White Moon Rising Page 20

  Time passed and he continued by telling himself one step at a time. When that attempt to manipulate his mind waned, he found points and told himself he had to get to that place. When he reached it, he would find another. He would not quit. He was in a race for a life—his and Abbey’s, and he couldn’t lose it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The stable in San Antone sat on the south side of the town, and as Cap approached late in the day, with the sun blazing on him, his nose wiggled. Why in the world would anyone put the stable on the south side? Why would the town let them? The dominant wind blew from the south and took any odors it found with them. In this case, it took the smells of a stable that someone seldom cleaned.

  Now in the midst of horse manure and urine, Cap decided against putting his bandana over his face.

  A huge-gutted old man stepped out of the barn door. “What can I do fer yo’, mister.”

  Pointing towards town with his thumb, Cap said, “Ezra Hawkins told me you had a cook wagon you needed to get rid of. Said you might make a deal for it.”

  The old man turned his head and spat a stream of tobacco. “Do in fact have one.”

  Cap followed as the old man led him toward the back. He didn’t mind because the back was to the south and upwind. When they reached the wagon the air was better to breathe.

  Studying it for a long minute, Cap finally walked around it. The wheels were good and the wagon was well built and caulked for water crossings. He bent and looked under the frame and toward the front found a spare tongue as well as a wheel. The back half of the undercarriage held a well-conditioned tarp. On the prairie, the cook and a helper would throw dried cow patties, called prairie coal, in the tarp. At times there were no materials to make fires with, and dried manure burned well. Cap chuckled. It also lent a distinctive flavor to the food.

  All the wheel hubs appeared good and well lubricated. He checked the rear gate and what set a chuck wagon apart from a regular wagon. It pulled down easily and stopped. The tailgate was the cook’s working space. Inside, the chuck wagon had several wooden compartments.

  Last, he climbed on the front and bounced up and down to check the shocks, but like the rest, they were good. The wagon wasn’t new, but in good shape.

  He stepped back and faced the old man who waited. “How much?”

  “I got to have two-fifty for her.”

  Cap, with his best you-got-to-be-kidding-me look, shook his head and said, “Forget it.” He turned and strolled off.

  Striding off, he was almost to the front when the man caught up with him. “Young fellow, I might go down a little.”

  “Podnar, you would need to go down a lot. What do you take me for, some pilgrim? People sell chuck wagons new all over the place for two hundred. That one is used.”

  The old man spat. A brown glob hit the side of the barn, stuck for a moment, and then began to drip down. “Well, you want to make an offer?”

  Pretending to ponder the question a moment, Cap tapped his mouth with an index finger and then said, “I’ll give you fifty in gold for it.”

  The old man turned three shades of green, most of it because he’d swallowed his tobacco. He sputtered, “W—hy that’s—robbery. I done paid a hundert for it.”

  With his best shocked expression, Cap said, “You paid a hundred dollars for that wagon?” He shook his head. “My podnar’s going to kill me, but one twenty-five, and that’s as high as I am going to go. If that’s not enough, find another sucker to unload it on.”

  “You remind me of one of those snake oil salesmen. I shouldn’t do this, but give me the money.”

  “Podnar, you wouldn’t happen to know a good cook who wants to go on a cattle drive do you?” Cap asked while counting out the money for the wagon.

  With eyes shining, the old man glanced at the gold coins Cap counted into his hand. Without taking his stare off the money, he shook his head. “No siree, I don’t.”

  As Cap strolled back toward town, he wondered when or even if he was going to be able to find a cook. He’d been trying all morning. He found a couple willing to go, but they professed they knew nothing about cooking—especially not for large numbers.

  On this drive he’d be trail boss and had a foreman to help him, but outside of the trail boss, the cook was the most important. Some would even argue the most important. Without a decent cook, he would be in trouble.

