Phantom Herd

By Denzel Holmes

PHANTOM HERD
Alex Mentrier is 18 when he leaves the Concho. He knows only that he was born to a Mexican woman in Castroville who claimed that his father was French. He intends to find out.
His first attempt at adulthood placed him with thieves. He has not fully overcome the tendency. A man in the Castro Colony claims Alex is his son and suggests that they drive a herd of unbranded wild cattle to the Kansas market. They lack six essentials: cattle, horses, cowboys, equipment, experience and money.
The Snyder brother, Orville Nubin, Eagle Man and Rancher Jim Dublin want Alex dead. Deputy Slim Shandlin and Judge Isaac Abraham want him in jail.
Fellow orphan Lonzo Gillet and washed-out cowboy Clay Lombard trust him as does Lieutenant John P. Bullis and his Black Seminole scouts from Fort Clark.
Eva Frazier falls in love with Alex.
If two thousand longhorns ever reach Dodge City they will appear as a phantom herd through the encouragement of friends Bob Guthrie and Matt Altmann and the prayers of Margaretha Mentrier.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denzel Holmes
• Release date: Feb 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370938971

Denzel Holmes

Denzel Holmes is the author of eight Western novels, set in Texas and true to the times and places. He grew up in the ranch country of Pecos County, Married his sweetheart Margie when she was 16 and he was 20. Going on 60 years now. They live in Belton and sell their books there and at Canton, Kerrville, Waxahachie, Dripping Springs, Wichita Falls, Madisonville, San Angelo, Georgetown, Round Rock, Nacogdoches, Killeen, Temple, and many other local venues. He speaks to civic, social and library groups where asked.

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PHANTOM HERD

by

DENZEL HOLMES

Rambler

Press

Phantom Herd

Copyright © 2015 Denzel Holmes

Cover layout and book design by Rebecca Hayes

www.beckypublisher.com

Cover (Through Dry Country) and other art by Robert Pummill, Kerrville, Texas

Used by permission, all rights reserved

First Edition

RAMBLER PRESS

Belton, Texas

Published and Printed in the U.S.A.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning to a computer disc, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission in writing by the publisher.

ISBN:

Library of Congress Control Number:

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks go to Russell Nowell, president of the Fort Clark Historical Society, and Donna Pritzel, also an officer and the manager of the Sutler’s Store on the fort compound. These two showed me special favors on the grounds, advised me on history, and directed me to much good reading material. I came back inspired to drive home this novel.

Other Novels by Denzel Holmes

TEXAS VICTORY with Tom Schliesing

THE HORSE THIEF AND THE LADY

LAST RACE SUNDAY

BIG CYPRESS

CONCHO

LITTLE STONE MOUNTAIN

www.denzelholmes.com

Chapter 1

Alex Mentrier chuckled as he rode his mare Gertruda south from Fort Concho toward Fort McKavett. Maybe he had overstated it when he told Bob Guthrie – Roberto – that he wanted all the advice he could get.

Bob had filled his head with far more information than he could digest. So did Bob’s companions, M.L. Carter, the crusty cowboy and handgun expert, and Matt Altmann, the brilliant engineer and dam builder. Alex led a pack horse and carefully splashed through a gravely stream. He tugged the heavily laden gelding’s rope to coax him up the steep bank and into a thick grove of live oaks and native elms. Gertruda the dapple mare heaved under his knees after ten hours of travel and only one water stop. The dim autumn sun listed low in the west.

Not a soul had passed him on the road to Fort Mckavett, a far cry from the recent days when soldiers by the hundreds scurried up and down the road, rushing to rendezvous at Fort Concho for Colonel Mackenzie’s great roundup of the Comanche nation. According to Bob this would be the first of only three nights he should spend on the ground. If Alex followed all of Bob’s advice he would hit forts or small towns where he could find lodging for man and horse. Always look for a boarding house, not a hotel. Save money, Bob said.

One piece of Bob’s advice Alex decided not to take as he scanned the trees with darkening shadows denying him penetrating vision. Put that gun out of sight. Wearin’ a gun on your hip will get you shot more often than it’ll protect you. Too many dandies out there that think they ought to take on a young whipper-snapper totin’ a hog leg. Well, tonight, no dandies were around unless they skulked in those woods. Alex wanted his Smith and Wesson handy in case one or more showed up at his campfire uninvited.

