The Alamosa Trail

Chapter 3

After the final pay off at Trailback, the cowboys scattered in all directions, some going alone, others traveling in pairs or in large groups. Tennessee Tuttle joined Barry Riggsbee, and the two men rode off to New Mexico to look for work around Santa Fe. Jim Robison and his cousin Frankie headed for the ranchland around Ama rillo. The largest single group of cowboys to stay together was Hank and Chad Taylor, Ken Keene, Gene Curry, and Eddie Quick.

After three days of riding on the range, they found themselves in the little town of Tarantula. Tarantula was like hundreds of other towns all across the West. Served by a railroad, it had two streets, one parallel to the tracks, the other perpendicular to them. The streets were dusty, filled with horse droppings, and lined with false-fronted buildings. As usual in such towns, the largest and most prosperous-looking buildings were the two saloons.

The boys tied up in front of the first saloon they saw, then went inside. The saloon was crowded, but there was enough room for them to step up to the bar and order a beer.

“We’ve got to be careful about how many of these we buy,” Hank said. “Seein’ as how we’ve got no job, we’d better take care of our money.”

“Somethin’ will turn up,” Eddie said.

“What if it don’t?”

“Somethin’ will turn up,” Eddie said again. “It always does. I’m lucky that way. And as long as you boys are with me, you’ll be lucky, too.”

“Ha!” Ken said. “If you ain’t as full of shit as a Christmas turkey.”

“Wait a minute, fellas,” Hank said, interrupting the banter. He nodded toward two men who were standing at the other end of the bar. “Listen to what those hombres over there are talkin’ about.”

“I’m tellin’ you, Cannonball is the fastest horse I’ve ever seen,” one of the men was saying. “He can outrun jackrabbits, coyotes, wolves, and any horse that’s ever been borned.”

“You ain’t tellin’ me nothin’. I’ve seen him run,” the other man replied. “How much money have you won with that horse now?”

“Near on to a thousand dollars, I reckon, but I can’t get nobody to race him anymore.”

“Do you blame them? Betting against Cannonball is like a body throwing their money away.”

Hank, Ken, Eddie, and Gene looked over at Chad.

“You hear that, Chad?”

“Yeah, I heard it.”

“Well, what do you think? You think Thunderbolt can beat him?” Thunderbolt was Chad’s horse.

“I don’t know,” Chad answered. “I’ve never seen this fella’s horse run.”

“Come on, Chad. You know Thunderbolt can beat him. You raised that horse from a colt. He’s faster than greased lightning.”

“And you’re the best rider there ever was,” Gene said.

“What do you say, Chad? If I can get you a race, will you take him on?”

“We’re going to have to risk some money,” Chad said.

“With you and Thunderbolt there ain’t no risk to it, far as I’m concerned,” Eddie said.

“Yeah, I’m with Eddie. I’m willing to kick in my money,” Ken said.

“It’s all up to you now, little brother,” Hank said. “Shall I get us a race?”

Finally, Chad nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Get us a race.”

Hank smiled, then turned toward the two conversationalists at the far end of the bar. “Hey, mister!” he called.

“You talking to me?”

“If you’re the one with the fast horse, yes, I’m talking to you.”

“What can I do for you?”

“What would it take to set up a race?”

“You got a horse you think is pretty good, do you?”

“We do.”

“And someone to ride it?”

“My brother here,” Hank said, indicating Chad.

The man at the other end of the bar took a look at Chad, saw that he was considerably smaller than the others around him, then laughed.

“We’re talking a horse race, mister, not ponies. You sure he can handle a full-grown horse?”

“Better than anyone you’ve ever seen,” Hank replied. “Now I’ll just ask you one more time. What would it take to set up a race?”

“All you have to do is put your money where your mouth is,” the owner of Cannonball replied.

Within an hour, word of the impromptu race had spread all over town. Nearly everyone was outside watching, lining both sides of the street. The course was laid out so that the race would start in front of the saloon, go all the way to the far end of the town, then continue on for about another quarter of a mile out of town to a prominent tree at the point where the road made its first turn. The horses would go down as far as the tree, then come back into town, with the finish line being right back where they started, at the saloon. The riders were informed that there would be two men positioned down at the tree to make certain that the riders went far enough. Each rider could pick his own man for that position. Chad chose Ken Keene to represent him.

The boys were so confident that Chad would win that they bet every remaining dollar that they had.

“If Thunderbolt doesn’t win, we’re going to have to kill and eat him,” Hank teased.

Although most of the townspeople were rooting for Cannonball and his owner, Jasper Blake, it turned out that the unbeaten Blake was not a particularly well-liked man. As a result, many in town secretly wanted to see him lose, and a few even bet their heart, rather than their mind. Still, the vast majority of townsfolk didn’t think the new horse actually had a chance to win.

The excitement was at fever pitch as the horses were brought to the starting line.

“Hey, sonny!” someone from the crowd shouted at Chad. “Ain’t that there horse a little big for you? Sure you wouldn’t rather be ridin’ somethin’ more your own size? Like a goat?”

