“We aren’t goin’ to Colorado Springs to have a good time,” Pogue said.
“Then why are we goin’?”
“We’re goin’ to buy a bull.”
“We’re goin’ to buy a bull? Pa, what are you talkin’ about? You can buy a bull anywhere.”
“Not like this one, you can’t,” Pogue said. “This here is a purebred champion Hereford bull, and I aim to get him.”
“Ain’t we already got a herd of Herefords?”
“We’ve got a start,” Quentin said. “But soon, there will be no longhorns left, ever’ rancher in the West will be raisin’ Herefords, and whoever gets started first, and with the best bloodlines, is goin’ to be top hog in the lot.”
Billy Ray laughed. “Hell, Pa, the way you managed to get hold of all the other ranches in the county, you are already top hog in the lot.”
“Yeah, I am,” Pogue said. “And I aim to stay here. So you get yourself packed, then get a good night’s sleep. We’ll be leavin’ on the mornin’ train.”
“To buy a bull?” Billy Ray asked.
“To buy a bull,” Pogue said.
Chapter Six
Los Brazos
An article in a Western newspaper gave hints for those who traveled by stagecoach, and the proprietors of the Sunset Stage Line had it printed up on flyers to be handed out to the passengers as they bought their tickets. Pearlie, who had been a shotgun guard for the stage line for nearly six weeks now, leaned back against the wall with his arms folded across his chest as he watched the passengers take the little handbill, then find a seat in the waiting room to read the material.
Helpful Instruction for Stagecoach Passengers
1) When a driver asks a passenger to get out and walk, you are advised to do so, and not grumble about it.
2) If the team of horses runs away, remain seated and let the skilled and experienced driver handle it. Passengers who attempt to jump from the rapidly moving coach may be seriously injured.
3) Smoking and spitting on the leeward side of the coach is discouraged.
4) Drinking spirits is allowed, but passengers should be generous and share.
5) Swearing is not allowed.
6) Sleeping on your neighbor’s shoulder is not allowed.
7) Travelers shouldn’t point out spots where murders have occurred, especially when “delicate” passengers are aboard.
8) Greasing one’s hair is discouraged because dust will stick to it.
As he had written in his last letter to Smoke, Sally, and Cal, the Sunset Stage Coach Line was a small company that ran only from Los Brazos to the railroad depot at Chama. The coach departed Los Brazos at eight A.M., and at an average speed of eight miles per hour, would arrive at Chama just before noon. It would leave Chama at one P.M., and arrive in Los Brazos just before supper.
Although you could crowd nine passengers into the coach, it would be making the journey today with only five, the passenger manifest consisting of a man, his wife and child, a banker, and a territorial mining official. The official was an overbearing man, impressed with his position and authority. He had already let the ticket agent and the driver know who and what he was, and how important it was that he reach Chama in time to take the two o’clock train.
“It is vital business for the territorial government of New Mexico,” he insisted. “I’m not sure you quite understand the significance of that, but as an official representative of the territory of New Mexico, it is imperative that I not be impeded.”
“You are due to arrive by noon,” the ticket agent said. “I’m sure we will be able to get you there by two o’clock.”
Just outside, the hostlers were hitching up the team and readying the coach for the trip. The driver, a man with white hair and beard, stuck his head in through the door.
“How many today?” he asked.
“Hello, Ben. Looks like five, unless someone else comes before we leave,” Pearlie said.
Ben pulled a pocket watch from his shirt pocket, opened the face, and examined it.
“Well, if anybody else is plannin’ on makin’ the run, they’d better get themselves here in a hurry,” he said. “Otherwise, they’ll be waitin’ here till tomorrow.”
“Your team is all hitched up, Mr. Dooley,” one of the hostlers called to him.
“Thanks, Mike,” Ben said. “Pearlie, you go ahead and climb up to your seat. I’ll get the passengers loaded.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pearlie used one of the horizontal spokes of the front wheel to climb up into the high seat. Scooting over to the left, he looked down into the boot and saw both a double-barreled shotgun and a Winchester, 44.40 rifle. Breaking down the shotgun, he saw that both barrels were loaded. He closed it, then let the hammers down. The rifle was loaded as well.
A moment later, Ben came out of the depot with the passengers and stood by the door as they boarded. That done, he climbed up beside Pearlie, released the brake, picked up the reins, and snapped them against the back of the team.
The coach left the depot with the team moving at a rapid trot. Ben always did this, holding the trot until they were well out of town. Not until then would he slow the team to a more sustainable gait.
Shortly after he came to work with the stage line, Pearlie asked Ben why he did that.
“It’s to make a show for the people in town,” he said. “Most folks, when they see the stage leave town like that, have the idea that we keep the speed up all the way to where we are goin’. That way, if they’re thinkin’ on goin’ somewhere, the idea of usin’ a stage ain’t all that hard for ’em to take. But if they was to see us leave at a slow walk, they would, more than likely, want just about anything other than a long, slow stagecoach ride.”
Pearlie chuckled. “I reckon there’s some truth to that when you think about it.”
“Of course there is,” Ben said. He leaned over to spit out the quid of chewing tobacco he had been working on.
Ben was married and had a daughter who was just a little younger than Pearlie. When Pearlie first came to work for the stage line, Ben hinted that his young shotgun guard might take an interest in Mindy. Mindy was a pretty girl, and any other time, Pearlie might have been interested. But the loss of Lucy was still too fresh. Pearlie told Ben about Lucy, and how she had died. Ben understood, and never brought up the subject of his daughter again.
Up on the box, Pearlie rode silently while the driver worked the horses. Ben had named the horses and he was constantly talking to them, cursing one of them for slacking off, praising another for doing well, often playing them against each other.
“Well now, Rhoda, what do you think? Do you see how Harry is showin’ off for you? You aren’t going to hurt his feelings now, are you? Come on, pick it up, show him what you can do.”
Because Ben was busy with his horses, Pearlie was left alone with his thoughts. He wondered what was going on back at Sugarloaf. Did they miss him? Would they welcome him back when he returned? He had already given notice that this would be his last week, that he was going back home.
Home? Was Sugarloaf home?
Yeah, the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that Sugarloaf was home. It was certainly more of a home to him than anyplace else he had ever lived in his life.
A few years earlier, Pearlie had been a gunman, hired by a man who wanted to run Smoke off so he could ride roughshod over those who were left. But Pearlie didn’t take to killing and looting from innocent people, so he quit his job. He had stopped by to warn Smoke of the plan against him, and to tell him that, because he wanted no part of it, he would be leaving the valley. To Pearlie’s surprise, Smoke offered to hire him.
Since that time, Pearlie had worked for Smoke and Sally. He stood just a shade less than six feet tall, was lean as a willow branch, had a face tanned the color of an old saddle, and a head of wild, unruly black hair. His eyes were mischievous and he was quick to smile and joke, but underneath his slapstick demeanor was a man that was as hard as iron, as loyal to his friends as they come, and very nearly as good with a gun as Smoke was.