Born Of The Sun

By John H. Culp

Set shortly after the Civil War, this distinguished novel tells the story of a boy starting a new life in the Concho country of Northwest Texas.
“An epic novel of frontier life—‘BORN OF THE SUN’ is…continuously dramatic and entertaining. It belongs on the same shelf with the novels of Alan Le May and A. B. Guthrie, Jr.”—New York Times
“A book any red-blooded American should be proud to read, and we guarantee he’ll be well entertained.”—NEW HAVEN REGISTER
“True Americana, filled with the exuberance and hardy spirit of the pioneers.”—ROANOKE TIMES
“A magnificent book.”—Dorothy M. Johnson
“Strong adult fiction…superb reading…authentic story.”—DENVER SUNDAY POST
“One of the most vivid and refreshing novels of the southwest to come along in recent years.”—TULSA SUNDAY WORLD
“A permanent addition to enduring Texas fiction.”—DALLAS TIMES HERALD

• Language: English
• Publisher: Normanby Press
• Release date: Jan 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781786258045

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Text originally published in 1959 under the same title.

© Pickle Partners Publishing 2015, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

BORN OF THE SUN: A NAMIBIAN NOVEL

BY

JOHN H. CULP

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

DEDICATION 5

I 6

II 21

III 27

IV 41

V 54

VI 67

VII 79

VIII 89

IX 100

X 113

XI 121

XII 138

XIII 153

XIV 163

XV 182

XVI 204

XVII 229

XVIII 247

XIX 266

XX 278

XXI 298

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 322

DEDICATION

To

a rider of a long trail

...the exact location of the Tail End is imaginary. It is between the Concho and the Colorado, where the rivers meet by sundown...

Born of the sun they traveled a short while towards the sun, and left the vivid air signed with their honor.

I Think Continually of Those Who Were Truly Great—Stephen Spender

I

I REMEMBER Huddleston Groc as first I came upon it that late November afternoon—a sleet-covered cluster of cabins—when the stage with its vapor-blowing horses rolled down a cedar-clad ridge to stop at Ma’s Place.

The buildings were mere shacks on the wild northwest frontier of Texas, in the Concho country. On one side of the road stood Ma’s Place and a general store, on the other a saloon and a fenced shack and a rawhide-lashed corral which was a livery stable. Scattered closely about the road and its buildings were a few log cabins and a stockade.

Before Ma’s Place was a hitch rack, at which three horses stood, their whitened rumps backed to the wind. Above the rack, on poles that extended upward, was a hewn-board sign on which was painted in faded red letters against the bouncing sleet—

HUDDLESTON GROC

and underneath it—

MA’S PLACE

The stage stopped at Ma’s Place, the four horses snorting and blowing, and those at the hitch rack roused themselves coldly and stamped restlessly. The man riding shotgun by the driver leaped down from the stage. He was frozen and slipped on the ice.

Goddamn! he roared. I can kill myself in easier ways than this!

There was a shout from across the road, and a big-hatted, red-bearded man and his helper rushed from the livery stable compound bringing fresh horses for the stage. The stage driver was on the ground unhitching the horses, and some of the passengers were stepping down. The first to leave the stage was Mr. Derryberry. He was a short, round man, with a stomach that stuck out in front like a watermelon. He wore a big hat and a red plaid mackinaw, and his feet were in high boots with his trousers tucked in the tops. He helped a lady from the stage, and she went down the road to one of the log cabins, her shawl-wrapped head bent against the sleet and wind. The next to leave the stage was a drunk Indian. He pulled a battered black hat lower about his pigtails and stepped down into the cold fury of the sleet.

Boy? Mr. Derryberry said.

Yes, sir, I said.

Get off the stage, son. Your Uncle Martin will meet you here.

I clutched my old valise tighter, my elbows sticking out of my ragged sweater. Another man got off the stage now. He was drunk, too—the man Mr. Derryberry had called Gol’durn. Gol’durn’s blood shot eyes looked through fuzzy white whiskers like candles burning in a snowstorm. When his feet touched the icy road, he slipped and fell, and Mr. Derryberry straightened him up and started with him for the door of Ma’s Place. A tall, slim man moved over me to leave the stage. He wore two tied-down revolvers on his legs, and he had sat watching the three horses at the hitch rack, a hard glint in his gray eyes.

Son! Mr. Derryberry called.

Yes, sir, I’m getting off. I held my valise tight and stepped from the stage.

The tall gunman turned when he entered the door to Ma’s Place and stood there, still watching the horses at the hitch rack. He stepped aside to let us pass, and Mr. Derryberry and I went into Ma’s Place.

