railroad is that?”
“That’d be the Southern Pacific. Its tracks are two miles north of Jasper and they go west, clear out through New Mexico, I’m told.”
“What road is that?”
“That’s the road to Jasper, Texas, and you can see, it goes on farther west too. I don’t know where it ends.”
“How much for two sections wide and running down from this road to the Saber River?”
“Lemme see. Hmmm, I’ll have to tally it up. You’ll have to buy two and a quarter plus sections mister there or one, whichever, I can’t split off a little dab.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll take the bigger part. How much and do I get a deed?”
“Yes, you do. If you mean to pay cash? You don’t, o’ course, do you?”
“Yes, I do, how much?”
“Oh, dear me, let me see, hold on, I’ll get my boss. That 1,530 acres running down to the river in Casper County will cost you $2,675. Mister, you got that much cash money in yer Levi’s pockets?”
“Start writing out the bill of sale, fella, and get my deed wrote up, too. I’ll be right back with your money.” Jeff went out, got his saddlebags, came back in, and counted out their money in gold and silver federal coins.
“What’s yer name?”
“Nelson, Jeff Nelson.”
“Gosh-almighty, I ain’t seen so much gold and silver money since before the war,” said the boss of the state land agency.
“Okay, Mr. Nelson, here’s yer bill of sale and yer deed, all legal and tidy. You’re a Casper County, Texas, rancher now. You wanna register your brand while yer here?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“What’ll it be?”
“The JN brand.”
“Okay, Mr. Nelson, it’s registered.”
“Where’s your blacksmith? I need a branding iron made.”
“Down the street, across from the livery stable.”
“Smitty, you and Bo wanna go with me and help me start up my JN Brand ranch?”
“You know I do, my friend.”
“Count me in too, Jeff,” Bo echoed.
The land office door opened and in stepped Jorn Murphy. “Well, hell, Jeff, you beat me here, you bought yer land yet?”
“Yep, bought and paid for, Jorn, and I’ve registered my brand.”
“Well, hell, you probably bought up all the best land already too, haven’t you, Jeff?”
“No, sir, mister, we got plenty prime land left to sell you. Step over here and I’ll show you where it is!”
Jeff interrupted the land agent. “Where can I buy me some cattle?”
“There’s cattle pens down at the south end of yonder street,” he answered. “Cattle brokers are always hanging around there, somebody with enough brains oughta be glad to accommodate ya, I reckon.”
Jeff, Smitty, and Bo left to go find the cattle pens while the land agent had Jorn Murphy’s attention.
Chapter Fifteen
Jeff, Smitty, Bo, and three Fort Davis cowboys, in early April, drove two bulls, two hundred fifty cows (half of them were pregnant heifers), and fifty-five four-month-old bull calves and heifers west over the rolling hills and valleys toward Jeff’s JN Brand cattle ranch in Casper County. Halfway there, Jeff stopped his men, built a fire, heated his branding irons, and branded his cows, bulls, and calves. They also castrated the bull calves. Then they laid over one day to rest their herd. Jeff had been observing the land daily and the gamma grass since leaving Fort Davis, and he was so far pleased with the looks of the surroundings. He hoped his land looked as good. They’d followed the Saber River northwest out of Fort Davis, where it’d forked back south of the fort and continued all the way into the Gulf of Mexico. They continued to ride west and parallel with the Saber on their southern flank.
About sundown, two days later, they stopped pushing the cattle, let them water at the river, and then settle down for the night. Bo appointed himself to ride around, and he finally found enough kindling wood for their cooking fire. First chore he did as soon as the fire was going was put on a pot of crushed coffee beans and water. They all had coffee, a can of beans each, and some fried bacon, thanks to Bo. Jeff posted the three hired cowboys to each take a take shift guarding the cattle till daylight. When the coffeepot was empty, Smitty and Bo rolled up in their blankets by the dying campfire. Jeff sat by the coals till after they grew cold before he slept.
At breakfast Bo remarked, “Firewood’s scarce in this part of the country, boys. We’ll have to cut back on our coffee makin’.”
Mack, the oldest one of the Fort Davis cowboys, remarked dryly, “You ain’t never cooked with chips, have you, Virginia?”
“You call me Virginia once more, and I’ll brain you with my skillet,” replied Bo.
“Sorry, saddle mate, I ’pologize to ya.”
“Now then, you mentioned chips? What’s chips?”
“Cow chips, buffalo chips, that’s what,” drawled the old cowboy.
“It still don’t explain to me what the heck a chip is, feller.”
“It’s dried cow pies and buffalo pies…you know…their pies of caca, that’s Mex. For shit, saddle mate.”
“You mean you can cook with that?”
“Shore ’nuff, iff’en it’s dried out chips. They won’t burn iff’en they’re fresh as well as hard to handle. Dried ’ens make a nice quick fire, burns hot. Us South Texas cowboys don’t never cook our coffee a using anythang else but chips. You wantin’ me to go and round up you some to use? I will, young friend, after I have my coffee, if you got a tote sack for me to be puttin’ ’em in,” Mack replied.
“I’d sure be obliged to you, Mack, if you would.”
“Fetch me a tote sack and as soon as I finish this coffee. I’ll be a scootin’ and brang ya back some.”
“Why does river water always make the best tasting coffee?” Bo asked.
“I don’t know that it does. Good old well water is plenty hard to beat,” replied Smitty.
“I agree, Smitty, but any camp coffee tastes good if the coffee maker doesn’t talk as much while he cooks the coffee,” remarked Jeff.
“Thanks, boss, I really ’preciate your compliments,” said Bo.
“Dang it, Jeff. This Southwest Texas sure is mighty purty