Like the pack horse and packsaddle, and all the food and traveling equipment – gifts from Bob for the journey – the Smith and Wesson .44 self-contained cartridge loading revolver was also Bob’s present. He gave it to Alex when he bought one of the new Colt Model 1873 .45 caliber revolvers after he had seen the one Matt Altmann obtained at Fort Griffin a few months back. Alex pulled the rolled belt, holster and gun from his right hand saddle bag and drew them around his waist.

He moved the horses carefully into the woods, scanning to each side. He wanted a camp spot where he could tether the horses for grazing, which meant outside the heavy copse of trees where grass would prove scarce. Yet, he would prefer bedding down inside the woods for personal cover. He felt a ripple of fear course his torso although he swore to Bob, M.L., and Matt that he was not afraid to travel alone. First night out. I got the jitters. Get over it. He shook the cold feeling and sought the good judgment he had, according to Bob, if you use it.

Maybe there’s an area that offers both, good forage and tree cover. He turned Gertruda around and forced the bay to change directions. Both beasts blew as if to say, what are you doing now? Water! He had just passed it. The horses would need water in addition to grass. He led the horses back to the creek and swung upstream. Just before the rivulet narrowed to the danger of playing out, he found it: open ground with high blue stem grass, half dry, half green, and tree cover fifty feet away.

He laid out the rope tethers that Bob had outfitted to assure that the horses could reach the water, not tangle with each other, and find plenty of graze in a thirty foot circle. Perfect. Alex stopped in mid-thought. Would Bob approve this spot? He breathed out. Yeah, this puts me four hundred yards off of the forts road. Nobody will look over here.

With no way of predicting the near-winter weather, after bacon and biscuits from home, Alex watched his little fire dwindle as he snuggled, fully clothed into his blanket below and a cotton-stuffed quilt above, all covered by a water resistant canvas. He turned to his right side, more than ready for sleep that would take away the worries of his lonely trip.

Hey, what we got here, Zeb? It’s that kid that couldn’t make up his mind. Goin’ one way, then the other.

Another voice said, Yeah, that’s him. Two horses.

Alex’s muscles seized in unexpected tension. His right hand closed on his pistol under the covers. Kid? They must have seen him when he crossed the creek, then turned upstream. He rode like a man and at a distance would appear like a man. His youth would only show from close in.

The dim fire allowed him to see one man approaching from each of his sides. He sprang from the bed and cocked the pistol stepping back in hopes of getting them both in view. It worked partially.

No need to git panicky, friend. We’re jest lookin’ for a bite to eat and a little information.

The one on the right held what appeared to be a shotgun. The talker on the left showed no weapon, but a handgun could materialize suddenly.

Alex motioned toward the fire with his left hand. Build up my fire a little and fix yourselves some bacon and biscuits. I’m eating lean. Don’t have any money.

The unarmed man on Alex’s left pointed toward the horses. You got two fine animals, a good saddle and pack rig. Don’t seem too broke to me.

With dried mouth Alex said, You’d be surprised what I’d do for money, especially if you don’t give me some names and what you’re doing here.

We ain’t gittin’ anywhere with this guy, brother.

With those words, the left side man lifted his finger as though to tell his brother to do something. Alex’s gaze wheeled to Zeb. The shotgun rose. Alex’s pistol fired, held firm in both hands, dead aim, by M.L. Carter’s instruction. The shotgun blasted into the ground as he sprawled backwards onto the turf.

Alex crouched and turned to the talker. You got a name?

When no reply came Alex shouted, You want to die?

With arms spread wide the talker stammered, Naw, naw, I’m not armed. I’m not a dangerous man. I don’t know why Zeb pulled that stunt.

I’ll ask you one more time, then I’m gonna kill you. What’s your name? Alex felt M.L. Carter’s constant talk. He sensed Bob hovering, speaking over his shoulder. You done that purty good, son. Is that what Bob would say? He didn’t have either man to back him now. His nerves had held. They were about to go.

Name! And don’t lie! Alex’s gun quivered though he was sure Left Side couldn’t see it.

Runt. I’m Runt Snyder. Don’t go shootin’ me, boy. I ain’t no part o’ this.

