Chapter 1: A Desperate drover's prayer
1875
Three muddy, half-frozen young cowboys circled on their knees around a fresh-found rat's nest and blew into a reluctant flame flickering in the center of it. “ Wherezat plank, Joe? Lets make a little dry kindlin'- an' be quick!”
Joe, whose real name was Jose Soliz, was already chopping the pine plank into foot-long sticks and tossing them towards Amos, who was carefully placing them so as not to smother the struggling flame. “Gimme that, where'dju learn to make a fire, Amos?” Hondo groused, “I know they musta' had fires in those slave cabins you grew up in.”
Amos, a proud but patient freedman, sat up and let Hondo Parks take over, since he was not going to leave him alone until he did. “Sho did,” Amos agreed, “and we made some in de big house too. But we neba use no rat's nes!”
“This rat's nest might be gonna save your life, Amos, look at it catchin'!”
“Ariba!” Yelled Jose, as he chopped the last of the plank and ran to find some larger branches in the woods. “Andale, cabron, es frio!”
Hondo glared at Jose and shook his head. “That Meskin's got no manners, Amos, don' let me hear you cussin' like that. But you better go help him find some good wood... dry wood Amos, and hurry, these pine sticks ain't gonna last long.”
Hondo blew softly into the popping fire, and for a moment enjoyed the simple pleasure of making a little heat and feeling its warmth. It was 35 degrees and dropping, but the cold was the least of his concern. All they had was a thin stand of oaks and their wagon to block the merciless wind, and everything in their camp was beginning to glisten with a layer of sleet. But what he focused on was a greatly diminshed herd, and a missing crew. The three of them and another cowboy had been left behind in a scene of wild confusion that morning. While they had been out searching for hundreds of cows which had been stampeded the night before, their cattle drive had been halted, and the trail boss arrested on dubious charges, by a suspicious group of men.
Their fourth compadre was Josh Canfield, out silently watching the remnant of the herd they had salvaged, and probably lost in his worries. He was the nephew of the herd's owner, Malachi Canfield, who had been taken away by a group of angry locals that morning. Josh had been there when the armed men rode up, accused them of herding diseased cattle, and took his uncle and cousin into custody. That had been six hours before. He had no idea where they were, or what had happened to them. All he knew to do was to keep gathering up the herd, as best as he could, until they returned.
Jose and Amos returned shortly with an assortment of limbs and branches, mostly wet from the rains, and Jose took his hatchet and began to chop and split some of the larger pieces. “Y'all keep gatherin' wood, I'm gonna go speak to Josh.” Hondo ordered, acting as if he was the straw boss, but knowing damn well that they were all fish out of water, or more appropriately, lambs among wolves. The two nodded, glad to be in charge of the fire, as Hondo pulled his last bag of tobacco from his saddle bag.
“Claro,” Jose agreed, but as Hondo disappeared into the thickening sleet, he added, “El cabron no es mi Patron...” Amos did not speak Spanish, but he gathered from his tone that Jose was not feeling charitable. The carefree Mexican had become touchy and grumbly, and his shifting eyes betrayed his deep-seated fears.
“Thanks amigo,” Josh said with a frozen smile, as he took Hondo's tobacco and began to roll a smoke, which was going to be difficult in the relentless wind.
“Somebody needs to go look for the rest of the hands Josh.” Hondo insisted, trying to diplomatically resume a previous and unsettled exchange between them. “They are probably holding some cattle down in that basin by the river... afraid to leave... waiting for us to find them. I want to go check the basin, and then head to the next town, an' see if there is some law there. If there is, maybe they know about your uncle... If they don't...”
“Don't say it.” Josh blurted. As he tried to light his cigarette. “I'm already thinkin' it myself. I'm right scared Hondo. Those men mighta been Jayhawkers, or somethin' like that. If they were...''
“OK, I won't say it, but you'll understand when I say, we need to keep our guns close... That bunch might come back and try to get the rest of our cattle, and I don' know 'bout you, but I ain't ready ta let 'em have em, no matter what they claim! Hell Josh, they were probably damned outlaws. We need some more guns. I wanna round up the rest of our boys and prepare to defend what little we have left.”
“All right... Go check the basin. If you find 'em, tell 'em to leave the cows... they won't go far in this weather anyway. ” Josh was being forced to take over the herd, something he was not mentally prepared to ever do. He had always been the kid in the family, the irresponsible one. This new role was overhwelming, especially in these circumstances.
