In the Beginning, Part 2
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Favor dismounted, alert to any sounds. Picking up Buck's dangling reins he tied Nolan's mount and his own to a low hanging branch. Drawing his Colt from the holster, he thumbed the hammer back.
"Pete?" he called again, more insistently; again, no answer. Favor ventured deeper into the trees, following obvious signs of a struggle, pistol level and ready.
On the ground at the foot of a scrub oak laid Nolan, unmoving, his clothing covered in yellow caliche and blood and with a rope noose pulled snug against his throat.
Gil slid the Colt away and knelt at Pete's side. The first thing, after checking to be certain Nolan was breathing, was to loosen the noose and slide it, gently, over Pete's head.
Favor left the injured man where he lay and hurried back to the horses. Lifting his canteen he uncorked the top and took a long swallow. Whiskey would've been better at chasing down the bile. After seeing so much in war, so much of man's inhumanity to man, Gil never figured to be sickened by it again. He was wrong.
Back at Nolan's side, he wet his kerchief and patted the cool, water-soaked cloth lightly against the battered face. At his touch Pete started to come around and Gil offered him a drink. He took it and it seemed to help. Nolan blinked his eyes open, staring groggily up at Favor.
"No need to ask who did this. I'd say you asked for it, the line a work you're in. Comin' out here alone wasn't so bright either," Gil added, aware he was preaching, but not caring.
"You ain't my superior officer any more, Favor," Nolan gritted out. "Save your sermons for somebody who cares."
Gil rocked back, stoppered the canteen and got to his feet. "If I didn't know you better, I'd think you got yourself into this on purpose. I'll be back with a wagon since you're in no shape to ride a horse. Try not to move any. And Pete, just sos you know…not carin' whether you live or die…that's nothin' new to me."
"Hey, lookit here, Joe! Somebody tied a perfectly good horse to this here branch and just left it! A nice buckskin, too!"
Jim Quince rode into the small clearing. Unlike Gil Favor, he felt no foreboding and little wonder at why someone would leave so fine an animal. But then, for better or worse, he'd been reinforced by the pint he'd been sucking at since leaving town. Not drunk, not by a long shot, he was just well-oiled.
Joe Scarlet broke through the scrub and took in the situation, shaking his head slowly at his friend's wishful thinking. "Why don't be foolish, Jim. The owner's gotta be around here; maybe taking a siesta or somethin'. Would you leave a fine animal like that? Why, he's probably got a bead on us right now!"
Quince ducked low in the saddle while his hand snaked down to the pistol on his hip. His head swiveled about on his shoulders like an owl's, his small beady eyes alert now to any movement, any out-of-the-ordinary noises. "Ya think so, Joe?" he whispered.
"I think so." Joe climbed down from the saddle and cast about like a bloodhound on a trail. Like Favor, he found the signs of the struggle easy to follow – broken off branches, wallows in the dirt, drag marks, and he followed them. "There's a fella over here! Looks mighty bad off!"
The two cowboys knelt at the man's side, their expressions of disgust at the beaten, broken man, mirror images. "Who you suppose it is?" Jim asked.
Joe shrugged. "You tell me."
At the sound of the voices the man opened one eye – the other now swollen completely shut. "Quince…Scarlet," he murmured from between split lips. "It's Nolan…Pete Nolan."
The mirrored looks now expressed shock. "Pete Nolan from down Bastrop way? From the Rockin' K? That Pete Nolan?" Quince asked, still doubtful of the man's identity since even Nolan's own ma wouldn't have recognized him in his current condition. Quince shook his head, but the whiskey-induced cobwebs remained firmly anchored.
Nolan nodded.
"Why we ain't seen you since we split up off the Rockin' K to go to war! What the hell happened here, Pete? Who done this to ya?"
If Quince was all for answers then Scarlet was all for help. "I'll ride to town and get a doctor," but Nolan's hand on his wrist stopped him.
