Dance with the Deacon

My job on that cattle drive had been simple. I was the hired gun. Oh it wasn't as obvious as the times I had been hired on to kill specific people. Nonetheless it was my position. The scout was an Indian and damned good at his job. My job was to ride along with him and make sure nobody killed him. I was also expected to hunt down rustlers. It would be nice if i returned the cattle in addition to the bodies of the rustlers. I am not sure how many other drives had a man like me on the payroll but Big Ed Williford believed in preventing trouble by having he fastest gun on his payroll. If he couldn't prevent trouble, he wanted to have the winning hand. Since there were few real gun hands on a cattle drive or rustling cattle he had the best man for the job.

Gun hands were cheap that shortly after the war of Yankee aggression. Like a lot of other men when I returned from the war I found the family farm sold to carpet baggers. I drifted west along with many other former soldiers.

Unlike most of them I had been a sharpshooter during the war. I didn't fire my gun into the woods hoping to hit a target. I knew exactly when I had killed a man and there were many. My first year in the west I found that being willing to kill for money was about the only marketable skill I had.

"Pete, you and the Indian go on up ahead and try to find us some water. These cows are going to need water real bad soon." Big Ed gave the order over our morning oatmeal.

"Okay boss, you seen the Indian this morning?"

"He is over with the horses. He seems to prefer them to us." Big Ed was smiling.

"Can't say that I blame him. Most of the time we act worse." I didn't think Ed cared much for the remark. I had been traveling with the Indian for three weeks. During that time I had seen him insulted ten times or more. It had not come down to guns yet thank god. I knew it was only a matter of time though.

I walked to the rope line tied between two wagons. The Indian was working on a horse tied to the line. The horse appeared to have a hoof problem. The Indian was holding the hoof between his legs while he worked on it with a large pocket knife.

"Two, you about ready to go looking for water?" I asked it knowing he was still busy. I wanted to hurry him along. As usual he looked up to acknowledge my presence but did not speak. He simply returned to the hoof trimming.

I climbed down from my own horse. I wasn't sure how long Two was gonna be so I loosened the saddle cinch. With the horse about as comfortable as he was gonna be for a while, I made myself comfortable sitting on the ground leaned against the wagon's wheel. Whenever I had the opportunity I sat on the ground. I had always hated horses. Horses are stupid clumsy animals at best.

I knew there was no sense trying to hurry the Indian. He did things at his own pace. He and I worked out our differences the first day we met. I knew instantly it was useless to try to impose my will on him. He had absolutely no fear of me. Once that was established it was kill him or just go along with his ways. The drive needed him so no one was willing to pay me to kill him. That made going along the easiest thing to do. Over the weeks we had forged a kind of friendship. Not the kind where you talk about things because the Indian almost never spoke. Rather the kind that allowed us to ride for hours together without trying to kill each other.

The Indian finished his horse then took a look at my horses hooves. He made a single cut after checking all four. When he finished he walked to the chuck wagon for his grub. The cook put his meager rations into an empty flour sack. The Indian tied the sack securely with a single rawhide strip. He then tied the bag around his waist. He walked to his pony then looked over at me. I knew then, and only then, were we ready to go.

The Indian rode a small painted pony. It hardly seemed possible but the small pony was able to go longer than the old chestnut mare I rode. The mare was faster but the pony had more endurance. The Indian had signed onto the drive with two of the little beasts. The other was mixed in with the small heard of horses which followed along behind the cattle. Since horses were harder to control, the herd had it's own drover. Twenty men could not ride five hundred miles on twenty horses. Each man had at least two favorite horses he used. All the men except me. I hated all the ugly, stupid, smelly beast equally. I rode whatever horse was available. I didn't like one any better than another.

The Indian and I rode north all day. We rode at a pace about three times as fast as the slow moving cattle. With the Indian I had learned to eat in the saddle. If I stopped to take care of necessities, I had to ride harder to catch up with him. When he stopped which was seldom I waited. I did so since I had no idea where to go. If I had left him then went in the wrong direction, I might never see him again. The Indian would not come to find me. He was as stubborn as the horse I rode.