Git on your belly, Runt Snyder. You got your brother Zeb killed. Alex advanced toward the man who dropped quickly to the ground. Like hell you’re not part of this. You told him to gun me down.

Now, don’t go shootin’ me in the back, Runt said in rushed breaths. I done what you said.

Alex fought every instinct and runaway rage to keep from pulling the trigger and ending this nightmare. He hovered over Runt Snyder. You’re gonna think long and hard about getting your brother killed while you’re in Huntsville for fifteen years. Alex didn’t know where his words came from. Somehow the courage of Bob and M.L. had transferred itself to him.

He raised the Smith and Wesson high and crashed it onto the skull of Runt Snyder. He either killed the man or rendered him controllable for a long trip to Fort McKavett. He didn’t much care which.

Searching his mind for what to do next he ran his hands around the limp body of the man he had just slugged. Finding no gun, he raced back to his saddle pack and dragged out some rawhide strings. He bound Runt Snyder’s hands behind his back, still unsure if he had killed the man. Then he trotted, noticing his panting breath, toward the fallen Zeb, feeling an odd guilt that he hoped he had killed this one.

He had.

He studied what to do with a dead body and a prisoner. Bob’s words came back. If you ever have to kill a man, don’t let it make a fool out o’ you. It’s just sump’m that happened. It ain’t who you are.

Alex said aloud, What the hell would you do right now, Roberto? Would you pack them up and take off in the middle of the night? Or would you wait until morning? You never told me that one.

He drug in several breaths of the chill November night, stuck his pistol into his waistband and walked slowly back to his captive. Runt Snyder wiggled on the ground, still face down, seeming unsure why his hands didn’t support him to rise.

Runt, I got you tied up. Alex fought to control his voice. He didn’t care if he sounded authoritative. I’m gonna take you into Fort McKavett and turn you over to the military. Right now, I’m gonna get some sleep. You’ll be fine right there on your face until daylight.

***

No sleep came to Alex. He tried to convince himself that he had everything under control. More than anything he worried that he would do it wrong and sooner or later he’d have to tell Bob and the others. He could recite the questions: Why didn’t you this, and why didn’t you that?

With a short-handled spade he dug an impression a foot deep and rolled Zeb’s body into it. With creek stones as large as he could dislodge from the bank and carry he built the grave up another foot above the grade.

Alex must have looked an odd sight as he entered the parade grounds of Fort McKavett. Surly Runt Snyder sat upright on the packsaddle of Alex’s second horse, his hands now tied in front so that he could eat, relieve himself and hold to the saddle to prevent falling headlong and dragging on the tether five feet behind the animal.

Provost Marshal Zack Connery frowned and scratched his black-haired head. The man was around forty with a walrus mustache. You left a dead body out there? Military regulations don’t allow that.

Alex ducked his head and raised it. Like I told you, I’m not military. I’m just here to report the attack on me. I’d appreciate it if you’d take my prisoner into custody. I’ll give a full report.

You say he pulled a shotgun on you? Can you prove that? Do you have the shotgun?

Yes, sir, I brought it with me. You want it?

I do, and I want to examine it. I can tell if a shotgun has been recently fired. If it hasn’t, I’ll place you under arrest along with this suspect you brought in. You’ve got a mighty long and shaky story.

Alex stared directly into the eyes of Marshal Connery. I have no reason to be here other than to report an attempted murder and do the right thing. I could have rode away. I could have killed them both.

Connery rubbed his wild mustache. I’m inclined to believe you because there’s been some waylays on that road. He looked up. Let’s go look at that shotgun.

At the hitch rail, Connery drew air from the old muzzle loading single barrel shotgun. Yeah, it’s been fired. Could have been anytime. But at least that’s in your favor. He motioned for two Black infantrymen to haul down Runt Snyder and walk him to the guardhouse. We’ll right up a report. I’m hanging myself out to dry if my commander says I should’ve held you. He took the old shotgun in the crook of his arm. Come on. Let’s get that done and get you out of here.

Where are you headed? Connery asked as they stepped inside.

Castroville.

Connery rounded the desk and sat. As he wrote the report according to Alex’s dictation, the officer glanced up. What do you have in Castroville? Those Alsatian folks are German or French. You look Mexican to me.