  In front of the jail, the marshal stood, leaning against the wall with a toothpick stuck in his mouth. As Cap approached, the marshal in a deep Texas drawl said, “Howdy,” without bothering to change positions.

  Cap passed him, then stopped and turned. The marshal, with his hat pulled low, was tall and so thin he wouldn’t cast a shadow. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I might find a good cook for a trail drive, would you?” Cap asked.

  Straightening, the marshal pushed his hat back and took the toothpick out of his mouth. “As it happens, I know where the best cow cook in Texas is. He might need a job.”

  A surge of excitement twirled through Cap until he remembered who he was talking to. He arched one eyebrow. “Where would this guy be?”

  The marshal indicated inside with his head. “Second cell on the left.”

  Cap’s mouth twitched in skepticism. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Nope, not at all. Ole Flapjack Simmons in thar is the best cow cook in this here state.”

  “Then why is he in jail?”

  “I done said he was the best cook. What he ain’t is the best drinker. Can’t hold it for nothing. He ain’t bigger than a bean fart but put some of that thar rotgut in him and he’ll tackle hell with a bucket of ice water. As it happens, he had way too much and tried to tackle the whole saloon. Say, where’s the cattle drive going?”

  “Dakota Territory. Have a partner and ranch up there. All we need is cattle.”

  “In that case old son, you go in thar and tell ole Flapjack I said we’d drop the charges and fines if he goes with ya.”

  Chuckling, Cap said, “You want him out of San Antone, huh?”

  “San Antone my butt, I want his arse out of Texas.”

  Evidently afraid Cap might pass on the opportunity, the marshal opened the door and indicated for him to go in. Cap blew out a breath. Might as well look. Hadn’t found anything else.

  Flapjack Simmons lay on his side with his back to the cell door. The sheriff had said he was no bigger than a bean fart, but Cap didn’t think he was that big.

  Rattling the door, the sheriff yelled, “Hey, Flapjack, man here to see you.”

  The man groaned, rolled over, and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked like he’d stopped a stampede with his face. The only thing on his gray whiskered face that wasn’t swollen or cut was his eyeballs, and they were red like burning coals. Cap shrugged. The sheriff had said he tried to tackle a whole saloon. The place must have been crowded.

  “What you want,” the old man grumped through lips bigger than flapjacks.

  Cap indicated the marshal with his head. “He told me you were the best cow cook in the state. Also, if you sign up with me, he’ll let you out now and no fine.”

  Instead of answering, the prisoner leaned forward and put his head in both hands as if to stop it from exploding. He mumbled, “Where you driving to?”

  Flapjack looked up with one eye closed when Cap told him. “I ain’t going unless I have final say on everything to do with the job of the cook. No one ain’t telling me what to do.”

  Crossing his arms, Cap cocked his head. “Guess you like jail, then. Podnar, I’m not only part owner of those cows, I am the trail boss. I have final say on everything including the cook. Besides, you just appear like a drunk who can’t drink or fight.”

  Caps eyes widened when the old man, even in as bad a shape as he was, leaped off the bunk. He staggered forward and grasped the bars. “I’ve rid and cooked for every big ranch in these here parts. They ain’t never had any complaints.”

  “Then why are you in jail and not working?”
Cap asked.

  “Personality conflicts.” The old man turned away and sat on the bunk.

  Cap glanced at the marshal, who shrugged. “Like I said, he can’t handle his likker, but he’s the best.”

  At long last, he let out a breath. “Thirty a month and I am the boss.”

  “I usually get forty-five?”

  One of Cap’s eyebrows shot up. Besides cooking all the meals, the cook doctored the men, and this included pulling teeth when necessary. They entrusted him with all of their personal effects as well as money. He even cut hair. In fact, the cook did just about everything on a trail drive. Most cow cooks oversaw to the men’s mental health. If he was happy, he make the men’s life pleasant. If not, he’d make their lives a living hell.

  “I don’t know about forty-five,” Cap shrugged, “you prove to be as good as you seem to think you are, I’ll raise you.”

