Pinto Lowery Page 3

  Chapter 3

  It was strange how memories that should have died at Appomattox eight long years before should have haunted Pinto Lowery so. For three days the nightmare faces of fallen comrades visited his dreams. As he wandered across the wind-swept range, passing scattered clusters of grazing longhorns and the crude picket ranch houses of their owners, he couldn’t help recalling old dreams born on the trail to Kansas.

  “I’ll have myself a herd one day,” Ken Preston had boasted. “How ’bout yourself, Pinto?”

  “Oh, wouldn’t be so mad,” a younger Lowery had confessed. “But mos’ly I’d like to run myself some horses.”

  Dreams had their way of coming back at a man, didn’t they? Here Ken got himself pistol shot in Wichita by some Kansas farmer over a bit of foolishness with his daughter, and Pinto had passed too many winters mending harnesses and loading freight. Finally he was back on the Llano, sniffing out ponies.

  It was late on the glorious first afternoon of March 1873, when Pinto Lowery at last came upon the unshod tracks of a mustang herd. He smelled traces of the animals before that, and for twenty miles he’d spotted their dung amidst the sea of yellow buffalo grass. As he stalked the horses, he put aside those lingering memories of an unfulfilled past.

  “I was born to hunt horses,” he announced to the world. “Ain’t a man in Texas does it half so good, and none at all more inclined to de trade.”

  Pinto urged his horse onward. He rode only three or four miles before locating the distinctive mottled colorings of a range pony. Beyond the first animal another two dozen grazed. At Pinto’s approach, the horses lifted their nostrils to the wind. But days on the trail had blended Pinto’s natural odors with those of horse sweat and damp ground. The animals noted nothing peculiar and relaxed their guard.

  Pinto, meanwhile, led his packhorse and the chestnut mare through a narrow ravine and along to a low hill overlooking the Brazos. A spattering of willows lined the river there, affording good firewood. It made for an ideal camping spot, and Pinto wasted no time in hobbling his horses and unpacking his belongings. It was only later, when the midday sun sent the horses to the river for a drink, that Pinto counted them and made plans for their capture. Of the thirty-six animals he counted, he hoped to snare half to two-thirds.

  “How exactly do you plan to capture two dozen horses singlehanded?” Bob Toney, another veteran of the First Texas and a prominent Parker County rancher, had asked two summers before when Pinto had announced a like intent.

  “Oh, catchin’ ’em’s no trouble,” Pinto had answered then. “It’s keepin’ ’em’s de trick.”

  So it was now.

  To begin with, Pinto had learned long ago even a dozen men had little hope of roping more than five or six horses once the herd took to flight. If a man was just after a saddle mount, a rope would get him there. But if he was after a profit, he needed to have the horses do most of the work.

  Pinto knew once the animals stampeded, a leader would emerge. It wasn’t hard to spot which one. The strongest of the stallions gathered around himself a harem of sorts. Oh, he’d sometimes tolerate another stallion or even three or four if the herd was large enough. Mostly the leader drove his rivals off, even those he himself had sired. There were always colts about, though.

  The leader of the current herd was a tall, prancing black with a splash of white across his face. It seemed likely he was the off-spring of some rancher’s mare mated with a mustang. Or maybe the horse had been stolen by Comanches as a colt. The black was half a hand taller than his companions, and he tirelessly worked his way among the harem as if to tell the three other younger and smaller stallions that they had best keep their place.

  “Horse like that ’un’s sure to leap a four foot fence,” Pinto told himself. “Well, I’ll build mine six.”

  As for where, Pinto followed the ravine into a walled canyon. Where once a creekbed had promised freedom on the opposite side, a massive rock slide now barred the way. It was a perfect box.

  Pinto set to felling live oaks. In two days’ time he’d cut posts and planted them in the rocky ground. Rails six feet high followed. He left a narrow entrance eight feet wide so the animals could get inside the canyon. It wouldn’t take much to slide rails into place afterward, trapping the whole herd.

  “Well, dere you are,” Pinto announced when he finally finished the back-breaking work. “As good as a work corral!”

  Now all he had to do was coax the horses into the ravine and run them down the canyon. All? Pinto asked himself. It was enough.