Alex felt an angry flare. Slowly he answered. You know my name, and you know it’s French. I’m going to visit my family.

Connery’s eyes shifted but he didn’t pursue the conversation. All right. Sign here. We’ll turn the man over to the civilian authorities in San Antonio. I’m sure they’ll want you as a witness in the trial, if it comes to trial. Where can you be reached?

Just General Delivery, Castroville. He signed the document with his full name: Alexander Mentrier.

Connery offered a firm handshake. Without further words, Alex exited the building and mounted Gertruda. Caution told him to put some miles between Fort McKavett and himself, but once again the evening sun moved low.

Bob had said most military posts had places a civilian could spend the night, usually without charge. Alex wouldn’t go back and ask the provost marshal. Gertruda moved slowly southward away from the fort buildings. He glanced each way surveying the civilian dwellings. Most houses were shotgun affairs of no more than two rooms. He selected one that had a livestock pen and barn to the back, perhaps a place he could request quarters. He swung his belt and revolver from his waist, rolled them together and stuffed them into the right saddle bag. The flap didn’t close completely.

When a matronly Mexican woman answered his knock and instantly addressed him in Spanish, Alex quickly accepted his Hispanic background. In Spanish he spoke politely and told her he was traveling through. Could he quarter his horses in her pen and perhaps sleep in the barn?

The woman called her teenage son to the door. The boy’s untidy, wavy black locks and curious dark eyes somehow reminded Alex of himself about the time he had met the bandit Railo outside a saloon in Castroville.

To prove friendly Alex extended his hand. Alejandro Ment-re-aa, he said giving the French pronunciation. Yo soy de Castroville."

The boy held eye contact and greeted with a firm handshake. "You are not mejicano?"

"Si, mejicano. My grandfather was French." Would Alex have to explain his lineage to everyone he met for the rest of his life?

The boy nodded. Grandfather. That is not so bad. He grinned. The Mexican people held a pride but could only express it among themselves. He added, "Mi llamo Pablo. I show you the pen."

Pablo’s bare feet padded fearlessly over the angular rocks in the yard. He opened the pen gate and said. My papa will be home with his mule soon. She no like other animals in her pen. She kick and bite. Maybe we tie her to the rail.

Where does your papa work? Alex asked pondering the inconvenience he was causing as he led his horses inside.

For the soldiers. He has a job because he has a mule and a little wagon. Pablo swung open the creaky barn door and stepped inside. I get your horses some corn.

Alex entered the dark structure to see if there was space to bed down. There was, barely.

Pablo said, You have a job in Castroville? A vaquero?

Not yet. I hope to get one. If not, I will go back to the Concho.

Maybe when you find a job in Castroville, they need two hombres. You can write to me a letter and I will come there. I want a job. Real bad.

Every young man wants a job, seething to escape the yoke of poverty, perceived or real. It was the reason Alex rode off with Railo’s gang and entered a short-lived life of crime. He grinned. I’ll make a note and let you know. You seem like a…

The familiar sound of a wagon approached. Pablo said, Here’s Papa. He rushed and lifted the unhinged gate wide for his father’s gray mule and little flatbed wagon. The older man didn’t proceed forward. Even from thirty feet away Alex could see the skepticism on the father’s face.

The two spoke in rapid Spanish chatter. Alex caught every word, which ended with Pablo saying, He understands Spanish. He hear you.

Pablo’s father eased the gray mule into the enclosure keeping his dark gaze fixed on Alex. The jenny mule let out a bray to wake the dead as she spotted the horses in her pen. The father reacted quickly with a quirt across her rump and a strong rebuke in a language she would understand. She jerked her head and stopped.

Alex stepped slowly to the right side of the wagon ready to receive the skeptical man as he stepped down. I’m Alex Ment-re-aa. I’m half Mexican, he offered quickly hoping to defuse some of the doubt he saw.

"Media. The man nodded and tended to his traces. He took Alex’s hand briefly, never looking up. You want to stay the night?"

"Si, Alex replied. I’ll pay for the corn… When the indifferent host continued to unharness his mule, Alex added, I’m on my way to Castroville."

Pablo’s father led the mule toward the barn. Alex followed growing tired of the man’s sullenness.