It was a restaurant. It had a stove and counter and tables and a makeshift bar, but around the walls were shelves which held most everything from clothes and canned goods and coffee to hardware and whiskey. Three men sat at the tables, and old Gol’durn and the Indian leaned over the counter drinking coffee from tin cups and slopping it out on the counter. The men at the tables were big-hatted and bearded and they were dressed like ranchers. They sat with a whiskey bottle before them, all but the smaller of the three—a shifty-faced man who sat alone.

But standing in the middle of the room was something that made me almost wet my pants. It was a woman. And I never in all my life saw such a woman. She was looking at me with a strange feeling in her eyes and she was the God-awfullest got-up woman in Texas. Her face was thin, and her hair was parted down the middle and pulled back over her ears. She wore a man’s red checkered shirt and tough old heavy pants tucked into a pair of boots that fitted up to her knees. And about her waist were two crossed belts, and tied low down on her legs—just like men wore them—were the butts of the biggest, meanest guns I ever saw. She started for me like she was going to eat me up, and I ducked back against Mr. Derryberry, holding my valise.

Hey, boy! Where you going? Mr. Derryberry said. This is Ma Huddleston. And these two men are Mr. McMasters and Clabe Burdette. They’re friends of your Uncle Martin and Aunt Maybelle. What in tarnation’s got into you? Ain’t you ever heard of Ma Huddleston?

No, sir, I said.

Well, now, that’s just like me! Ma Huddleston snorted. Running up and scaring the poor child to death. Always raising a tempest in a pee pot, that’s Ma!

Son, Mr. Derryberry said, years ago Ma’s boy, just about your age, was stolen from this very room and killed by Comanches. All the menfolks of that first settlement were killed, too. Ma and young Katherine Marrs held off those Indians with rifles till help came, and they saved the rest of the children. Now that I think of it, you look a lot like Ma’s boy. You must have given her a turn.

I’m sorry, ma’am, I said. I saw you coming at me with all the guns and I couldn’t help myself.

Now, now, now, Ma said, putting a rough arm over my shoulder. You come right over here and drink some hot coffee. Why, boy, you’re plumb sleet-covered. It’s clean down your neck.

Yes, ma’am, I said. The stage window was busted. It come in all over me.

Ma took my flop hat off and set my valise down at the ranchers’ table. Now, take that old sweater off and we’ll put something on to get you warm. She took a brand-new brush jacket from a shelf and put it on me. Now, ain’t that better? She stood back, a smile on her hard old face.

Yes, ma’am, a lot better, I said. It’s warm.

Mr. Derryberry sat down beside me, and Ma brought hot steaming coffee in tin cups. And then she led Gol’durn and the Indian off to bed somewhere in the back.

What are you boys doing in town? Mr. Derryberry said.

Looks like Indian trouble again, McMasters said. Comanches spotted between here and Martin’s. We’re pulling out to warn others as soon as we make some plans. Where’d you pick up Ma’s Indian and Gol’durn? They were supposed to be scouting.

We picked them up down the road, Mr. Derryberry said. Drunk and afoot. Probably traded their horses to some outlaw for a quart of whiskey. Well, this Indian raid is news to me.

Mr. Derryberry, do you mean real Indians are coming? I said.

You’ll be safe here till your Uncle Martin can get in, McMasters said. Drink your coffee, kid.

Clabe, Mr. Derryberry said, as much of my whiskey as you’ve drunk, now that an Indian fight’s coming up, I reckon I can have a dram for my coffee, can’t I?

Sure. Burdette chuckled in his black beard. But you must be afraid of being scalped to be asking for it. I never knew you to do that before.

Mr. Derryberry, I said, who’s that man at that table over there?

That? Mr. Derryberry said, and he didn’t bother to lower his voice any. That is a no-good rapscallion and Unionist who drove cows up to Kansas Yankees during the war. He’s got a ranch near your Uncle Martin. They’re not friendly.

What’s his name? I said.

What I call him and what his name is are two different things, Mr. Derryberry said. His name’s Kyle.

The next thing low-downest to a Yankee is a man that deals with Yankees, I said, and I didn’t keep my voice down, either. Yankees killed my daddy.

Well, kid, your Uncle Martin will be glad to know you’ve got bottom. McMasters laughed. That’s more than some men here have got.

That old beady-eyed Kyle glared at me, tapping his skinny fingers on the table.

I never knew a man not to have gumption to fight for what he believed in, I said. Not when it was downright put up to him. I just wished Mr. Derryberry didn’t have his legs across that valise. I felt like using what I had in it.