“I will, but I'm goin' on to Kingfisher. Maybe there's a U. S. Marshal. This Indian Territory can't be that uncivilized... Anyway I'll pick up some ammunition... and git back here pronto.”
Josh looked at Hondo, his best friend, with a desperate expression. He was feeling abandoned, yet he knew Hondo was right. Neither of the men noticed as snow began to fall, something they rarely saw in south Texas. They stared into each other's eyes, yearning for warmer days when nonsense ruled and they slurped watermelons and threw the rinds at each other. “Thanks bunkie, I'm countin' on it.”
Hondo swung through the basin, and found no cows. What he did find made him physically ill. Two Canfield cowboys laid dead in the middle of the trail, stripped naked and shot full of holes. The bodies were mercifully covered with sleet and snow, which suggested that Captain Canfield's outfit had been dispersed by the stampede, then his men had been captured and executed so the herd could be stolen. There was just one thing to do: get help, and get it quick.
The mud in the road was beginning to freeze, and Hondo imagined that he might make better time. He galloped away feeling guilty, knowing the men left in camp would not be able to defend themselves, if they were attacked again. He suddenly thought of something his mama always said, when it came to times like these: “Sonny, never forget, God is always watchin', and listenin'. The power of Almighty God is just a prayer away.”
He smiled, and called upon his childhood faith. “God... if you're listening...” he said meekly, “I could sure use some help right about now. And if you are, and you can spare me a little extra mercy, please protect them boys back at camp. And God, while we're talkin', if you would, help me find the law... and give me the priviledge of killin' the sonsabitches that have done this to us... Let me be the wrath o' God... or if it pleases you, just take care of 'em yourself. That way we'll get 'em all.”
Twenty minutes later he ran into a wagon headed south. Pulled by two trusty Morgan horses, the wagon had signage on it but it was covered with ice and snow and he could not read it. The ice-glazed driver was a traveling photographer, Alvin Payne, and a stone-faced teen-ager sat next to him, holding the reins. In spite of the miserable conditions, the two parties stopped to visit. Travelers on the frontier always took an interest in one another, because one never knew when another's hindsight might save a person's life.
“Good afternoon, cowboy, fine weather we're havin'!” Alvin offered with obvious sarcasm. Hondo nodded bravely and launched into a series of questions. Had they seen any Texas cowboys up the trail? How far was it to Kingfisher? Was there a sheriff there?
“Kingfisher?” Alvin looked puzzled. “We're not anywhere near Kingfisher... you must be lost.”
“I didn' think I was...”
“Next town of any size is Vinita...” Alvin leaked between clenched teeth. “around two days hard ridin' for a man on a good horse... and yes, we've seen alot of cows today. Texas steers. Goin' every which-away. Looks like there must have been a big auction a few miles back... every Choctaw brave is driving a few head here and there.”
“Choctaws?”
“Choctaws, Cherokees, maybe a few Osages... Why? You lose some cattle?”
Hondo sat slumped in his sadddle and stared at the snow-covered ground, as his horse pawed at it and shook the ice from his mane.
“I'll say! Lost our herd, my boss, now I guess I'm lost in thids storm. Bunch of nesters came and arrested our trail boss and his son and just took 'em off... to I don'know where.”
“Mister, I don't like to bring bad tidings...” Alvin said meekly, “but we passed what looked like a necktie party about twenty miles back. And they were hangin' two men. If you go on, you might run into that bunch, and it might not go well. People in these parts hate your Texas cattle pushin' through their farms... and they are hungry and mean to boot. I have experience with these kind of things- And I never saw a cow, or a herd of scrawny longhorn cows worth dyin' for. This late storm has messed up everything anyway... you're never going to be able to cross the rivers up ahead. If it's as bad as you say, then you are way out-gunned, an' you'd best gather your friends and git back to Texas.”
Hondo was not ready to relent. “I can't just leave it like this... I've got eighty head back at the river. So far we've got almost nine hundred cows missin', two men dead, and around five boys missin'... not including Captain Canfield and his son. God help us, they might have been the ones you saw bein' hanged... I hear they had beat 'em pretty bad before they took 'em off...”
“You're making my argument for me..” Alvin reasoned.