The father stopped. My name is Carlos de Obregon Chavez, Junior. I did not know who my father was until it was too late, he said as he tied the head-jerking mule to a rail. He turned abruptly to Alex who stopped just in time. Do you know your father?

No. Alex breathed deeply wondering where this would go. He had heard the old man say to Pablo that the gringo was probably a lost child looking for his father.

Obregon’s gaze bore into Alex. "My father was a rich terranteniente, land owner, far south of here. He pointed. When I got there I learned that he was an old man, and he had died. No one believed that I was his son."

Alex struggled to assimilate what he had heard. But, at least you tried to find him?

Like you? Obregon’s hateful stare melted. He reached out his hand again. I wish you luck.

"Thank you, Señor Obregon. Perhaps my father is not so old. I do not expect riches." His mind reeled, amazed at the man’s discernment.

Carlos Obregon led the mule a safe distance from Alex’s horses. "I did not want money, but a sore spot remained when I learned that Obregon Senior had no children. He deliberately made me with a young maid in his house because he wanted a son. By the time the son appeared his land had been divided back to the State and to a few caballeros he admired. Alex didn’t dare interrupt. Mexicans have no chance. Your name is Mentrier?"

Yes, according to my mother–

Then there is hope for you. Obregon patted Alex’s arm. "Come into my house. Mi esposa will feed us all."

Inside to the light of a hanging lantern Alex ate tender goat meat and potatoes with the family of five. The older daughter Marianna – he guessed at fourteen – cast longing black eyes. She was indeed attractive. Alex’s resolve to capitalize on his French, not his Mexican, took a setback. He sipped water without glancing up. Tomorrow he would be gone.

Chapter 2

Runt Snyder heard the cell block door squeal in the early morning hour as it had done for three days in a row. A skinny corporal would enter carrying a black pot of some bland hot cereal, three tin plates and three spoons. Runt had eaten worse when he and his younger brother Zebadiah scavenged the brush between the Concho River and the San Saba, taking whatever they could get, by whatever means. Earlier, the pickings had been a little better in the Southern Louisiana bayous near their birthplace. When the sheriff got wise to the names of the regional robbers and came after them with dogs, they lit out for Texas.

Corporal Jones didn’t have the pot. Runt felt his stomach growl and wondered if Fort McKavett had run out of food. Jones shook out keys to the three cells where Runt and two other civilians were held. He said, We got a wagon ready. You three are on your way to San Antonio this morning.

Ain’t we gonna git anything to eat first, Harvey Nubin said from the cell next to Runt. The man was a mass of tangled black hair and beard.

We’ll give you some biscuits, maybe some ham on the road. I’ll be glad to get rid of ya’ll. You’re always whining.

You’d whine too if you – The jangle of chains disrupted Runt’s words as Red, a burly Black guard, entered with shackles draped over his shoulders and heavy handcuffs held in his fingers.

You’re first, Runt, Corporal Jones said and swung Runt’s cell door wide. Step out of the cell.

Why don’t you just put them leg irons on us and let us have our hands? We couldn’t run off. That’s the main thing, Runt protested.

Army regulations, and there you go whinin’ again. Hold still. Jones stood a safe distance away as Red locked the shackles to Runt’s thin ankles and quickly snapped the clumsy cuffs to his wrists. Now, walk off over there while we do Eagleman and Nubin.

Runt stumbled toward the cell block door. I cain’t hardly walk.

You’ll get used to it before we get to San Antonio. Be there in a week. Jones turned toward Eagleman’s cell. You’re up, Eagleman. He opened the door.

Eagleman, a tall muscular Indian of unknown tribal background, sat sullenly on the edge of his cot. His gaze shot sparks of hatred toward the small corporal. It’s your turn, red man, Jones said and waited a few seconds. Don’t make me come in there and drag you out.

Try it, Eagleman said with no movement except for the heaving of his massive chest.

Jones pulled his service revolver from its cross-draw holster. The barrel trembled as the weapon cleared leather. I’ll cover him, Red. You want to get him out of there?

The guard Red stepped boldly into the cell with his other shackles still draped over his shoulders. He reached for Eagleman’s shirt.

With lightening speed Eagleman leaped atop his cot and seized a set of shackles. He whipped the heavy iron down on Red’s bald head. He dropped to his knees. Blood flew. The shackles came down again, and again. Jones stood stunned at the turn of events.