The tall gunman who had come on the stage with me still stood at the door, his eyes on the road. His arms hung at his sides, his fingers long and relaxed.

We’ve got to get riding, McMasters said to Clabe Burdette, and warn the people for Indians. I reckon you boys have been watching that fellow. McMasters nodded toward the door.

I have, Clabe Burdette said. But as long as he’s standing quiet, I just ain’t made up my mind to correct him.

I wish we had Rangers again, Mr. Derryberry said heavily. Honest-to-God Rangers. The old ones and our Texas officials are sure no good to us now, as long as they have to hide out in Mexico from Yankee soldiers. With Yankees and our own radical Unionists in the State House, martial law over our heads, cows to drive to hell and Kansas next year—now we got to fight Indians on the side, them and gunmen and outlaws. Texas is a land of trouble.

Well, her men are man-size double, Clabe Burdette said. Then he looked straight at Kyle. Leastwise most of them are.

As Burdette and McMasters moved toward the door a change came over the tall man. He opened the door a few inches and held his boot against it, leaving a gap through which the cold wind and sleet howled. From the saloon across the road came three men. They walked into the blow, their heads bent like the horses’ at the hitch rack. The two ranchers, halted by the man blocking the door, turned and stared out the half-frosted window at the men coming across the road. I ran to the window and pressed my face against it. It was Clabe Burdette who recognized one of the men.

Coppage! he said, the sound sharp on his lips—and old Kyle came to his feet, scraping his chair back and reaching for his pistol. Burdette whirled drawing his gun, and he threw down on Kyle. He spoke slow and hard and even. Sit down—and put your hands on the table or I’ll blow your head off.

If the man in the door heard what took place behind him, he gave no sign. He moved out of Ma’s Place and stopped a few feet outside the door. His voice called into the wind—and it was a cry that split the sleet.

Coppage!

The man in the middle jerked his head up and the heads of the other two followed.

Coppage! the tall taunted. Why don’t you draw?

The three men stood motionless, sleet beating their wide sombreros, their faces turned toward Ma’s Place. Then they drew, and the tall man reached for his guns. Coppage was the first to draw he was the first to fall. His hat rolled into the sleet, and even from Ma’s window I saw the red spot come between his eyes. Bullets slammed through the door of Ma’s Place and they smashed into a whiskey barrel on the counter, and the whiskey gurgled and began to run out on the floor. The gunfire never slowed. In the road another man fell. The third staggered and lunged for his horse. He pulled himself into the saddle and galloped, sagging, around the corner of Ma’s Place and out of sight.

The tall man holstered his guns and walked back inside to face us. He closed the door against the sleet. Ma Huddleston had come back into the room, her own pistols drawn. She ran to the window and peered out. Land sakes! she snorted. I thought them Comanches were here!

Just outlaws, the tall man said, looking first at Clabe Burdette, who still held his pistol on Kyle, and then turning to face the others. He smiled. I’m going to reach in my pocket for something. Don’t draw on me.

I think I know what it is, Clabe Burdette said. I’ve heard of you.

The man reached into his trousers pocket and brought out his hand. In it was the badge of the Texas Rangers. You are right and you are wrong, he said to Mr. Derryberry. There’s no law in Texas, but not all her officials have fled. I’ve worn this badge for ten years. Other men wear it, too. In a sense, we are outlaws. We take the law of our people into our own hands according to the evidence. The three men I shot tonight have raped, pillaged, and burned. Posing as state officials, they’ve stolen horses and cattle and tormented the broken people of Texas. The crimes of two of these men are over. Someday the people of Texas may try me as an outlaw, and I may hang. But until that day, I—and a handful of others like me—will keep riding the trails for criminals like these.

What’s your name? Derryberry said hoarsely.

Reagan, the tall man said.

Reagan! McMasters cried. Your mark—a bullet between the eyes. I should have known. You were a Banger with Martin.

We’ve been friends a long time, Reagan said.

Mr. Derryberry pointed to me. This is Martin’s new boy—of the same name.

I know. Reagan looked at me. I heard him speak up like a man. Thanks, Burdette. You can put up your pistol. He walked over to Kyle’s table. Stand up, he said.

I’m sorry you couldn’t get me in the back, Kyle, Reagan said. I have reason to believe you were here to meet those three outlaws—to plan a big steal from these Concho ranchers. I have plenty or reason to believe this, but no evidence. I will not kill you without proof. But other ex-Rangers will know what I know, so watch your step. Now, get back to your ranch.

