Texas Drive by Bill Dugan Page B

them. Several wore ammunition belts crossed on their chests, in the fashion of Mexican banditti.
    Something told him not to get too close, and he stopped where he was. He knew better than to reach for his Colt, but he cast a quick eye toward his hip to make sure the gun was there. One of the crew dismounted, tossing the reins to a henchman and swaggering down the hill toward Johnny. He tucked his hands in his gunbelt, and his spurs clanked like he were proud of them.
    He planted himself a half-dozen feet in front of Johnny, rocking back and forth on well-worn heels. Even allowing for the differential caused by the slope, he was a good four inches taller than the Texan.
    “Cowboy?” he said as if it were Johnny’s name. “You a long, long way from home, ain’t you?”
    “I been closer,” Johnny said.
    “I’ll bet you have. That your herd down there?”
    Johnny nodded.
    “What’ve you got there, three, four thousand head?”
    “More like twenty-seven hundred, why?”
    Instead of answering the question, he turned to his cronies. “Man wants to know why?” he said.
    The mounted men laughed, one even slapping his thighs in exaggerated enjoyment The breeze quickened, and Johnny got a whiff of the wolf pack on the hill. He was ripe himself, but this went beyond the pale.
    The big man stroked the ends, of a full, ginger-colored beard, then scratched his jaw. “Seems like you need a little education. Texan, ain’t you?”
    Johnny nodded.
    “Thought so. Cain’t miss that drawl. I knew a few Texans my own self, once.”
    “Once?”
    “Dead now. All of ‘em. Secesh bastards, every last one. Kilt a few myself.”
    “The war’s over.”
    “No it ain’t.”
    “Look, if you just want to chew the fat, I got work to do.”
    “Chewin’ the fat? Is that what I’m doin’?”
    “Seems like.”
    “Maybe so, maybe it seems like it to you. But I got a different picture, see. I’m a tax collector, is what I am.”
    “Then don’t let me keep you from your work.” Johnny turned and started down the hill. He heard the spurs jingle and turned as the big man’s hand landed on his arm. “Don’t do that, mister.”
    “Don’t you walk away from me, cowboy. Just don’t, you hear me?”
    “What I hear is a lot of hot air.”
    “You think it won’t burn you, cowboy? That what you think?”
    Johnny turned again. As he started down the hill, he spotted Rafe and two others sprinting toward him, carbines in their hands. Behind him, he heard several rifles cocked, and he turned back to the big man. At the same time, he waved Rafe off. If anything got started now, they wouldn’t stand a chance. They were outgunned, and the big man held the high ground.
    “What do you want from me, mister? I’m just trying to make a living, that’s all.”
    “I already told you, I’m a tax collector.”
    “Tax collector? What kind of tax? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Then you better listen real good, ‘cause I’m only gonna say this but one time.”
    “Go ahead.” Johnny made no attempt to conceal his exasperation. It seemed to amuse the big man. He smiled broadly, revealing an uneven set of teeth the color of dead grass.
    “You said you got twenty-seven hundred beeves, that right?”
    “Yeah, that’s right, give or take.”
    “Now, there you go. You got to give a little. I make it three thousand head, on the nose.”
    “What’s the point, dammit?”
    “I’m comin’ to that. Just shut up and listen. Cattle are going for forty to fifty dollars a head over in Abilene. Seems like you’re about to come into some pretty fat wallets, you and your hands.”
    “So?”
    “If you get to Abilene. And if you still got them beeves when you get there. See what I mean?”
    “No, I don’t, and I don’t really give a shit. Now, if you can’t get to the point, I guess I’m gonna have to be rude and walk away. And this time, you put your hand on me, I’ll rip it off at the goddamned elbow. You see what I