Some around the heckler laughed, and seeing that he had an audience, the heckler shouted several more taunts toward Chad.

Chad stepped in front of his horse and spoke softly in its ear. Thunderbolt whickered, and Chad laughed.

“That horse tell you something funny, did it?” the heckler shouted, and again he was rewarded with laughter.

“He said it was too bad you weren’t in the race,” Chad replied.

“Why’s that?” the heckler asked.

“Because then there’d be two horses and a jackass in the running,” Chad said. This time the crowd laughed at the heckler rather than with him. The heckler sulked off quietly.

Walking back to the saddle, Chad cinched the stirrups very high and tied them off. Blake looked over at him curiously.

“What are you doin’ that for?” Blake asked.

“Just my way of riding,” Chad answered. The others looked at the strangely tied stirrups; some chuckled, but many wondered aloud why he had done it and how he would use them.

Blake mounted his horse easily, but Chad had to get a boost up from his brother because the stirrups were so high. The sight of Chad being hoisted onto the horse’s back brought more snickers from the townspeople.

The sheriff, who had been selected to start the race, raised his pistol. “Get ready!” he shouted.

Chad put his feet in the stirrups, gripped the sides of the horse with his knees, raised his butt up from the saddle, and leaned over the horse’s neck. Everyone soon understood why Chad had adjusted the stirrups as he had. No one had ever seen a rider take such a position before, but many saw immediately that it would give the rider an advantage against the wind.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Blake said, when he saw Chad assume the position. The rest of his comment, however, was cut off when the sheriff pulled the trigger.

The gun exploded, and the two riders burst forward. Immediately after the start Blake veered his horse into Chad, nearly knocking Chad’s horse down. At first Chad thought the bumping was an accident, but Blake did it a second time, making it clear that it was intentional.

Chad pulled his horse away from Blake, which was what Blake was looking for. Blake used the whip on his horse, and Cannonball shot ahead like a bullet. Within an instant Chad and Thunderbolt were a full-length behind.

They were quite some distance from the crowd now, but Chad could hear them shouting and cheering even over the pounding of hooves.

Blake had several advantages. He had a very good horse, and he knew the course. He suddenly veered, aware of a patch of soft ground. Chad rode right through it, and his horse buckled, then nearly went down before it recovered. Now Blake was two lengths ahead.

They reached the tree at the far end of the course, then started back. Now there was no course advantage, because the last half was merely a repeat of what they had already done. Under Chad’s urging, Thunderbolt started to move up with long, rhythmic strides. He was at full speed now, and he easily closed the gap, until they were head to head.

“Back off!” Blake shouted. He reached across and lashed out at Chad with his riding quirt. Chad, seeing it coming, held his own quirt up and fended him off. Cannonball was a very competitive horse, and when he saw Thunderbolt coming up on him, he increased his own pace, refusing to allow Chad to pass. But Thunderbolt was just as game, and a bit faster, and he passed Cannonball, then opened up the lead wider. By the time he reached the finish line, Thunderbolt was four full-lengths ahead.

For a moment the crowd was stunned. Then a few realized that they had bet on the winner, and they began cheering. Chad let Thunderbolt charge through the line, slowing him gradually, until finally he turned him about and brought him back.

“You cheated me, you son of a bitch!” Blake shouted, jumping down from his horse and starting toward Chad.

“Hold on there, Blake. There wasn’t no cheating here,” the sheriff said. “He beat you fair and square.”

“He cheated!” Blake insisted. “You seen how he fixed his stirrups like that. There ain’t nothin’ says you can do that.”

“Far as I know, there ain’t nothin’ says you can’t, neither,” the sheriff replied. “ ’Sides which, he done it before the race even started. You coulda put your stirrups up like that, too, iff’n you’d had a mind to.”

“Yeah, that’s a fact,” one of the townspeople said. “We’re the ones lost some money on this here race and you don’t hear us complainin’, do you? You was beat, Blake, fair and square.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like it,” Blake said, but he turned away and it was obvious that he had no intention of carrying his protest any further.

Chad watched the division of the townspeople, and he could tell by their reactions who had lost money and who had made money on him. He was glad to see, however, that nearly everyone agreed the race had been entertaining to watch, and a fair return for their money, even if they lost. His thoughts were interrupted by a joyous whoop from Hank, who was ambling toward Chad, Eddie and Gene.

“Boys,” Hank said, his face split by a huge smile, “we hit it big! We got us almost three hundred dollars here!”

The town rose from the ground ahead of them, hot, dry, dusty, and baking in the sun like a lizard. It was small and flyblown, little more than a wide spot in the trail.

Jim slipped his canteen off the pommel and took a drink. The water was warm and stale, but his lips were swollen and dry. He’d been saving his water, but now he would be able to refill it from the town pump. Also, a drink at the saloon would go a long way toward wetting his raspy tongue.

“I don’t know about you, cousin,” Frankie said, “but that saloon is one welcome sight.”

