Pinto Lowery Page 17

  “You’d cooperate, wouldn’t you, boy?” Pinto asked the stallion. The big horse snorted its response, and Pinto urged the animal into a gallop. In less than an hour’s riding, horse and rider were closing in on the mustangs from the northwest.

  “Yah!” Pinto hollered as he waved a blanket and set the horses running. “Yah!”

  Instantly the mustangs took flight. As feared, a stallion here and there broke away with a mare or two. But many of the mares nursed colts or fillies, and they wouldn’t abandon a young one, not even for the lure of freedom.

  Pinto concentrated on the buckskin. The black closed on its rival with rare fury, and Pinto threw a rope over the tan horse and led it along. That buckskin, lathered and fiery-eyed, chortled and fumed as it ran along, held captive by Pinto’s braided lariat.

  Running at full gallop, the stampeding horses covered the distance to the ravine in a third of the time it had taken Pinto to ride north earlier that morning. As the bare fenceposts loomed close, Pinto released his grip on the lariat and left the buckskin to shoot ahead. Now trapped by the press of other horses, the stallion was forced past the makeshift corral along with those that hadn’t split off from the harem. When the last colt galloped past, Pinto leaped to the ground and hurried to slide the rails into place. He was securing the final two when the buckskin, seeing the eastern edge of the ravine barred, turned to challenge the west end.

  “No, yer a hair too late,” Pinto called to the frustrated horse. “Jus’ as well. Bet you’d ended up Chickasaw trade goods or else table meat come winter. I won’t work de spirit out o’ you, nor use a geldin’ knife.”

  Pinto sat atop the rail fence the rest of that morning, mentally noting each horse in turn. He counted five stallions besides the buckskin. Three of them were full grown and sure to make good cow ponies. Two were barely more than yearlings and would want some growing. Of the sixteen mares, four were smart-looking and sure to breed fine ponies. Three of the others were branded, and Pinto cursed that for bad luck. He’d have a time managing more than ten mounts for Ryan Richardson and J. B. Dotham. Of the remainder, eight were colts and six were fillies. Near half the animals, in other words, would want rearing.

  “Fine beginnin’ fer a breeder,” Pinto noted, “but not any too promisin’ for a trader.”

  Maybe it was fate’s way of edging Pinto Lowery toward a settled life. Or the big black’s revenge for breaking him to saddle. Whatever, Pinto set to work gentling the stallions and working the edge off the mares. He didn’t bother with the younger horses. Once their mamas were pliable, they wouldn’t run, and the littler mustangs would make no break on their own.

  The same day Pinto managed to stay atop the buckskin and race the animal three times around the corral, he shot a goose and turned the big bird on a spit. He was in rare good humor, and he passed the cooking time whistling old camp tunes and watching the big black frolic with the mares.

  Suddenly the wind died away, leaving an unearthly quiet to haunt the hillside.

  “Never knew silence to have an echo,” he said, feeling cold in spite of a blistering afternoon sun.

  Gazing at the mares nuzzling their young or at the white-faced stallion cavorting, he felt terribly empty and more alone than since that first night a lifetime before when he’d marched off to Confederate service and left his ash-faced mother behind.

  “A man wants company,” Jamie had declared as he rolled his blankets out alongside George Lowery. “Else the loneliness plum swallows him whole.”

  “Ain’t it de way!” Pinto called to the horses. And he determined to lead out his small herd next morning, ready or not.

  Chapter 19

  The move south and east to Wise County covered some forty miles. Along the way one of the stallions and two mares ran off, but all in all Pinto deemed his journey a success. The buckskin was proving as lively, if a bit less durable, than Pinto’s big black, and the other horses seemed to have lost most of their wildness.

  Once across the Trinity, Pinto began searching out a likely horse camp. West of Decatur and north of Defiance he located a broad grassland abandoned to the wind, save for a few maverick longhorns.

  “Guess you’ve gone and become a rancher, too, Pinto,” he told himself once he was satisfied the animals bore no brand. After locating the horses along a well-watered stretch, Pinto led the three branded mares into Decatur. He left them for their owners and bought needed supplies, then inquired after the Oakeses.

