Read Cactus Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) for Free Online

plant ten-penny nails and harvest a crop of iron bolts. Certainly eighty bushels of corn per acre—as one east Texian along the way assured them he produced—set all the farmers among the party agog. One grower bragged of fourteen-foot cotton plants. Although Charlee saw none that enormous, the vast acreage set in dense snowy bolls was very impressive to a girl raised on a hardscrabble farm.
           Texas was a place of contrasts. She heard stories about alligators and whooping cranes, even exotic spotted wildcats called ocelots, all creatures of storybook fantasy to her. Of course, these creatures lived farther south toward the more tropical gulf country. No less exciting to Charlee were the buffalo and wild horses, whose vast, swarming herds were as yet undepleted by the hand of man. The mustangs were wary and kept their distance from the plodding train. Only when she ventured out by herself to hunt did Charlee catch a glimpse of them as they grazed on rich prairie grass. The bison were more placid and easier to approach. The rich, sweet, beef-flavored meat of these shaggy cattle of the plains became a favorite of hers as the train inched its way ever westward.
           The vegetation was no less exotic than the animal life. Fields of gently swaying bluebonnets lay beside the spiky outgrowths of yucca plants. Primroses bloomed next to prickly pear. The spring rains, which had engorged the Red River, also had created the spectacular beauty of the flowering countryside. Of all the wild and beautiful flora that abounded in the Republic, the shaggy bronze, yellow, and orange Indian paintbrush was her favorite.
           One night, as Charlee sat inconspicuously in the shadows of the campfire finishing her dinner of salt pork and cornbread, she listened to Zeb Moser and their scout discuss the remainder of the trip.
           The large, heavyset old farmer took a swallow of bitter coffee adulterated with ground roast corn and grimaced. “Supplies are gettin' mighty low, Lon. When you reckon we'll reach San Antonio?”
           Lon spat a dollop of tobacco juice, narrowly missing Charlee's boot, as he replied, “Less'n a week if’n nothin’ more goes wrong. Keep all yore stock movin' and yew’ll be dancin' th' fandango with th' señoritas by Sunday.” Lon Farrell, a lean range scout of indeterminate years, laughed and strolled over to squat beside Charlee.
           He had gone hunting with her several times, giving her tips on tracking and stalking in the open terrain of central Texas, so different from the dense undergrowth of southeast Missouri. A bond of sorts had sprung up between the seasoned Texian and the masquerading girl. She was uneasy, afraid that he might discover her disguise; but he simply chalked her skittishness up to immaturity.
           “Whut yew figger ta do when yew git ta Santone?” Lon looked at the scruffy figure hunched over a tin coffee mug.
           “I got me a brother on a big ranch just outside town. He's foreman, practically runs the whole place,” she boasted proudly, recalling all the glowing descriptions in Richard Lee's letters. “You ever heard of the Bluebonnet Ranch?”
           Lon whistled low. “Thet's one o' th' biggest spreads ‘round Santone—th' whole country, fer thet matter. What'd yew say yore brother's name wuz?”
           “Richard Lee McAllister,” Charlee said with youthful bravado.
           “Last I knowed, Asa Ketchum was ramroddin' fer ole Will, but I been gone fer quite a spell. I heered Will Slade up'n died a pretty considerable o' years back, come ta think on it.” For the boy's sake, Lon hoped the older brother wasn't spinning yarns. There was a strange vulnerability about the taciturn youth that made the scout feel oddly protective. Despite his scrawny size, the tad did his fair share of the chores. And he could shoot! “Charley” McAllister could bring down a deer at three hundred