High Rider Part 4

John felt a searing heat wash his face, and as Rufus walked off, called after him, "Rufus!"

The cowhand stopped and turned around, his movements slow and deliberate. Their eyes met. Despite the anger that filled him, John kept his voice well-modulated. "There ain't no n.i.g.g.e.r boys in this outfit. Only drovers. Best you remember that."

John wondered what the future with Rufus Pauley would bring. He was from Alabama and had fought for the Confederates during the war, hence his att.i.tude toward Negroes. Afterwards, he'd drifted into Texas, ending up in Austin, where he had learned to work with cattle. He had cut his teeth with Charles Goodnight and had ridden swing and point on Emmett's learning drive, where Emmett saw and admired Rufus's hard work and dedication to the job. And since you can't be around a man for a couple of months and not get some idea about where he stands on most issues, Emmett knew of Rufus's lack of tolerance for coloureds. Yet he saw a natural intelligence in the man, and felt that given the opportunity, he would outgrow his antebellum att.i.tudes. He also thought that John might provide the stimulus for that growth. So far, Emmett's idea didn't seem to be working.

Emmett waited two days before he decided that crossing the Canadian would be safe, and they did so without incident. The sun had returned and dried out everything that the downpour had soaked. The thirsty ground had sucked up the water and became hard and dusty again.

During the layover, John had stewed over the point man's rudeness and disrespect, and felt angry enough to want to demand an apology. If he wanted a fight, John had a good four inches in height and fifty pounds in weight over Rufus, and even if the man seemed as solid as oak, John felt he could beat him. Yet something about Rufus suggested that he was not a fair fighter, that in a pinch he would resort to that equalizer strapped on his hip called a Colt .45. In the end, John thought of Emmett and the need to maintain good relations in the outfit. He also remembered Sebastian Chambers and decided that revenge was more hurtful to the soul than satisfying. It was best to let it go.

They were stopped for a lunch break and to change horses above the Canadian when the Indians came, but not in the way anyone had expected. Rufus spotted them first, a dust cloud in the distance that materialized into a small band of Kiowa. A couple of hundred yards away, the band rode in a small circle before continuing.

Emmett said, "Looks like they want to parley, boys, so let's not frighten 'em with a show of guns. Better keep awake, though."

But the Indians weren't interested in a fight, despite outnumbering the outfit two to one. They looked emaciated and demanded a toll of one longhorn to cross their territory.

Emmett instructed John to find a dry cow and cut it out for them. "It's a small payment for a trouble-free pa.s.sage," he told the men, reiterating Corwin Doan's advice. "We ain't had much trouble so far and I aim to keep it that way."

Before they reached the Cimarron River and crossed over into Kansas, small, starving Indian bands stopped them two more times. Emmett paid each of them a dry cow. While some men complained, he still felt he had a bargain. He said to them after the last band had left, "Three beeves ain't nothing, boys. You seen what was left of the buffalo. Nothing but miles and miles of bleached bones. A man has to feed his family the best way he can."

Rufus, who knew what subtraction could do to a man's pocketbook, groused, "h.e.l.l, we didn't kill no buffalo, Emmett."

Emmett shrugged. "It don't matter, Rufus. As far as they're concerned, we might as well have."

It was the beginning of June and there had been enough rain that the gra.s.s-covered Kansas prairie was still a vibrant green. They had put the Oklahoma Territory behind them; another week would see them approaching Dodge City. They had been on the trail for nearly two months and deserved a break, so Emmett had promised everyone a pay advance and an evening in town. From that point on, all conversations around the campfire were concerned with the relative merits of wh.o.r.ehouses, saloons, and gambling halls, and in which of the three it would profit them most to spend their time. After much discussion, they agreed that the best establishment would include all three.

Emmett decreed that half of the men would go into town on the first day, the other half on the second. The outfit would leave for Ogallala early on the third morning regardless of the severity of any hangovers. Any man who did not show up would be a man left behind. It was a thinly disguised bluff, of course, because if half the crew failed to show up, the herd wasn't going anywhere; nevertheless, it needed saying. Emmett found a good bed-ground with plenty of gra.s.s about five miles southwest of Dodge, not far from the Arkansas River, where the men could bathe if they wished before enjoying the town's amenities. They drew straws to see who would go first, and Emmett gave each man an advance of whatever he asked for, up to a month's pay.