  “Them corn farmers down south?” the store clerk asked. “Comely sort o’ woman with a passel o’ kids. Yeah, come through here buyin’ some piece goods a few weeks back. Lost her man, I hear. Shows. She was weathered down considerable.”

  It wasn’t what Pinto wanted to hear. Next day he collected two stallions and the six mares that had weaned their young to take to the Double R. He’d long since decided to offer Ben Oakes the buckskin for a saddle horse, and the brood mares would remain as well, together with the herd of spindle-legged youngsters. One of the yearling stallions had promise, and the other was enough horse to carry little Brax or Winnie about.

  Pinto’s arrival at the Double R brought a buzz of excitement.

  “Thought you were halfway to Colorado sure,” Richardson said as he eyed Pinto’s string. “And here you were off working up cow ponies the whole time.”

  “Got some good ’uns, too,” Pinto replied. “Dey’ll carry a man to Kansas and back again, each and every one of ’em.”

  “I believe they just might,” the rancher agreed. He then inspected the animals personally before locating Jared and a pair of cowboys. “Give ’em a ride, boys,” Richardson ordered. “See what you think.”

  Pinto wandered over to a live oak and dismounted. There was a watering trough nearby, and the big black drank thirstily from it.

  “Was wonderin’ when you’d come back,” a familiar voice spoke from the opposite side of the thick-trunked tree.

  “That can’t be Tru Oakes makin’ them man sounds,” Pinto said, stepping over and greeting the young man warmly. “Readyin’ yerself fer Kansas, I guess.”

  “Just visitin’ Jared,” Truett explained. “You got your horses, I see.”

  “Some,” Pinto said. “Mos’ly I got a lot o’ stumblefooted colts and fresh-weaned fillies.”

  “Where?”

  “North a ways. Maybe you’ll pay a call later on.”

  “Maybe you’ll pay us one.”

  “Oh, I’ll come by when I can,” Pinto said, avoiding Tru’s probing eyes. “Always meant to keep an eye yer way.”

  “Ma’d welcome you to supper.”

  “Thank her, but I got work waitin’.”

  “I don’t see why you don’t bring your horses and come along home,” Truett said, stepping closer and looking Pinto squarely in the eye. “You wouldn’t have come back if it wasn’t in your mind.”

  “Brought horses to sell,” Pinto lied.

  “Well, the invite’s there for you when you want it,” Truett concluded. “Looks like Jared’s happy with the horses. Cousin Ryan’s sure to offer you top price. Jared’s particular.”

  “Well, dere’s that ches’nut mare I sold him to figure in.”

  “Yeah, he’s partial fond of that horse.”

  Jared met a moment with his father, and the Richardsons, father and son, stepped over to conclude business. Pinto met them, came to terms, and then glanced back to where Truett had waited. The boy was stroking the black stallion, but when Pinto called to him, Truett turned and hurried along toward where Arabella stood on the porch.

  “Guess he spoke his piece,” Pinto told the stallion as he climbed atop its back.

  Pinto Lowery was no stranger to the Oakes farm those next few days. Once each morning and again toward dusk he put the buckskin or one of the mares through its paces. Each time he rode along the rim of the cornfields or up past the house. He watched Elsie hang up laundry or spied on the boys swimming in the river after working the rows of fledgling cornplants. Once or twice Ben or Br
ax would notice and wave. Pinto always nodded, but he never rode down to visit.

  “You’d only go down there once,” he told himself. “Wouldn’t be able to leave a second time.”

  It was the last day of May when Truett appeared. The midday sun was hanging high overhead, and Pinto was only just finishing his work with one of the yearlings.

  “Howdy!” Truett called.

  “Howdy!” Pinto responded. “Seems you took a wrong turn. Double R’s south.”

  “Know it is,” Tru answered as he pulled his horse up and climbed down. “Thought maybe you might not have gotten around to eatin’. Ma packed some ham and biscuits. Part of a peach cobbler, too.”

  “It’d be a welcome change from jerked beef and prairie hen,” Pinto confessed. “Come along and sit yerself at my table here. Pull up a chair.”

  Truett stared at the barren ground and laughed. He then drew a provision bag from his saddlebags and walked over and joined Pinto beneath a pair of live oaks.