"No. Favor's comin' back… bringin' a wagon." It was all Pete managed before his strength failed and he slipped into unconsciousness.
"We'll just wait for the boss to show up then," Scarlet reckoned. "We best be wary, Jim. Don't know that the jaspers who done this won't be comin' back to finish the job."
Quince agreed. "You take first watch. I'll make ole Pete comfortable as I can till Mr. Favor gets here."
When Gil arrived with the wagon and his cook/medical man in tow, he was surprised to see Joe Scarlet guarding the road in front of the small clearing, Henry rifle in hand. The big cowboy nodded a greeting.
Favor was even more surprised to see how Jim Quince had gotten a camp set up in the short time since he'd left to get help. A brisk fire burned hotly, coffee was on the boil and Pete was being tended as best a man could with so little to work with. A bedroll supported his head and a blanket was tucked in around the lean body. Obviously Quince had been at work on the battered face as much of the blood had been washed away, though to Gil that left only the bare unvarnished damage three pairs of fists could work on flesh and bone.
Lifting Nolan's hands, one at a time, Gil checked them over for bruising or knuckle damage. For a man in a fight for his life, there was little or no bruising and hardly a skinned knuckle; not what he expected from a hard scrappy fighter like Pete Nolan. Gil was mystified.
"Outta the way; outta the way." George Washington Wishbone shoved past the curious Jim Quince on the way to his patient.
Fiftyish, small and balding with bright blue eyes and an intelligent if glowering expression, Wishbone as he preferred to be called or just Wish for short, a former mountain man and damned proud of it, was impatient, irascible and about as knowledgeable as most physicians when it came to doctoring, although he lacked formal education. Wishbone's knowledge came from on-the-job training. He was also a fair to passable cook, though he'd say he was great and there were times he'd be correct. A trail drive moved on the contented stomachs of not only the cattle, but the men.
Wishbone knelt at Nolan's side. "What a mess," he grumbled as he went about examining the patient. "What a gawd-awful mess!" Noticing the amount of blood soaking into the makeshift 'pillow' beneath the patient's head, Wishbone called to Favor for assistance.
With Gil holding Nolan up against his shoulder, it was a piece of cake for Wishbone to locate the blood's source. "There's a deep gouge through the hair runnin' left to right; I'd say from a bullet."
Wishbone looked up at Quince. "How come you missed this?"
Jim Quince hemmed and hawed. "Well," he said, kicking at a clump of dirt he suddenly found most intriguing, "I figured it best not to move ole Pete around too much. Figured the less he got handled…well, you know."
Quince, still somewhat under the influence, was innocent of the fact his breath revealed his up close and personal dalliance with a certain whiskey bottle.
Wishbone wrinkled his nose. "You got a breath on you like a hot mince pie! It's a wonder to me how you got anything done around here!"
Gil carefully laid Nolan back on the pallet, this time on his side so Wish would have easy access to the head wound. "I missed it too Wishbone and I ain't been drinkin'."
Then, as if speaking to himself, Favor pondered aloud, "That's why he didn't put up a fight. The bastards shot him outta the saddle, then beat hell out of him. Hanging woulda been next. Must be they heard me comin' and broke it off. I never did know a backshooter with any guts."
"Who'd have it in for Pete anyhow?" Quince asked between deep drags on a cigarette.
Gil focused his attention on the smoke-enveloped Quince. "How do you know Pete?"
"We, me and Joe here, we worked the same ranch together, back before the war. Spent two, maybe three years at the Rockin' K. Ole Pete's a good cowhand," Jim replied.
"A good friend, too," Scarlet added solemnly. "Who'd do this to him?"
"He turned bounty hunter and when a man chooses a certain way to make a livin', trouble always follows. Nolan took a man in for murder. His brothers didn't like the idea. Was them who did this." Favor replied.
"NO! I ain't believin' Pete turned no bounty hunter! Why bounty huntin's a low job and Pete Nolan ain't no low fella!" Scarlet shook his head vehemently.
