came from Boston bound for Arizona with…oh, I can’t remember the name.”
“The Arizona Colonization Company.”
“That’s it!”
“You never told me your grandfather was a Westerner,” Jason C. Hughes commented.
“Oh, Grandfather didn’t stick it out.” Seth Thomas shrugged. “He returned to Boston after a couple of years.”
“What was your grandpa’s name?” Garrett asked.
The dude told him, but Garrett shook his head. He couldn’t remember names anymore, especially names from thirty years back.
“I’ve heard of a Pat Garrett,” Todd said, just to say something. His nose had stopped bleeding.
“He got killed a short while back,” Jason C. Hughes said. “Read about it in the newspapers.”
“No kin,” Garrett said.
“Grandfather showed me a book that had been written about you,” Seth Thomas said. “One of those penny dreadfuls. He read parts of it to me, but I can’t remember much about it.”
“Nothing to remember,” Garrett said. “Just lies.”
“So you used to be famous, eh?” Jason C. Hughes laughed. “Maybe Owen Wister should write a book about you. And to think, Abraham almost killed you. That would have been something.”
“You aren’t going to tell Mr. Cahill, are you?” Abraham asked.
“No harm done,” Garrett answered, warmed now by Seth Thomas’s bourbon.
“Well, I haven’t killed my elk or deer yet, old-timer,” Jason C. Hughes said, “and I want to round up some longhorns!”
Garrett returned the flask to Seth Thomas. “We can check cattle in the morning, but they’ll be Herefords. Longhorns are a thing of the past in these parts. You can try out your cannon on the way back to the ranch. We’ll hunt up some elk in the hills.” He stared at Abraham. “Don’t forget your pistol. And don’t ever pull it on me again.”
He swung off his horse without a word, trying not to flinch from the pain caused by Abraham’s bullet, and fingered the closest track. The dudes slowly reined in, although Todd’s sorrel came close to plowing over Garrett as he studied the sign.
“What is it?” one of the dudes said.
“Elk?” asked Jason C. Hughes.
Polled Herefords, branded with the Triangle A, grazed nearby. Garrett rose, holding the reins to his bay, and walked a few rods farther, not answering the guests, and studied more tracks.
“Those are horse prints,” Seth Thomas said.
Still Garrett kept quiet, found a mound of horse apples, and broke one open, feeling it with the tips of his fingers.
“I hope you plan on washing your hands before you fix our supper, old-timer,” Jason C. Hughes sang out, and his pals laughed.
After he wiped his fingers on his chaps, Garrett mounted the bay, turned in the saddle and spoke with a purpose. “Tracks head toward those hills.” His chin jutted in that direction. “We’re following them.”
“There are plenty of cows here.” Stretching his aching legs, Jason C. Hughes pointed at the Herefords. “Why don’t we just work them?”
“I ain’t interested in those cattle.”
His boots scattered the ash from the fire in the small box canyon.
“When are we going to eat?” Todd asked.
“We ain’t.” Garrett muttered a curse as he looked at the four boys riding with him. One was off in the bushes answering nature’s call, two others looked just too tuckered out to even climb down from their horses, and the fourth, Jason C. Hughes, filled his stomach with whiskey.
“What is it?” Seth Thomas asked.
Garrett climbed into the saddle. “Four riders,” he said, “came into the pasture down there and gathered what I reckon to be twenty head of Triangle A beef. Most likely, they used a running iron on them here, and are herding them toward the state line.”
Hughes corked his canteen, keenly interested. “You mean…rustlers?”
“Looks like.”
“You’re joshing us!” exclaimed Todd.
I wish to hell I were, he thought, but shook his head.
“Should we ride back, tell Mr. Cahill?” Seth Thomas asked.
“Hell, no!” It was Jason C. Hughes who answered. “We go after them, right, old man? Kill some rustlers, now that’s something nobody will believe back in Manhattan. This is just crackerjack!”
“We need help,” Seth Thomas pleaded.
Hughes patted the stock of his Mauser. “We have all the help we need, right?” He pointed at the coiled lariat on Garrett’s saddle. “Just like The Virginian!”
He could put his heart into this. Do a good job, Sam Cahill had told him, and Garrett planned on doing just that. Tracking rustlers filled his bill, even if the posse riding behind him wasn’t up to snuff. Well, thirty years ago, he had ridden with posses about as worthless. Besides, at least Jason C. Hughes and Seth Thomas showed some interest in learning what it took to be a lawman.
“When do you think we’ll catch them?” Todd asked.
Garrett shrugged. He had maintained a hard pace, but had slowed to a walk, as much for the sake of the dudes as the horses. Todd and Hughes had ridden up alongside him, and he cast a quick glance over his shoulder to see how far the other two had fallen back. Swearing softly, he drew rein to let Seth Thomas and Abraham catch up. The bay took the opportunity to graze, and Garrett leaned over and patted the gelding’s neck.
“Then what?” Todd asked.
“Depends on the rustlers.”
“Be like Steve in The Virginian, eh?” Jason C. Hughes grinned. “String ’em up.”
He was glad Abraham had caught up and asked, “Do we rest now?” Because Garrett did not like Jason C. Hughes’s question.
“No,” he told Abraham, and kicked the bay into a trot.
You got an old man’s memories. He coaxed his horse into an arroyo, leaning back in the saddle, wondering if those dudes would be able to make the climb down, but not really caring. String ’em up. Something the greenhorn had read in a damned book. Smiling when he had said it.
As a lawman, he had arrested plenty of rustlers, but couldn’t remember anything about them, yet could never forget what had happened in Colorado when he had cowboyed. Those had been horse thieves, and they had hanged. He had helped string ’em up. Memories. Sometimes he hated them.
Thunderheads