Not with Comanches out! Kyle said, shaking more than ever.

Take your pistol and go, Reagan said. You have a boy not much older than this boy here, and so you could meet those three outlaws, you left him alone, with Indians about. Now, go to that boy.

Kyle stumbled out the door.

You’ve got him between a hard place and a rock. Clabe Burdette laughed.

Kyle passed the sprawled bodies which were already whitening in the sleety road without looking down at them, and he went to the livery stable for his horse. After he had ridden, head bent and hunched in his saddle, toward the cedar ridge, Mr. Derryberry said to Reagan, What I want to know is—if you were looking for those men, why did you come up here on a mail line to New Mexico?

We had a brush down the road and they killed my horse, Reagan said. But I knew they were coming here. I can pick up another horse later.

You’ve got two waiting at the hitch rack now, Clabe Burdette said.

Reagan turned and looked down at me. Son, would you take those horses over to Red-Whiskered Red’s for a feed? Tell him I’ll settle later.

Yes, sir, Mr. Reagan, I said.

When I came back from Red-Whiskered Red’s, Clabe Burdette and big Mr. McMasters were moving out to warn the other ranchers about the Indians, and Mr. Derryberry had gone to bring the people of the settlement to the stockade. Mr. Derryberry was a rancher but he lived in Huddleston Groc and the little stockade was on his place, just behind Ma’s. I ran around from Ma’s Place to look at that stockade. It had upright posts set in the ground, lashed together with rawhide, and high inside parapet loopholes to shoot through. People were already hastening up with horses and driving a few milk cows and pigs for food. I watched them for a minute and then I ran back to Ma’s, and Mr. Derryberry waddled back. Ma wouldn’t go to the stockade. She was going to defend her place with drunk Indian Charlie and Gol’durn.

You folks are mighty calm about Comanches, Reagan said, standing before the log-cut bar and holding a cup of smoking coffee between his hands. At least you’ve been there before.

Reagan, we’ve been there before and we’ll be there again, Derryberry said wearily, spinning the cylinder of his revolver to check it. Us Texans have got to work ourselves out of this beaten-down hole we’re in. Proportioned to our population, we sent more men off to war than any state in the Confederacy. Our ranches are run down and our stock is scattered. Indians made free while we were gone, and with the government we’ve got in Texas, now, they’ll run free for years. On this frontier in the Concho and elsewhere, a man is his only defense. Yet the government says we’re supposed not even to carry a pistol. We can’t get protection from the carpetbaggers, the state, or the Union Army. It comes down to the individual man. And yet there’s a fortune to be made in cows if a man could find a market for cows. It’ll take cow hunts, getting lost herds together—some, most of us will never get back. They’ll belong to who finds them. But instead of devoting our time to herd gathering and markets, we’ve got to fight Indians. They steal our horses and if we don’t have horses we can’t work cows. What’s left for us?

Reagan’s mouth was a hard line, then he smiled. Well, Derryberry, as it was said a while ago, Texas is a land of trouble but her men are man-size double. I reckon that’s your answer.

Ma began to barricade her windows, and Mr. Derryberry left for the stockade. Reagan put down his coffee cup and looked at me. Are you ready to ride?

Where are we riding? I said.

Your Aunt Maybelle is going to be mighty worried about, you tonight if you can’t put your feet in a warm bed, Reagan said. It’s about dark and sleeting harder. I’ve got a feeling we can get through those Comanches to meet your Uncle Martin. Anyway, we’ve sent old Kyle up the trail ahead of us. If we find him scalped, we can turn back. Are you ready?

I don’t know, I said.

Afraid? Reagan said.

No, sir. I went over and picked up my old valise.

You’d better not take that, Reagan said. We might do some hard riding.

Everything I’ve got in the world is in this bag, Mr. Reagan, I said.

All right, we’ll take it. Reagan smiled.

Ma Huddleston knelt down beside me. You’ll come back and see me? Her hoarse voice was sweet, and that feeling showed in her eyes again.

Yes, ma’am, I promise you, I said. And thanks for the jacket.

Good-by, boy, she said, and I pulled my flop hat over my ears and followed Reagan.

The two dead men were still in the road as we walked across to the livery stable. Red-Whiskered Red lashed my valise to the saddle, and Reagan and I mounted the outlaws’ horses and started up the ridge on the cutoff trail through the big valley to Uncle Martin’s ranch. The sleet beat in our faces, but the horses, after their feed and standing in the cold so long, were eager to move and get warm again. We followed the line of the ridge and the bent cedars, and the horses snorted and broke wind.

