1Fort Worth, Texas. February 1, 1866.
Nelson Story and his three companions arrived in Fort Worth in the early afternoon.
“Wal,” Coon Tails said, “I dunno what else this place has got goin fer it, but theys a blessed plenty of blue bellies.”
“Texas and all the South is under reconstruction,” said Story. “Well have to report to the officer in charge and identify ourselves. Since the wars end, there are renegades from both sides looting and killing. Us being strangers in town, wed best find the soldiers before they come looking for us.”
Before they reached the end of the block, a pair of Union soldiers confronted them. One of them was Negro, and neither seemed more than a year or two out of their teens. They stood in the muddy street, their muzzle loaders at port arms. Story and his companions reined up.
“Were from Montana,” Story said, “here to buy cattle. Take us to your officer in charge for whatever clearance we may need.”
“Ride on the way youre headed,” said the white soldier, “and take a left at the next corner. From there you can see the unfinished courthouse, and the post commanders tent in front of it. Ask for Captain Clark.”*
Story and his men rode on, and when they turned the corner as directed, Story could see the pair of soldiers following on foot. Having stated his intentions, he found it irritating that he and his men were not trusted to ride to the officers tent without an armed escort. Reaching the tent, they were eyed suspiciously by a corporal who stood near the closed flap of the tent. He faced them, his rifle at port arms, a question in his eyes.
“Were from Montana,” Story repeated, “here to buy Texas cattle. I want to speak to Captain Clark, the post commander.”
Before the soldier could respond, the tent flap was swept aside, and the officer who emerged could only have been the officer. He was smartly dressed, and from the epaulets of his blue tunic, captains bars flashed in the afternoon sun.
“Im Captain Clark,” said the officer.
“I reckon you heard what I said,” Story replied. “Im Nelson Story, and these men are part of my outfit. I only want you to be aware of our purpose here. Is there any reason why we cant ride from ranch to ranch, buying the cattle we want?”
“None that I know of,” said Clark. “However, I must remind you that Texas is under federal jurisdiction. If you hire Texas cowboys, theyll need permission to leave the state.”
Story and his men were still mounted, and Story sidestepped his horse nearer, so that he looked the captain squarely in the eyes when he spoke.
“Obviously I dont have enough men for a cattle drive, Captain, so I will be hiring riders. Is that going to be a problem, getting permission for them to leave Texas?”
“Only if they have taken up arms against the United States,” said Captain Clark. “In that case, it will be left to my discretion. Those who fought for the Confederacy will be required to sign papers, swearing never again to take up arms against the Union.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Story said. He rode back the way he had come, with Coon Tails, Allen, and Petty following.
“Them federals is a hard-nosed bunch,” said Petty when they were well away from the officers tent. “The wars done, and they whupped the Rebs. Whats to be gained by keepin em penned up like a bunch of mavericks?”
“Reconstruction is a cruel punishment conceived by a few vindictive men in Washington,” Story said, “but as long as were in Texas, the laws what they say it is.”
Story and his men rode past saloons, cafes, pool parlors, and several hotels. Story seemed to know what he was seeking. They rode south, the town thinning out, until they reached what was obviously a large livery barn. On one side of it was a six-pole-high corral where four horses picked at some hay. On the other side of the barn was a long, low building built of logs and chinked with mud. Above the door, across the front of it, was a sign that read: YORK AND DRAPER. Drovers Supplies, Livestock, Wagons.
“We need information,” said Story. “Well start here.”
They dismounted, Story leading the way into the dim interior of the building. A long counter ran from wall to wall, with a swinging door at each end. On a stool behind the counter sat a bald man wearing an eyeshade, working over a ledger by the light of a lamp. He looked up as they entered, and Story spoke.
“Im Nelson Story. Were from Montana, here to buy cattle. Ill be needin riders as well as cows.”
It was an unasked question, put in a manner that invited a response, rather than demanding one.
“Im York,” said the man at the counter, “and I cant be of much help to you in findin cows. Just about everybody that can raise a herd and afford an outfit aint sellin locally. Had a dozen drives go up the trail last fall, and there must be fifty more plannin to move out in a month or so. I aint sayin you cant buy cows. You can, but theyll cost you ten dollars a head, and there wont be many two-year-old steers. As for riders, I cant say. Might pick up a few thats sold their cows or cant afford a trail drive. Try the saloons and pool halls.”
“Thanks,” Story said, and not until they reached their horses did he speak to his companions. “Well find us a hotel, get some grub under our belts, and look around some.”
“This hombre York didnt seem too anxious to help us,” said Tom Allen.
“Hes partial to Texans,” Story said. “Well have to expect that. Its hard times here, and a man selling his cows for ten dollars a head makes no sense, if theres a chance he can do better.”
“Wal, hell,” said Coon Tails, “everbody in Texas aint got enough cows fer a drive, an ifn they did, they wouldnt have the cash fer their outfits. After supper, when the saloons an billiard parlors commence tfill up, why dont we split up, circulate, an listen?”