Jim Quince agreed. "Not ole Pete," he swore, placing yet another quirly to his lips and a match to the quirly.
"I knew Pete in the war and I believed the same as you, but he as much as told me so himself. War changes men and that's a fact." Gil said.
"War does change a man and that's true," Joe agreed. "But I'll never believe Pete Nolan turned bounty hunter."
Wishbone interrupted the rather intense discussion with an update on the patient's condition. "Well, the stitches are in and the bleedin's stopped." Wish sighed deeply. "I surely do hate doctorin' busted heads. You can't see inside to figure out exactly what's hurt and how bad. A man just never does know how the patient's gonna react. Some live. Some die," he stated matter-of-factly.
Gil Favor cocked one eyebrow. "So, you tellin' me Pete's gonna live or what?"
Wishbone put on an offended expression. "You're mighty well told he's gonna live! G.W. Wishbone is almost as good at doctorin' as he is at cookin'!"
"Well, since I ain't ate none a your cookin' yet, I guess your doctorin' skills just have to go on faith," Favor replied.
Wishbone quickly changed the subject as he began cleaning up the mess he'd made, murmuring under his breath, but plenty loud enough for Favor to hear,
"I need me a good cook's louse. Somebody to do all this menial labor! A man a my skills shouldn't be wastin' valuable time on such tasks as these!"
Gil figured on how Wishbone was right. He'd keep his eye out for a suitable louse; a man big enough to do the hard lifting and carrying for the diminutive cook, but with little desire to do anything but the job at hand. In other words, a man with no motivation, scant schooling yet intelligent enough to take orders yet affable and easy to get along with. Favor thought on how filling that position might be more difficult than he imagined. So far, a lot about trail bossing was more difficult than he imaged. Just getting the trail drive started seemed a goal fast slipping from his reach.
"When can we move him?" Gil inquired of Wishbone. What he got was a scowl.
"He's lost more blood than any livin' man has a right to and you wanna know when he can be moved?" Wish shook his head and Favor began counting lost days.
"How's tomorrow morning, first light? I can pad the wagon bed with plenty a spare blankets. He should be fine."
Gil smiled, "Sounds good to me."
Rowdy Yates, 21 years old, tall, gangly, good-looking and possessed of only two things worth mentioning – his good reputation and a decent set of tack, horse included. Nothing else he owned amounted to much more than a plug nickel, but that was okay with Rowdy. Veteran of the late war, he was a young man with itchy feet and a need to push on, always on and never look back. Back was scratching out a living on a shoddy bit of dust-blown Texas nobody else had any want of with an absent drunk for a father and a work-worn Mother, old and faded before her time. The least he could do, this child of tough times, was to make life more bearable for her with cash sent home from a regular pay check. Ramrod on a cattle drive provided that and a bit more. Rowdy took the job Gil Favor offered. He took it not just for the money, but because of Favor himself. Here was a man to emulate. Too young to be a true father figure, Gil Favor was just the type of person from whom Rowdy could learn much.
With the boss off in town yet again, this time searching out a decent cook's louse for Wishbone, Rowdy was beset with difficulties. Mostly it was the need for more drovers. They were still several short and time running out for the drive to begin. When three men rode up, with their own horses, rifles, bedrolls and lariats, and looking for work, Rowdy heaved a huge sigh of relief. The three were hired on the spot, few questions asked. It was the first mistake of Rowdy Yates' budding career as a ramrod. It wouldn't be his last.
Instead of following the ramrod's orders to help with rounding up the last of the beeves to be branded, the three brothers headed to the chuck wagon to see if they could scrounge up some eats from the cook. Unbeknownst to them, they'd soon be butting heads with Wishbone – an immoveable object if ever there was one.
No one was around when the three rode into camp. Of the two wagons, the one nearest the fire seemed their best bet of grabbing some grub before heading off to finally follow orders. The eldest, Jackson, slipped down from his mount and went about poking his nose into the sacrosanctity of the chuck wagon. His reward was a sack of jerky and a handful of hardtack – he thought.