Mr. Reagan! I called.

What is it? Reagan said.

This old horse just plumb nigh blew me to Georgia! I laughed.

If you and that horse don’t quiet down, these Comanches are going to blow us to California, Reagan said.

So, with only the creaking of frozen leather, we went on up the trail.

There were a thousand Indians in those trees. They looked out at us from the woods as we passed, fierce and with blazing eyes. And in clearings between the soughing cedars they did their wild war dance, bending slow to the ground and then rising high, arms outstretched in the air, holding bloody scalps above their heads. When they saw us, they stopped their dancing and their eyes followed us up the trail.

Reagan swung our horses down a slope to the right of a big ravine. It was open trail ahead and Reagan stopped his horse suddenly, and in the darkness I saw his hand go up and I stopped behind him. Three shapes on horseback came up from the ravine. They crossed the open trail and disappeared into the timber. They were Indians.

There’ll be more about, Reagan said.

From farther up the trail came a shout, followed by a wild scream. We pulled deeper into the brush and trees and waited. For an hour we waited, with only the crackle of frozen tree limbs overhead. Reagan shoved something into my hand. It was a pistol. Can you use this? He barely spoke.

Yes, sir, I said.

We’re going on now, Reagan said. Stay close. If I light a shuck, follow me fast.

Reagan guided his horse for the open trail between the trees. It was level for a ways, then it dipped into a little valley and up a high ridge. On the ragged crest Reagan pulled his horse in and I stopped beside him. Look, he said, and pointed. Far back in the distance a fire glowed dimly. Indians have fired the settlement.

What about all the people down there—and Ma? I said.

I hope they’re safe, Reagan said. But I’ll tell you one thing. By now Ma’s got a hot rifle."

We should have stayed with Ma, I said.

You’ve got your own people to think of, Reagan said. I’m not worried about Ma. Indians will be mighty careful about closing in on her. They think Ma is an evil spirit. She likes only one Indian—that reservation-jumping Caddo you saw today. He brought her dead boy back from the Territory.

There ain’t a bit of evil in Ma Huddleston, I said.

Only for Comanches. Reagan laughed.

The trail led abruptly from the ridge to a valley and along a big creek. Under the trees a motionless figure lay on the white trail. Reagan looked carefully about, then he dismounted. He bent over the crumpled form. When he stood up, there was a note of satisfaction in his voice. This was the scream we heard. My third outlaw—scalped. That’s one thing to thank the Comanches for.

Reagan got on his horse again and we went on, slowly, along the creek, now and then pulling off the trail for long minutes to listen. There was only the sound of sleet and the crackling of frozen branches. It seemed to go on forever. We forded the creek at a shallow place where dark waters swirled about big rocks and we pushed our way up the bank, Reagan ahead. Reagan was halfway up when it happened.

A figure poised itself on the overhanging ledge and launched downward upon Reagan. Even in the darkness I could see the knife. I raised Reagan’s pistol and fired. At the same instant a second Indian leaped for Reagan from the opposite ledge. Reagan fired as the Indian fell upon him, and they rolled together from Reagan’s horse and struck the ground in a tangle of arms and legs, rolling on down the slippery bank past me and into the water.

I turned, and Reagan had fallen beneath the Indian. He came to his feet and flung the Indian outward into midstream. I raised the pistol but I couldn’t shoot. Reagan was between me and the Indian. The Indian was on his feet and he splashed toward Reagan, arm upraised with a knife in his hand. The Indian’s hand came down and Reagan moved in under the Indian’s wrist, seizing it as he drove his body low and sideways across the Indian’s stomach. He lifted the Indian from the water and hurled him over his bent body toward the bank. There was a sharp crack as the Indian’s arm snapped—and Reagan was upon him, beating his head against a dark rock in the water.

At last Reagan rose, and the Indian lay still. Then the body swung slowly downstream in the falling sleet. Reagan looked for his gun. He found it near his horse. Then he bent over the Indian who lay on the bank.

Did I kill him? I said.

You had to, Reagan said. It was the Indian or us. How do you feel?

Kind of scared, I said. I never shot at anybody before.

Where did you learn to shoot? Reagan said.

My daddy and mama taught me.

But your daddy was in the war most of the time.

Yes, sir, but twice they sent him home to drive cows back for the Confederates, and we practiced like we did before he left the first time, I said. He swum cows across that big Mississippi with Yankee gunboats shooting at him. My daddy always told me if I didn’t have time to aim, just to look at what I wanted to hit and cut loose.

That’s as good a way as any. Reagan laughed.