  “You know Ben’ll take after me with a scalpin’ knife when he finds out about this,” ’Truett said, opening up the bag and doling out the food. “He’s been after me better’n a week to take him up here. I figure he’s eager to ask the loan of a horse.”

  “See that buckskin?” Pinto asked as he stuffed slices of ham between two biscuits. “Been gettin’ him ready fer Ben.”

  “Lot of horse for a boy, don’t you think?” Truett asked.

  “You felt like a boy much lately, Tru? Hard to see a little brother gettin’ bigger, but Ben’s thirteen now. I considered givin’ over de buckskin to you and passin’ yer horse along, but den . . .”

  “Ben’s been his whole life gettin’ hand-me-downs,” Truett said, nodding. “Been ridin’ ole Sugarcane. Better this way. And ’sides, I’m fond of my fool pony, even if it don’t seem like much to most folks.”

  “Well, you get too good-lookin’ a horse, somebody jus’ comes along and swaps you out ’o him. Or takes him when you’re not watchin’.”

  “Nobody’s stolen that big black of yours.”

  “Ain’t half a dozen folk even in Texas he won’t throw off,” Pinto explained.

  “Jared told me you did real well sellin’ off your horses the other day. Didn’t buy this land, did you?”

  “No, I’m jus’ borrowin’ it fer a time. Till dem little ’uns get to be of a size.”

  “I’d guess that’ll take a while.”

  “Likely will.”

  “If you was to come back to our place, I’ll bet Ben, Brax, and me could help you build a proper work corral.”

  “You’d be bound fer Kansas soon.”

  “Maybe,” ’Truett said, frowning. “Maybe not.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Piles of it,” Truett explained. “I thought I could take care of things. To think I tried to run you off last fall! Must’ve been sincerely addled.”

  “How so?” Pinto asked, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder to calm him.

  “First off, I don’t do anything right. I tried to add the room out back Ma wants, but I made a mess of it. Planks don’t meet where they ought to, and I used twice the nails a fellow who knew what he was doing would’ve. Nails ain’t cheap, you know. They come dear in Defiance and near that bad even in Fort Worth. Not much chance of gettin’ there, I can tell you.”

  “Maybe I’ll drop down that way.”

  “Wouldn’t matter now,” Truett grumbled. “Jared and his pa came over and tore down the whole thing. Then they started over, and it went up just perfect. See? I can’t do anything right!”

  “All you did was try. Can’t anybody fault that.”

  “There’s the cornfields, too. I can’t seem to keep Ben and Brax at the hoein’ nor do it myself, either. It’s hot, and some of the plants are near scorched. At dinner Ben goes to talkin’ how you kept ’em green last summer, and you wasn’t even farmbred. Well, I suppose you know what that makes me.”

  “I don’t figure yer ma took it much to heart, Tru.”

  “No, she never does. But it ain’t lost on her, neither. Cousin Ryan come by to talk over the cattle drive. Shoot, how was I to know we’re supposed to round up our own stock, brand the yearlings, cut the bull calves. Pinto, I never done that. Don’t know as I can. Jared says it’s not so much, but I never even cut an ear notch, much less . . .”

  “Sure,” Pinto said, laughing. “Wasn’t a cowboy born didn’t feel it. Maybe I’ll happen along and show you how it’s done.”

  “Never branded anything either.”

  “Got a job o’ that to do my own self. Could be we could mark these ponies and yer calves at de same time.”

  “There’s so much more, too. We need your help all the time, not such with a bit of brandin’ and geldin’.”

  “You’ll manage,” Pinto assured the young man.

  “I’m not a man yet, Pinto. I got a lot of growin’ yet to get done. Ben, too, and Brax. Winnie misses you, and Ma . . .”

  “Give me a lissen here,” Pinto said, steadying Truett a second time. “Not a man you say? Shoot, you look one to me. Soon ’nough you’ll be taller, too. But manliness ain’t comin’ with de size. It’s inside, here,” Pinto said, jabbing a finger into his own chest. “Hard times’ll grow you up faster’n anybody’d wish. Guess it’s nature’s way o’ seein’ to things. Don’t sell yerself short jus’ yet. Ole Richardson’s not settin’ out north fer a week or so, and we’ll figure out a way to get yer cows ready by then.”

  “You mean to stay out here all alone?”