SIX.

Eddie Foy's playing over at the Comique.

John Emmett, Ben, Rufus, Nathan, and Pepper all drew short straws. Even so, Emmett and Pepper took the wagon in on the first day and resupplied it; their fun, however, would be had the next day. John spent the time tr.i.m.m.i.n.g horse hooves, replacing shoes where needed, and cleaning tack, finding in these small tasks an escape from the apprehension he felt about venturing into town. The first revellers straggled in late the following morning, exhausted and for the most part glad to be back on the open prairie where they could recover, and where temptations of the flesh were temporarily beyond their reach. Even Duffy, who had more energy than most for non-stop revelling, was happy to be in camp.

John and the others saddled up for their turn. Pepper, who had a pot of salt pork and beans simmering by the fire, left explicit instructions as to what the men could or could not do with the chuckwagon. Any man who violated these orders might as well go ahead and shoot himself, and save Pepper the trouble of doing it.

When asked about Dodge City upon his return from his supply visit, Emmett had said little, except that after two months on the trail it seemed a busy place. Other than the occasional herd continuing north, the town was the terminus for most drives out of Texas and was better than most towns at lightening the loads of drovers weighted down by a couple of months' pay and bonuses. Indeed, Emmett had never seen so many drovers gathered in one spot, not to mention an abundance of establishments offering precisely what they craved.

They loped toward town in the mind-dulling late-afternoon heat, pa.s.sing other herds grazing on the rich Kansas gra.s.s to regain some of the weight they had lost on the trail before they were to be sold in Dodge and s.h.i.+pped to points east. When the outline of the town became distinct on the horizon, the concern John had experienced the previous evening reappeared-he had no idea how his presence would be received. Emmett had told him, "No need for worry, John. I think you'll be pleased by what you find." But it was at best a modest rea.s.surance that did little to lessen John's misgivings. On their approach to the city, he and the others paid ten cents each to a nearly fingerless, limping man to use a toll bridge to cross the Arkansas River.

Front Street, Dodge's main thoroughfare, was a broad dirt road split down its length by a railway track that came from the east and ran west as far as Colorado. The men crossed the track to the north side, their destination a gigantic livery stable named the Elephant Barn. As they rode, John's anxiety eased. He noticed several black drovers strolling along the boardwalks and entering and leaving businesses along the street without any apparent problems. He derived no small sense of satisfaction from the fact that it might be a revelation for Rufus, who had not appeared happy about riding into town with a black man, though he had kept his counsel about it.

The men left their horses at the livery stable and, because the owner said that all the hotels were full, paid two bits extra for a s.p.a.ce to sleep in the hayloft. As they took to the boardwalk, pa.s.sing false-fronted buildings, Pepper rubbed his hands together and exclaimed that his first priority would be a frolic with one or more of the town's many "soiled doves."

Emmett laughed and, knowing that the men needed a break not only from the trail but also from each other, said, "Well, boys, it's every man for himself. But don't forget that you've got a job to do and that other people are depending on you to do it. Try to avoid a dose of the clap and for G.o.d's sake don't get yourself shot. Maybe I'll see you around town." On that note, the men parted company.

They had pa.s.sed a barbershop with a sign that read WILLIAM DAVIS, PROP. The door was open and John had seen a black man, presumably Davis, sitting in the barber's chair reading a newspaper, waiting for customers. John decided to start the evening with a beard trim and maybe obtain information about the town before he tramped its streets alone. He retraced his footsteps and went in.

The man got up from the chair so that John could sit in it, and they exchanged pleasantries. Davis, short, thin, and balding, threw an ap.r.o.n around his customer and went to work, asking him where he was from and where he was going. They talked about cattle for a bit and John asked about the town and its coloured population.

