The Bozeman Trail

Chapter Nine

Fort Worth, Texas

Wednesday, June 18, 1862:

It had taken Angus Butrum most of the morning to ride over to Fort Worth from Dallas. Dallas was a sleepy little town, but Fort Worth was full of activity, though as he looked more closely, he saw that most of the activity came from soldiers. Like ants at a picnic, the soldiers were everywhere. As far as he could tell, though, they weren’t doing anything except wearing their uniforms and parading up and down the street saluting one another. Angus reined up in front of a saloon, but just before he dismounted, he worked up a good spit of tobacco and squirted it onto the boardwalk. Although he hadn’t intended to do so, it got on the boots and pants of a young lieutenant. The young woman who was walking along the boardwalk with the lieutenant just managed to avoid it.

“Hey, mister, you just spit on my boots!” the lieutenant complained.

Angus looked at the officer but said nothing.

“Well, you just going to stand there like a dumb ox?” the lieutenant challenged. “Get down there and clean it off.”

The girl saw the danger in Angus’s eyes before the young officer did, and she pulled on his arm. “Come on, Donnie, let’s go. I’ll clean it.”

“No,” Donnie said, obviously trying to make a show of it in front of the girl. “This scoundrel is not in uniform. It is obvious that he is either too cowardly to be in the army or he is a deserter. Now, which is it, mister?”

Still silent, Angus tied his horse off at the hitching rail.

“Mister, are you mute as well as dumb? I’m talking to you.”

The blood vessel in Angus’s temple enlarged, then began to throb. He stared directly at the young lieutenant.

“Sonny, why don’t you and your whore just pass on by?” Angus said.

“Whore?” the young woman gasped.

“I don’t know where you’re from, mister, but that kind of language is killing words around here. I’m calling you out!” the young officer said, his voice cracking in anger.

“No, wait, Donnie, please!” the young girl pleaded, her voice now on the verge of panic. “It’s all right. I know he was just talking. Come on, please? Let’s go!”

“You better listen to the girl, sonny,” Angus said.

Under normal circumstances, Donnie may have recognized the danger himself, but these weren’t ordinary circumstances. Donnie was wearing the uniform of a second lieutenant in the Confederate cavalry, and carrying a new Colt pistol in his holster. Inspired with the zeal of patriotism, he was anxious to prove his manliness and bravery in front of the daughter of his commanding officer.

Donnie unsnapped the flap cover of his holster, and put his hand on the butt of his pistol.

“Now I’m going to give you one last chance. I’m going to count to three. You either apologize and clean off my boot, or go for your gun. I don’t care which,” Donnie said.

“Donnie, no!” the young woman said, her words now on the verge of a scream.

By now, half a dozen passersby had been drawn to the scene. When they heard Donnie’s challenging words, they grew tense as they waited to see what was going to happen.

“Mandy, you get on out of the way,” Donnie said, waving her away.

“Donnie, please!”

“Miss, you better get on over here,” one of the onlookers said.

“What’s it going to be, mister,” Donnie said to Angus. “Are you going to apologize? Or do I start counting.”

“Start counting,” Angus said, calmly.

Donnie blinked a couple of times, then a small patina of sweat broke out across his upper lip. It was as if, until that moment, he thought he could bluff his way through. Now he realized that this man couldn’t be bluffed. He also knew that he couldn’t take him. But that realization had come too late. It was impossible for him to back out of it now, without spending the rest of his life in shame.

Donnie licked his lips a couple of times, then with a voice that was much less authoritative than it had been, began to count.

“One,” he said. He paused, then said, “Two.” Now he paused for a long time, praying that, somehow this could all go away, that this man he had challenged would apologize, or at least, turn and walk away. The man continued to look at him with a cold, unblinking stare.

“Three,” Donnie said, starting his draw even as he said the word.

Angus drew and fired before Donnie could get his gun level. Donnie pulled the trigger on his own pistol very quickly behind Angus, so those who only heard the sound of the gunshots thought the fight was much closer than it really was. In truth, Donnie’s bullet plunged into the boardwalk right beside him—right in the middle of the tobacco quid Angus had expectorated a few moments earlier.

