,” he insisted when Benteen started to reach inside his coat to pay for the drink.
“Obliged.” He nodded and took a swallow, feeling the pure fire burn its way down his throat.
“I told you it was the real stuff,” Fat Frank reminded him.
“You did,” Benteen admitted, and let his hand stay around the glass as he turned, angling his body toward the two other customers.
“You acquainted with Mr. Janes of the Ten Bar?” Fat Frank asked, as if prepared to make introductions.
“I am.”
“I swear all you Texans know each other.” The shopkeeper laughed.
“Who’s mindin’ the Ten Bar with you up here, Janes?” Benteen inquired with semi-interest.
The gaunt-cheeked foreman idly rolled his glass in a half-circle on the table. “Ollie Webster is runnin’ the Texas end.”
“Good man.” Benteen inclined his head in a silent admission of the cowboy’s abilities. He’d worked with him a few times.
“There been much Indian trouble?” Loman asked.
It was a question from one cattleman to another, and Benteen treated it as such. “Some. They run off a few head from time to time.”
“Poor, starving savages.” Fat Frank shook his head. “More than half the supplies the government promised ’em never makes it to the reservations. And that scum up on the Missouri don’t help the situation, selling them whiskey.”
“What are you talking about?” Loman Janes asked, lifting his head with frowning interest.
“There’s a pack of ex-buffalo hunters and wood-hawks that’s nested on the Missouri River.” Wood-hawk was the term applied to men who chopped wood for the steamboats that trafficked the river. “They’re an unsavory bunch. The minute they found out the Canadian government was paying the Crees and Bloods some money every autumn, they been selling them rotgut and separating those savages from their money. I understand it’s getting so the Indians spend most of the winter on this side of the border.”
“I guess that explains why I lost more beef last winter than usual,” Benteen murmured, and studied the liquor left in his glass, knowing the situation was likely to get worse before it got better.
“I thought you were new to this area.” Loman Janes studied the fat man with close interest.
“I traveled some before my wagon broke down here. You see; you learn.” The man lifted his pudgy hands in a weighing gesture and shrugged. “And it so happened that I ran into the leader of the bunch. I knew him a few years back when he was hunting buffalo in Kansas. He was a mean sort then. Now he’s just plain bad. They call him Big Ed.”
“Big Ed,” Bull Giles repeated. “Big Ed Sallie? He’s got a scar running clear across his right cheek?” He ran a finger diagonally across his own cheek from eye to chin.
“That’s him.” Fat Frank nodded.
“You know him?” Loman Janes glanced at Bull as the stoutly muscled man straightened from his slouched position.
“I hunted buffalo with him one season a few years back. I saw him get into a knife fight with another hunter—slashed him to ribbons.” Bull took a sip of whiskey and seemed to hold it in his mouth before swallowing it.
“Indians are enough trouble when they’re sober,” Loman Janes remarked. “Drunk, it’s worse.” His glance raised to Benteen. “You got a lot more range to cover this winter than I do.”
“Yeah.” Benteen listened for something else in the comment, but didn’t hear it. If the Indians started raiding the stock, this was one time size would be a hindrance. Loman Janes wouldn’t have that problem with his smaller herd ranging over less ground. “I figured you’d be down in Texas, Bull, throwing together another Ten Bar herd to bring up the trail.”
“I decided to stay the winter,” Bull replied. “I had my fill of that alkali dust for a while.”
Bull Giles never got along with anybody for very long. Benteen couldn’t imagine him taking orders from Loman Janes all winter.
“You planning on working for Janes?” He came right out and asked.
Loman Janes responded. “I heard the wolves were bad, so I told Bull he could spend the winter cuttin’ down their number, since he was going to be here. We’re pickin’ him up some supplies and ammunition.”
All the Ten Bar cattle were getting their first taste of a northern winter, so it was a sensible plan to cut down on the number of predators stalking the cattle’s range. Benteen had issued ammunition to his men with orders to shoot any wolf they saw, but those gray wolves could be as elusive as ghosts. Hiring a wolver wasn’t a bad idea, but it could be an expensive one, since they got paid three times or more what a regular cowhand made.
That thought prompted Benteen to inquire, “Does Boston know about this?”