"Not many coloured folks actually live here the year round," Davis said, above the sound of the snipping scissors. "Maybe forty or fifty. Most do service work, but that's what this town is built on. You want your hair cut or your laundry done, a coloured will do it, although the c.h.i.n.ks are horning in on the washtub artists. Most of the coloureds you see on the streets are drovers like yourself, pa.s.sing through. Around here it ain't the colour of a man's skin that counts, it's the colour of his money, and the entire town's set up to empty his pockets before he leaves. Money's the glue that holds Dodge together. Take that away and white folks would soon put us coloureds in our place, which wouldn't be anywhere near them unless it was at their beck and call. In the winter, we go to our respective corners and tolerate each other while we wait for the next herding season. But don't let that concern you. You'll find that you'll get the respect you deserve, whether it's from the white townsfolk or the black, in any establishment. This is not to say that you won't be the b.u.t.t end of a rude comment or two, but they're more likely to come from white drovers sorrowfully short on good manners. Luckily, the police try to be impartial and if they get wind that someone's causing you trouble because you're coloured, there'll be h.e.l.l to pay. It's important to them that you want to stick around long enough to spend all your money, not to mention that they get two dollars for every arrest they make."

When he was finished, Davis brushed the cut hair off of John's neck and removed the ap.r.o.n. "That'll be four bits for making you presentable to something other than a cow. And by the way, if you're interested in a good poke, the sporting houses are all across the Deadline, which is what they call the railroad tracks here. It's wilder and rowdier over there than it is on this side. That's where Forrester's Black Beauties are. He has six women in his employ if black's your colour of choice. If white skin gets your poker up, you can try Dodge's Dazzling Dolls, farther down from Forrester's. You can't miss 'em."

John gave a half laugh as he paid Davis, bemused by the names. "Don't sound like they're on the wrong side of the law here. Wouldn't get away with that back in Fort Worth."

"They wouldn't get away with it here, either, if they didn't pay to keep their doors open. The town fines them on a regular basis to keep up appearances. It's easy, dependable revenue, and besides, it's the town councillors who use them most in the off-season."

Davis walked with John to the door. "What else can I tell you? Oh, Eddie Foy's playing over at the Comique Theater and he puts on a great show twice a night. You'll have to get there early if you want a seat. And you won't find a better place to eat than Aunt Sallie's, a few doors down to your left."

John thanked the barber for the information and the haircut, and left the shop. He felt conspicuous on the boardwalk, until he realized that no one was paying him any attention. He turned into Aunt Sallie's and was lucky to find a seat among a crowded mixture of drovers, both black and white, dance hall girls, and men and women of respectable society. The food-roast pork with potato dumplings and green peas followed by a thick slab of pecan pie, all washed down with a cool beer-was excellent. So good, in fact, that John decided he would be wise not to crow about it front of Pepper.

The heat of the day was dissipating as he left Aunt Sallie's, and Front Street was swarming with throngs of people out to take the cooler evening air. He slipped across the train tracks to the south side of the street where the brothels were located. At Forrester's, he spoke to the pimp himself, describing the kind of woman he wanted.

"Ah, if you want some lovin' with your fornicatin'," Henry Forrester said, "then Annie's the girl for you. She's two bucks extra. It's the time involved, you understand. Meantime, why don't you put your gun on the shelf by the door? It's the law here and it'll still be there when you're done. You're welcome to have a drink in our house saloon while I get things arranged."

John waited for an hour and had three drinks, which he supposed was simply another way of dipping into a man's pocket, then paid the pimp seven dollars, wondering how much of it Annie would see.

However much it was, he thought afterwards that she had earned every penny, as well as the extra three dollars he gave her to tuck away for herself. He was euphoric and reckoned that if he ever found a wife with her warmth and talent, he'd be a fortunate man. Yet on the outer edges of that euphoria lurked a feeling of loneliness. Annie had made him realize what he didn't have and might never find: a wife. The prospects of finding one were disheartening, and he feared that the farther north he travelled, the more dismal his chances would become.

He came to a bathhouse and went in for a hot soak. Then he walked by the livery stable to ensure Cat was being well cared for. Next on his list was a saloon with a card game.

The first he came upon was the Green Front. He pushed through the batwing doors, placed his gun on a rack, and made his way to the bar at the rear, where he ordered a whisky. Cigarette and cigar smoke hung thick in the air above circular, baize-covered tables, each with its full quota of gamblers playing faro or stud poker. A couple of roulette wheels clacked over on one side and a piano player, who might have missed a lesson or two, played a song that might have been "Lorena" on an upright piano that needed tuning. Turning his back to the bar, John watched gamblers so focused on their games that they paid him no mind. He thought he recognized the dealer at one of the faro tables and wracked his brain to put a name to the face. As it turned out, he had forgotten the man's name but felt certain it was the dentist he had visited years ago in Dallas. What was the name on the sign? Simpson? Sinclair? The only differences in his appearance were that his moustache was fuller and he had a small goatee. Rather than a smock, he wore a cream-coloured suit with a light purple s.h.i.+rt and dark blue tie. Otherwise, there was no mistaking that ash blond hair, sallow face, and subdued but unrelenting cough.