It was well after dark when we stopped for the night. There was no reason to start a fire. The food we carried would not be improved by heating it. Which is why we carried no cooking utensils at all. We went to sleep that night in a cold camp. There were so few people on the trail that it was not really for security reasons.

It took a second to realize what had woke me. It was the sound of a horse snorting. Hell horses do it all the time but sometimes it is for a reason. I looked over to find the Indian's blanket empty. I listened carefully to the sounds of the night. Even as I listened my hand moved closer to the Colt handgun. If it was to be close combat, the Colt was the weapon of choice. I could not imagine a situation in the dark calling for the long gun.

I spent several minutes trying to place the sound. I couldn't pull a similar sound from my memory. I knew it was buried somewhere in there but I had lost the key. The sound was far enough away so that I felt comfortable moving about in the dark. I found the Indian standing by our horses. From that vantage point I still could not see a thing, but the sounds seemed closer. The Indian made a walking motion with his fingers. I nodded my agreement that the sounds were close enough to walk toward.

The Indian and I tried to slip up on the sound. The sound was definitely man made. That being the case the only question was why the sound moved toward us so slowly. The other question was what the devil made the squeaking sound. There was a moon that night so we were able to make out the shape of a small one horse wagon from far away. I was about to suggest we return to camp and forget it. Obviously the Indian knew something I didn't. He didn't seem all that interested in the wagon. Still he moved forward.

After what seemed like a long time we drew near the wagon. The horse ambled along without any direction. On the carriage type seat, complete with springs, rested what at first appeared to be a bundle of rags. I didn't really need the closer examination to tell me it was a man. The man might have been sleeping in the awkward position. The Indian and I both knew better. I climbed onto the small step then pulled him over by his black suit jacket. He hadn't been dead long enough to stink but long enough to pass through the stiff as a board stage. I had seen enough death during the war to know how it went. After a few hours the body got stiff. After a few more it went limp again. The body was cold as a mountain stream so obviously he had passed through that stage.

"Tell you what Two, lets bury him then check his wagon out." He wasn't going to be needing anything in the wagon. If we ran across a family member's address we would have to consult our conscience.

Fortunately he had a shovel in the wagon. It was just about the only tool. Frankly I was a little surprised until I thought about the condition of the trails in that part of the country. A traveler in a wagon might well be called upon to dig his wheel free.

I stripped off his suit before I rolled him into the shallow grave. Having been raised as a good little Baptist child I knew a few words to say over the stranger. However, since he was a stranger they were few. After a couple of minutes the Indian and I began searching the wagon. The man carried little. Not only were his belonging spartan his pouch and wallet were almost empty. There was a box of letters but the moon was not bright enough to read. I didn't much like having a fire in a strange place so I decided to wait until morning to read the letters. The Indian and I split his cash. My share was less then two dollars. The money was hardly worth digging his grave.

The man had hardly carried enough food for a week. The distance between where he left and where he was going must have been small. In stark contrast he carried to water bladders. The Indian held them up for me to see. His point was the two bladders were full to the top. I took another look at the horse. The gelding did not look to be in great need of water. It appeared the preacher, as I begun to think of him because of the black suit and the small wagon, had filled up his water bladders recently. The Indian and I silently agreed to back track the wagon until we found water.

We unhooked the horse from its traces. The Indian examined the horse while I finished going through the wagon. The wagon was small enough so that going through it took only minutes. After we finished our tasks I took a good look at the color of the sky and position of the moon. It appeared we had a couple of more hours until sun up. Without a word the Indian and I returned to our blankets.

First light found me still in the blankets. The sky had lightened considerably before I awoke. The Indian had made some sort of noise. It surely had been to awaken me since he moved with the silence of death. That is unless he wanted to be heard. The dried beef and hard biscuits we had for breakfast were the same as the ones we had for dinner the night before. If we had lunch that day it to would be the same. After a couple of days of jerked beef and biscuits the beans or stew of the camp would be a welcome addition.