  When the old man agreed, Cap gave him directions to the camp and told him he’d just bought a chuck wagon, and where it was. To get someone in camp to help him get a team together and go get it.

  As they walked outside the jail, Flapjack asked, “What about supplies?”

  “We’ll go tomorrow and get supplies,” Cap said.

  The old man stopped and faced him. “I always get the supplies. You have no idee what I need.”

  “I’m going to let you order, and I’ll pay.” Cap placed his hands on his hips. They’d better get this straight from the start. “I know nothing about cooking or caring for a bunch of cowboys. I wanted someone experienced because I don’t. I’ll let you handle the job. I want the men to have plenty of hot, nourishing food. I want them taken care of. If you handle that, you won’t get a kick from me. Understood?”

  The old man’s mouth moved and Cap thought it might have been an attempt at a smile, but with the size of his lips, it was hard to tell.

  When he staggered off in the direction of camp, Cap wondered for a half minute if he possessed anything besides the clothes on his back. If he did, he wasn’t heading to get them. The thought of clothes made him check the sun that was already setting, and then his own broadcloth suit. He’d taken it out that morning. He used his hand to dust it off. It was time for him to meet Berta at Pete’s restaurant.

  Every time he thought about Berta, butterflies fluttered around in his stomach and his chest tightened. Now, striding down the walk toward the restaurant, the closer he got to it, the bigger the butterflies became. By the time he reached the door, buzzards had eaten the butterflies and crashed around inside him.

  Swallowing hard outside the door, he sucked in a deep breath of courage and opened the door. Inside, the restaurant had pleasant aromas of meat frying, beans cooking, and some spices he couldn’t identify right off. The dining room area had a bunch of tables with four chairs around them and even had cloths for the tables. A single door led to the kitchen. Pete’s was nice for San Antone but would put one of those fancy places back east to shame.

  Since he was running a little late, he’d expected Berta to be waiting for him, but as he glanced around, he didn’t see her. He stepped aside as the door opened and two men came in. When he glanced back, one of the females sitting alone, turned.

  It was Berta, but not like the Berta he’d known. She’d contrived to put her hair up in a bun in the back, ringlets hanging down the sides. She was wearing a dark blue dress with white lace, tight across her ample bust. Altogether, she looked gorgeous.

  Cap tried to swallow but had a hard time getting it down, and a bunch of hawks had chased the buzzards away and were diving inside his stomach.

  “Berta,” he said after he sat and swallowed hard, “It’s been a coon age since I have sat in a restaurant and talked to a woman.”

  Rolling one of the ringlets at the side of her face with a finger, she appeared as nervous as he was. She stuttered, “I’ve never even been in a restaurant before.”

  They both toyed with the utensils on the table while the harried waitress poured them coffee without asking if they wanted it.

  Looking down as if she was guilty, Berta said, “I bought the dress with the money you gave me. First store bought one I have ever owned.”

  “Then you did good for the first time,” Cap said. “It’s purty. So are you, too.”

  She blushed, most of the color in her cheeks and nose.

  “You said you lived with your parents to the west right? I might know them.”

  “No, not west. My father’s name is Uwe Schmidt. He has a small farm southwest of here.

  Not knowing what else to talk about, he asked, “How long were you married to your husband?”

  Without looking up, she replied, “We were married two months before he was killed, but he was never my husband.”

  One of Cap’s eyebrows rose. They were married but he wasn’t her husband?

  The waitress interrupted them and told them what the daily special was. They both ordered the special, and the waitress filled their cups and hurried to the next table.

  Holding his hands out wide, Cap said, “I don’t understand.”

  Even with her eyes down, this time her entire face flamed all the way to the roots of her hair. “We—uh, well, you see—he never, um—he couldn’t. Be my husband.”

  Cap sipped some of his coffee to cover his confusion. He might be a little dense, but he just didn’t understand. He equated marriage and husband to be all the same.