John had never played faro but it was similar to the game called skinning that he had learned as a slave. He also knew that the odds of winning were reasonable, as long as the dealer was not cheating. Thirteen cards from ace to king were pasted on a board. The players could put chips on any of the cards, and the dealer then pulled out two cards from a box. He won any chips placed on the first card, while the second card was a winner for the players. All ties went to the dealer, which gave him an advantage, as did the usual carelessness of drinking players (and drinks here were cheap). Chips were available from fifty cents to ten dollars. John watched the dentist closely but could not detect any sleight of hand, which wasn't to say that he hadn't doctored the cards.

When a player rose and left the game, John bought ten one-dollar chips and took his place, having decided that if he lost the ten dollars he would leave. The dentist seemed to take his measure, but if he recognized his new opponent, he did not let on. He smiled that thin smile of his and said, his genteel Southern drawl recognizable, "You are welcome to the game, sir, and good luck."

It would have been an orderly game if not for the man sitting on John's right, who had brought a bottle of whisky to the table and was being generous to himself with it. He was also becoming more belligerent with each round that he lost. John figured the man was a fool, because large quant.i.ties of alcohol did not mix with a game like faro where it was to the player's advantage to keep track of the cards played. On the table there was an abacus-like board called a casekeeper, which allowed players to do exactly that, but it was not easy for a brain fogged by alcohol. The dentist, though, looked happy enough to ignore the man's drunkenness because of his haphazard betting and persistent losing.

John played for an hour and managed to win enough to pay for his frolic with Annie and his meal. He was glad to be winning because he loved the thrill of the bet and found gambling infectious. He might have dipped deeper into his pocketbook had he been losing, just so he could continue playing. The dentist's face had remained pa.s.sive throughout the game, except that he winced whenever the piano player hit a wrong note and he coughed from time to time. He would then take a sip of whisky, which seemed to subdue it, but John reckoned that the cigarillos he smoked probably did not help matters any. And he still had that sheen of perspiration across his forehead.

A fair-haired, full-figured woman with eyes the colour of robins' eggs, whose large nose detracted from an otherwise pretty face, brought the dentist a drink when he wanted one and sometimes stood behind him watching the play. Now she came up beside him and leaned over far enough that John and the other players could see most of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She spoke with an accent that John recognized as European, though it was nothing like the German accents he had heard often in Texas. "It'll be showtime soon, John Henry."

"Oh, thank you, darlin'. Why, I might have sat here all evenin' given the charmin' amiability of the company." He looked at the drunk when he spoke, his words icy with sarcasm, adding, "When the deck is finished, gentlemen, so am I."

John broke even on the last few rounds and the drunk lost. The game over, the dentist gathered the cards. "Thank you, gentlemen; it's been a pleasure. A new dealer will join you shortly."

The drunk banged the table with his fist. "You G.o.dd.a.m.n lunger! Deal another round! You ain't takin' my money just so's you can go runnin' off with some f.u.c.kin' wh.o.r.e!"

The dentist smiled. His voice was soft, his eyes hard and cold. "Well, sir, you're no daisy and evidently you would deny a workin' man a much needed respite. Of course, it may be that a cretin like yourself would welcome a wholesale regression into slavery."

The drunk flipped open his unb.u.t.toned waistcoat and reached for a knife concealed there. At the same instant that a derringer emerged in the dentist's hand, John backhanded the drunk so hard it was as if a catapult had flung his chair over backwards. The knife clattered to the floor and John stood and kicked it aside.

The saloon's minder, a giant of a man, came hurrying over. "I'll take care of this." He retrieved the drunk's weapon, hauled him to his feet, and pushed him off through the crowded tables and out the doors.

