Pinto Lowery Page 4

  “Go ’head and yell yer heart out, Comanch!” Pinto yelled back. “I done my speakin’,” he added, waving the Colt.

  As the Comanches slowly abandoned their hold on the river and retreated north, Pinto reloaded his pistol and began working on the jammed rifle. The third scout, the unhurt one, rode into the river and stood naked atop his pony, inviting a bullet to match those received by his companions. Here was the youngest of all, Pinto knew, sent back for help perhaps by an elder cousin or brother.

  “Ain’t there been enough hurt?” Pinto whispered to the wind. “Ain’t a thousand dead buffs put their bones to dis place already?”

  As if he heard the words, the young Comanche covered himself and slid back down onto the back of his horse. Riding away he sadly sang a warrior song.

  Be dead inside a year, Pinto thought as he fought to erase the faces of the men he’d shot. Starved or bluecoat shot, the bunch o’ them!

  But George Lowery wouldn’t be the one to have done it.

  Pinto collected his wits and then gathered his horses. He was still ten miles from the Lazy T, and dusk was settling over the Llano.

  Chapter 4

  Pinto camped that night on a hillside overlooking the river. He could detect the small yellow-orange flames of campfires in the distance. Those would be roundup crews busy branding the yearlings and collecting a herd for the long trail north to Kansas. The dimmer pinpricks marked the windows of Bob Toney’s ranchhouse. The place would be near deserted now, of course. Toney would have his best men on the range. That’s where the work was to be found. Only the younger of his boys would remain at home with their mother.

  From time to time the faint echoes of a cowboy ballad haunted the wind. Cowboys worked hard at roundup, and they ate more dust than beef or beans. Some had the poor luck to get themselves gored or trampled by one cantankerous longhorn or another. Others collapsed from the heat or went mad from the plagues of mosquitoes and horseflies that were never far from that army of hooves and tallow.

  “Yup, was hard work,” Pinto reminded himself. But as he hummed along with the eerie melodies, he recalled the odd sense of belonging that came with shared dangers, with putting your all into a task that needed doing. There were pranks, too—vexations the youngsters put upon their elders and double that many the veterans heaped upon the newcomers.

  Pinto laughed as he recalled how young Jake Toney had convinced Abel Perkins tarantulas favored red flannel as nesting places. Poor Abel awoke one morning, hollering to high heaven as he jumped around shedding his long handles. Finally there stood Abel, stark naked, staring with relief at the twist of horse hair Jake had managed to slip beneath his drawers.

  “Some spider, eh?” Jake called.

  “Lord, boy, you did yourself a dance!” Bob added. “Lucky not to’ve caused your innards any harm!”

  Pinto himself never much went in for pranking, but he had to admit that horse-hair spider trick brought the whole outfit to life. And he missed the tale-swapping and singing come nightfall that shook off the wearies left by trailing cattle.

  “Got my own share o’ dem wearies,” Pinto muttered as he turned over on one side and closed his eyes. “Workin’ cows up to Kansas wouldn’t be so bad maybe.”

  No, and the wages earned at trail’s end would merit the effort. Going north with Bob Toney flooded Pinto’s mind with possibilities. Old Bob had been at Sharpsburg the day that minie ball tried to take off Pinto’s left hand. And if not for taking fever, Bob would have been in the Devil’s Den along with Jamie and the others.

  “Be good to see an ole friend,” Pinto said aloud. After all, there were pitiful few of them left.

  He awoke to find a bright yellow sun filling the eastern sky. Down below, men drove cattle in bands of fifty or so in dust swirls that rose halfway to heaven. Pinto thought he recognized one or two of the cowboys. Surely that was little Ned Larsen there. Or one of Ned’s brothers. Ned would be nigh on twenty now, and the slim-shouldered rider below couldn’t be more than fifteen at full stretch.

  Time passes, Pinto told himself as he pulled on his clothes and set about saddling the big black. He removed the hobbles from the horses next and led them down to the river. As the animals drank, Pinto splashed water over his face and ran an old comb through his hair. Weeks on the Llano had made him a wild-eyed vagabond. A few minutes with a razor, though, cleared away most of the beard, and he buttoned up his shirt and added a black string tie. None of it improved the image grinning up at him from the surface of the river, though. “Can’t make no Kentucky thoroughbred out o’ some fool range pony,” Pinto grumbled.