“Donnie!” Mandy shouted, and pulling away from the person who tried to hold her back, she rushed to Donnie’s side, looking down in his face just as he breathed his last.

“Is there anybody here who doesn’t know he drew first?” Angus asked.

“Hell, mister, he was just a kid,” one of the men in the quickly gathering crowd said. “You coulda walked away from it before it ever got this far.”

Angus stared at the man from the crowd for a long, rather frightening moment, then he put his pistol in his holster and walked into the saloon. The saloon had been practically emptied when everyone ran outside to see what the gunshots were about. In their excitement to see what was going on, several pushed right by Angus, not realizing he had been one of the principals.

Angus saw his two brothers, Percy and Chance, standing at the bar. Though they had watched the drama unfold, they had not joined the exodus.

“What was all that about out there?” one of them asked.

“Ah, it was just some soldier-boy, too big for his britches.”

“Did you have to kill ’im?”

“He didn’t give me no choice. The boy wouldn’t leave it alone.”

“You ain’t goin’ to be none too popular around here,” Chance said, as Angus joined them.

“Yeah, well, I got no time for some snot-nosed bastard trying to prove he’s a man.”

“Did you hear anything in Dallas?” Chance asked.

“No. What about you two?”

“Nobody here has ever heard of Duke Faglier.”

“So, Angus, what do we do now?”

“We go on looking.”

“We’ve been looking for that son of a bitch for a long time now,” Percy said. “We come close to findin’ him when we was in Springfield, but he run off before we got there.”

“He deserted the army, is what he done,” Chance said. “So now if we find ’im and kill ’im, we’ll get us that two hundred dollar reward the blue-bellies has got for deserters.”

“He wasn’t in the army. He was a civilian. There ain’t no reward for him,” Angus said. Nearby was a half-filled mug of beer, left by a customer who had gone out with the others to see the commotion. Angus picked up the mug and began drinking.

“Maybe he’s joined up with the Reb army,” Percy suggested. “If he has, we ain’t never goin’ to find him.”

“He didn’t join up with the Rebs,” Chance said.

“How do you know he didn’t?”

“I just know,” Angus said, reaching for still another half-filled mug.

“All right, so what do we do now?”

“We keep looking,” Angus replied. “He killed two of our brothers. You boys can go on back up to Missouri if you want. But I, for one, don’t intend to let him get away with that.”

“I ain’t desertin’ you, Angus,” Percy said. “Wherever you decide to go, I’ll be right there with you.”

“Me, too,” Chance said. There was a beat of silence then he added, “Where will that be?”

“Austin first,” Angus said. He drained the beer from the mug, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Then I figure maybe San Antonio.”

“When do we get started?” Percy asked.

“Now,” Angus said. “Right now.”

Angus started toward the front door, and his two brothers were right behind him. When they reached the sidewalk, two men were gently lifting the young soldier onto the back of a buckboard.

“He’s the one did it,” they heard someone say, not in an accusing tone, but almost one of awe.

Without even making eye contact with any of the townspeople who had been drawn to the macabre scene, the three brothers mounted their horses and rode south, out of town. Not one of them looked back.

Long Shadow Ranch Wednesday, June 18, 1862:

“Looks like we’re goin’ to need us a couple of pack animals after all,” Bob told James.

“Why is that?”

“The wagon’s not big enough to hold all our stuff.”

“Wait a minute,” Duke said. “That can’t be right. Maybe I don’t know cows, but I do know wagons, and there’s no reason why a big Studebaker wagon like this can’t carry everything we’ve got to carry.”

“Well, come have a look if you don’t believe me,” Bob invited. “I’m tellin’ you, it’s not going to do it.”

When James and Duke rode back to the wagon with Bob, they saw several unpacked items lying around on the ground. Revelation was leaning back against the wagon with her arms folded across her chest.

“Are you sure you packed it right?” James asked, swinging down from the saddle.

