Read Matagorda (1967) for Free Online Page A

His had been the responsibility of command, of decision.
    There had always been the sergeants, many of them veterans of the War Between the States as well as of Indian fighting. They were tough, dependable men. Now he was alone.
    Somehow he had to hold the reluctant men to putting the herd together, somehow he had to get them started on the trail to Kansas. He had to ride rough-shod over their resentment of him, over their hatreds, their reluctance to leave a fight unfinished.
    It had been easy enough when he had tough non-coms to whom he could relay his orders, and enlisted men whose duty it was to obey. This was different.
    He was going to have to get the herd together faster than they had planned, get it ready to move before they expected it. If he started the herd they must come along, like it or not.
    "Spicer, you're right. I will need some men. You've been around here a while . .
    . where can I find them?"
    "Fort Brown . . . Brownsville. I happen to know they're breakin' up a cavalry outfit down there, and there'll be some good men on the loose. As far as that goes, there are always a few hands around Brownsville or Matamoras, anyway."
    "All right, Spicer. You ride down there. Pick maybe ten good men, thirty a month and found. Tell 'em they may have to fight. But they are hiring out to me-and to me only. You know the kind of men I want. Men like we had in the old outfit."
    "It'll take me a week at least. Ten days, more likely."
    "Take two weeks if need be, but get the men and get them back up here."
    After Welt Spicer had gone, Duvarney rode on along the trail, emerging finally on the lower Copano, and following it along to the bay. He saw cattle from time to time; most of them were unbranded, a few were wearing the Kittery brand, and there was a scattering of other brands unfamiliar to him.
    The creek ended in a small inlet, and he cut across to the bay itself. Copano Bay was almost landlocked. From his saddlebag Duvarney took the chart Wilkes had given him and studied the bay, its opening into Aransas Bay, and the island beyond. All this country was low, probably less than twenty feet above sea level, and much of it was certainly less than half of that.
    He made a camp on the shore of the bay, made coffee, and chewed on some jerked beef.
    He went to sleep listening to the sound of the salt water rippling on the sand, and smelling it. At daybreak he was up, drank coffee, and rode off toward the northeast along the coast.
    Several times he saw cattle, and as on the previous day he started them drifting ahead of him, pointing them toward the roundup area. They might not go far, but he might be able to drift some into the country to be covered for the drive. He swam his horse across the inlet at the mouth of the creek and made a swing south to check for cattle tracks on the peninsula that separated Copano from St. Charles Bay. He found a good many, and worked his way back to camp.
    Joe Breck was on his feet, rifle in hand, when Tap rode in. "I wondered what happened to you. Where's Spicer?"
    "Sent him down to Brownsville."
    "You sent him where?" Without waiting for an answer, Breck went on, "Torn won't like that."
    "He'll like it." Duvarney spoke shortly. "There are a lot of cattle on the peninsula east of us. We'll drift some of this lot in there."
    "Wait and see what Tom says," Breck objected. "He's got his own ideas."
    "And I have mine. We'll start drifting them in the morning."
    Breck stared at him, his eyes level, but Tap ignored the stare and went about getting his bed ready for the night.
    "I'll wait and see what Kittery says," Breck said. "He hired me."
    "You wait, and then tell him to pay you what you have coming. You won't be working with us any more."
    "For a new hand," Breck said, "you swing a wide loop."
    "Breck," Duvarney replied, "you're a good man, too good a man to get your back up over nothing. You want to fight the Munsons; but if you do, do it on your own time.
    They're no damned business of mine, and