In this sleet I guess it was luck, I said. I almost didn’t see him.

Reagan holstered his gun and mounted his horse. You saved my life, he said. Well, I owe you something. What’ll it be?

Just get me to Uncle Martin.

Stay close behind, Reagan said. If Indians heard our shooting, we may have more trouble.

From the creek the trail led up a rise where white cedars stood, bending in the wind like dancing ghosts. The trail went down the rise to flat ground again, and suddenly Reagan pulled in to cover. I stopped behind him but I couldn’t hear anything. Reagan edged his horse back to the trail again. In the distance a big shadow loomed. It, too, had pulled into the brush at first, but now it came out on the trail again. Something that looked like a big dog stood beside it.

Who goes? a low voice called above the wind.

Martin? Reagan said.

Yes—who is it? the voice said.

Reagan. I’ve just come from the settlement.

Thank God! my Uncle Martin said.

Uncle Martin’s horse was closer now, and Uncle Martin was an awful big man. And what I had seen at first really was a dog.

Did the stage get in? Uncle Martin said. I had a boy on that stage, Reagan—all the way up from Lavaca County. Did you see him?

The boy’s right here, safe and sound, Reagan said.

Where is he, Reagan? Let me see him! There was a funny break in Uncle Martin’s voice.

I urged my horse to the trail. Here I am, Uncle Martin, I said.

The horse came close and Uncle Martin’s big arms were around me and his long whiskers were-all over my face. It felt like being hugged by a grizzly bear. Uncle Martin never hugged me that way again. I guess he got used to me.

Stay close to me, son, and we’ll get you home, Uncle Martin said. I’ll run Old Ben out ahead. Git, Ben! Indians! Uncle Martin pointed and the hound-dog bayed and leaped out ahead of us. We rode on up the trail toward Uncle Martin’s ranch. I’m glad Reagan found you, son, Uncle Martin said. Your Aunt Maybelle will be worried to death about you.

That’s what Mr. Reagan said. I laughed. We had an Indian fight, too.

Was that the shots I heard? Uncle Martin said, looking at Reagan.

The boy saved my life, Reagan said. I was jumped from behind. He killed his first Indian, Martin. Shot the back of his head off.

Mr. Reagan beat that other Indian’s head to death on a rock, I said.

Suppose we don’t tell your Aunt Maybelle about that fight, son, Uncle Martin said. She’d worry from now till doomsday thinking about you and Indians. Is it a bargain?

Yes, sir, I said.

Where are your men, Martin? Reagan asked.

Scattered from here to hell, guarding horses and cows and riding after Indians. I left a guard at the house with Maybelle. It’s not often we get raids in this kind of weather. Uncle Martin paused. I hear the settlement’s burning. I sent Pegleg Murphy with all the men I could spare.

I think the people are safe, Reagan said. They’re all at Derryberry’s stockade—all but Ma. Gol’durn and Indian Charlie are with her.

And I reckon both drunk as usual. Uncle Martin snorted. Where did they get it this time?

Derryberry thinks they probably traded their horses for it, Reagan said.

Well, it’s the last time I’ll send Gol’durn down the line on a scout, Uncle Martin said.

I’ve heard you say that before. Reagan laughed.

Uncle Martin laughed with him. Yes, and I reckon I’ll say it again. Gol’durn’s like an old maid—all he can do is cook, but he stays with the outfit.

How far is it to home? I asked.

It won’t be long now, Reagan said. Do I see a light ahead, Martin?

Yes, you do, Uncle Martin said. I told Maybelle to leave the lamps dark tonight on account of Indians, but I reckon she’d burn one in the window to welcome the boy.

I began to see that lamp shining in the darkness, and it was the prettiest light I ever saw.

Take it slow now—till we get recognized around here, Uncle Martin said. We could get out heads shot off.

You must be getting your old crew back, Reagan said.

Some are back, but some I’ll never get back, Uncle Martin said. They lie from Shiloh to Gettysburg, from Manassas to hell, God rest their souls.

Suddenly there came a wild cry.

Damn Yankees coming, Clendenning! a voice yelled.

From the trail ahead three horsemen burst. They held their mounts blocking our way, the horses doing a fancy jig step, heads high and prancy.

Poco, there ain’t but one thing to do when you got a gun on a Yankee! Aim your rifle, Hash!

Give the order, General!

Hey, you fools, put down those rifles! Uncle Martin shouted. I’ve got the boy with me!

You got the kid?