“Friend, I appreciate your advice.” Hondo bellowed. “And I'm gonna listen to you, but why I don' know. You act like you know what you're talkin' 'bout. But let me ask ya. I only have four men. Are you goin' through Ft. Gibson yourself? Do you think you could follow us, an' we could drive what we got back to Ft. Gibson... maybe join up with another drive... they say there's safety in numbers.”
A powerful gust suddenly bent the trees, caught Hondo's horse off balance, and made the men lean hard into the wind.
“We're goin' that way... we have to, to get to Texas.” Alvin smiled.
Suddenly, the men in the wagon appeared to Hondo to be answers to his prayer. “Well, I'd be right proud to ride along with you...” He suggested in thinly veiled desperation. “We've got some good grub and a fine nigger cook, and maybe you would enjoy the company. And if you would... you'll be eatin' steak tonight!”
Alvin nodded with a smile, and Sim popped the ice-glazed reins on his horses, and suddenly things looked brighter to Hondo. He grinned and closed his eyes as his face turned south, and he mumbled, “Thank you Mama.”
Alvin and Sim followed Hondo back to the battered Canfield chuck wagon, hidden away in an oak grove. Josh and the boys were roasting a steer, still hoping a few more hands would be trickling in. Josh handed a cup of boiling hot coffee to Hondo as he reined up, with a pitiful look of hesitant expectation.
“Josh, these men comin' behind are headed to Ft. Gibson. They say there was a damned hanging this morning on the Cherokee Reservation- they hung two men. By now Indians are driving our cattle in every direction. Those Jayhawkers musta killed some of our men... and sold our cows. I found Lonnie and McGehee murdered back in the basin before I left...
“There's no law for miles goin' north- an' Josh, we were on the wrong damn trail, nowhere near Kingfisher!” Hondo felt his banter evolving into a scream, and so he took a breath.
“I was afraid of that...” Josh mumbled with numbed lips.
Hondo continued: “This fella is a former deputy outta Wichita, or someplace... He's the closest we got to a good man with a gun. I'm gonna feed 'em and follow 'em south, try to drive these cows we have back to Ft. Gibson, where we can pen 'em up and get our bearings... and get warm. And don't argue with me about it, I'm in no mood.”
Josh was all ears. “Poor young Mason, he'll never get to go to that agricultural college in Bryan now. I can't believe all o' this! But that sounds like a good battle plan, ol' buddy. I'm relieved you made it back.” He turned to the wagon pulling up behind Hondo and waved a friendly salute. “You fellas like beef? We have to eat a whole steer or it's goin' to waste!”
Alvin and Sim were quick to jump out of the wagon and go stand by the fire, and Josh introduced the boys to them. Another rider called Turtle had come in since Hondo had left that afternoon, and reported gunshots along the river as the last of the herd had crossed. He had taken cover and watched as a dozen rustlers drove the larger portion of their cattle east. His horse had been shot, and needed to be put down, but nobody wanted to do it. They drank coffee and chewed steaks for several hours, and compared strategies. And as iron sharpens iron, and whiskey lubricated their genius, Hondo and Alvin began to form a plan.
They would go try to round up any stray cows or horses they could find in the morning at first light. Alvin agreed to stay with the herd and guard it, and Sim would borrow a horse and help herd the livestock. Still shaking from the shoot-out, Turtle would be given some time in the morning to say his good byes and dispatch his animal, and then he and Sim would try to keep the herd together, as it drifted slowly towards Ft. Gibson. Meanwhile Hondo was going to ride like hell as soon as his horse was rested, to find a sheriff in Ft. Gibson, and bring him to meet up with them on the road.
Alvin and Sim told of their recent adventures in Dodge City, where they had worked undercover for the Pinkerton Agency. Alvin was a former lawman from Missouri, who was most recently an operative making photographs for the Pinkertons in Dodge City. Their operation supposedly helped to identify and arrest or disperse the worst rustlers on the plains. He and Sim had even been hunted by members of the James Gang, who had attacked and tried to kill them. The cowboys were dubious of their claims, but still found inspiration in them, and that planted a newfound resolve, as all of them cleaned and loaded their guns before they turned in.