  Once he was satisfied the horses had watered themselves, Pinto climbed atop the black stallion and drove the other ponies along ahead of him. There was no need to tie them now. The Lazy T wasn’t a mile and a half away, and the mustangs wouldn’t stray far from the black in any case. Only the painted stallion had even the slightest inclination toward roving, and Pinto took care to keep himself between the paint and freedom.

  He rode past two roundup camps before reaching the ranchhouse. Pinto had half expected to locate Bob Toney at one or the other.

  “He’s back at the house, Pinto,” Toney’s brother Jake explained. “You’ll find yourself welcome. The horses anyhow.”

  “Yeah?” Pinto called. “You found any horse-hair spiders among the youngsters o’ late?”

  “Oh, ever once in a while,” Jake replied, laughing. “Biggest critters in Texas. Sure to end a cowboy’s days, don’t you know?”

  “’Course dese men here know all ’bout that,” Pinto said, eyeing the collection of scruffy teenagers that passed for a range crew. “None o’ dem’d wear red flannel.”

  “What’s red flannel got to do with spiders, mister?” a spindle-legged boy cried. “Ma swears by ’em.”

  “Got some myself,” a second youngster added.

  “Well, ole Jake’ll tell you all ’boud it,” Pinto said, exchanging a chuckle with young Toney. “You tell me how you do it dis time, won’t you, Jake?”

  “Sure, Pinto,” Jake agreed. “Now get those horses along to Bob. He’s sure to pay you top price for ’em.”

  Pinto paused a moment to study the nervous eyes of the cowboys. One was scratching his rump, and a second squirmed as Jake began his tale. Sure thing one of them would wind up with a knot of horse hair in his pants before morning.

  Pinto laughed at the notion, then nudged the black into a trot. The other horses followed along, and soon the dozen animals and their wayfaring herder topped the low ridge that led to the Lazy T ranchhouse.

  The sound of horses charging through the early morning mists was sufficient to rouse the occupants of the house. Bob Toney stumbled outside, shotgun in hand. He was joined shortly by a pair of bewildered stablehands. Ophelia Toney remained in the doorway with her three smallish sons.

  “Mr. Toney, it’s only horses,” one of the hands observed.

  “Not altogether,” Toney observed, scratching his chin. “There’s one no-account along!”

  “Feared o’ me, huh?” Pinto called as he turned the horses toward an empty corral. “You fire off that dere shotgun, you’ll never catch a one o’ dese ponies.”

  “Still, I might put a part in your hair, George Lowery! Might just be worth the loss.”

  “Whose loss?” Pinto exclaimed. “My horses. And my head, too.”

  Toney laughed as he set aside his shotgun. Pinto rolled off his saddle then, and the two old comrades clasped hands.

  “You’re about the last man I ever expected to happen by this morning,” Toney declared. “Pinto. Was a wise man gave you that name, you old horse thief. Got a likely batch here. What’ll you take for them?”

  “A fair price,” Pinto answered. “I’d get twenty-five from de army and fifty-five maybe if I drove ‘em to de Colorado gold fields. Seein’ you to be a friend and all, I’ll turn ‘em over fer forty.”

  “I bought my last saddle horse for thirty, and he was a stud that’s brought me seven good colt
s so far.”

  “I’ve only got de one stallion, that paint dere, plus de mares. De black’s gone and got my fancy.”

  “Worth the rest combined,” Toney remarked. “Still, I’ll take the other what, nine, ten, eleven by my count. At thirty-five.”

  “Got to dicker, eh?” Pinto asked, grinning. “Well, forty’s fair, and I’ll hold to it.”

  “Told you he was a horse thief, didn’t I, boys?” Toney asked, turning to the youngsters only now stepping past their mother’s shadow. “But Pinto does know his horses.”

  “We need ’em, too, Pa,” the oldest, a straw-haired boy of ten, pointed out. “Paid more, too.”

  “Hush!” a flustered Bob Toney shouted.

  “He’s right, Pinto,” Ophelia agreed. “He’s got the money. Leave the stableboys to tend your animals and come along inside. I’ve got a pot of coffee on the stove, and biscuits in the warmer. I can tell you haven’t eaten anything. Have you?”