"What the hell you think yer doin' goin' through MY chuck wagon?" The cook appeared from behind a slight ridge, wild onions dangling from one hand, a Colt pistol gripped in the other, cocked, aimed and ready.
"Ramrod said we could get some grub 'fore we started the job. We ain't ate since yesterday!" Jackson lied, at least about Rowdy.
Wishbone eyed the three suspiciously. Having never seen them before he figured they might well be murderers on the run from the law. He dropped the onions on the tailgate of the wagon, never letting down his guard, or his weapon. "Ramrod, huh? He hire you?"
"Yeah – rangy kid on a bay horse…Rowdy. He hired us just today!" Jackson looked smug.
"Well, you just take yourselves outta here 'cause unless Mr. Favor hired you, you ain't hired!" With a sharp nod of the head Wishbone punctuated the sentence.
"We'll just see about that, old man!" Jackson replied, swinging up onto the back of his horse, food still in hand. "We'll just see!"
"Yeah, guess we'll do that, but 'till then, you toss that jerky right on over here. The hardtack you can keep; it's got weevils in it anyhow!" Wish smiled at the look of disgust on the man's face as he dropped the bug-infested bread to the ground.
"We'll be back, old man," Jackson promised. "And then you'll eat yer words." Jerking his horse's head around hard, he kicked the gelding in the ribs and tore off.
"I might be eatin' my words, you big-mouthed gas bag, but that's more than you'll ever get to eat around here!" Wishbone muttered as the three tore out of camp.
"Jack! Jackson! Hold up a minute! I gotta tell ya somethin'!" While Jackson and middle sibling Bill were occupied with the cook, Jeremy had snooped around camp. In the back of the second wagon, the one hold holding tack and such, he'd seen something through the opened flaps that was pretty darned important.
"Nolan's in that camp! I saw him! In the supply wagon. Didn't look none too good, but sure enough looked alive, though!"
Jack turned to glare at his brother. "You certain sure it was Nolan and not some cowboy busted up on the job?"
Not having thought about that, Jeremy shrugged. "Now you mention it…I ain't so sure. Busted up is busted up. All's I really saw was dark curly hair. Guess that don't make a fella Nolan."
"Damned right, it don't, but…if there's any doubt at all…we gotta get back in ta that camp and see. Iffen Nolan lives he'll identify us and he turned Jimmy into the law. When Jimmy hangs it'll be just like Nolan put the noose around his neck with his own hands. We got two reasons to get that bastard…and we'll get him.
The new cook's louse, one Mushy Mushgrove, was exactly what Gil Favor had hoped to find – big, affable and not terribly bright, though Favor would discover and happily that the big kid possessed a great deal of heart, loyalty and even common sense. Mushy's first friend at his new job wasn't even a member of the drive.
"My name's Mushy," he said, smiling broadly as he held the coffee cup to the lips of the battered, bandaged man in the back of the supply wagon. "I'm pleased to meet ya!" He grinned, exposing a set of perfectly white, straight teeth and an engaging, open personality.
"Pete Nolan." Pete acknowledged. That he could speak at all was a tribute to Wishbone who'd been hard at his healing with tonics, potions, poultices and the like.
"I'm the cook's louse! Today's my first day on the job and Mr. Wishbone said I could look after you a while since he's gettin' supper ready for the men!" Seeing that his patient had drained the cup, Mushy offered to go for more. "Another cup for ya, Mr. Nolan?" Already the youngster was half-way out of the wagon.
"Pete…just Pete," Nolan corrected. "No thanks, Mushy. I've fine…but thanks."
Mushy stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh, I just couldn't call you Pete, Mr. Nolan! It wouldn't be right! My ma always told me…'Mushy,' she said, 'always say please and thank you and never call your betters by their first names! It isn't proper – so ma said!" Mushy grinned sheepishly before ducking out through the wagon flap.
