Day on horseback. Behind him a Mexican was already spread-eagled on the ground. Jim came riding out of the dust to join him. The Mexican horses were spooked and their riders were having to shoot wild. There were five of them. Wes and Jim closed in and opened fire. I drew my gun, put the spurs to Who Me, and took off behind them, letting out a rebel yell like Uncle Ike had taught me to do.
There was a clatter of gunfire and three Mexes dropped as Wes and Jim rode through the bunch of them like a couple of Mosby’s Rangers. Then they reined around and started back at the two still in the fight. One threw up his hands, but not quick enough to keep from getting shot off his horse. The other one tried to hightail it—and came riding straight at me. We headed for each other at full gallop, both of us shooting and yelling to beat all hell. Next thing I knew I was in the air, flying ass over teakettle—and then I didn’t know a damn thing until I opened my eyes and found myself flat on my back, looking up at my brother Jim, who was kneeling over me with a great big grin and checking me for broken bones. He told everybody the first words out of my mouth were, “Am I kilt?”—which I don’t recollect saying, but which gets a good laugh every time Jim tells the tale. The Mex had shot my pony from under me is what happened. “Wes evened the score for you, Maverick,” Jim said. Jim had caught the Mex’s horse for me, a fine blaze stallion I named Pancho, and he proved a fit replacement for Who Me.
The herds had been stopped and pretty quick we were joined by riders from outfits up and down the line who’d heard the shooting. Everybody was laughing and jabbering all excited about the fight. Wes himself, beat-up as he was, was grinning wide. He’d took a round through his hat brim and another through his sleeve but didn’t get a scratch. He came over and shook my hand and said, “I’m obliged to you, Huck, for coming to our aid.” Jim says I blushed a little and maybe I did, since I hadn’t done a thing but get my horse killed and my back nearly broke. But hell, I couldn’t help feeling proud just the same.
It was six dead Mexicans all told, including Hosea, who’d been the first to fall. Jim had put down two and Wes had dropped the other four. The rest of the Mexes, including the two who’d come over that time after Wes killed the Indian, had stayed out of it. They told Wes they were glad the rankling was done with. Must of been true, because for the rest of the drive they kept their cows well back of ours.
F
or the rest of the drive we didn’t have any troubles worth mentioning. What we mostly talked about around the supper camp-fires—besides telling and retelling about the fight with the Mexicans—was the good times we aimed to have ourselves in Abilene. For those of us who’d never been there before, the tales told about it by Nameless and Ollie and Big Ben were so exciting we couldn’t hardly keep from twitching. The things they said about the women! The closer we got to the end of the drive, the later I’d lay awake every night, agitated with thoughts of those painted cats, as some called them—soiled doves, fallen angels, they had lots of different names. Ollie said they had skin as smooth and tasty as warm milk and would pleasure me in ways I couldn’t even imagine. Big Ben said they put cherry-flavored rouge on their nipples and dusted their pussies with French bath powder. They said Abilene had hundreds of such women, hundreds! And everything they said turned out to be true. Before I got to Abilene that first time, I’d never yet seen a grown woman fully naked, and trying to picture all that bare and willing female flesh made me feel sort of drunk. It’s one more thing about that first drive I’ve never forgot—the excitement of closing in on Abilene and all its wickedness just waiting for me with a wide red smile. About the only one not itching to whoop it up in Abilene was my brother Jim, who was only thinking about getting back to Annie Tenelle as quick as he could. The rest of us talked about nothing but the high times ahead. And about Wild Bill, of course, who damn well knew Wes Hardin was coming his way.