“Come on, James, I’ve packed wagons before. See for yourself.”

James looked into the wagon, then back at the items on the ground. “It looks like a good tight pack,” he admitted. He shook his head. “I can’t figure out why everything’s not going in.”

Duke looked into the wagon as well. He moved back to study the wagon from outside, then he stepped back to look down inside again.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

“What is it?” James asked.

“Bob, reach underneath the wagon there,” Duke said. “Put your hand on the bottom.”

Bob started to do as Duke asked, but Duke redirected him. “No, do it up here,” he said.

With a puzzled shake of his head, Bob walked up to the front of the wagon where Duke was standing, then he dropped to one knee and reached up from beneath the wagon to put his hand on the bottom. Duke stuck his hand down over the side of the wagon and touched the bottom from that side just above where Bob was touching. Then he looked over at Revelation.

“What are you carrying in this wagon?” Duke asked.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Revelation replied.

“The hell you don’t. What are you carrying in this wagon besides vittles?”

“What is it, Duke?” James asked.

“Look how much space there is between the floor of the wagon and the bottom of the wagon. It has a false bottom.”

“Glory be,” James said, looking at the disparity Duke had pointed out. “You’re right.” He looked at Revelation. “All right, so what’s going on here?” he asked. “What’s under the false bottom?”

“Look, this is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. I don’t know what you are talking about,” Revelation insisted.

“Let’s get the wagon unloaded and check it out,” James said.

When Matthew and Mark Scattergood arrived on the scene a few minutes later, they saw all the supplies spread out on the ground. Duke and Bob were up in the now-empty wagon, working on the floor with a crowbar. As he pulled a nail loose, it made a terrible screeching sound.

“Here, what are you adoin’ tearin’ up our wagon like that?” Matthew asked, challengingly.

“We’re repairing it,” James explained.

“Repairing it? What do you mean, repairing it? It’s purt’ near new. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with it.”

“The floor is too high,” James said, innocently. “We figured if we could lower it a bit, we might be able to get all our stuff loaded.”

Matthew and Mark looked at each other, their faces reflecting some concern.

“There’s no need to do that. The floor’s fine just the way it is,” Mark said.

There was another screeching sound as a nail was removed, then the sound of a board being pulled up, followed by a shout of triumph.

“Well, now, what do we have here?” Duke asked from inside the wagon. He held up a jug.

“What is that?” James asked.

“It looks like it might be a little moonshine whiskey,” Duke replied. He pulled the cork. “Smells like it, too.” He turned it up and took a drink “Well now, fancy that, it is moonshine whiskey,” Duke concluded. “Not all that good a whiskey, but whiskey, nonetheless.”

“What do you mean it ain’t all that good?” Mark asked in an angry spurt. “I’ll have you know that’s the best whiskey in the county.”

“Whether it’s good whiskey or bad, it has no business here,” James said, pointing to the wagon.

“We thought maybe we would take some along to use for snakebite,” Matthew suggested.

“Snakebite my ass,” Bob said. “You were plannin’ on sellin’ it.”

“So what if we are?” Mark responded. “There’s no law against an honest man making a living, is there?”

Bob laughed. “Honest? That’s not a word you often hear in the same sentence as the name Scattergood.”

Mark glared at Bob.

“How many jugs of whiskey do you have in there?” James asked.

“They’re gallon jugs, we have forty-eight.”

“Get it off, now.”

“What will we do with it?”

“James, we don’t have to get rid of all of it,” Duke said. “There will be room for some. Say, eight gallons or so.”

“All right,” James said. “You can take eight gallons. The rest of it stays.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Matthew said. “What do we do with the whiskey that stays?”

“Drink it, burn it, pour it out on the ground,” James said impatiently. “I don’t care what you do with it. Just get it off that wagon.”

There was a hollow sound as Duke pulled the cork on another jug, then a gurgling sound as he began to pour the whiskey out.

“Wait, no sense in pourin’ it all out,” Matthew said, climbing up onto the wagon. He picked up another jug and pulled the cork. “We may as well drink what we can.”