  “It’ll either work or it won’t,” he mumbled as he climbed atop his spotted mustang and headed toward where he’d last seen the range ponies grazing. He slipped up on the rear of the herd quietly, then exploded into action. Howling like a banshee, he waved a blanket overhead and fired off three chambers of his battered old Navy Colt. The noise echoed across the far hills, giving the desired effect of driving the horses away from the river and down the narrow ravine. In no time at all the animals pressed together in a knot. Their big leader fought to take control, but Pinto refused to give pause. As he screamed and waved the blanket, the mustangs hurled themselves deeper and deeper down the ravine. Amidst the dust and confusion, the defiant stallion was driven along toward the confines of the canyon.

  Oh, one or two colts did break away. Being swift and nimble, they were better suited to climbing the walls of the ravine. But once the walls became rockier and steeper, escape was no longer possible. The frightened animals lumbered onward, unaware that they were hurrying toward captivity.

  In half an hour’s time it was all over. The last of the ponies squeezed through the gap in Pinto’s fence and rushed toward the blocked exit. Two horses tried to scale the rock slide, but neither succeeded. Meanwhile, Pinto slid the hidden rails into place, completing the rock and wood corral.

  “Now I got you, boy,” Pinto shouted to the big stallion. “Tomorrow we get on with de breakin’.”

  The big black screamed defiance. He charged around the canyon, trying every possible means of escape. Finally he trotted over and tackled the fence. Even his heavy hooves couldn’t dislodge those posts and rails, though.

  “I build a thing to stay,” Pinto called to the stallion. “Bes’ you understand it. These others’ll make good work ponies. You’ll carry me ’cross de Llano!”

  The stallion reared up and cried out stubbornly. He then turned and kicked as the fence with his hind legs. Finally he raced at a gallop and threw himself at the wall. It didn’t budge, though, and the horse bounced backward in a swirl of dust.

  “Bus’ dem ribs, and you’ll be crowbait!” Pinto yelled.

  The horse paid him little mind, though. But by the time dusk fell, the big black had begun to realize the futility of escape.

  Pinto Lowery devoted two and a half months to the mustangs. By that time twenty-seven of the beasts begrudgingly accepted a bit and tolerated a rider. Of course the rider was George Lowery.And there was some question as to whether the white-faced black stallion did either.

  “Every time up’s a puzzle, eh, boy?” Pinto asked as he mounted the defiant stallion one mid-May morning. “You jus’ can’t give yerself over, can you?”

  As if to answer, the stallion shook his head and bucked a moment before Pinto squeezed the rebellion out of the beast with his knees.

  “Let’s take a bit of a ride,” Pinto suggested.

  He then trotted toward the fence, dismounted long enough to slide back two rails, and led the horse through. After replacing the rails, Pinto approached the stallion cautiously. Never before had he dared take the horse out into the ravine. As for the stallion, the animal gave a snort and dipped his head. Then it waited meekly for Pinto to climb atop.

  “Thought you’d skedaddle sure,” Pinto remarked as he urged the stallion into a trot. “Nothin’ holdin’ you, but o’ course you didn’t know.”

  The stallion responded by rearing up on his hind legs and then setting off down the ravine quick as lightni
ng. The horse was a comet—all speed and fury. Pinto hung onto the reins and shouted encouragement.

  “Go, won’t you? Show me what you can manage!”

  The animal raced down the ravine, splashed across the Brazos shallows, and galloped on toward the boundless plain. For a time Pinto gave the horse its head. Only later did he turn the stallion west and then north—back to the canyon.

  “Yer a regular dancer!” Pinto exclaimed upon returning. The mares stirred anxiously as the lathered stallion pranced through the open gate. But Pinto had no trouble sliding the rails back into place, and when he removed the saddle and drew out the bit, the big horse dropped its head onto Pinto’s shoulder. The mustanger stroked the animal and sighed.

  “Done stole de wind from you, boy,” Pinto remarked. “Ain’t wild no more. But you’s as good a pony as a man’s got a right to dream ’bout. Time we took ourselves a ride toward town, sold off a few o’ dese others.”

  Pinto slept long and well that night. His dreams filled with the cries of auctioneers as cattlemen gathered to bid up the price of Pinto Lowery’s prime cow ponies.

  “They’s jest mustangs,” one young cowboy declared.

