The stranger stayed down for a minute or two. By the time he sat up, shaking his head and rubbing his jaw, I had his own gun pointed at him.
“Hold on there, friend,” he said. “Let’s talk this over.”
“Oh, I’m your friend, am I?” I said. “You sure are sociable now that the bullets are pointed in your direction.”
“I didn’t mean no offense before.” He looked over my shoulder and tried an unconvincing smile on Gustav and Charlie, who had dismounted and stepped over for a closer look at our prisoner. “Y’all spooked me, that’s all. I just got myself out of a mighty tough scrape and I didn’t fancy the notion of another one so soon.”
“What kinda scrape?” Charlie asked.
“The red-skinned kind,” the man said. “I was headed up to Wichita and I ran into a war party. They—”
“War party?” Charlie broke in. “What kind? Kiowa? Comanche?”
“I didn’t stop to ask. The way they lit out after me, I just figured they were the scalpin’ kind.”
Charlie and Gustav exchanged a glance. Charlie looked worried. My brother — well, he did a good job of not looking one thing or another.
“Go on,” my brother said to the man. “What happened?”
“Well, they chased me half the night, poppin’ off shots every time they got within a quarter-mile of me. They finally dropped away somewhere, but I wasn’t takin’ any chances. I reckoned this here arroyo was as good a place as any to hole up. Only I slipped off to sleep while I was waitin’ for my last stand. When I woke up, I noticed that ol’ Jimmy over there had picked up a bullet. You know how a good horse is — he can go for miles without letting on he’s about to die. Well, he was sufferin’ pretty bad, so I did the only thing I could do. The next thing I know, I’ve got men ridin’ at me and fallin’ out of the sky on me and throwin’ punches at me. Is it any wonder a feller would get a little jumpy?”
“Not at all, not at all,” Charlie said. He reached out and offered the man his hand. “No hard feelings, I hope. My name’s Charlie Higgebottom.”
The man gave Charlie’s hand a shake, then let Charlie help him to his feet. “I’m Joe,” he said. “Joe Sweet.” He turned to face me. “And you’re the feller with the big fist.”
I grinned and nodded. “Sorry about that. Otto Amlingmeyer’s the name, but the boys call me Big Red.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Sweet joked as we shook hands.
While Sweet and Charlie and I were getting chummy, my brother had wandered over to Sweet’s horse. He was giving the animal a sour look, like he expected it to hop up and start calling him names.
“Oh, that’s Old Red, Otto’s brother,” Charlie said when Sweet turned toward Gustav. “Don’t worry about the introductions. You won’t hear five more words out of him the whole time you know him.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you anyhow, Old Red,” Sweet said.
My brother just looked up and grunted.
Charlie chuckled. “See? What’d I tell you?”
“So what’d you boys say you were doin’ out here?” Sweet sucked a lungful of air through his nostrils. “Shoot. That’s right. It’s a wonder I didn’t notice it before. There’s a herd headed this way, ain’t there?”
“Yes, sir. Three thousand head.” Charlie proceeded to tell Sweet all about our drive, right up to and including what had happened to Billy and Peanuts. “You wouldn’t be a cowpuncher, would you? We’re a few hands down and we’ve got a long way to go.”
“Well, I’ve roped me a few steers over the years,” Sweet said. “Even worked a drive up to Cheyenne once. I’d be happy to ride with you for a spell.”
“Good!” Charlie clapped Sweet on the back. “So here I am a foreman who needs himself a cowboy, and right here in the middle of nowhere I meet up with a cowboy who needs himself a horse. I guess I’m one lucky son of a bitch today.”
Sweet grinned again. “That’s what people always say after they meet me.”
That got a good laugh out of me and Charlie, but my brother didn’t even crack a smile. “Tell you what, Mr. Sweet,” Gustav said once the guffaws had petered out. “You take my mount there and let Charlie show you what’s what. My brother can grab me another horse from the remuda and ride it up here. I’ll use your saddle for now and give it back to you tonight.”
Sweet’s grin slid off his face like eggs off a greasy frying pan. “Thank you for the offer, but I’d rather be the one to wait. I’m a touch particular about my saddles. The wrong one’ll kink up my back somethin’ awful.”
“Oh, got yourself a special make, do you?” Gustav said. He crouched down next to the saddle lying in the dirt beside the horse. “Just looks like a regular California to me.” He stretched out a hand toward the saddlebags. “Maybe it’s these—”
“Get your paws away from there,” Sweet snapped, taking a few quick steps toward my brother.
Gustav stood and turned to face him. “Somethin’ the matter, Mr. Sweet? You still seem a mite jumpy.”
It seemed to be a good thing Sweet’s gun was in my hand instead of his. And if looks could kill, as they say, Sweet wouldn’t have needed a shooting iron at all. But after staring death at my brother for a few seconds, Sweet relaxed with a shrug and a none-too-powerful smile.
“Aw, you’re right. Just look at me. Those braves gave me a permanent case of the jitters. Sorry. Didn’t mean to jump ya like that.”
Gustav acknowledged the apology with a nod.
“All the same,” Sweet continued, “I’d prefer it if people didn’t handle my gear. I’m just... well, I’d prefer it. You know.”
I did know. When it comes to superstitions, cowboys have got everybody beat but Gypsies and Irishmen. I’ve never met an Irish Gypsy cowboy, but I bet he wouldn’t be able to pull himself out of his bedroll in the morning for all the bad omens he’d see in the wrinkles of his blanket. If this Sweet fellow got spooked when folks touched his saddle, well, that wasn’t so strange. I myself get the sweats whenever I see a white dog or a man in yellow trousers. Don’t ask me why, for I don’t know. Whatever the reason, it reminds me to be tolerant of other men’s hoodoos.
“Don’t fret about a thing, Joe,” I said to Sweet. “You just wait here and I’ll rustle you up a fine cow-pony in no time. That all right by you, boss?”
“Sure,” Charlie said. “We’ve jawed long enough. It’s time to see whether my new hand can keep his britches on the backside of a horse.”
That brought three smiles out to shine on the world. But one of us didn’t seem to be in a smiling mood. I’m sure a blue-ribbon deducer like yourself doesn’t have to be told who that was.
Sweet made himself useful right quick. Charlie had him ride swing on the left side of the herd, not far behind me, so I got a chance to see if the man was as good as his mustard. He was. He cut in stragglers before they got five steps from the herd. And he did it easy, without getting too spicy about it in that way that can rile a steer up. It wasn’t like he was stopping a stampede barefoot and blindfolded, but he was making my job easier, and the jobs of the flank riders and drag riders behind us. So that meant Sweet was hunky-dory as far as that half of the outfit was concerned.
After we had the herd bedded down for the night, Charlie introduced Sweet to the rest of the boys. Everyone huzzahed him for showing up just when we needed the help, japing about how he was “sweet” to ride with us to Dodge.
“Nothin’ sweet about it,” Sweet joked back. “For one thing, I ain’t got a horse.” He reached up, removed his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair. “And for another thing, I like my scalp where it is.”
“You’ve kinda grown attached to it, huh?” called out Tornado Monroe, who earned his handle by being the biggest blow-hard on the prairie.