All three of those horses seemed to leave the ground at the same time and they landed right beside me, and three riders jumped down. They were dressed in old Confederate uniforms, even to cavalry hats. That Poco and Hash were six-foot men. But Clendenning was the seven-footest man I ever saw. His long light hair came down over his shoulders from under his hat, and even in the dark and the sleet I could see his eyes sparkle.

Well, well, our old captain’s kid, Poco said, and his voice had changed. He looked closer at me. And by God, wearing his old hat, too. Your daddy wouldn’t get rid of that old black hat for hell.

I got paper stuffed in the sweatband, I said.

Clendenning put a big arm across my shoulders. Did your daddy ever tell you how us and Jeb Stuart’s cavalry scouted clean around old General Pope’s army? We left on one side of the line and come clean around back on the other.

We scouted them Yankees so pitiful, Poco said, when they wanted to find out where they were, they wrote Jeb Stuart and your daddy a letter.

No, sir, he never told me, I said.

I reckon he didn’t have time, Hash said. Me and Poco and Clendenning rode as far as Austin with him, but he wanted to go on alone. We’re sure glad to have you with us, kid. Hash emptied his pistol into the air and the horses jumped.

Put up that gun! Uncle Martin said. Maybelle will think Indians are here.

Another hound-dog ran up and gave a big bay.

Kid, even crazy old Big Foot wants to say hello. Clendenning laughed. I bet you’ve seen Old Ben.

Yes, sir. Down the trail a ways, I said.

Them’s our Indian dogs, Hash said. Big Foot ain’t right in the head and spends all his time in the woods.

The rest of the boys have been riding all night to get you and the kid in, Poco said to Uncle Martin. They’ll want to see him before bedtime.

You inveterate Confederates ready? Clendenning shouted, and Hash and Poco let out some rebel yells and they rode for the lamp in the window, shooting pistols off everywhere.

We crossed a creek and rode on up to the house. Those guns hadn’t scared Aunt Maybelle. When we stopped at the porch, the door opened and light streamed into the darkness and glistened on sleet slanting down in long straight lines. Aunt Maybelle stood in the doorway, and then she rushed toward us. We must have looked like a dancing bunch of shadows, with other riders coming in and yelling around us.

Martin, where is he? Aunt Maybelle cried.

Right here beside me, Maybelle, Uncle Martin said.

Aunt Maybelle ran through the sleet and put her arms up around my waist, leaning against that old outlaw horse. My poor baby, she said. What a way to come to us.

No, ma’am, I said. I met a lot of nice people. I didn’t mind at all.

It was a big front room, and the biggest fireplace I ever saw—about twelve feet across—with a pretty, glowing stone set in the middle under the mantel. The fireplace was stacked with logs and kindling but no fire was in it. I didn’t know a house could be so cold, just like the outside, yet look so warm and waiting.

Uncle Martin put my valise down and closed the front door. Aunt Maybelle helped me take off my hat and jacket. What a beautiful jacket! she said, shaking the sleet free.

It ain’t mine, I said. Ma Huddleston put it on me. She made me take off that old sweater. It had holes all over.

I’ll have to take it back to Ma, Uncle Martin said, putting his rifle over the door. I just can’t owe her more than I do already.

Let the child keep it, Martin, Aunt Maybelle said. Maybe I can pay for it.

Uncle Martin turned from the door. In the light he had square-set eyes and a black beard that came midway down his old coat. Is the sweater all you have, son?

Yes, sir, I said.

Uncle Martin spoke to Aunt Maybelle. I don’t begrudge the boy, Maybelle. But we’re flat broke. If I get a herd through to Kansas next year, Ma will have to outfit me.

I know, Martin, Aunt Maybelle said firmly. She was a tall woman, and she had laughing eyes. But let me see Ma. I’ll handle it some way.

Uncle Martin put his big hand on Aunt Maybelle’s shoulders. Maybelle, if I hadn’t freighted sugar and coffee up from Mexico to sell during the war, where’d we be now? I can’t even pay the men. A new jacket seems like an awful debt. The important thing right now is getting that herd to Kansas. But let the boy keep it. I’ll settle with Ma somehow.

Thank you, Martin. Aunt Maybelle kissed him somewhere in the top of those big whiskers.

When I go to that Huddleston Groc place again, I’m going to thank Ma proper, I said. We left so quick I just barely thanked her tonight.

Aunt Maybelle laughed. Baby, Ma meant to paint Huddleston Grocery on her sign. She made her letters so big all she had room for at the end was G-r-o-c, so she just left it that way.

