Trail End (Short Story)

We had just come in off a bad trail. Practically from the moment the herd left Uvalde, things went wrong. A couple of the boys were just that, boys. The day we left it was raining and it rained for three days. Everything was soaked, we ate cold cornbread, and even the morning coffee wasn't hot. I think in those three days we only covered about 10 miles on the long Goodnight-Loving. Things did get better for a while. By the time we got to Roswell the boys had pretty much learned how to drive cattle, and the cook was making better beans. In Roswell we lost our first hand. Bobby Joe just had to go and pull his pistol against a gambler over an extra Jack. We buried him there and his brother went home to tell the family. That sure angered the trail boss and the gang because it left us very short handed. We lost five head crossing the Pecos because there weren't enough hand to handle the herd. A band of Comanche women and old men got another dozen between the Pecos and the Arkansas. I don't know how we managed it, but we lost fewer cattle on the Arkansas than we did on the Pecos. Arkansas is a far more difficult crossing, let me tell you, but we did it and sure felt proud.

We picked up a couple riders in Pueblo, and things got a little easier on the trail. They was Johnny Concho and his buddy Billy Something. Those boys could sure tell a tale. They had been down in Lincoln County and knew a lot about what happened down there. I think they had done some of the killing, and maybe weren't using their really names, but they put in a good days work and you can't ask more than that. Concho also claimed to have seen Hardin kill a man along the trail earlier that same year, 1872. We were all interested in that because John Wesley was a Texan like us, and he seemed almost like family.

Though the herd was supposed to go clear on up to Montana, we were moving so slow that winter set in around Denver and we couldn't go any further. The boss paid us all off, and we had a celebration. We each got a little under two hundred dollars, and we were in the big city. After months on the trail, who wouldn't kick up their heels just a little?

We got us some baths, new cloths and some souvenirs for our families back in Texas. After that it was hurrah. The town Marshal wouldn't let us hang around the good parts of town, so we settled for having a good old time in a drover's saloon down by the stockyards where they weren't so fussy. It wasn't a fancy saloon, but it had a heck of a picture of a naked lady hanging over the long bar. There was a couple of card tables, and some of the boys thought it was fun to give their money to the gamblers there. Most of the older guys just settled in to get drunk on good whiskey. Along about dark we were well on our way to happiness, when the batwings swung open to reveal a newcomer.

He was a little skinny Yankee all duded up in the latest fashion. He wore high button paten leather shoes and one of those little bow ties Yankees seem to like. For a moment he just stood there blinking, trying to adjust to the yellow light of the kerosene lanterns. Then he came up to the bar. Now mostly men out here walk with purpose and confidence, it's just the way we are. This Yankee though sauntered over to the bar, but he sure didn't look like he was sure he was in the right place. I wasn't as drunk as some of the fellows, and I could see that there just might be some trouble.

The dude ordered himself a drink in a little squeaky voice, and wiped his forehead as if he were sweating. It was cold in the saloon though, so I guess that was just a nervous habit. Concho turned to ask me when I expected to turn back to home, and seemed to see the dude for the first time. Concho had a mean streak, and I guess the whiskey made him worse, or maybe he really was just looking for a little fun and entertainment.

"Something stinks in here", Concho's eyes swept the room as if looking for the source of the offending odor. Of course, the place stank, it was next to the stockyards and we had been smelling cows for a thousand miles anyway. The dude didn't seem to hear, though one of the saloon girls moved a little further down the bar. "That stink, it smells like some Paris whore just came in." I don't know where Concho got that idea; he had probably never been out of the Southwest. The dude knew he was being insulted and provoked, but he just kept delicately sipping his drink.

Concho went down the bar, and stood directly over the dude. Concho was a big man, probably over six feet and as wide as a door. He looked down on the little fellow and took an exaggerated sniff. "Here it is." Concho could be heard throughout the room, and it began to get quiet. The dude looked up and asked, "Are you, perchance, referring to me". His voice wasn't just squeaky, it sounded like he was talking through his nose. Somebody nervously laughed. Concho dragged the little man off his stool, and flung him down as if he weren't nothing but an empty milk pail. The dude got to his feet and dusted the woodchips from his cloths. "I say", he started to say, but Concho's laugh stopped the dude cold.

Concho pulled a colt and fired it into the floor next to the dude, and he leapt into the air. That got a good laugh from the boys, though the sound of the shot made my ears ring. Concho holstered his weapon. "Damn, I thought I saw a rat there just ready to crawl up on you Betsy". The dude started slowly edging toward the door, as Concho turned to order another whiskey. One of the boys, I think it was Billy Something, stuck out a foot and the duded stumbled to the floor again. I was ready to step in, because it was clear the Yankee wasn't heeled. The dude got up and seemed disoriented. He couldn't stay, and he couldn't get away. He finally screwed up enough courage to come back to the bar. The bar tender poured him another drink, and mumbled something about it being on the house.

Concho wasn't through; he insulted the Yankee President and said some awful things about everything north of the Mason-Dixon Line. "Ain't that so, dude?" The little dude just kept silent and looked longingly at the door. "I'm talking to you Yankee". Concho's voice was loud and challenging, but the dude just mumbled and looked scared. "I think, I'll just toss you out into the gutter where all Yankees belong". Concho got up and walked over to the dude, and spun him around. It looked as if the dude was going to cry, and that just aggravated Concho more. The bartender took a baseball bat from under the bar and slapped it down on the bar. Concho stepped back and assessed the situation. He drew his pistol again, and the sound of the hammer cocking was loud in the silent saloon.

The dude reached for his watch fob and said, "I think it's time I should go". The sound of the pistol shot again set my ears ringing. Concho stood there a moment with a look of amazement on his face; he took a step forward and fell backward to the floor. A thin wisp of smoke curled upward from the barrel of the dude's little derringer. He tucked the little gun back into his vest, adjusted the watch fob, and started for the door. "I'm sorry", he said, "I really didn't mean to…" He pushed open the batwings and was gone before any of us truly understood what had happened.

We buried Concho the next day, and started back to Texas. That was my last trail drive, and I think now I'll just stay home in Uvalde.