Jericho!

Chapter One

THE EARLY YEARS

Poppa Scarburg could not have picked a more perfect, tranquil place in Texas to live and raise a family, or so it seemed.

Tranquil until that dreadful Sunday morning in April 1870 when the Comanche raiding party rides into the valley heading straight for the Scarburg ranch. The Indians, numbering almost forty braves, have decided to pay a surprise visit. It has been quite a spell since the area realized any Indian trouble, and people thereabouts were beginning to think problems with the Tribes were over. It wasn’t.

The Scarburgs raise horses, not Indian ponies, but sturdy, durable, Quarter Horses – and the Comanche came to get them!

The ranch that William Scarburg bought is a spread covering eight sections; each section of land consists of six hundred forty acres.

Poppa Scarburg names his patch of Texas dirt Jericho - the Jericho Ranch.

He knew according to the Book of Joshua 6:1-27 the Battle of Jericho was the Israelite's first battle in their conquest of Canaan, the new country. Poppa Scarburg stated he wanted his ranch to be a type of Jericho too. He said his Jericho, out in the middle of unsettled Texas, was to be his family’s battle and they were going to conquer it as Joshua did the original Jericho. Strange, no one ever asked where Poppa Scarburg came up with enough gold money to buy over five thousand acres of prime Texas landscape, especially since he had just recently returned from the Civil War. A war in which he fought on the losing side.

Digging clay from the river bank Poppa Scarburg and the rest of the family fashion and dry adobe bricks until they have accumulated enough to begin building their house. But the first things they construct are two large gate posts at the entrance to the long road leading to, what would eventually be, the main ranch house. These two columns are four-foot square, twelve feet tall and have a black, wrought iron sign spanning the two uprights with the word 'JERICHO' right dab in the middle. On each corner is mounted a ram's horn, four in all, and each is painted the brilliant color of gold. These horns, said Poppa Scarburg, are to symbolize the ram's horn Joshua blew as he marched around the city of Jericho, as the Bible said until the walls came tumbling down. From that day forward their gate would be called the Jericho Gate.

THE SUNDAY RAID

Jericho is nestled in a spacious valley bounded on each side by two rather large creeks - the Stephenson Branch and the Wolf Branch of the Brazos River. This valley is known as the Two River's Valley. In the isolated, mountains of north Alabama from where the Scarburgs originally came, a forty-acre patch of rocky dirt is considered a sizable farm, but in Texas, five thousand one hundred and twenty acres is considered a small spread, some of the larger ranches cover one or two entire counties. Some say one ranch up in the panhandle is so big it takes two days simply to ride on horseback from one side to the other. This might be a slight exaggeration, you know how Texans are, but I tell it as I remember it.

It is a perfect place to raise cattle and horses. The rivers provide plenty of fresh, ever flowing water and the earth is lush, fertile, bottom-land. And some say you have to beat the fish with your oar to keep them from jumping into your boat. The weather is hot in the summer, and in some years the winters can be pretty brutal. However, to these hardy, pioneer souls they can endure almost anything. This day is going to test the Scarburgs. It will be a mighty test.

The Indians attack out of the morning sunrise from the east. Using the bright morning break of day as cover, they come charging, at full gallop, upon the Ranch and its small force of Texan defenders. Fortunately, Poppa Scarburg has a beautiful German shepherd that hates Injuns. This dog named Trumpet or just Trump can smell Indians at a mile’s distance, and never fear he gets a whiff of them this morning and quickly raises the alarm long before the Comanche warriors are within shooting distance. Poppa said he named his dog Trumpet 'cause his bark is as loud as ole Joshua blowing that trumpet as he marched around Jericho back in those early Bible days.

As the whooping, screaming, attackers come within rifle range, the Jericho defenders have already grabbed their Winchesters, Sharps and Colts and are ready to give battle to the oncoming horde of savages.

Poppa Scarburg wets his finger with spit and wipes the front sight of his Sharp’s rifle as he centers it on the first yelping attacker and gently squeezes the trigger. The cartridge ignites sending the walnut stock against his right shoulder with a stern bump. The .52-50 lead projectile strikes the enemy’s chest, dead center, out close to five-hundred yards, knocking the rider over the horse’s flanks, face first, onto the dirt in front of the onrushing throng of Indians. He must be one of the chiefs or at least one of their leaders since the multitude of the others rein in their ponies around their fallen brother. For a brief moment, they sit on their ponies staring at the dead man on the ground. Dark red blood runs across his pearly-white, bear-teeth necklace and down across the eagle feathers protruding from his shiny, jet-black hair wetting the dust of the Texas landscape. They seem perplexed; for a moment they do not know what to do; before they can decide another rifle bullet from the ranch house knocks one more Indian from his horse and awakens the others from their trance. The entire party jerks their ponies around and begins the charge anew.