The dentist arose and said to the two remaining players besides John, "I bid you good night gentlemen and thank you." To John he said, "A night in the sheriff's company ought to improve our friend's sense of propriety. And he would be remiss if he didn't seek you out, sir, and thank you for savin' his life. A split second more and he would have had a bullet in his heart, which would have left me with no end of explainin' to do. I am a friend of the marshal's but I would disdain to use that friends.h.i.+p to my advantage. By the way, I believe that I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance before, but memory fails as to exactly where."

"Dallas. You took out an achesome tooth a few years back. It's Doc Sinclair, ain't it?"

"Ah, my mind summons it now. The man who didn't need an anaesthetic. Fortis an stultus." He offered his hand. "I was merely Dr. Sinclair's a.s.sistant. John Henry Holliday's the name. Folks call me John Henry, or Doc."

Another one of those foreign phrases, but one John had heard before in Dallas. This time he asked what it meant.

"A brave man or a fool."

John laughed and rubbed his jaw, remembering. "A fool, I think." He took Holliday's hand and was surprised at the strength of his grip, considering how frail the man looked. "John Ware."

Holliday turned to the woman. "Darlin', please forgive my appalling manners. May I introduce John Ware, an exemplary card player with the fastest backhand on either side of the Mississippi? John, please meet Kate Harony, a confidant and companion."

John removed his hat. "How do you do, ma'am?"

"Charmed, I'm sure," she said, with the air of an aristocrat. But given her provocative attire, especially the revealing gown, and the fact that she hadn't blanched at being called a wh.o.r.e, it was reasonable to a.s.sume that the drunk probably wasn't far wrong about her occupation.

"Well, sir," Doc said, "I am in your debt, but I must beg your leave. I promised my sweet Hungarian princess here that we would attend Eddie Foy's performance at the Comique, and a gentleman never reneges on a promise."

"That's where I was thinkin' of goin'," John said. "If I'm not too late to get a seat."

"Then you must join us. As a personal acquaintance of Mr. Foy's, I have no small influence at the theatre, and we would be honoured by your company." He looked at Kate. "Wouldn't we, darlin'."

It sounded to John more like a dare than a question.

"Of course," Kate said coolly, as if it were the only acceptable answer.

John did not much care how Kate felt, but wasn't certain whether he should be pleased with the invitation or not. On the one hand, he liked Holliday's genteel manner, the way he spoke, and his ease with coloured people. His Southern, well-educated upbringing more than likely included a coloured nanny and much playtime with coloured boys. Yet there was another side to him that John found unsettling: he sensed an aura of danger about the man. Being near him was like riding down a b.u.mpy road on a wagon filled with nitroglycerine. And the way his gun seemed to materialize out of nowhere, as if he drew it from the air itself! He would have had to practise a lot to be so good at that. John wavered for a moment, then thought, If nothing else, it could prove to be an interesting evening, something to tell the boys about. He accepted the invitation.

While John collected his gun, Holliday cashed in his chips, gave the house its percentage, and retrieved his slouch hat and a cane that appeared to be more a fas.h.i.+on accessory than a necessity. Kate took Holliday's arm and the trio left the Green Front together.

The air had cooled but was still fairly warm, and the wind that often whipped up dust in Dodge's streets had died in the evening's clutches. The town had come alive now and sounded festive: tinkling pianos, whining fiddles, and raucous laughter emanated from the saloons on both sides of the street. Myriad boots echoed on the wooden boardwalks and a mule-drawn wagon rattled across the railway tracks in the direction of the bridge. Here and there, stoic, saddled horses tied to hitching posts awaited their riders. As they strolled along, Holliday smoked and coughed, and shared his observations of Dodge City.

"Callin' this a 'city' is, of course, an exaggeration of the first order. The word connotes civilization and Dodge is some distance from achieving that status. Perhaps a Babylon, though." He chuckled. "Maybe even a carnival at times."

John thought Holliday seemed proud to be on display with his unusual companions, an apparent prost.i.tute on one side and a towering, coloured drover on the other. Again, it seemed to John that he was daring someone to say something.

Doc and Kate waved at two men across the street. Both wore black suits with white s.h.i.+rts and broad-brimmed black hats, and had similar inverted chevron moustaches. Each wore holstered pistols and carried a shotgun.

