War Relic: A Western Story

By Mackey Murdock

A veteran of the Battle of Chancellorsville must come to terms with torments, both past and present, in this story by Western author Mackey Murdock.

“Bones” Malone earned his moniker collecting buffalo bones on the plains. Even in 1881 Bones is still haunted by his role in the war eighteen years earlier. Now his cousin, Wade, has started a big ranch in the area. Bones cannot escape the past, or the idea that he is the designated protector of the Malone family. He will have to reconcile his past and the conflicts of the present, including his relationships with Wade and his wife, Sassy—the woman Bones had once loved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blackstone Publishing
• Release date: May 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781470861735

Mackey Murdock

Mackey Murdock (1932–2012) grew up on a stock farm sandwiched between four of Texas’ larger ranches. In tune to the rhythm of horses, livestock, and the people who nurse them, his writing echoes that early beat. Later, he served in the Korean War, taught school, and spent thirty-three years in industrial management. Although Murdock crosses the line between fiction and nonfiction, the Southwest typically provides the setting for his work. Murdock was a member of the Dallas–Fort Worth Writers’ Workshop and an active member of the Western Writers of America.

Book preview

WAR RELIC

MACKEY MURDOCK

Copyright © 2007 by Mackey Murdock

E-book published in 2018 by Blackstone Publishing

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-4708-6173-5

Library e-book ISBN 978-1-4708-6172-8

Fiction / Westerns

CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

Blackstone Publishing

31 Mistletoe Rd.

Ashland, OR 97520

www.BlackstonePublishing.com

Chapter One

Wilbur Bones Malone pawned youthful vigor in search of honor during the earlier War Between the States. Today only a cool flicker shone from the charred wick of his once bright flame. Churning post-war dregs of shame and guilt had levied a toll. He slumped on the seat of his wagon, his thoughts the color of ash.

The wagon was loaded with bleached buffalo bones. Three years after the great slaughter, they were in demand as fertilizer. The guilt weighing on his shoulders stemmed from a feeling of having robbed Robert E. Lee of the Confederacy’s best chance for victory.

The war had taught him that arms and munitions trumped cotton and noble causes. In the years since, onerous longhorns, bad horses, and scandalous women clouded its memory. Cheap whiskey helped. The bones paid the bills.

He entertained little curiosity about what lay down the road and less inclination to get there. Still, he brought the team to a stop for their sake, not his own. Pulling the sand of the incline earned them a blow. He packed his pipe, lazily allowing his gaze to range.

The Colorado River lay to his right. To the left a herd of milling cows stirred dust near gleaming new rails. In the valley close to the river, he could see the upstart town of Sundown City, Texas. The prior year had brought the Texas and Pacific Railroad to the town—a forty-seventh birthday to Bones. The town thrived, enjoying its best days. Bones agonized through his worst. Rails end turned the dugout shanties on the riverbank into a bustling town.

He fired the pipe and clucked the team into their traces. The Studebaker moved dutifully down the rutted road parallel to the tracks. The favorable grade offset the wagon’s load of bones. The mules took the opportunity to direct wide-eyed attention at the cattle across the tracks.

One of the herd’s drovers, a withered little man in his fifties, raised his hat to shade his eyes. He turned his lathered horse toward Bones.

Wil Malone, you Mississippi-looking son-of-a-gun, is that you? What you doing out in this old short-grass country sitting on a pile of bones? Hey, boys, look who’s here. The drover waved to the nearest riders.

Bones pulled up the mules and took the proffered hand of the drover. Ee-God, Peaches, you gaining weight. Wouldn’t’ve known you. Lost again, I bet. Don’t you know y’all got that bunch four days west of the trail? He stuck his hand out to the two younger riders following Peaches. Juan, Jesse, good to see you. Peaches ain’t turned you boys to rustlers, has he? Everybody around here knows they ain’t no legal cows west of Buffalo Gap.

Peaches bit one string attached to his makings sack and pulled the other end tight with his right hand. With the bag shut, he shook it at Bones. Don’t worry none about them cows. They’re legal as a Sunday preacher in a pulpit. Problem is, the whole damn herd’s ornery as sin. Run four times since leaving Goliad, and now they balked fast at them damn tracks. There’s a story goes with them you’re gonna find interesting.

Be the first of yours I ever found interesting. Want a drink? Bones pulled a bottle from the bags of an old double-rigged saddle riding the sideboard.