“It looks pretty good, all right,” Jim said. He hooked the canteen back onto the saddle pommel, then urged his horse forward with the bar est suggestion of a squeeze from his knees. As the two rode down the street, the hoofbeats sounded hollow on the sun-baked surface, and little puffs of dust drifted up to hang suspended behind them as if reluctant to return to the hot, hard ground.

Jim rode into the clapboard town slowly, sizing it up as he did so. It was a one-street town with a few shacks made of whip-sawed lumber, the unpainted wood splitting and turning gray, the houses leaning as if bent by the wind. There was no railroad serving the town, so no signs of the outside world greeted them. It was a self-contained little community, inbred and festering.

They examined the buildings as they passed them by. There was a rooming house, a livery stable with a smithy’s shop to one side, and a general store with a sign that said DRUGS, MEATS, GOODS on its high false front. Next to the general store was the saloon. It was the only painted building in town.

The two men rode up to the hitch-rail in front of the saloon, dismounted, and patted their clothes, sending up plumes of dust that settled again on the cloth like a fly swarm. A small boy sucking on a red-and-white peppermint stick peered at them from the general store’s dust-glazed front window. A woman’s hand came from the shadows of the store to snatch the boy away.

The woman who pulled the boy away might have been pretty at one point in her life, but she looked old before her time now. The sun and wind and the backbreaking life had made the twenty-six-year-old look forty.

“Who are they, Mama?” the boy asked.

“No doubt they are out-of-work cowboys,” the woman replied. “Ever since that big freeze last winter the country is full of them. Now come away from the window. Whoever they are is none of our business.”

Unaware that they had been the subject of conversation, Jim and Frankie looked up and down the street. A few buildings away, a door slammed and an isinglass shade came down on the upstairs window of the boardinghouse. A sign creaked in the wind and flies buzzed loudly around a nearby pile of horse manure.

These sounds were magnified because, despite the conversation in the general store, the street itself was dead silent. Jim and Frankie heard no human voices, yet they knew there were people around, for there were horses tied here and there, including several in front of the saloon.

Boot heels banged on the boardwalk in front of the saloon and a shadow fell across Jim and Frankie. The two men looked up to see three men standing in front of them. The men were rough-looking, with sweeping mustaches and beady eyes. They stood across the walk, barring the way into the saloon.

“You boys get back on your horses and just keep on riding,” the one in the middle said. He was the ugliest and meanest-looking of the three, probably because he had a drooping eyelid. “We’ve about had our fill of out-of-work cowboys.”

“We’ll be on our way soon as we get water, a little food, and a couple of beers,” Jim said.

“You’ll be on your way now,” Droopy-eye said. He was wearing a duster, and he pulled it back to one side to expose a long-barrel pistol sheathed in a holster that was tied halfway down his leg. The other two men made the same threatening motion.

“Mister, I hope you don’t work for the town’s welcoming committee,” Jim said.

“This here ain’t no joke,” Droopy-eye replied.

“Didn’t think it was,” Jim said. “At least, I wasn’t finding it funny. Now step aside. My cousin and I are going into the saloon.”

Droopy-eye shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“Frankie, if they start something, you take that muley-looking son of a bitch on the right. I’ll kill the loudmouth with the lazy eye and that ugly bastard one on the left.”

“All right, cousin,” Frankie replied, easily. The exchange was quiet and matter-of-fact, but spoken with the finality of someone who intended to do what he said.

“You crazy, mister?” Droopy-eye asked. “There are three of us.”

“Just thirsty,” Jim replied. “Now in the next moment I’m goin’ to be killin’ or drinkin’. It’s your call.”

For a moment, Jim thought Droopy-eye was going to take the challenge. Then he saw the fight leave his eyes, and the man shrugged.

“After you two have our food and drink, get on out of town,” he said. “I meant it when I said we don’t want your kind around.” He looked at his two partners, who also seemed to have lost the spirit when they saw their leader back down. “Come on,” he said.

With their way no longer barred, Jim and Frankie went into the saloon and headed straight for the bar, where they ordered a beer.

“Barkeep, those beers are on me,” a man said from the other end of the bar, “and as many more as they can drink.”

“Yes, sir,” the bartender said, drawing two foaming beers, then setting the mugs in front of Jim and Frankie.

“Thanks,” Jim said, holding the beer up. Then, recognizing his benefactor, he smiled. “Clay Allison.”

“Do I know you?” Allison asked.

“No, not exactly. But I know who you are.”

Allison nodded. “Yes, too many people do, I’m afraid. Listen, I saw the way you two boys handled yourselves out there, and I was impressed by it. So impressed that I’d like to offer you a job, if you’re interested.”

Jim took a long, Adam’s-apple-bobbing swallow of his beer, then wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand before he answered.

“It just so happens we are out of work right now,” Jim said. “We’re interested.”

“It’s a pretty big job and it’s going to take more than the two of you. It’s in El Paso. You think you could round up an outfit?”

“Oh, yes,” Jim replied. “I know just where to go.”