mean?”
“So, a regular Texas wildman, are you? You gonna give me some shit about how you eat Comanches for breakfast and wash them down with half the Pecos River? ‘Cause I got no patience for that kind of garbage.”
“You do me a disservice, sir.” Johnny grinned.
“That’s more like it.”
“Definitely. Because I wouldn’t even give you garbage.”
The smile on the big man’s face vanished. His features seemed to contract and stiffen, like plaster shrinking as it hardens. When he opened his mouth again, there was a razor edge to his voice. “Now you listen to me, cowflop. You want to take them cows any farther, you got to pay. And that’s a fact.”
“Pay?”
“You heard me. Four dollars a head. At three thousand head”—he paused for a brief flicker of his former smile—“I make that twelve thousand dollars, U.S.A. money. Give or take.”
“Are you crazy? Even if I was willing to pay, I don’t have that kind of money. Twelve thousand dollars?”
“On the button, cowboy.”
“No, sir, that just ain’t in the cards.”
“How much you got, then?” The big man seemed suddenly open to bargaining. But Johnny was not in the mood.
“For you, nothing.”
“We can always take us some beeves, instead. Hell, you give me three hundred head, I can unload them in Abilene myself. At forty, it comes to the same thing.”
“You’re not as dumb as you look, are you?” Johnny asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You can do arithmetic just fine. Now try and understand some plain, old Texas English. No way, no time, am I giving you one dime. Nothing, you understand. No cattle, no money, nothing. And that’s the last time I’m going to tell you. Now get out of my way.”
This time Johnny didn’t turn back. He heard the jingle of spurs, but he continued on down the slope. This time, Rafe and the other hands waited, their carbines pointed vaguely in the direction of the big man, who stood there with his mouth open, as if he didn’t believe what had just happened.
As Johnny approached the bottom of the hill, Rafe jumped forward to meet him. “What in hell was all that about? What’d he want?”
“Said we got to pay him to bring the cattle through.”
“
Pay
him?”
“Four dollars a head.”
“What the hell for?”
“Said it was a tax. Permission to bring the herd through.”
“Who is he?”
“Didn’t say.”
The three farmers scrambled down the hill to join the two men. Rafe glared at them, but they ignored him. One of the men grabbed Johnny’s arm. “I was you, mister, I’d pay him.”
Johnny whirled on them. “That part of yourplan, boys? A way to put pressure on us, that what that was?”
The farmer who had spoken shook his head. “No, sir. He ain’t one of us. Man doesn’t know how to grow nothing. To him, crops are for burning. We have our own share of trouble with him.”
“Then who in hell is he?”
“That was Ralph Conlee.”
Johnny looked blank.
“Jayhawkers, mister, they was Jayhawkers. You rebels had Quantrill; Kansas had Jayhawkers. Still does.”
“What’s a Jayhawker?”
“A pirate in uniform, I guess. They started out during the war as irregular cavalry. Now, who knows what they are. All I can tell you is any one of them would as soon kill you as look at you. They take what they want. You’d best get your herd moving, better yet, give him what he wants, because he’ll follow you until he gets it anyway, and he’s not likely to settle now. You showed him up in front of that pack of wolves. He’s sure not gonna forget it.”
“What about the sheriff? He’s still coming, isn’t he?”
9
TED SAT ON the ridge, looking down at the Wilkins spread. In first light, the place looked peaceful, almost deserted. Wilkins lived alone, and it was unusual for him to be asleep when the sun had been up for more than an hour. Nudging his horse down the steep grade, he angled across the slope. He froze for an instant when a glint of orange slashed past him.
“So, a regular Texas wildman, are you? You gonna give me some shit about how you eat Comanches for breakfast and wash them down with half the Pecos River? ‘Cause I got no patience for that kind of garbage.”
“You do me a disservice, sir.” Johnny grinned.
“That’s more like it.”
“Definitely. Because I wouldn’t even give you garbage.”
The smile on the big man’s face vanished. His features seemed to contract and stiffen, like plaster shrinking as it hardens. When he opened his mouth again, there was a razor edge to his voice. “Now you listen to me, cowflop. You want to take them cows any farther, you got to pay. And that’s a fact.”
“Pay?”
“You heard me. Four dollars a head. At three thousand head”—he paused for a brief flicker of his former smile—“I make that twelve thousand dollars, U.S.A. money. Give or take.”
“Are you crazy? Even if I was willing to pay, I don’t have that kind of money. Twelve thousand dollars?”
“On the button, cowboy.”
“No, sir, that just ain’t in the cards.”
“How much you got, then?” The big man seemed suddenly open to bargaining. But Johnny was not in the mood.
“For you, nothing.”
“We can always take us some beeves, instead. Hell, you give me three hundred head, I can unload them in Abilene myself. At forty, it comes to the same thing.”
“You’re not as dumb as you look, are you?” Johnny asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You can do arithmetic just fine. Now try and understand some plain, old Texas English. No way, no time, am I giving you one dime. Nothing, you understand. No cattle, no money, nothing. And that’s the last time I’m going to tell you. Now get out of my way.”
This time Johnny didn’t turn back. He heard the jingle of spurs, but he continued on down the slope. This time, Rafe and the other hands waited, their carbines pointed vaguely in the direction of the big man, who stood there with his mouth open, as if he didn’t believe what had just happened.
As Johnny approached the bottom of the hill, Rafe jumped forward to meet him. “What in hell was all that about? What’d he want?”
“Said we got to pay him to bring the cattle through.”
“
Pay
him?”
“Four dollars a head.”
“What the hell for?”
“Said it was a tax. Permission to bring the herd through.”
“Who is he?”
“Didn’t say.”
The three farmers scrambled down the hill to join the two men. Rafe glared at them, but they ignored him. One of the men grabbed Johnny’s arm. “I was you, mister, I’d pay him.”
Johnny whirled on them. “That part of yourplan, boys? A way to put pressure on us, that what that was?”
The farmer who had spoken shook his head. “No, sir. He ain’t one of us. Man doesn’t know how to grow nothing. To him, crops are for burning. We have our own share of trouble with him.”
“Then who in hell is he?”
“That was Ralph Conlee.”
Johnny looked blank.
“Jayhawkers, mister, they was Jayhawkers. You rebels had Quantrill; Kansas had Jayhawkers. Still does.”
“What’s a Jayhawker?”
“A pirate in uniform, I guess. They started out during the war as irregular cavalry. Now, who knows what they are. All I can tell you is any one of them would as soon kill you as look at you. They take what they want. You’d best get your herd moving, better yet, give him what he wants, because he’ll follow you until he gets it anyway, and he’s not likely to settle now. You showed him up in front of that pack of wolves. He’s sure not gonna forget it.”
“What about the sheriff? He’s still coming, isn’t he?”
9
TED SAT ON the ridge, looking down at the Wilkins spread. In first light, the place looked peaceful, almost deserted. Wilkins lived alone, and it was unusual for him to be asleep when the sun had been up for more than an hour. Nudging his horse down the steep grade, he angled across the slope. He froze for an instant when a glint of orange slashed past him.
Similar Books