“I think well do exactly that,” Story said. “When a mans needin cash, ten dollars a head now is worth fifty at the end of a trail he cant afford to ride.”
They reined up before the Fort Worth House, a two-story hotel constructed of lumber, and it bore evidence of once having been painted. A porch ran all the way across the front of the building, and above that a balcony, with a single roof covering both. On the lower porch a bench ran the length of the wall from either side of the double front doors. Half a dozen men sat there watching the newcomers approach. Several of the locals were chewing plug, spitting over the porch railing. Numerous stains attested to their inaccuracy. Story and his men nodded to the observers, entered the hotel, and Story took a pair of rooms.
“I aint one fer beds,” said Coon Tails. “Jist gimme room tspread my blankets on the floor.”
“You can have my floor, then,” Story said. “I reckon Bill and Tom are used to one anothers snoring.”
They climbed the stairs. The rooms were nothing fancy, but they seemed clean. There was a chair, a four-drawer dresser, and attached to the wall above it, a small mirror. On the dresser there was a washbasin and a porcelain pitcher. An iron bed stood next to the only window, and the fire escape consisted of a length of rope, one end of which was tied to a leg of the bed. Story and Coon Tails took the first room, which was on their left, while Bill Petty and Tom Allen took the second room, across the hall. Story removed his boots and hat, stretching out on the bed. Coon Tails spread his blankets.
“Should of brung my saddle, stead o leavin it at the livery,” the old mountain man said. “Makes a dang good piller.”
“Theres two pillows on the bed,” said Story. “Youre welcome to one of them.”
“Thankee,” said Coon Tails, “but theys too soft. Ill make do.”
Nelson Story wasnt a man to lie abed in the afternoon. In less than an hour he was up, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out the window. Coon Tails got up, rolling his blankets, reaching for his battered old hat.
“Its a mite early thit the saloons,” Coon Tails said, “but I purely got tdo somethin. These fancy hotels is passable fer sleepin, I reckon, but I cant see much need fer em in the daytime, lessn a man be crippled.”
Story laughed. “I was thinking the same thing,” he said, reaching for his boots. “Lets roust Bill and Tom and go find us some steaks with plenty of potatoes, onions, and hot coffee.”
“A mite early fer supper,” said Coon Tails, “but I kin always eat agin.”
Petty and Allen were eager and ready to leave the hotel, and the four of them headed for a cafe they had passed earlier. The place had no name. The entire front of the slab-sided building had been decorated with a black-painted likeness of a longhorn bull. Beneath that, in ragged red letters, was a single word: GRUB.
“With a front like this,” Bill Petty said, “if they aint got steak, we oughta pull our irons and shoot up the place.”
Since it was well past the dinner hour and much too early for supper, they had the place to themselves. There were tables, but they took the stools along the counter. The cook looked like what he probably was, an ex-cowboy too stove up to ride. Without being asked, he sent four mugs of coffee sloshing down the counter.
“Steak, spuds, onions, coffee, an apple pie,” he said. “Two bits.”
“My God,” Tom Allen said, rolling his eyes, “in New Orleans a feed like that only costs a dime.”
“Then mebbe youd best hit the trail fer New Orleans,” the old cook growled.
Story and his companions howled with laughter, and seeing the humor in the situation, their host managed a grin.
“Relax, pardner,” said Story. “Your prices are fair. Were here from Montana to buy Texas longhorns, and were findin out theres a shortage.”
“Shortage, hell,” said the old cook. “Texas is cow poor. Theys cows aplenty. They must be a hunnert ranchers what aint got a prayer of drivin a herd tmarket. Course theyll stick you fer as much as yer willin tpay. Texans is broke, an them that aint is terrible bent.”
“Ill be needing riders too,” Story said. “Do you know of any men who might be willing to go up the trail for wages?”
“Theys plenty that needs the money an got no hope of anything else, but I got tlive here, an I aint namin no names.”
Story said no more. It was a matter of pride. If a man got hungry enough, he might sell his saddle, but it had to be his decision. Finished with their meal, Story and his companions left the cafe. Suddenly there was the roar of a gun, and before the echo died, Nelson Story had a pistol cocked and was running toward the narrow space between two buildings where a cloud of white smoke lingered. His Colt roared twice without effect. The would-be killer had escaped. Blood reddened the upper sleeve of Storys shirt, dripping off his left elbow.
“He burned away some hide,” said Story when his companions had reached him, “but missed the bone.”
“Damn,” Bill Petty said, “we aint been in town but two hours. How did anybody get a mad-on that quick?”
“He wasnt after you gents,” said Story. “He was gunning for me, and Im just almighty lucky his aim wasnt better.”
The shooting had attracted others, one of them a heavyset, unshaven man who wore a badge. A pair of Union soldiers were double-timing toward them, and the man wearing the badge spoke loudly enough for everybody to hear.