Pete Nolan rested back on the soft pallet and stared up at the canvas ceiling above his head. "Boy, I ain't nobody's better," he murmured. But then something happened to Pete, something came over him, that same something that caused a similar reaction the first time he saw Captain Favor after so long a time, Pete Nolan smiled, tentatively, awkwardly. Before that morning and his meeting with Favor, Pete could not honestly remember when he had smiled last, and meant it.
The new cook's louse returned in record time with another cup of coffee, which he juggled from hand to hand, considerately blowing on the hot liquid to cool it. Seeing that it was fine coffee indeed and Pete really had badly wanted another cup, he gratefully drank it down; the bond between the two men effectively sealed by Arbuckles' Fine Roast Arabica.
Xxxx
"You ain't supposed to be outta that wagon! Where's your good sense or wasn't you born with any?" Wishbone threatened his wayward patient with a well-worn wooden spoon. To his credit, however, Pete Nolan hardly flinched. Of course that was partially due to the fact that he couldn't see anything through his swollen-shut right eye and little more than that through the left. Besides, no old man wielding a spoon of all things was going to intimidate him!
Pete tilted his head just enough to stare at the spoon-wielding Wishbone through his one good eye. "Guess good sense is just somethin' I wasn't born with," he replied.
Nolan's honest answer caught Wish off guard. Just when he was working up a good 'mad,' his patient went and agreed with him which naturally ruined everything. Throwing up his hands in disgust, Wishbone turned on his heel and stalked, stiff-legged, back to his pots and pans. But before Pete could settle down and relax, the old man was back, this time using the wooden spoon as an extension of his finger. Jabbing the utensil close to Pete's chest, Wishbone got in the last word.
"You best not faint and topple head first into that fire 'cause I sure as hell ain't gonna be the one to patch you up again!" Wish leaned in close. "You hear me, boy?"
Now Pete Nolan hadn't been called 'boy' for many a year and hearing it issued in such a solemn way from such a serious fellow as this Wishbone character, well it made Pete smile for the second time in as many hours. The smile vanished as quickly as it appeared lest Wishbone believe Nolan's reply less than credible. "I sure enough hear you, mister," Pete said solemnly.
Pete was enjoying his respite near the fire and the company of two old friends made the time pass quickly. Jim Quince was full of stories, old and new, some plausible, most not, but all enjoyable while Joe Scarlet's quiet presence seemed to comfort and relax a troubled mind.
Other drovers filtered in as the time came for the evening meal. Introductions were made and it appeared to Pete Nolan that this was a camp divided – divided over their opinion of him. This concerned Pete greatly. To make trouble for Captain Favor certainly wasn't his intent.
Several cowboys actually saw fit to take their dinner plates and move away from the fire. Their mumbled comments about not being able to stomach being around a damned stinking bounty hunter did not go unnoticed. Jim Quince leaped to his feet spewing cuss words around the ever present quirly stuck to his bottom lip, his defense of a friend taken to new heights as he threatened to kick the cow crap out of one and all.
Before anyone could take Quince up on his offer, Gil Favor rode into camp with Rowdy Yates close behind. Gil's first reaction was relief at seeing Pete actually out of bed and away from what had appeared to be death's door. His second reaction was dismay. Here the drive hadn't even begun and one of his drovers was threatening to take on half the camp one man at a time or all at once. Gil cast a glance skyward and offered a quick prayer that the drive, once it got underway of course, might go smoothly and without further difficulties. "Amen."
"What's that you said, Boss?" Rowdy asked as he reined in next to Favor, a questioning look on his face.
Gil sighed. "Nothing, Rowdy. It was nothing at all." Favor stepped down off his mount and handed the reins to Hey Soos, the young horse wrangler. Yates did the same.
Favor waved away Mushy and the plate of pro-offered food. Settling a disturbance came before a good meal or even a cup of longed for coffee.
