CHAPTER XX

TAKING TOLL

UNTIL now Jim Nabours, Texan native born and, barring his travels under General Kirby Smith, of small experience abroad, had been in the habit of regarding his own horizon as sufficient. He had yet to learn a thing or two to show him how swiftly customs were changing in the Lone Star State. In a general way he had heard of “river improvements,” paid for in Texas land scrip, but as to details in that new and pleasing form of plunder he had little knowledge and no concern.

Neither had he ever heard of cattle inspecting—yet another form of graft devised in Austin, where more was known or foreseen of the coming cattle hegira than anywhere else in Texas. Furthest of all now from his suspicions was the fact that a gentleman by name of Jameson, well accredited in the current administration, combined in his person the duties of president of a certain “Land and Improvement Company” and of State Cattle Inspector as well; and that this same Jameson that spring was engaged with a small party of his own on a wilderness trip, scouting up and down the Red, in search of towhead snags that might be pulled, or of passing cattle that might be inspected, to the glory of God, as the first Spanish improvers and inspectors of that country once would have phrased it. Commerce sometimes becomes religion, as religion sometimes becomes war.

There always lacked explicitness in the story of the Del Sol crossing of the Red River. Jameson—owner of fat contracts in river improvements and cattle inspector by the grace of the carpetbag imperator at Austin—could bring no imposing narrative of himself and his deeds in connection with the advent of this apparition of thousands of wild long-horned kine, handled by a concourse of wild men, which one day broke out of the blackjacks near his camp. That was the Del Sol herd; but Jameson, being only a cattle inspector, could not be supposed to notice the T.L. and Fishhook brand.

It was Nabours himself, riding ahead to scout the approach to the high south bank, who had stumbled across the new camp of the inspector and his men.

“How, friend?” the herd foreman saluted. Jameson came forward.

“Which way?”

“North”—succinctly.

“North? Across the river? That’s the Indian country.”

Nabours grinned.

“Shore it is.”

“North? But who are you?”

“Sincet you ask me, friend, I’m foreman of the Fishhook, four thousand head, bound for Aberlene, wherever in hell that is. You ever done hear tell of the old Chisholm road?”

“The Chisholm Trail? Why, that’s away in east. He crossed either at Colbert’s or at the Red Station—the Station’s usual. You’re off your road forty or fifty miles.”

“Am I?” said Jim Nabours innocently. “Sho! That’s too bad! Well, maybe we can sort of cut in on the trail north of here somewheres, huh? I got a high-trained old oxen, name of Alamo, a old mossy horn raised by General Santy Anny, and he allows we cross in here somewheres. He knows where at’s Aberlene. Do you?”

Jameson frowned at levity. Then suddenly his chest swelled.

“Well, lucky enough you happened to hit my camp,” said he. “You broke in west, here, to escape the law!”

“Law? What law?”

“Well, you’re trying to move cows across the Red, off the soil of Texas, and not have the herd inspected.”

“Inspected? We done inspected ’em several times. They’re all right.”

“You know perfectly well what I mean. The law provides a fee for the proper inspection of all cattle moving off their own range—checking up and recording the brands, looking to see they’re all in the same road brand, accounting for strays, and so forth. Looks to me like you are trying to evade the fees. Well, I’m the state inspector for this district.”

“That so? You aim to collect something?”

“Yes, certainly. I’ve got to look over your herd before you cross; that’s my duty. I may have to turn you downstream, to the regular crossing. You don’t belong in here, and you know it. Where’s your herd?”

“Back below the blackjacks, on the Elm,” responded Nabours promptly, a gleam in his gray eye that the other did not note. “How’d it do for you to ride back with me and have a look at our outfit where the herd is made?”

Jameson turned back to his own men, a half dozen ague-smitten whites, and ordered his horse brought up. When he mounted to ride south with the innocent stranger of the trail he made one of the capital errors of his career in the new country of Texas, and one which he never saw fit to describe in full to his chief, Rudabaugh, when at last he had reached the latter in his own camp.

In a more open valley they came in sight of the great T.L. herd, scattered over two miles of country, grazing or lying at rest. A dozen riders lolled, leg over saddle horn, themselves a-doze, waiting for the foreman’s return.

“Ain’t it purty?” said Nabours, the real cowman’s love of cows in his speech. And it was a noble sight, this wild picture in a wild land. Any way one looked there was no edge to the world.

But Jameson was more businesslike.

“Well, now,” said he, “it is a good bunch. How many did you say you had?”

“Thirty-eight hunderd and sixty-five, we made our last tally,” answered the T.L. foreman, the glint again in his eye. “Why?”

“Well, now, I never want to make bother for a good cowman,” Jameson answered. “It’s true you’re off your course, but maybe that’s natural. I’ll just take your own count and let you go. You can pay me the fee and I’ll not bother you any more at all.”

“Won’t even ride in amongst the herd to look at the brands, nor nothing?”

“Why, no! What’s the use? I can trust men like you. Just pay me the fee and let her rip.”

“And how much is the fee, Mister Inspector?”

“Nothing at all, you might say—two bits a head. Taking your own count—let’s see; call it thirty-six hundred head for easy figuring. Divide her by four. Nine’s a nine and naught’s a naught—she comes to nine hundred dollars. Ought to be a cold thousand; but as I said, that’s nothing amongst men like us. Give me that and I’ll let you go and never take another look. I’ll trust a man like you.”