  “Alone?” Pinto asked. “Got all these ponies ’round. Ain’t much alone.”

  But Truett stared hard. There was no fooling that boy. Even as young Oakes handed over a square of cobbler wrapped in a napkin, he remained unconvinced.

  “There’s different kinds of bein’ alone,” Truett declared. “I’ve known every one of ’em since Pa died. Don’t tell me different, Pinto. I know.”

  After Truett’s visit, Pinto received company regularly. The first week of June he presented the buckskin to Ben, and a day later brought a spotted stallion by for Brax and two gentle mares bought off a Decatur farmer.

  “Now you’ll be all o’ you mounted,” he told Winnie as the girl climbed atop hers. “Other’s fer yer ma. Figure Sugarcane to need a res’.”

  “Oh?” Elsie asked. “And just how will we pay for all this good fortune?”

  “Figure you to keep me stocked up on cobbler and cornmeal,” Pinto replied. “You boys try yer hands at throwin’ ropes, hear? We got some roundin’ up to tend by and by.”

  “We will,” Truett promised. “And the other, too.”

  “Sure,” Pinto said, laughing at the dread looks crossing the littler boys’ faces. “By and by.”

  “You could stay . . . to supper,” Elsie suggested as she stepped closer. “We’ve been a time missin’ your company.”

  “I won’t be far,” Pinto said, avoiding her eyes. “But I got work to tend jus’ now.”

  In truth they both knew that he’d done about all there was to do with the remaining horses out on the range, and he now devoted most of his time prowling Wise County in search of the odd range pony. He’d roped three, but they weren’t much of a challenge and would soon be ready for delivery to J. B. Dotham.

  “You know that boy Truett’s right,” Pinto muttered as he rode back to his camp. “Ain’t nothin’ holdin’ you here.”

  Truett had been right about the loneliness, too. It plagued Pinto Lowery almost every waking moment.

  Chapter 20

  Pinto was up early the morning the riders came. He’d been expecting a call from J. B. Dotham, and thus he paid little attention to the half-dozen cowboys who appeared out of the morning mists. Dotham and Richardson rode in the lead, together with a familiar-looking fellow Pinto couldn’t quite place. He soon introduced himself.

  “Potter Diggs’s the name,” the man said. “Wise County Sheriff. You’re Lowery, I take it.”

  “I am,” Pinto said, anxiously
eyeing the lawman’s companions. There was an ill-concealed anger on each face. Even Dotham and Richardson, who were usually peaceful types, had their dander up.

  “Heard you might be out this way,” the sheriff added.

  “Well, Mr. Dotham here knows it pretty well. Was supposed do pick up some horses here. Mr. Richardson’s done some buyin’ off me, too. Ain’t done a thing wrong as I know. What’s on yer mind?”

  “Not you, and that’s for sure,” one of the cowboys muttered.

  “Come to see if maybe you seen some men ride by,” Diggs said, searching the horizon. “Have you?”

  “Nobody this mornin’,” Pinto answered. “Trouble?”

  “Robbed the Pratt farm,” Dotham explained. “Between here and Decatur.”

  “Kilt ole Lloyd,” a cowboy said, grinding his teeth. “Shot him clean through the head.”

  “Did in Mary Agnes, too,” Richardson said, paling. “Shot two of the kids, then set the house on fire, figurin’ the others’d burn inside.”

  “Ain’t seen a soul,” Pinto said, swallowing hard. “Course, I got all these horses here, and they raise a fair cloud o’ dus’. Noise, too. Could’ve a dozen men rode a mile away and come right pas’ me.”

  “Wasn’t a dozen,” Diggs said, “but might as well be. Got a fair description from Jimmy Pratt. Big man with a busted up face. Joe Hannigan’s back.”

  “Can’t be,” Pinto said, growing cold inside. “I heard dey hung him up in Kansas.”

  “Tried,” Richardson said as he swung his horse around. “They killed two deputies and made their escape. Got no more time for swappin’ tales now. If they rode past you, they just might be headed for my place. Arabella and the boys are there alone!”

  “You keep an eye open, Lowery,” the sheriff suggested. “Spot ’em, duck for cover and get us word. Never could stomach no one makes a habit o’ shootin’ females and little kids.”

  “I’ll be lookin’,” Pinto told them.