They bedded down around the fire, nervous young bucks rolled up like cigars, frosted with snowflakes, each clutching his pistol. Alvin took the first watch, perhaps being the only one who knew just what danger they were in, and wanting to be standing and on point if and when the outlaws found them. He figured they would strike soon, since they would be intending to drive the remaining cattle to the reservation by the next morning, where there seemed to be an unlimited demand for Texas beef. Quick turn-around was the name of their game.
Alvin and Sim had left Kansas at the first sign of spring. With any luck, they had figured they could make it down to Texas between the northers, which had been losing their punch- until now. Alvin was anxious to get a jump on his new job opportunity in Texas, even though he knew very few details about it. But maybe he had jumped the gun. It seemed that he had neglected to pack the luck he needed before they left Ft. Scott. Maybe he should not have been in such a hurry. But then maybe, by coming now, he and Sim might be able to help these pitiful cowpokes at a crucial time. Times like this were why he had gotten into law enforcement a few years earlier. It seemed that no matter where he went, or what he was doing, officially or unofficially, he always ended up in similar kinds of situations.
As Alvin stared into the dark gray drizzle enveloping the cattle, it presented a foreboding scene. The cows had a good chance of being stolen, or of just freezing to death. He wasn't clear why, but it became clear in his mind that he had been sent to be there, at this point in time; to stand up to the rustlers, and to encourage these hapless cowboys. And perhaps to make a critical difference in an otherwise hopeless situation. That same feeling, of being on mission, was how he had felt in Missouri when he and his partner were investigating the James Gang, and when his partner had been murdered and he was literally sent to comfort his young widow; and in Wichita when he spotted a notorious killer and warned the Marshal and others that he was on the prowl; and in Dodge when he lured a whole band of outlaws and obtained dozens of tintypes of them, which led to their ultimate extermination.
It wasn't that he was looking for danger, or that he had a particular talent for dealing with dangerous men. It wasn't that he was brave or overly idealistic. It was just that Alvin did not run when others sought safety. He was raised with a sense of obligation to support and protect his community, especially the weak and the innocent, come what may. Many times he almost felt a hand leading him into bad situations when others were heading out of them. He was a modern day “Minute Man,” a throwback to the heroes of the American Revolution.
As he watched the sleet bounce off of the cows, he embraced their quiet acceptance and their calm endurance of the storm. God had balanced nature with perfect give and take, a sustainable ebb and flow, and there were always survivors to carry on, no matter the scale of a disaster. Every creature had his role to play. When the herd was threatened by predators, the cattle circled around their young and would fight to the death if necessary. The cow which fled was unworthy of the herd, but it was also the one to most likely be sacrificed as it attempted its escape. Every species, every animal or bird felt the pull of that obligation to protect their own in times of trouble. Any creature which abandoned its own kind for self-preservation was entering a life without dignity. He would rather die than live with a conscience stained with such shame. And after all that Alvin had been through in Missouri as a rookie policeman, and Wichita and Dodge City as a Pinkrerton operative, he was no longer plagued by fear or self-doubt. God had a way of leading him right into the action, and then providing him a way through it.
Alvin had learned that it was impossible to avoid life's dangers, and stupid to try to run from them. He strongly identified with the story of Jonah in the Bible, where Jonah rejected the mission God gave him and sailed from it, only to find himself surrounded by suspicious men who would throw him overboard to save themselves. Swallowed by a whale, he was regurgitated on the shore of the very land of his assigned mission. God would have his way. It was foolish to “kick against the goads,” as Saul of Tarsus had learned. Most men whom God had sent on missions had similar stories, like Moses, and had to be poked and herded like livestock. He had tried to run too, and had once abandoned law enforcement, yet found himself in it deeper than ever in the worst place in America. He ended up a secret operative for a major arm of law enforcement. He had learned that serving an organization larger than himself relieved him of the responsibility of the outcomes. All he had to do was go where he was sent, do what he was assigned; like a soldier. Now Alvin was finally ready and willing, just watching and listening for his next mission- which for the moment was serving as a shepherd of sorts, or a protector of shepherds. God had often utilized shepherds as instruments of his will- such as when David slew Goliath. So he barely hesitated to trust God in this situation and was satisfied to wait and see what happened.
It was more freedom than he ever imagined he would have, and with less worry, yet with more purpose than he could ever have asked for. Yet there he stood looking into the darkness, with evil on the prowl, and sensing that he would not be there unless the devil's forces were soon on their way.