  “No, ma’am,” Pinto confessed.

  “Then come on along,” she insisted. “Bobby, Jonathan, you help Mr. Lowery inside. Maybe later he’ll have a tale or two to share about when he and your father fought for General Lee in Virginia.”

  The older boy, Bobby, and his brother Jonathan raced out, grabbed a Lowery arm, and escorted Pinto into the kitchen. In no time he was chewing biscuits and sharing stories.

  “You been on the trail to Kansas, too, haven’t you?” Bobby asked a bit later.

  “Be on de trail yerself ’fore long, I’d guess,” Pinto replied.

  “No, he’s got some growing ahead of him,” Toney argued. “Ain’t the same trail as when we went up there in ’71. More’n Indians to worry a cowboy now.”

  “What?” Pinto asked.

  “Oh, falling prices. Expenses. Finding good horses. If you hadn’t come along, I’d have had to mount three or four men on swaybacks. Used to be you just sent out word you were putting a herd together, and you had all the men and horses you could shake a stick at. And once you finished the trail, there was money for a fine bonus and a whale of a celebration. Nowadays, who knows?”

  “That bad?”

  “Oh, it’s not the half of it,” Toney said, frowning. “Just one hard time following another. Makes a man yearn for the old, simple times like we had at Sharpsburg. Might be a hundred thousand Yanks to fight, but at least you knew who the enemy was. And where. I got to trust Jake with the range crew, you know. Don’t dare leave Ophelia and the youngsters here alone, not with Comanches and renegade whites about. Just a month ago a neighbor boy got himself killed by Big Nose Joe Hannigan.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Heard of him? The worst sort, those Hannigans. Hit the telegraph office in Weatherford. Then, leaving town, they shot little Doyle Harper for sport.”

  “They anywhere near?” Pinto asked nervously.

  “No, but I’d wager they’ll be through here once the trail herds turn north. Many a ranch’ll be easy pickings then.”

  “Includin’ dis one?” Pinto asked.

  “No, I’ll be staying this year, and I hired myself a fellow named Walsh. Used to be a deputy up in Jacksboro.”

  “Met him once,” Pinto said sourly. “Bit too free with his gun for my likin’.”

  “Well, it’ll be a comfort having a spare man who knows how to handle himself in a fight.”

  “Jake’ll need help goin’ north, though,” Pinto said as he lifted his coffee cup off the table. “And me, I’ll be needin’ some work. What would you say to signin’ me on?”

  “Pinto, you’ve got the quickest rope hand I ever saw, but you don’t have the patience for trailing cattle. Forgotten what dust tastes like? I couldn’t pay you spit, either.”

  “Whatever it’d be would be fair.”

  “Lots of hands wander the range, old friend, and there are pitiful few herds heading north. I’m about to put four hundred forty dollars in your pocket. Get drunk! Have a time or two. Leave the trail to the youngsters.”

  “I that old?” Pinto howled. “Still got de sass to run down range ponies. And you know well and true how I am in a fight.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Toney admitted. “But I’ve hired a full outfit, Pinto. Young, sure, but so’s Jake. I send you along, he’ll think I don’t trust him. And I’d have to leave a boy home whose ma needs the wages to feed her kids.”

  Pinto stared at the sorrowful face of his old friend.

  “Don’t worry yerself over it,” Pinto said. “I got horses lef’ to take into market. You need any more?”

  “Got my string now,” Toney said, “but if ...”

  “Was only askin’,” Pinto insisted. “I can do some business in Weatherford.”

  “Weatherford’s a poor town for horse buyers,” Toney asserted. “But up north a bit you’ll run across Defiance. There’s the place. There are two or three ranches out that way looking for drovers, too, as I hear it. Double R, run by a fair fellow name of Richardson, is the biggest. Best, too.

  “Might look him up.”

  “And after, if you need a place to winter, don’t forget you’ve got friends in Parker County,” Ophelia Toney declared.

  “We’d make room for you ready enough,” Bobby promised.

  “Then you could tell us how you trapped that black stallion,” Jonathan added.

  “Got time for that right now,” Pinto said, forcing a grin onto his face.