When Eagleman’s gaze rose to Jones, the corporal fired and missed. The hurled shackles caught him across the throat and dropped him to his back. Eagleman was on him. He twisted the revolver from Jones’ hand. It turned and fired directly into his face. Eagleman rose to full height and emptied the pistol into the squirming body of Red on the cell floor.

Runt crouched against the cell block door trembling. His chains rattled. Eagleman glanced his way as if to see if other guards were entering. Runt slid to the floor holding his hands before his face defensively.

Eagleman broke the thongs on Jones’ belt that held the cell keys. In three strides he reached Harvey Nubin’s cell and unlocked the door. Nubin emerged, wild-eyed. He said, Did Red have a gun?

No, Eagleman answered. You wanna take Runt with us?

Nubin glanced to Runt whose curled body blocked the exit. You want to go with us?

Runt’s trembling head could have been taken for a no. He squeaked, N…no. Eagleman grabbed him by the shirt. No, please, Eagleman, don’t hurt me.

Eagleman tossed Runt from the door like a feather. The fugitives disappeared as though they had never been there. Runt curled on the floor speechless, terrified that they would return. He was a witness. Where were the other jailers?

***

Alex crossed the Medina River bridge leading into Castroville and passed under a huge banner stretched between live oaks: Welcome to Castroville. The second line said: First Monday Market Days. The street bustled on this first Monday of November with cotton and produce wagons flooding the plazas. The sidewalks clomped with the footsteps of men, well-dressed women, and dozens of children, all white-skinned and bright-eyed. The younger ones held their mothers’ hands. Those ten years of age or over ran ahead despite the scolds of their parents. Dim flashes of memory refused to emerge. With almost certainty, Alex had spent his first seventeen years in this town. He glanced at the new shoes on the children’s feet. He couldn’t understand why that would make him feel jealous. His sturdy high topped riding boots showed trail dust but underneath they were superior to these simple sandals and patent leather oxfords. It must have to do with his upbringing.

He licked his dry lips. He had never received a new pair of sandals at harvest time. His mother had no cotton or vegetables to sell. She left him only a few words regarding his paternal parentage. After that he was alone in a world of turmoil for an orphan boy, perceived by the French and German populous as a Mexican street urchin who could serve their needs or starve. Mostly he had starved until Railo came along.

My God, how lucky I got when Bob Guthrie and the men killed Railo and freed me. He chuckled. Jarred me to my senses. Senses, maybe, but Alex had no idea where to start on his mission. One thing he knew for certain, if he couldn’t do it right, he would do it wrong. But not today.

He entered the log post office and approached the window. A short blond man wearing thick spectacles glanced up and asked if he could help.

Alex said, I want to leave my name for General Delivery mail. I’m new in town.

The man stared at Alex for a second. With a German accent he said, I’m sure I’ve seen you around town. Have you been gone and now you are returning?

Alex couldn’t recall ever seeing the man although logic would dictate that he had entered the post office at times. Ah, yes, that’s it. Working out of town. My name is Alexander Mentrier. I may get mail from the district court in San Antonio or from my friends at Fort Concho.

Mentrier, the postmaster pronounced the French syllables, Men-tree-aa, as he wrote. He added, I believe what’s left of the Mentrier family are located in D’Hanis, close to their farmland. We have no others registered here at the post office.

The man had answered Alex’s next question. I’m going over that way. He smiled. I’ll look them up.

The postmaster laid his pencil alongside his nose. I believe one of them runs a lodging house there on the main road. He seemed to expect some recognition of the man or the lodge.

Alex nodded. Good, I’ll need a place to stay. It’s easy to see that Castroville is full up tonight.

***

He turned his horses west for D’Hanis with a tingle of excitement and trepidation. His mother had spoken of the little town. He may have even been born there instead of Castroville. Both were part of Henry Castro’s colony. The difference bothered him. D’Hanis was near old Fort Lincoln where soldiers came to town to spend their money and seek out female companionship. Had his mother been a part of that scene, and how could she be sure that his biological father was the French settler and land owner, Felix Mentrier?

D’Hanis’ east-to-west street offered the only commerce. A few horses were tied