"Wyatt and Morgan Earp," said Doc. "On patrol, protecting Dodge's good citizens from the wild and wicked ways of visiting cowherds. Wyatt's cooled the town down some since he took on the job of a.s.sistant marshal. He can pistol-whip a villain faster than most men can draw a gun, though some might argue over who the real villain is. Yet even along with several other police officers patrolling the town at night, it isn't uncommon to hear gunshots. These days, though, celebration more than deadly intent is usually their antecedent."

They turned the corner onto Bridge Street, where the Comique was located in a capacious, false-fronted building with large windows on either side of the main door. Holliday said something to the man at the entrance that John could not hear and they entered. Neither tickets nor money changed hands. The interior was hot and smoky and packed with about three hundred patrons, the majority men and several of them drunk. The bar over to one side was enjoying a lucrative pre-show business; Holliday joined the crowd and got drinks for himself and his companions. They took seats near the rear by the door, in moveable hardback chairs that could be pushed aside for dancing. Doc said he needed to be near an exit in case he had a serious coughing spell.

A bevy of dancers opened the show and filled the theatre with a delirious energy. When they finished, the grinning, ginger-haired Eddie Foy came on. He sang, danced, juggled, and told animated risque jokes that might have had their origin in a Kansas cornfield, yet his delivery was faultless and the crowd showed their approval with thunderous applause and good-natured catcalls. He was reciting a humorous poem about a place in Michigan called Kalamazoo when a thunderclap of bullets crashed through one of the theatre's front windows, shattering it.

Women screamed and froze, men gasped and swore, and most ducked behind their chairs. Foy threw himself flat faster than he had during any of the pratfalls he had performed earlier. There was more gunfire, this time outside and farther away, and some members of the audience began rising to their feet. Many simply stood there, uncertain of what to do, while others began swarming toward the doors and through the gaping window. A few rushed to the stage where Foy was sitting up.

Holliday, Kate, and John were among the first outside, where they heard even more firing, but this time well off in the distance. A ring of people had gathered several yards down the street, but John could not see what they were surrounding. A person hidden in the middle shouted, "Move back for G.o.d's sake, and give the poor man air!"

Trying to catch his breath, Holliday hurried over and forced his way toward the centre of the ring, people jostling each other aside to let him pa.s.s. Some recognized him for the dentist that he was, but he was at least a sort of doctor and would do until the real thing came along. John and Kate followed their companion but stayed on the boardwalk so that they would not get in the way. Four policemen wearing the same dark attire as the Earps appeared and began dispersing the large crowd, as an older, white-haired man carrying a black doctor's bag arrived. Holliday spoke to him but John could not make out the words. He saw the doctor shake his head. Holliday turned and looked at John.

The two doctors were crouched beside the prostrate figure, hiding it from a clear view, but then they rose and John was able to see fully the man dying in the street behind them. It was Emmett Cole.

SEVEN.

Rest your mind on that account.

They buried Emmett in Boot Hill Cemetery on the north side of Dodge, beneath a blue sky bleached by a white-hot sun. There was not a breath of wind, and sweat beaded on everyone's brow. Besides most of the trail crew, Doc and Kate and many townsfolk, including the Earps, had come to pay their respects. John scarcely heard the pastor's words and stared dumbfounded at the gaping hole in the ground, the pine coffin containing Emmett's remains sitting beside it, and the headboard with John's words painted above Emmett's date of birth and death: HERE LIES EMMETT COLE-A KIND MAN, A GENTLE SOUL. He had not intended it to rhyme, but it fell pleasantly on the ear and he liked that. The pastor spoke more of G.o.d and his mysterious ways than he did of Emmett, about whom his knowledge was understandably scant. John did not know how to tell him about the kind of man his friend had been-the kind man that he was. On that long road from Georgetown to Fort Worth, he had encountered a wide variety of people who disliked him because of the colour of his skin, so to find Emmett, not to mention Amos and Ellie, at the end of it was a stroke of the greatest good fortune.

The town council had paid the funeral costs because Emmett died trying to stop a fleeing criminal. He had been walking along the boardwalk toward the Comique when the gunman rode by and fired shots through the theatre's window. Emmett ran into the street as the man raced by and tried to pull him from his horse, which proved to be a fatal mistake. The shooter almost escaped but, in an exchange of bullets, Wyatt Earp shot him as he rode across the bridge leading out of town. Before he died, he confessed that his motive for shooting into the theatre was jealousy. He had had too much to drink and believed that his wife was involved in a tryst with Eddie Foy.