The Indian lingered in camp after the sparse breakfast. I sensed he was curious about our stranger. I found the small wooden box. It still bore the carvings of the cigar company whose products had once been packed inside it. Either the man or someone else had put a finish of some kind on the box to seal the wood. The wood fairly glowed in the early morning light.

I found the first letter to have been addressed to Deacon Burke. It was an approval for Deacon Burke to do missionary work in the west. The Indian did not seem to approve. Missionaries usually went among his people. The letter went on to instruct Deacon Burke to begin churches in the towns he passed through on his way to California. The Church in St. Louis did not care how long it took him to make his way to California. They even compared his trip to Moses' search for the promised land.

The other documents were just his letters of reference from different church elders. The religion was foreign to me. A good little Southern Baptist boy knew nothing of the smaller sects. The one thing that did interest me was the fact that Deacon Burke was from Virginia the same as me. There seemed to be a lot of us transplanted rebels around the fringes of the west.

I packed the small wooden box along with his suit into a carpet bag he had in the rear of the wagon. The few other belongings that might be of any value the Indian and I loaded onto the horse. The make shift pack arrangement would not be comfortable for the animal but it was a short distance before we would remove them. The wagon itself was the most valuable thing the Deacon owned. It was also the one thing we could not carry with us. On a cattle drive nothing could be taken along unless there was a specific use for it. The small wagon was of no use. It was even likely to be a problem for the camp crew. So it had to be left behind for some other traveler to find.

There was no way to tell how long the horse had wandered but it seemed a good bet that water was close. The Indian did not give his pony water that morning. He knew the horse could smell the water if he was thirsty. We back tracked the wagon even though it went in almost a circle. The Indian's pony began resisting his moves ever so slightly. The Indian gave the animal its head. Not fifteen minutes later we came to a river. At that place the river had high, steep banks. We traveled down it toward the herd looking for a place to water the thirsty animals. A few minutes later we came upon a fence which seemed to go on forever. At one point behind the fence we could see a wide shallow part of the river. It stood to reason it had been fenced off by the locals because it was the only watering spot around. I had no idea why but it appeared someone was trying to deny the water to outsiders.

I had no idea what Big Ed would do. I hardly knew the man at all. I knew what I would do though. I also expected it would be Ed's decision. We were just about to leave the fence to allow Ed to decide on the next move when they rode up. The three of them must have been watching us ride the fence for some time.

"Howdy stranger," a thin red headed man greeted me. He obviously planned to ignore the Indian.

"You own this land?" I asked it not being friendly at all. I didn't want to make friends with a man I might have to kill.

"No, but I work for him." His reply came in a rather thick voice. He sounded like a man with a hangover.

I nodded. "Could you tell me what the deal with the fence is?" I asked it trying to appear concerned. I really wasn't. It wasn't my herd.

"Sure, Mr. Evans put up that fence to keep the cattle drives from messin' up his water."

"I see then the water belongs to him. Is that how he sees it?" I was trying to find out what was going on not start a fight.

The man's eyes got hard. "Ain't no seeing to it. Mr. Evans has been on this land for thirty years and the water is his."

"I see. Guess me and my friend will be heading back to the drive." I said that as I watched his eyes.

"You do that friend. Tell your boss the water is not for sale or for the taking. We will fight to protect what is ours."

"I will tell him." I said it nice and friendly. "Nobody had paid me to kill him. In addition, if I did the war would start too soon. If Big Ed wanted to fight for the water fine. It was his decision to make not mine.

We arrived in camp after dark. The chuck wagon was still open. The stew pot would be on all night for those riding nighthawk. I hadn't been worried about the food.

"Cookie, I got a bag here I need to store, could you shove it in the wagon for me." Without a doubt at the beginning of the drive the answer would have been no. By the time I asked a lot of the items we had brought with us had been used up.

"Pete, I will if you don't mind it being tied on the side," It was his way of showing he had no fear of me. He was right not to fear me. He was a good cook. Even a gun hand would get strung up for killing a cattle drive cook. Hell, if I wanted to make friends protecting Cookie would be the way to do it.