Peaches shook off the drink, then scratched his head, eyeing the stubborn cows. The two cowboys followed his lead and waved away the offer of a drink.

Bones took a long swig. The whiskey brought a sigh.

Wil, you was always part cow. What you think? How’s best to get this bunch across them tracks? We’ve tried crowding them, and they jest double back on us. Ain’t got feed, and they’re too dumb to follow it, nohow. Guess we could just cover the whole damn roadbed with dirt, and let them mill around till they’re used to it. Juan and Jesse roped two and drug them across. Darned if the brutes didn’t beat the boys back to this side. Guess I’m gonna have to take down my flag as a drover and get me a job swamping saloons. Maybe I could give you a hand fighting scorpions off them old buffalo remains.

Well, everybody’s gotta move up sometime, but ’fore you do, why don’t you try letting Jesse and Juan rope a couple of them babies. If they’ll heel them and drag them across where they’re making lots of noise, that whole bunch will most likely chouse right along.

A sheepish expression appeared on Peaches’ face as the practicality of the suggestion soaked in. The ramrod nodded at the two cowpunchers, and, in less than a minute both had a calf roped by its hind legs and dragging, tail-first, at the end of their ropes. At the first bawl of panic every cow in hearing responded and moved toward them. Peaches’ small frame seemed to shrink as he ducked his chin and wagged his head.

For once compassion outweighed Bone’s devilment. Come on, Peaches, you buy me a drink every time you see me, I ain’t gonna tell a soul about this. Me an’ old Sam Reed spent two days trying to get a herd to take to the Cimarron back in 1876 ’fore we thought of that little trick. What’s supposed to interest me about that bunch?

Fellow that owns them said he’s a cousin of yours. Said his name’s Wade Malone, and he’s from Mississippi. See the dollar sign branded high on that left hip. That stands for the Crooked Letter I Ranch. Passing on the range gossip appeared to aid Peaches’ spirits. I mentioned your name, saying we rode with Hood together, and he says he’s your cousin. He must have asked me a hundert questions ’bout you, but his missus asked more. I couldn’t help them much. Told them last I saw of you was six year ago, in 1875, when you left Doan’s Crossing with Sam Bass and that herd heading toward Dodge.

Bones turned his face from Peaches and looked in the direction of the last of the herd crossing the rails. He didn’t see the cattle, but instead, from the reaches of his memory, a beautiful girl beckoned, held her arms open, and her laughter rang in his ears. It didn’t surprise him that after over twenty years a tingle of anticipation accompanied the mere thought of her. Squinting at the new brand, a faint smile battled the scowl on his face. The burn had Wade Malone’s flair written all over it. He turned back to Peaches.

How’d Irene look?

Irene? Is that Missus Malone? He called her Sassy.

That’s her.

She looked fit. Yeah, I’d say more’n fit. After me and Wade made our deal, she took me aside, took this old hand in hers, and tells me how great it were for her to meet up with someone who rid with you. Called you her cavalier. Peaches’ eyes twinkled with amusement.

Bones refused Peaches’ bait and gestured toward the herd. Is Wade trading with this bunch or is he stocking a place?

He’s building up a ranch five days north of here, on the Double Mountain Fork of the Brazos. We’re taking this bunch to him. Said he’d hire us on regular if we got there without losing more’n seven out of a hundert. He may not want us, though, ’cause we lost a passel that last run, over by deep creek. If he wants us, reckon I’ll stay. Want I should tell him anything for you?

Yeah, tell him I’m freighting down here, an’ I’ll be up that way in a few weeks.

Peaches leaned down with crossed arms resting on his saddle horn and looked steadily at him. Wil, you still get them old bad nightmares?

Not often, Bones lied. It’s been good seeing you.

The drover reined his horse away. Same here, and, Wil, another thing. Them kin of yours got a grown boy they call Ruben … and Wade’s talking barbed wire.

Bones watched as the herd moved away. They were mostly good young cows with calves at their side. A few yearlings were mixed making up a herd of what looked to be about 900. They seemed anxious to leave the tracks behind.

Thought of barbed wire brought a frown, then Bones wondered about the age of the boy named Ruben. He clucked the two mules into movement. A long-legged bird, mottled gray and black, swooped up and perched on the wagon’s tailgate. The bird had joined the man on his second trip, months earlier. Collecting the bleached buffalo bones from the recent slaughter served their common interest. Demand back East for fertilizer drove a healthy price for the bones. The roadrunner’s interest centered on unearthed insects during their gathering. A wagon free of scorpions and other crawly things made it a welcome guest. The freighter didn’t bother it, and since, unlike the mules Pete and Barney, it didn’t sing or bray, its company was tolerated.