Jim Nabours had played in many a game where one does not display his emotions. He set his face now, almost suppressing the dull red that took over the gray glint of his eye. The sum of nine hundred dollars was the same as nine million to him. There was not a hundred dollars, even of Mexican make, in all the convoy, and he knew that.

“Like you say, that’s little enough,” said he. “Two bits a throw ain’t worth talking over, not amongst men like us. But just for sake of friendship, let’s ride on over to our wagon and have a cup of coffee—you orto see how pore it is.”

He spoke with a finality hard to evade. The other rode alongside. A quarter of a mile, and Nabours threw up his hand. Del Williams swung away from his stand and came up at a gallop. Nabours had loosed his rope.

“Del,” said he, “this is Mr.—I dunno.”

“Jameson; Henry D. Jameson, of Austin, gentlemen.”

“And he says he’s the cattle inspector on the Red. It costs us two bits a head to cross the river, Del. It ain’t much, only nine hunderd dollars. And so——”

“Nine hun——” But Del Williams did not finish.

The rope which Jim Nabours idly had uncoiled suddenly shot out behind him with a quick side flirt. It settled fair around the neck of Henry D. Jameson, the first cattle inspector Texas ever knew. The next instant the aforesaid Henry D. Jameson was out of his saddle, his hands clawing grass as he slid along the ground, choking very rapidly. Del Williams on chance laid his own rope on the neck of the Jameson horse, which seemed a good one.

“You damn thief! You low-down, lying son of a ’niquity, you!” The wrath of Jim Nabours, smoldering a half hour, now flamed. His tongue waxed unprintable while in two composite languages of the Southwest he cursed Henry D. Jameson till his own face was as red as that of his victim was empurpled. Del Williams, gun in hand, followed close, his cue obvious.

“Git up, damn you!” at length croaked the foreman. “You stand up! You’ll charge Texas men for wetting their girths in a Texas river, will you? Pay you nine hunderd dollars? We’ll see you and all Austin in hell before we’ll pay you a damned cent. Come on now quiet, or we’ll leave you plumb quiet. Come along! It’s lucky we ain’t got no fire lit or I’d run a Fishhook on you for luck.”

“Don’t shoot him, Del. But what’ll we do with this, now we got it?”

The men on guard saw the sudden commotion. A half dozen came, jerking up, ropes a-swing, eager. A vast Cossack laughter rose when Nabours explained.

“Prop up a cart tongue!” called Len Hersey.

But the victim now noted the sudden apparition of a slender figure astride a singular white-hipped horse, coming up at a gallop.

“What’s this, men?” demanded Taisie. “What are you doing there?”

“Ma’am,” said Jim Nabours, now more calm, “we ain’t doing nothing much. We’re just going to hang a damned thief that wants to colleck two bits a head on our cows for swimming the Red River.”

“But what—but why?” Taisie’s own brow puckered.

Jameson found speech, even in his surprise, for now he saw this was no slender boy at all.

“Madam,” said he, a noose lying on his shoulder and one hand at it, “these men have resisted the law. I am the lawful inspector for this district. I have come here in the pursuit of my duty.”

“You’ve got a dangerous duty,” said Taisie Lockhart straitly. Her own soul was Texan. “Inspect us, charge us—for what?”

Jameson tried to explain.

“Shut up! We’re wasting time!” broke in Nabours, jerking the rope. “We ain’t got nine hunderd dollars; and if we had we wouldn’t give you nor no man a copper cent to ride this range ary way we like.

“What’ll we do with him, boys?” He turned again to his men. “Ef we let him go he may start something. Hyenuses runs in bunches. What’ll we do?”

“That’s a question!” scoffed Dalhart. Len Hersey again named the wagon tongue; but Taisie Lockhart raised a hand.

“No!” she called. “No! Wait!”

“We can’t wait, ma’am,” said Nabours. “We’re wasting time. The Red’s running full now and maybe raising every hour for all we know. We can’t wait here.”

“Then—tie him and leave him!” suddenly spoke the saddle Portia. “Leave him here—his friends may find him.”

“Aw, hell!” said a voice. It was that of Cinquo Centavos, the horse herd. Nabours turned to him.

“Sinker, go get a couple of hobbles.” The boy rode off.

“What are you going to do to me?” began Jameson. “I warn you——”

“Don’t warn us none!” rejoined Nabours. “Ef you do we’ll kill you. Keep your mouth shut! The girl’s the only thing saved you.”

“Yon’s a nice cactus stand, boys,” he resumed, his face relaxing as he looked around. “Hog-tie him and throw him in the cactus, deep as you can. Ef he tries to get out plug him.

“That’s yore sentence, Mister Cow Inspector, and it looks like God has had mercy on yore soul. Ef you get out don’t try charging no more Texas men for riding over the free lands. They won’t have it. Quick, boys! Don’t waste no more time.”

Portia rode away, not knowing exactly how far her authority really would go with her wild crew. As she passed, her ears were assailed with the supplications of Henry D. Jameson, bound hand and foot and exceedingly full of cactus spines.

Whereby may be seen the very natural reason for his enmity and his desire for revenge when he was found the next day by his own men. He voiced the same emotions, though he did not give full details, when he joined the freebooter camp of Rudabaugh, far to the east, when later he had found those friends.