"What's going on here?" he asked Quince.
"Those yahoos over there," Jim pointed at the drovers clustered at the supply wagon glaring daggers in his direction, "they called Pete a dirty name and seein' as how ole Pete at exactly able to defend hisself…"
"What exactly did they call Mr. Nolan that made you figure he needed your help in defending his good name?" Gil figured he knew the answer, but it didn't hurt to be certain.
Quince leaned toward Gil and answered in a conspiratorial whisper, "Bounty hunter…they called Pete a damned stinkin' bounty hunter."
Favor found Pete looking up at him and although the sight of the swollen battered face quite nearly turned his stomach yet again, he was taken by Nolan's steadfast expression. He was also rather confused. Renewed name-calling by both sides broke his concentration.
"He is so a damned bounty hunter!"
"Is not!"
"Is so!"
Gil wanted to press his hands over his ears to drown out the noise, instead he raised his voice and in doing so found his deep booming baritone to be most effective. Silence was complete.
"Now," he began, "since it is nobody's business what Mr. Nolan does for a living since he is not a member of this drive…I want the subject dropped and dropped now!"
You could have heard a pin hit the stony ground.
Pete Nolan rose rather shakily to his feet. "Captain Favor, I'd like to set things straight. I know I don't owe anybody here an explanation, but there are a few folks I'd rather not have thinkin' the worst of me."
"Go on, Pete, but you can talk just as easy sitting." Gil indicated Nolan's vacant seat.
Before Pete got the chance to sit back down, three men rode hell-bent into camp raising a cloud of dust and Favor's ire. "What do you want here?" Gil barked, his patience at a low ebb.
"Ask the ramrod," the first man replied. "He hired us this mornin'!"
Favor glanced at Yates. Rowdy nodded. "We needed more men, Mr. Favor. They fit the bill."
"All right, so you three 'fit the bill.' What gives you the right to ride in here like you own the place?" Gil squinted in the meager fire light, straining to discern faces and features. He felt a sudden crawl of apprehension.
"You…you three came lookin' for Pete yesterday. You're the ones who bushwhacked him." Favor's hand crept slowly to the Colt holstered at his hip.
Next to him Pete agreed. "It's them…the Diehl brothers."
"You just leave that no good bounty hunter to us, Captain Favor and nobody else gets hurt," Jackson said, a slow grin twisting his lips.
Several of Gil's own drovers added their two cents worth by agreeing with Diehl. "We don't want no trouble 'cause a Nolan! He ain't nothin' to us!"
But others came quickly to Pete's defense. "You can't turn a man over to them! You seen what they already did to him. Why, it'd be murder!"
In a manner totally opposite to the raucousness goings on about him, Pete Nolan quietly offered up a fact. It was stated in so calm a whisper Gil wondered if he was the only one to hear it. "I'm no bounty hunter," Pete said. But others heard and heads swiveled in his direction.
Gil's jaw dropped at this new revelation. "But you as much as told me you were, back in the café, in San Antonio," he said.
Pete shook his head. "No, when I said I'd just turned these fellas' brother in for murder you asked if I was a bounty hunter. I answered your question with a question of my own. Captain, you assumed my line of work. I didn't correct you because I work undercover. If the outlaws I track believe I'm a bounty hunter, then so be it. That just makes it easier for me." Slowly, painfully, Pete reached into the inside pocket of his vest. Upon his opened palm lay what appeared to be a small copper and brass button.
Gil leaned down to read aloud the words engraved around the outside of the quarter-sized badge, "Pinkerton Rail Road," and across the center, "Detective." Favor released a low soft whistle. "But the envelope…the envelope with the reward money…I saw the sheriff hand it over to you."
"Things ain't always what they seem, Captain. It wasn't a reward, it was my pay. When I told you I made good money I wasn't exaggerating. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you before. I couldn't blow my cover."
"Then why tell us now?" Favor reached over and picked up the badge. So small as to be almost undetectable, it could remain hidden until needed.