The chaparral sat erect, alert, and apparently immune to heat or dust. Contrarily Bones slumped and dozed. Sweat darkened his shirt beneath each armpit. His appearance reflected the features of the land, wrinkled and lonely. A V-shaped notch from a Yankee saber decorated his right ear. His forehead wore wrinkles beneath a high-crowned, tattered hat that shaded a hawklike nose. Loose-fitting clothes covered his six-foot, angular frame. Calm on the surface, only the grimness around his mouth hinted at the volcanic turmoil he bore inside.

Bones stirred. Entering town, the wagon rolled down a steep incline and sand rode upward on the wheel’s rim. The bird took flight from the end gate and hit the ground running. The team followed their shadows past unpainted storefronts, driving small puffs of dust from beneath each hoof. A shaded image of Bones, high atop the load, snaked above them.

The roadbed pointed toward a new two-story hotel and the rolling hills beyond rail’s end. To the left, along the tracks, a huge pile of bones awaited loading onto freight cars. Men milled about a loaded wagon. A red sow, with four trailing piglets, trotted across the road.

Bones raised his gaze from street to the buildings, then lifted a finger in greeting to Old Man Quinley. The banker stood in front of his business, his thumbs hooked in his vest and sunlight glinting off a watch chain looped across his generous girth. Like everyone within 100 miles, Bones owed the banker money, so it was Mr. Quinley across the banker’s desk and Old Man Quinley to his back.

He traveled another block and pulled the wagon to a halt at the bone pile. He walked the spokes of the left wheel down, then stepped to the dirt.

The biggest thing about the man coming toward him was the smile on his face. Hey, Bones, what is this? Three loads in ten days?

Bones wiped his forehead with an arm sleeve. Guess so, A. J. Gonna be another hot one, huh?

A. J. walked around the wagon and felt of the bones. Damnations! Where’d you get them things … bottom of the Colorado? I know you boys wet them down, but this is too damn much. Gonna have to dock you about four-bits.

What does that leave?

Twelve dollars a ton, same as last. How’s the pickings out there?

Bones rolled the numbers in his head and figured twelve dollars a ton rounded to about ten dollars for the load. Getting scarce as hen’s teeth.

Times are changing, getting plumb civilized. Buffalo all gone, railroad in town, and I heard yesterday they killed that runt, Billy Bonney, over in New Mexico. Just weigh her out and push them off, Bones. Maybe I’ll see you over at Charley’s later for a drink. A. J. patted the dun mule, then kicked at two dogs squared off and snarling at each other.

Later, Bones left his rig in the wagon yard and released the team in the livery stomp lot. He threw them some hay, and the liveryman promised to grain them later in the day. He headed for the Sally Good ’Un Café. Far as he could tell, West Texas lacked most of the civilized world’s comforts, but Bones took luxury where he found it. Next to corn whiskey, store-bought victuals best suited his taste.

Rumor said Sally had worked the dance halls before extra weight and bad feet had forced her to respectability. He never knew her in the dance halls, but he was in love with her cooking. He made short work of the meal, mentioned his belt was growing shorter with her cooking, and headed for the Sea Breeze Saloon. They said every fool had his day, and he figured the rest of this one was his.

He crossed the street and stepped carefully around horse droppings that indicated a good crowd had been at the Sea Breeze last night. It seemed to Bones only Charley Lonzo could get by putting such a moniker on a place 600 miles from the nearest puddle of water. The barkeeper had spent eight years on a cattle boat between New Orleans and Galveston.

Although opposites, Bones accepted his friendship. The ex-sailor leaned to outgoing and friendly when sober, surly and mean when drunk. Since Charley didn’t drink often on his side of the bar, they mostly caught each other in friendly moods.

Inside the batwing doors, he stopped a moment, blinking the sunlight from his eyes. How you expect a gentleman to keep his boots clean with all that stuff piling up out there? he asked.

From behind the bar, Charley studied the end of a wooden match he had whittled to a fine point, then went to work with it on his left molars. He looked at Bones’ boots as they closed from across the room. Don’t guess I know any genteel men, and any Injun will tell you them horse apples soften leather. How you been?

Somewhere between tolerable and turrible. Speaking of gentlemen, I saw Old Man Quinley standing on the walk checking his collateral when we came down the street. Anything behind the mahogany that ain’t on sale?

