Texas Blood Feud. Dusty Richards
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out of the old man’s hearing.
J.D. shook his head. “You know that one, Chet?”
He did, but he shrugged it off. Might just be a horse that Luther Hines had sold someone.
“How many days are they ahead of us?” J.D. asked, sounding weary.
“We must have cut it down to a day—or less,” Chet said.
“Let’s lope then,” J.D. said. “I want to get this over with—soon as we can.”
Late afternoon, they discovered a limping horse from their cavy. A stout dun that was favoring his right front foot and moved aside when they trotted up.
“That’s Sam Bass,” Reg said, recognizing the gelding.
Chet agreed and shook out a rope. He rode in and tossed the loop over the horse’s head, and made a wrap on the horn to shorten it up until he was beside the horse. J.D. pushed his mount in close and held Roan’s reins while Chet dismounted to inspect the damage to Bass’s foot. He lifted the hoof and cleaned it out with his jackknife. He pried a pea-size stone from the horse’s frog and then let it down.
“That ought to help you,” he said to the big cow pony, then clapped him on the neck and slipped the rope off him.
“What’ll we do with him?” J.D. asked.
“Horses go home,” Chet said, finished coiling the lariat and taking the reins back. “He should heal and be back at the home place in a week, if no one steals him again.”
“I never thought about it, but they do.”
“They do.” Chet mounted and they set off again.
“We’re getting closer,” Reg said. “Them horse apples are about steaming.”
“See that cloud bank?” Chet said, indicating the blue-black line that crossed the northwest sky. “It’s going to be a norther.”
“It’s only October,” Reg said.
“Never mind, it’s a-coming in and fast. I’ve been watching it all day,” Chet said.
“I’m getting cold just thinking about it. What are we going to do when it hits?”
“We may have to find someplace to den up.” He was disgusted not only about the threat of bad weather, but also about the time they’d lose as well.
“Any idea what they’ll do?” J.D. asked with a frown, and reined his horse around to look at Chet.
“No telling. Let’s push these ponies harder, maybe we can catch up.”
Both boys agreed. The rolling grass country, occasionally dotted with mesquite, spread out before them. They were somewhere in north Texas—west of Fort Worth by Chet’s calculation. The cold front moving at them out of the northwest had begun to show dark ragged edges when Chet spotted some buildings and pens.
“They might put us up,” he shouted above the rising wind.
With over a half mile to cover, they put on their slickers as the temperature fell. Chet smiled as he buttoned his coat—a man could freeze to death in one of them, but they did shed rain. The three raced for the outfit. They reined up hard in front of the low sod-roofed cabin.
“Hello the house.”
No one came to the door.
He looked around the place for a sign of someone. “Try the door,” he said to Reg.
The youth bounded off his horse, pulled the string, and pushed on the door. It went open, and he shouted from inside, “Nobody’s home.”
“Good, we’ll use it. Get the panniers and the saddles inside ’cause in less’n ten minutes it’s going to be hailing here.”
“How do you know that?” J.D. asked, jumping off and fumbling his latigos loose.
“See that green line under the clouds? That’s hail.” Chet carried his saddle inside and set it down on the horn. Reg was undoing the diamond hitch. When it was off, Chet loosened the canvas, and then grabbed the first pannier with the wind whistling in his ears. He packed it in the doorway and hurried back, meeting Reg with his arms full of bedrolls.
Hard drops began to pelt on Chet’s felt hat. “Is there a shed for the animals?”
“I think so, over there,” J.D. said, looking anxiously at the worsening weather.
“Take ’em. We can get that packsaddle later.”
The youth set out leading two horses, and Reg led the other two. Lightning struck close by. The air stank with the sulfurous smell and the crash came right behind it. Chet dodged inside, and watched from the open door for the boys’ return as the rain began to turn to ice pellets.
It grew dark as night. Then, to his relief, they came for the house, making long strides and shouting over the hail’s noisy rattle on the porch roof.
“Horses undercover?” he asked, closing the door.
“Whew,” Reg said. “Yes, that was close to a wreck.”
J.D nodded. “They’re fine, even got some hay.”
“Yes,” Reg said. “They’ll be all right.”
“We should have a candle in the pannier,” Chet said, unbuckling the straps to open the lid, then feeling around for a wax stick. He soon produced one and laid it on the table. He scratched a match and lit it to melt some wax into the cut-down tin-can holder so he could set the candle up to illuminate the room.
“What’ve we got?” he asked, looking around.
“There’s cooking wood by the stove and I guess if we had a bucket of rainwater, we could make some coffee,” Reg said.
“You’re in charge,” Chet said, picking up a letter on the table. It was addressed to Nick Van Rooter, General Delivery, Max, Texas. The letter might tell him something about the absent owner. He took the letter out and carefully read the first page.
My name is Hilga. I am eighteen. I will be arriving in Fort Worth on November the 15th at twelve noon on the train. You and my father have corresponded about me coming to your large fine farm and becoming your wife. If I do not suit you at the train station, you must do as you promised and buy my ticket back to St Louis.
Yours Truly
Hilga
“This Dutchman who owns this place is in Fort Worth today, getting his mail-order bride,” Chet said, and thunder drowned out his last words.
“Getting what?” J.D. asked with troubled look on his face.
“A mail-order bride.”
“Sears and Roebuck has them, too?” J.D. blinked in his confusion.
“Yes, brother, and I want one of them I seen in last spring’s copy wearing a corset.” Then Reg dropped his head in wary disgust. “Hell, brother, they don’t sell brides.”
“They sell everything else.”
“I think this has been arranged,” Chet said. “She’s eighteen and if she doesn’t suit him at the train station, he has to buy her a train ticket back home.”
“Guess the bride market out here ain’t holding up too good,” Reg said as his brother took the letter to read. “Maybe we should bake her a cake before we leave.”
“How about an apple-raisin pie?” Chet asked above the noisy storm. “For our use of this cabin.”
“Way it’s raging out there, I’m grateful enough to do about anything.”
“We don’t have any lard to make crust,” J.D. said.
“We’ve got some, but all I had in mind was an apple-raisin crisp. Coffee’s about done,”