  “You ain’t been alive long enough to know what a good horse is, boy!” another chastised. “Lowery was runnin’ ponies down when you was wettin’ yerself.”

  Stacks of banknotes and fistfuls of gold pieces reduced the herd. That money spelled a prosperous future. Land was cheap, and a few thousand dollars could buy a fine stretch of country. Hadn’t men turned the profits from driving mavericks to Kansas into empires? Bob Toney had started the Lazy T with gold pieces earned from selling the Yank cavalry a batch of remounts.

  Soon the vision of a wealthy and respected Pinto Lowery appeared. Bankers tipped their hats, and ladies curtsied. His credit was good in every saloon west of Fort Worth. Then a big-nosed monster appeared, smoking pistol in hand, and stole it all away.

  “Got unfinished business,” Joe Hannigan insisted as he nodded to his brother Pat. The younger Hannigan drew out Muley’s mouth organ and struck up a tune. The first notes of “Dixie” were tormenting Pinto when he suddenly bolted upright. The dream exploded, leaving only bits of nightmare to haunt the nervous mustanger.

  “Lord, thad was a turn,” Pinto said, mopping his damp brow and fighting to regain control of his heaving chest. “Poor time fer de bad dreams to come back.”

  He steadied his nerves and glanced around at the horses. They were calm enough, and he tried to put aside the vision of Joe Hannigan’s cruel eyes. The memory of Muley’s pale face was heavy in Pinto’s thoughts just then, though, and it was a time yet before he could get back to sleep.

  “Hard life, ridin’ de Llano alone,” Pinto remarked as a rare May chill bit into his back. He recalled the bantering of the Tubbs boys, Alice’s good-natured nagging, Muley’s fool stunts and addled thinking. There was comfort to hearing them climbing the loft on winter mornings. He missed Faye’s cooking, too.

  He didn’t miss the violent morning that had taken Muley Bryant’s young life. Nor did he yen for one of Elmer’s tongue-lashings.

  “Oh, well,” Pinto muttered. “Life’s a trade. It’s jus’ a matter o’ swappin’ one thing fer another. Sometimes you do jus’ fine. Others you wind up with de short stick.”

  It was a philosophy of sorts. Pinto Lowery believed it with all his being.

  Come morning, Pinto set to work assembling a sample herd. He lined up ten of the fittest mares, together with one young stallion. As for himself, he planned to ride the big black. He felt a sort of kinship for the beast, and he hoped to give the animal a real test on the twenty-five-mile ride to the Lazy T. If the horses didn’t sell to Bob Toney, then Pinto would take them into the market town of Defiance.

  Actually, he wasn’t too worried. Soon the northern Texas herds would start north toward Kansas. Cowboys were always in woeful need of saddle mounts, and a Lowery pony brought top price.

  “You others stay put,” Pinto said as he led his string of eleven through the gate and slid the rails back into place. Some men might have taken the lot. Pinto took what he could control. Then, too, why flood the market? The others would sell easily enough, but maybe not at top dollar. This way men hard up for a horse would bid an animal’s worth.

  He led his four-hoof procession out of the ravine and up to the banks of the river. Soon they were snaking their way eastward toward the Lazy T. Since most of the region’s ranches spread out north and south of the river, Pinto soon swung north to avoid crossing the land of men he didn’t know. It had been two years since he last rode that country, and a lot could happen in two days on the Texas frontier. Then, too, the river wound through the Palo Pinto Mountains in twists and turns that would vex a man in a hurry. Pinto didn’t much bother about timepieces or seasons, but it was a matter of some importance to visit buyers before they were all heading north to Kansas.

  He judged to have crossed into Wise County late that afternoon. The country didn’t much change, but the character of the dwellings did. Out Palo Pinto way the Indians had held back settlement considerably, and more than one town or ranch got itself depopulated when raiding season came around. But just as Pinto began to breathe a hair easier, he spotted a sea of eerie white bones just ahead.

  “Buffs,” he said, steadying his hold on the black. “Hunters done it, boy. Murdered a whole world of ’em here. Comanche kids gone hungry ’cause of it, I’d bet.”

  As if the mention of their name conjured them magically into being, three bare-chested youngsters with painted faces suddenly appeared on the far hillside.