Charley hoisted a bottle from behind the bar. We … who was with you? He filled two shot glasses.

Me and the mules. Uneasiness crept into Bones’ voice. You ain’t gonna be drinking today?

Just a morning toddy to get me past your peevish ways.

They tossed off their drinks in silence. Charley poured Bones another and went back to his picking. Bones studied the flimsy material draped around the shoulders of the painted lady in the picture behind the bar. He could never understand why the artist had done that. He threw down the second drink and grimaced. Stuff’s shore got a rank taste, don’t it? He looked back at the picture. Must have been a Methodist.

Who?

The fool that draped that cloth across her front. Bones struck a match with his thumbnail and puffed his pipe to life. You always so lonesome here this time of morning? He studied his companion fencing with the tooth and poured another drink. Almost got et by a mad wolf yesterday, and it on my birthday, too.

Probably would’ve only et one bite. What happened?

Tried to jump out and bushwhack me from a bone pile. Fell, or he’d’ve got me shore.

It’s bad this year. Everything around is going rabid. Fellow from Champion Creek said he killed two polecats had it. Say they get scared of water.

That’s another Methodist thing.

Chapter Two

Bones sat with glass and bottle at one of Charley’s rear tables. He shifted the Remington .36-caliber revolver, resting in a cross-draw position on his left hip, out of the way and leaned with his back to the wall. A grease-smeared deck of cards had tempted him into a game of solitaire. Sounds of Charley rummaging around in the lean-to behind the saloon joined those of the cards slapping the table.

Three men entered, stopped just inside the door, and inspected the room carefully before sauntering to the bar. The youngest of the trio wore clinking, jinglebob spurs. Bones noticed one toted a carbine, another a shotgun, then returned again to his card game. Long guns indoors, even in Charley’s, seemed out of place. He looked again and saw no law badges. Six-shooters swung at the side of each. Jingle Bob appeared to be in his late twenties. The other two pushed forty.

Where’s the bar dog, old-timer, the youngest asked.

Around back … he’ll catch you directly, Bones replied.

The younger man snorted and started around the bar. He was stopped by his companion’s arm. Hang on, Allen, we ain’t in no hurry. We don’t need much of this rotgut today, no way.

Charley entered and interrupted his whistling to ask: What’ll it be, boys?

Whiskey, if it don’t wiggle too much, said the tallest of the three, holding up three fingers. You got a train coming in today?

Supposed to have one about three this afternoon. Meeting somebody? Charley asked.

Yeah. A hoss busted up one of the boys over Baird way. Doc said he ought to be able to load him on the westbound by today. We got a buggy for him, outside. Our pack train’s a hard day north of here, heading to Santa Fe. I’m Lathum Ferrell … this here’s Allen, and that’s Raymond.

Charley nodded. Charley Lonzo. Old baggy britches over there is Bones Malone.

The youngest of the men, the one called Allen, looked at Bones. How about it, old-timer? Looks like we got some time to kill. How about you an me getting up a little game of five-card draw?

Bones waved him to the empty seat. Only to pass the time, son. It’s a two-bit limit. Out of sight, under the table, he loosened the Remington in its holster. He still didn’t have this bunch figured, but they seemed overly loose-mouthed about their business. If they were muleskinners, he was a goat’s uncle. How about it, gents, want in? He looked at Ferrell and Raymond.

Charley sent him a look of wariness. The ex-sailor had a cautious side.

Allen swung his leg over the back of a chair and seated himself. Ain’t your son, old man, he said coldly.

The other two seated themselves. Charley brought chips, and they all bought in for five dollars. The game continued through the next couple of hours. A light breeze drifted through the windows, warming the interior while outside flies migrated to the growing shade.

Earlier, Charley had given up his toothpick for a rag, and now surrendered that for a fly swatter. Seemed to Bones, his friend enjoyed the killing more than the wiping. The three strangers were down to the last of their bottle when the sound of the train whistle prompted them to cash in. Bones was a dollar ahead.

Allen exchanged his last two chips, stuffed the coin in his pocket, picked up the shotgun, and walked past Bones with the end of the barrel pointed in his direction. Don’t get too friendly with that dollar, old man. I’ll want it back ’fore long.

You go to hell, sonny, Bones whispered loud enough for all to hear.

Allen grinned crookedly as he followed the other two out.

Bones placed the pistol on his lap, while watching both the door