  Then she helped him. “He didn’t want me as his wife—just to care for his home.”

  “Ah,” he said as it finally clicked, making him feel a little dumb.

  The waitress again saved him with a plate of food.

  After they ate, they sipped coffee and talked for a long time—until the waitress, who’d kept giving them hints, finally told them they needed the table for other people.

  Outside in the darkness with only the restaurant light, Cap asked her if he could accompany her to her hotel. When she agreed, he held out the crook of his elbow and she took it. Walking close but not touching, they strolled toward the hotel. Cap made sure the pace was slow because he didn’t want the night to end.

  Nonetheless, they finally reached it. She leaned back against the wall outside the door, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets and shifted from foot to foot. Those dang hawks had returned.

  “What do you plan on doing with all that money?” he asked.

  With her head up, she looked him in the eye. At first when she talked to him she only looked down, but she must have gotten more comfortable with him. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “That’s more money than I know what to do with.”

  She dropped her gaze and her voice cracked. “When are you leaving?”

  “We need to get on the trail soon. Four days, maybe.”

  At that moment, looking into her eyes, he didn’t want to leave at all, or not for a while. Nevertheless, he had to get the cows on the trail. It was a long trip, and he needed to be there before winter.

  “I’m going to miss you,” she said, tears trickling down her cheeks.

  Reaching up with a trembling thumb, he wiped the tear away. He swallowed. It felt like a wagon had sat on his chest. “Why don’t you come with us?” He meant him but somehow that didn’t come out.

  Her head jerked up. “I may be a widow but I’m not that type of woman.”

  The wagon wouldn’t get off his chest and now someone was choking him.

  He stuttered, looking for the right words. “I meant as my wife.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Crackling and popping of burning wood woke Cap at dawn. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up, stretched, and inhaled the scent of smoke, coffee, and something else.

  Beside the fire, Flapjack hunkered down with a big pan cooking something.

  The old man looked at him. “Wasn’t much to cook with, but I made do.”

  Johnny stumbled toward the fire, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He sniffed the air. “Is that flapjacks I smell?”

  Flapjack shoveled one on
to a plate and said, “It is, sonny. My famous ones.”

  As they watched, the old man poured more batter into the skillet, and then he handed the cooked one to Cap.

  “Do we have any molasses?” Cap asked.

  “Won’t need any. Eat it.”

  Cap picked it up, looked at it, first one side then the other, and bit into it. As he chewed, his eyes widened in surprise. He swallowed and said, “Dang that’s good.” He now understood why people called the old man Flapjack. He would have said more, but he was too busy shoveling it into his mouth.

  When they were through and drinking coffee, Johnny said, “Old man, that is the best flapjacks I have ever eaten. How’d you cook those things?”

  Gruffly, the old man said, “I put honey and raisins in mine.”

  Heck, Cap was already thinking about giving the man his raise. He sat back and relaxed.

  “What do you want us to do today?” Johnny asked.

  “I’m taking the chuck wagon and Flapjack to town to load up on supplies.” He blew out a breath. “We have those five we hired showing up this morning. Get them started on branding, and see if you can find five more. I’m taking a short trip out of San Antone, but should be back this evening. I want the herd on the trail in four days.”

  “You want us to have those three thousand cows branded and ready in three days?”

  “You said the men were good.” Cap said with a shrug.

  Johnny drank the last of his coffee and threw the cup in the wreck pan. “I’ll get them started branding, and then I had better find more men.”

  Cap rode his chestnut alongside the chuck wagon to the dry goods store. Flapjack presented the storekeeper his list of supplies, and the man figured up the total. When Cap paid him, he told the cook he’d be back that evening.

  Southwest of San Antonio, the rolling Texas prairie was dressed in its best spring clothes: an abundance of green grass, the sparse trees were overflowing with leaves and birds, and a multitude of wild flowers decorated everything.