"Pete did you find water?" The impatient voice behind me belonged to Big Ed.

"Yep, but we gonna have a problem getting it." I looked him in the eye daring him to comment on my delay in reporting to him.

"How so?" he asked.

"Water is in a small river. It is slow and deep with steep banks." I took a drink from the coffee cup Cookie handed me. Big Ed waited rather than ask any more questions. "Me and the Indian rode the river south till we came to some wire. Somebody fenced in the only shallow area. Couple of his riders said the water was not for sale or takin'."

"You mean they expect to keep us from God's own water?" His face had suddenly turned red. I had seen it do that a couple of times before. Big Ed did not hide his feelings well. "How many are there?"

"We only saw three but you can bet this time of the year there are more." I said that as I took a metal plate from the stack on the pull down shelf on the side of the chuck wagon.

"How far is the water?" Big Ed asked.

"For riders half a day northeast. For the herd a day and a half maybe two." I was in the middle of filling my plate with stew when he replied.

"Well, finish the grub then you and the Indian go back and find out how many we are going to have to fight for that water." He turned to walk away.

"Ed," When he turned back I began, "I signed on to fight these cowboys didn't. You gonna get some of them kilt."

"It will be their choice. Any man don't want to fight I will pay off and send on his way. On a cattle drive Pete you fight for the cattle."

"Sorry Ed, guess I ain't never gonna be a cowboy. I fight cause I am gettin' paid to fight. I sure wouldn't fight for no smelly cow. By the way Ed, me and the Indian brought a horse back. We would appreciate it if you took a look and see if you can buy him from us."

"Where is the owner?" Ed asked it with a very solemn expression on his face.

"Dead, we just took the horse so it wouldn't starve." I looked Ed in the eye. I figured he was smart enough to ask the Indian if he wanted to know how the man had died. I sure as hell didn't plan to tell him.

I had been saddle weary even before the ride back to the fence. The Indian said one of his very few words when we were about a hundred yards from the watering hole. "Wait," he said as he slipped down from his horse.

I could have insisted on going along. That most likely would have gotten us both killed. The Indian could slip into the camp count heads and get back safely. He would never be able to do it with me along. I would make enough noise to get us strung up as spies. I was perfectly happy to sit on the ground with my rifle in the moon light. The rifle would be totally useless since it was dark as hell. It just made me feel better.

The rifle was an army cavalry issue piece. It was their marksman rifle, a pretty good weapon in its own right. I had the piece redone for me by a gun smith in Saint Louis. He had re-chambered it by hand. The improved rifle would fire either the.44 caliber revolver round or the larger more powerful .44 rifle cartridge. The rifle had been milled to accept two different sights. The open sight standard to most any weapon and a special German made peep sight. That one I carried in a small wooden box in my saddlebag. It was used only when a long accurate shot was needed. That night accuracy was not going to be a factor. There was not enough light for the peep sight.

The single shot rolling block rifle had lost favor with soldiers because it was slow. Soldiers wanted rapid fire so the repeating rifle was all the craze. The new repeaters were still scarce so the rolling block had been issued to the troops in large numbers. They were also available and in use all over the west. Hell, even the indians were equipped with them. Those old Springfields passed through a lot of hands before they were finally broken or scraped.

That thought and a lot more ran through my mind before the Indian returned. When he did I saw his shadow moving along the ground only seconds before he was beside me. The Indian like all his people moved like the animals of the plains, graceful when in their stealth mode.

"How many," I whispered.

The Indian gestured thirteen.

"Damn," I said. I thought a lot more than a simple damn. Thirteen of them and only twenty of us. Some of our twenty would be left with the cattle. I could probably figure on a slight numerical superiority. It would be quickly lost to the enemy since they would be in fortified positions. If we attacked them we were going to be massacred.

The Indian and I pushed hard to get back to the herd. During that ride I fought hard to find a way to win while staying alive. Going to the gun had always been my stock and trade but this would be suicide. I had a feeling Ed was not going to sit back while his cattle died from lack of water.