"Why now?" Pete took the badge from Gil's hand and tucked it away, "Because I'm quitting the Pinkerton's. You were right. That line a work can make for a short life. I found that out the hard way." Nolan touched a hand to his throbbing temple. "Bein' a scout on a cattle drive might be the lesser a two evils after all."
Rifles being cocked drew everyone's immediate attention. The brothers Diehl, weapons covering not only Pete Nolan, but Gil Favor and Rowdy Yates, sat their horses, grinning, almost salivating at what was to come. "We don't care who you work for, Nolan. You're gonna die for what you did to our brother!" Jackson's laughter echoed through the stunned camp.
"Not so fast!" Stepping around the side of the supply wagon Wishbone trained his shotgun on the Diehls. "This here ten gauge Greener is loaded with buckshot. Both barrels are guaranteed to take out all three a you and probably your horses, too! Mushy?"
The youngster stepped into the light. Although he looked frightened half to death, the rifle in his hands remained steady as he backed Wishbone's play.
Gil Favor motioned several of his men forward while Wishbone and Mushy kept the Diehl brothers well-covered. "Relieve these men of their weapons. Quince and Joe Scarlet – tie 'em to the wagon wheels and make sure the knots are good and tight."
Gil rested a hand on Pete Nolan's shoulder, but spoke to Rowdy. "Tomorrow we take 'em in to the sheriff."
Xxxx
Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough for Gil Favor. For hours he tossed on his blankets courtesy of the Diehl brothers who kept the entire camp awake with their impotent threats and foul-mouthed ravings, until Wishbone decided enough was enough. It took the combined strength of half a dozen of the biggest drovers to get the job done, but done it was; Jackson, Bill and Jeremy were gagged but good.
However, the silence came too late for Gil. He'd lain awake too long and not even the dearest thoughts of home and family could bring sleep. He watched the sun rise with a cup of Wishbone's good coffee in one hand and a cigarillo in the other. Favor breathed deeply of the cool sweet air and freed his mind of problems, all but one – the Diehls.
A well-armed Rowdy Yates, backed by the equally well-heeled Jim Quince and Joe Scarlet, escorted the trio of bushwhackers in to the sheriff. With that, the first real threat to his drive out of the way, Gil felt a sudden rush of relief. Crushing the smoke out beneath a booted foot he drained the remainder of his coffee and went to check on Pete Nolan.
Pete was already awake when Gil pulled aside the wagon flap. Though Nolan's smile was slightly lopsided it was a true smile in all respects. Favor climbed up and edged his way through the narrow space to sit at Pete's side. "We've got some talkin' to do," he said.
"Where'd you wanna start, Boss," Nolan replied.
Gil grinned. "Well, with the boss part I guess. Pete, did you mean what you said last night – about quitin' the Pinkerton's and coming to work for me?"
Nolan took a deep breath, exhaling slowly before nodding. "I meant it…that is…if you'll still take me on as scout for this here drive. You see, Captain…well…" Pete stalled over the words but after a moment plunged right ahead. "I guess what I'm meanin' to say is – I'm tired of runnin'- runnin' from the war, runnin' from the grief of losin' my wife, runnin' from myself. Captain, I'm ready for somethin' new. I'm ready to start livin' again."
Gil stuck out his hand. "Pay is $50.00 a month to start. There's a bonus at the end dependin' on how many of the cattle get through and what the market's payin'. What do you say, Pete Nolan?"
Pete extended his hand and the two men shook. "I say okay, Boss. Now what else did you wanna talk about?"
Favor reached into a chest pocket and pulled out paper and tobacco which he fashioned into a tight quirly. "I just need to know how a good Texican like you ever got roped into working for a damn Yankee like that Pinkerton fella?"
Pete relaxed onto his blankets and took the cigarette Gil Favor held out to him. Accepting a light Nolan inhaled with obvious satisfaction. "Well, Boss, it was like this," he said.
END