Emmett's dying request had taken Holliday by surprise. He told John, "In so many words, I was instructed to find you and tell you that you are now trail boss and to carry on to Ogallala." Doc had been glad to be able to reply, "I've already found him, sir, so rest your mind on that account." He thought Emmett had heard him but couldn't be sure.

Nathan and Pepper had returned to camp to tell the others the bad news and set up a skeleton crew to mind the herd so that those who wanted to could attend the funeral. The men were stunned. Emmett dead? Inconceivable! "s.h.i.+t!" and "Dear G.o.d!" had been the only words most could get out. Duffy was heartbroken and angry over his friend's death. "You survive a war only to die at the hands of a b.l.o.o.d.y drunk. Don't make no G.o.dd.a.m.ned sense at all!"

Meanwhile, Emmett's request had hurled John's mind into turmoil. The easy way out would be to sell the herd in Dodge City, but he believed that Emmett had thrown down a challenge. He could not ignore his friend's faith in him and still hold his head up. But would the men stick with him over the month that it would take to reach their destination? Most of them would, he thought, but he was not convinced about Homer and Rufus. Particularly Rufus. If they quit, he might be able to hire replacements because there were plenty of men around Dodge who would leap at the chance to earn good money. But would they hire on with a coloured trail boss? And if he hired black drovers, would that cause even more friction in camp? He considered pa.s.sing on the job to Rufus, since all Emmett had asked of him was to get the herd to Ogallala-he did not say how. But what Rufus would do with Emmett gone was another matter.

Then there was the issue of money. He could potentially get an extra four or five dollars a head in Ogallala, which represented extra cash for the Coles. And it occurred to him that he could use some of that money to buy the men's loyalty by increasing their bonuses. That seemed a fair solution. While it was the Coles' investment that brought the herd together, it was the outfit that would get it to Ogallala. The Coles took the monetary risk, but the men took physical risks and deserved to be paid well for it. John was certain Amos and Ellie would not object.

He had wired the Coles with the devastating news and prayed it would not destroy them. The ranch would be a lonely place now that Emmett would never return. Maybe they had taken John's replacement under their wings, which might help fill the second gaping hole torn in their lives. In an answering wire, the tears in Amos's words were almost audible, even as the operator read it in a bland voice.

His old friend stated that John was in charge of the herd, if John wanted the job, and that he had no doubts that it would get to Ogallala. It was an affirmation that cleared away much of the burden weighing on his shoulders. What's more, as well as having Doc as a witness, he now had something in writing to show Homer and Rufus, in case they disputed Emmett's dying words.

Both men were in town for the funeral, so John took them aside one at a time, told them of Emmett's appeal, and showed them the telegram. Homer was quick to respond. "Well, I might not of said this a couple a months ago, John, but you proved to me you got gravel. I'll ride with you."

It was not until Homer accepted that John mentioned there would be a five hundred dollar bonus for each man who continued with the drive. That was five times what Emmett had offered, and Homer Morgan departed a happy man, promising not to say a word until John had told all of the men, notably Rufus.

John took the same tack with the point man and did not mention the bonus first. Rufus was as good as they came and John hoped he would stay on, but after reading the telegram, he was silent. He pulled a pouch of tobacco with papers from his s.h.i.+rt pocket and began rolling a cigarette. John sensed his quandary: the man could continue with a "n.i.g.g.e.r boy" as trail boss and collect the bonus that Emmett had offered, or he could walk away from it. John guessed that both options grated.

John broke the silence. "You don't have to ride for me, Rufus. You can ride for the brand. It's Emmett's, not mine. If you can't do that, I'll pay you out right now. You only got to say the word. But what I won't abide is your att.i.tude toward me. The only way we'll get those beeves to Ogallala is if we work together. You'll still be point man, but now you got to take orders from me. Maybe that don't set well with you but that's the way it is. And I can tell you this: I ain't hirin' n.o.body else just because Emmett's gone. We got that herd bent to our will, so I reckon that the eleven of us can get the job done. That'll mean even more money for everyone at the end of the trail."

John saw the point man's dark eyes flicker with the mention of more money. He took a deep drag on his cigarette and let out the smoke toward John. "I'm in. Emmett was a good man."