  As it turned out, he passed the whole day with the Toney boys, sharing tales both true and imagined. The admiring glow in those boys’ eyes warmed a man, even a weary mustanger accustomed to the whining wind and howling coyotes.

  “Was a fine visit we had,” Pinto declared as dusk settled over the Lazy T. “’Preciate you all makin’ me feel so at home. Time I got back do my horses, though.”

  “Nonsense,” Ophelia argued. “You can’t mean to leave now! The boys have filled a mattress for you, and they’ll howl like mad coyotes if we let you go.”

  “I admit it’s temptin’, ma’am, but I lef’ enough places to know de trade. Don’t get easier put off. Now’s as good a time as another to ride.”

  “Won’t you reconsider, Pinto?” Toney asked.

  “You got yer ranch, Bob,” Pinto said, mustering a grin. “Me, I only know de Llano. And I worry after my ponies.”

  With that said, he waved farewell and started for the corral. The big black sensed his approach and stirred anxiously. In short order Pinto had the restless stallion saddled. Only then did the horse stamp and storm.

  “Miss dem mares, do you?” Pinto whispered. “Well, dey los’ to you now, old fellow. Might’s well know it.”

  The horse settled down, and Pinto climbed atop the saddle. Then the two of them, horse and rider, set off onto the Llano Estacado. Soon they were splashing across the Brazos and swinging west toward the walled-up canyon and the pony herd.

  Chapter 5

  That night Pinto made his camp beside the river in a hollow formed by a curling creek. It was a good spot. for scrub cedars and swaying willows clung to the river’s banks, hiding the encampment from the eyes of any wandering Comanche or renegade cow thief. Even so, Pinto built no fire. There was a chill to the spring air, and he would have welcomed the warmth of burning embers. Even a hint of flame showed out against the black emptiness of the plain, however, and Pinto desired no unwelcome visitors—not with money enough in his boot to tempt half the state!

  With the wind howling eerily through the treetops, and the black stallion pawing the ground restlessly, Pinto found himself remembering the laughter of the Toney youngsters. Laughter was a balm for a lonely man. A tonic for his troubles. But when it came time to leave, the haunting memory of high spirits could plague a man to his grave.

  “You feel it too, don’t you, boy?” Pinto called to the horse. “Miss bein’ ’round yer own kind. Well, cain’t much blame you. I miss bein’ ’round mine sometimes.”

  All in all, though, Pinto supposed horses to be a higher caliber of creature than people. Perhaps the stallion had
better cause to complain.

  He passed a fitful night in the hollow. Three times the stirring of the stallion woke him. And twice the spectral face of Jamie Haskell brought Pinto shivering and shuddering to life.

  “Can’t you leave me be, Jamie?” Pinto howled. “I was always a true friend to you. Can’t you stay dead even one night?”

  Dawn found him sitting in a cold sweat and staring at the rising sun. His eyes were wild with torment, and he welcomed the resumption of his journey. Riding along the Brazos, heading back to the waiting horses gave Pinto Lowery purpose. And the work would free his mind from the iron grip of old ghosts.

  Perhaps that was why he saddled the white-faced mustang and climbed atop without bothering to even chew a scrap of jerked beef. The big stallion was equally anxious to return to the penned-up ponies, and the horse sped across the broken country as if he’d become winged Pegasus.

  More than once Pinto swept past startled farmboys, busy breaking ground or thinning plants. Those straw-hatted youngsters gazed up in wonder or howled encouragement at the scraggly looking stranger riding that devil of a black horse.

  “What’s the hurry, mister?” one called.

  “You seen Indians?” another cried.

  They were too young to understand it was ghosts that drove a man to such exertions. Or maybe they were smart enough to know a spectre wasn’t about to be put off by such tactics.

  Pinto returned to the fenced-off canyon an hour short of dusk. There’d been a rain, and the ravine was awash with runoff.

  “Jus’ as well,” Pinto remarked as he rolled off the side of his horse and left the stallion to satisfy his thirst. “Means de ponies got plenty to drink.”

  He knelt beside the bubbling stream and splashed water onto his sweat-streaked face. The lines under his eyes and those etched in his forehead warned exhaustion approached. Pinto shrugged, then stripped the saddle, knapsack, and blanket from the weary stallion. It took but a moment to lead the horse to the gate and send him rushing eagerly back to his harem.