“Here, now,” he shouted, “Im the sheriff, an we dont hold with strangers comin in an shootin up the town. You hombres better have a damn good excuse.”
“Somebody tried to gun me down from ambush,” Story said coldly. “Is that good enough?”
“Mebbe not,” said the arrogant lawman. “I dunno you from Adams off ox, an whatve I got, sides yer word? Anybody see what this gents claimin took place?”
“Damn right,” Coon Tails said angrily. “The four o us was walkin down the street mindin our own business. Why dont you git over yonder an nose around betwixt them two buildings where the bushwhackin varmint was holed up?”
The belligerent lawman glared at Coon Tails, and found himself facing Bill Petty and Tom Allen as well. The pair of Union soldiers were already at the place where the gunman had been hiding, and as much for the saving of face as anything else, the sheriff turned away and joined them.
“Some sheriff,” Tom Allen muttered. “Whon hell elected him?”
“He wasnt elected,” said an old fellow wearing range clothes. “Thats old Lot Higgins, and when the Yankees took over, he was appointed.”
“He wont find anything,” said Bill Petty. “Soon as that varmint hit the alley behind them buildings, his tracks could be anybodys.”
“Hell,” said a disgusted cowboy, “old Higgins aint never been nothin but the town drunk. My daddy called him Lot the sot. My God, he couldnt find the depot if you set him on the track and let him foller the train.”
“If the sheriff has further need of us,” Story said, “Id appreciate one of you gents tellin him we have rooms at the Fort Worth House. Now can one of you point me toward a doctor?”
“Doc Nagel,” said a cowboy. “Take a right down yonder, like you was goin to the unfinished courthouse. When you come to the Masonic hall, theres a shack next to it. Thats where doc lives.”
Dr. Nagel wasnt a talkative man, and he asked no questions. Story paid him two dollars for dousing the wound with disinfectant and bandaging it.
“That throws a new light on things,” Bill Petty said when they had left the doctors place. “Unless you got some idea who this hombre is thats after you, and can smoke him out in the open, well have to put as much time into lookin for him as for cows.”
“He has an edge as long as were in town,” said Story. “Once were on the plains, therell always be sign. Weve paid for a night at the hotel, but tomorrow well buy some grub and find a safer place to hole up. Im not as aggravated with the bushwhacker as I am old Higgins. He could chuck us into the hoosegow on trumped-up charges, and hed have the backing of the Union army.”
“Thats disgusting,” Bill Petty said, “takin away a mans right to vote, and then stickin him with a shiftless old buzzard like Higgins. Its like the Union wasnt satisfied by beatin the Rebs to their knees. Theyre aimin for total humiliation.”
“I expect youre right,” said Story, “but its a wrong that may never be corrected. Theres nothing we can do, where the military is concerned. Lets make the rounds of the saloons. Well split up. Do a lot of listening and not much talking, and use your own judgment as to when you let it be known were looking for cows and riders.”
Story entered a saloon called the Broken Spoke. It was still early and there were few patrons. Story ordered a beer. There was only one bartender, and he eyed Story curiously, but western etiquette forbade him asking questions. His knowledge of strangers was limited to what they willingly shared with him.
“Im from Montana,” Story said conversationally. “Im looking to buy some cows and hire some riders.”
The bartender continued polishing glasses, saying nothing, so Story tried again.
“Seems almighty warm, for this time of year.”
“Been a mild winter,” said the man behind the bar, “but dont let it fool you. Ive watched the grass start to green in March, and then seen a good foot of snow laid over it.”
Storys conversation with the bartender was getting him nowhere when a cowboy pushed through the batwing doors. Story recognized him as the man who had referred to Sheriff Higgins as “Lot the sot.” He nodded, and Story saw no animosity in him. They desperately needed a friend among the locals who could put them in touch with ranchers willing to sell cows, and with riders who would hire on for the trail drive.
“Pardner,” Story said, “Im buying. Will you join me?”
“Much obliged,” said the stranger. “I reckon you got a bad impression of our town. With old Higgins in the sheriffs office, and a Yankee on every corner, thats about all we have to offer.” His laugh was bitter.
“So far,” said Story with a grin, “Ive run into a wall of distrust thatd put the Rockies in the shade. Im Nelson Story. I came from Montana to buy Texas cows and hire some riders for a drive north.”
“Im Calvin Snider,” said the cowboy. “My friends call me Cal. I spent four years with the Rebs, joinin em when I was twenty-one. Pa died while I was gone, and he was the only family I had. Our neighbors rustled our cows. Took every damn thing we had but the corral fence. Id hire on in a minute, if you could get me past the Yankees. I aint even got a horse. Im ridin the mule that I rode back to Texas after the war ended.”
“Ive already spoken to Captain Clark, the Union commander,” Story said. “Youll be allowed to leave Texas, but youll have to sign papers agreeing not to take up arms against the Union again.”
“Ill sign,” said Cal. “Anything to get a good hoss under me and to feel like a man again. How many riders you got in mind?”