Uncle Martin threw his head back and was laughing out of that big black beard. Since the mail stage is pushing on west, we might as well call the settlement Huddleston Groc, he said, still laughing and wiping tears from his eyes. It’s never had a name and everybody’s tired of calling it the settlement. Besides, Ma might like the idea.

When I see Ma, I’ll tell her, Aunt Maybelle said. I think everyone will be happy to name the settlement for her. She took Reagan’s pistol from my hands. Did Mr. Reagan give you this?

Yes, ma’am, I said.

We’ll put it up here till morning. She started to put the gun on the big walnut mantelpiece. Then she smelled it. This gun’s been fired.

Yes, ma’am, Mr. Reagan shot it, I said.

Aunt Maybelle looked at me but she didn’t say anything. Then she put the gun on the mantel. Wouldn’t Mr. Reagan stay in the house, Martin?

No, he said he wanted to talk to the cowhands, Uncle Martin said. He’ll stay in the bunkhouse tonight or ride after Indians. It’s what he wants. Maybelle, we’re cold. Haven’t you had a fire in this house tonight?

No, Aunt Maybelle said proudly. I’ve waited for my menfolks to come home. I’ve been in the kitchen all day. But now we’ll have a good warm fire, and Mamacita will bring us something to eat.

Aunt Maybelle left the room and came back from the kitchen with a long sliver of burning wood. She held it toward me. Will you light the fire for us? she said.

I knelt before the big fireplace. Behind me, close together, Uncle Martin and Aunt Maybelle stood. I touched the blazing sliver to the kindling, and with a rush and a roar the bright flames leaped up the chimney.

II

NOBODY BUT ME could have got off to a worse start in a new home than I did next morning.

. Things in Texas always got started in some crazy way nobody could figure, just like Independence Day and Uncle Martin’s brand did.

So, as soon as I dressed, I ran out the door to see where I was. I slipped on the icy porch and my feet went out from under me, and I ended sitting up in the yard with my hands spread out on the ice. I looked about me. The world was white. A sharp sun shone so bright on the ice it dazzled. The whole world was frozen to pieces. Above me a hill stood, with sleet-bent cedars. Far off, the white trees in the valleys looked sprayed like fountains. The sky was blue as Gulf water down near Lavaca County, where I came from. Down there we had ice sometimes, but not like this. Doggone, it was pretty. The sun shining and the frosty morning twinkling and everything glittering like the world wasn’t real. The bunkhouse, the corrals, and the fences were all under white like the valleys.

From the bunkhouse smoke floated up lazily. Those three inveterate Confederates, Poco and Hash and Clendenning, came out and broke the ice at the horse trough. They were naked to the waist and throwing icy water on each other, yelling like it was killing them and putting on like idiots. You’d never think they were in an Indian fight the night before. I shoved up on my feet and looked back at the house. For the frontier it was a big house—built of stone and native oak and cedar. It was a rambling house, with red cedar clapboards set in near the windows. The huge chimney of the front room was tossing smoke straight into the still air, and two smaller chimneys stuck up at the back of the house.

When I got steady on my feet, I started for the bunkhouse. Then I saw that wagon in the yard. It was frost-covered. That sleet and ice on the wagon wheel looked so good I had to taste it. I ran over behind the wagon and stuck my tongue to a glazy rim. A quick, sticky feeling came over it. I started to back off but the tip of my tongue was held there, tight as with pliers. It clung to that rim, and all I could feel was a burning, and see white spokes dancing down. I spread my legs and tried again to back away from the wagon wheel, and nearly lost the tip of my tongue. I turned my head and cut my eyes like a sick calf down to the horse trough. Hel’! Hel’! I yelled.

At the horse trough more bare-chested cowhands were shouting and throwing cold water. They made such a fuss they couldn’t hear me, no matter what I said. I gave up on help and hollered anything I thought of, and it came out worse than help." I was yelling an unknown language nobody every heard before. I turned my head toward the house, but the doors were shut. I couldn’t get any help there. I tried the cowhands again. And this time they heard me. But those hands didn’t come right over to help me. Oh, no. They started laughing and ran to the bunkhouse to bring out every man on the place to see my disgrace, and the whole crew came up digging boot heels into the ice and shouting at me.

What’s your trouble, button? Poco said.

After all the nice things Poco and Hash and that yellow-haired ox Clendenning said about my daddy last night, I thought they’d come to help me. But when those cowhands stopped around the wagon, they leaned back against it comfortable and started talking casual. Poco and Clendenning were the worst of all—outside of Old Ben, who leaped around barking his head off.

Now, back in a blizzard up on the Brazos one year, Poco said, standing up important