  “Now dere’s luck!” Pinto muttered as he turned to the right toward a distant oak-studded hillside. “Isn’t that jus’ like it is, boy? Soon’s you got somethin’, ’nother comes along to take it away!”

  The young Indians noticed at once. They didn’t shout or charge, though. Instead they rode parallel, halting only when it appeared Pinto might make a stand on the hillside.

  “Get clear o’ here!” a rifle-toting farmer shouted when Pinto tried to find some shelter. “You’ll bring dem injuns down on us, sure’s day.”

  Pinto gazed at a wagon half-hidden in the trees. Seven youngsters peered out from behind furniture stacked in the wagon’s bed or from around wheels or horses. The eldest was a snip of a girl. Alongside her was a boy who might have been Muley Bryant’s shaggy-haired younger brother.

  “Yer safe,” Pinto announced. “But I’d head west and down to de river soon’s dem scouts clear you. Be a raidin’ party close, I’d guess, and dem trees won’t save yer hides if dey attack.”

  There was a hint of thanks in the eyes of the youngsters, but Pinto paid them little mind. The only move left him was to ride like wildfire for Jarrell ’s Ford and get across the Brazos. The higher southern bank was a natural rampart from which a man with a good rifle stood half a chance. The horses would be safe there, too.

  The scouts seemed to sense Pinto’s notion, for one of them suddenly broke away and headed north.

  “Gone to get de menfolk,” Pinto muttered. He then drew out a Henry rifle from its saddle scabbard and let fly a round toward the two remaining scouts. The shot unsettled the black, but it scattered the young Indians like seed corn at planting. “You nervous, are you?” Pinto yelled to the stallion. “Well, show ’em yer heels, boy! Let’s go!”

  He dropped the line holding the other horses as the black raced for the river. It wasn’t needed. The horses were a herd again, and they followed the big black as before. The scouts, still shaken by the Henry’s accurate fire, responded slowly. Pinto reached the river first, located the ford, and splashed onward to the far bank. He even managed to secure the precious horses before climbing onto the bank and waiting for the Indians.

  “Comin’?” Pinto yelled. “Where’d you boys get do?”

  The two scouts howled like wild men and plunged into the river. They weren’t familiar with the swirls and bogs, though, and in short order both were unhorsed. They thrashed about
for a moment before dragging themselves almost naked and weaponless to the near bank. Pinto waited in hopes they might turn away. They couldn’t have been more than twelve—just children, really. But they recovered their bows quickly and sent arrows flying up the bank. Pinto ducked the first exchange and fired back. His first shot struck the left-handed scout in the shoulder and spun him around before depositing him in the shallows. Pinto fired a second time when the surviving scout charged. Only thirty feet separated them, and the Henry couldn’t miss at that range. The bullet shattered the boy’s elbow, but still he raced on. Another shot shattered the youngster’s jaw and dropped him into the sand, writhing in pain.

  “Fool!” Pinto said as he worked the Henry’s lever and advanced a fresh shell into the firing chamber. “Jus’ like Gettysburg. You cain’t rush cannons, Jamie!”

  A storm of riders then appeared at the river, led by a tall chief with all sorts of feathers tied in his hair. Pinto counted fifteen men, and he opened up on them immediately. The Comanches raised a shout and charged into the river. These newcomers weren’t children, though, and the river didn’t bother them anymore than a fly bothers a mountain. Pinto knocked one rider from a horse and fired on another. Then, as he tried to shift the lever, the rifle jammed.

  “Now thad’s a Henry fer you!” Pinto shouted as he pulled the old Navy Colt from his holster and prepared to make the Indians pay a price for his horses. The Comanches wailed and waved wicked-looking lances to unsettle his aim, but George Lowery had been in battles before. If the Army of the Potomac couldn’t shake him loose from his hold on Petersburg, no batch of half-starved Comanches would move him now.

  The first two Comanches started for Pinto, but neither got there. The Colt barked three times, and the two men stumbled back bleeding. Only two shots left, Pinto thought. Well, there’s the bowie knife. It never came to that, however. The Comanches were shaken. They collected their wounded and turned away. Pinto made no move to stop them.

  From the far bank of the river the tall chief hurled a torrent of abuse at Pinto Lowery. He pointed first to his chest and then to his back as if to tempt a shot. Finally the Indians bared themselves in contempt and screamed taunts.