The folks at the ranch are now ready. Extra rifle shells lie piled at their sides, barriers of defense are complete, nerves settled – they have prepared themselves for a fight to the finish. And a finish it is to be. The Indians are hundreds of yards away as the defenders unleash a deadly rain of lead bullets on them. Poppa Scarburg, or Colonel William Edward Scarburg, Sr. had fought for the south in the recent unpleasantries between the north and south and knew the benefit of fighting from behind a barricaded defense. He had engaged in this style of battle many times before, but instead of Indians, the attackers were blue-belly Yankees. Regardless of the numbers, from behind a barrier, the defenders are always at an enormous advantage, so it is to be this day also.

Poppa's grandson, Jesse, although at only the young age of fifteen, shoots his Winchester from behind the big oak stump in the yard as well as any grown-up man could have done. Trump, his German shepherd, lies at his side observing the commotion. He fires his rifle so fast and furious that smoke coming from the heated barrel can be readily seen. Some say later that Jesse might have killed eight or ten of the warriors, but when asked he will never say for sure, he merely cracks a slight grin and sheepishly looks at the ground.

ATTACK REPELLED

The red-skinned attackers fall like autumn leaves from the trees. One after another they plummet from their ponies’ backsides to the earth. Gradually the offensive assault of the Comanche is being minimized. Although, being a large group at the start of their attack the gunfire from the fortifications at the ranch is reducing their number from the dozens to such a small amount that one can count them on two hands.

Seeing they are practically alone, the few remaining Comanche stop their headlong charge and reverse their direction; they begin to retreat to the rear. The remnants of the attack make it back to the boundary of the wooded area where they had initially grouped to make their onslaught. In this forested locale the leaders have left their women folk and younger boys, but by the time the few fighting braves return the women and boys have fled thinking no one will be left alive to return.

Once the gunfire ceases, and the dense blue-black smoke from the gunpowder settles the men behind the barricades make their way out onto the field of slaughter. All the Jericho men are safe, except one - Poppa Scarburg. Poppa has taken a bullet clean through his heart and lies slumped over the barricade - dead. Poppa Scarburg is the only man at Jericho killed in this early spring attack. A couple of the other defenders have injuries; however, none are life-threatening.

Everywhere lie dead Comanches, one can hardly take a step without stepping on a dead Indian. Occasionally a moan is heard, but its mournful cry is perceived for only a second as a rifle shot quickly silences the invader's outcry. These Jericho defenders are taking no prisoners and are leaving no Comanche alive to raid another ranch.

Within a couple of minutes, they determine none of the attacking Comanche are still breathing. As the men walk across the killing field and nearing the woods Trump raises an alarm, and at the same time a faint cry is heard – it isn’t a man, what is that? Could it be? Yes, this is the cry of a baby!

As the squaws have hurriedly withdrawn from the cover of the brush and woods a baby has been left, still tied to its mother’s backboard. Who its mother is, or if it even has a mother still alive will go unknown? During the earlier fighting, some stray bullets have penetrated the wooded area and found their marks on some of the Indian women. A number of them are also dead. At the moment, all that is known – here is a baby, not an Indian baby not a Texacan baby, but only an innocent baby and it needs immediate tending.

Pa Scarburg places his Sharp's rifle on the ground. Removes his bandanna and tries to wipe his hands of the grit, grime, and gunpowder residue the best he can before reaching down and gathering the frail, little Indian boy into his arms. The rest of the men stand in a circle, not speaking merely glaring down at the babe that their boss holds in his rough, leather-like hands.

Walking back toward the ranch house, Roberta Scarburg and young Mamacita, their cook, are attending to Poppa Scarburg, but unfortunately, nothing can be done for him. They turn and see William coming toward them carrying a baby. Walking close to his side is ole Trump. Both women hurry to meet them. What a scene - dead, mangled corpses lay strewn everywhere. The smell of blood and death floats on the air, wounded horses whinny in the death throes of breathing their last breath, and yet here bundled in the robes of an unknown mother is a new soul, a little Indian boy; a tiny boy that is about to get a new lease on life.

Ma, William said to Roberta, what are we gonna do with this little guy?

Why...? What do you think Pa, this young’un needs feedin’. Take him into the house and let’s see if we can’t fix him up.

Turning to his ranch hands, Men, said Pa Scarburg, some of you go over to the cemetery and dig Poppa a grave next to Mama. We'll be back out for his burial after we get this young'un fixed up. The rest of you men see if you can get this mess out here cleaned up. Hitch up a couple of the wagons and haul these mangy, heathens over to that washed out gulley on the backside of the west forty. The buzzards, crows, coyotes and other wild creatures will take care of them. It’s more charitable than they deserve and spite more humane than we would have received if these heathens had overrun Jericho.

Sadly, sitting at the kitchen table Pa Scarburg raises the question, Bert, I know how you love these little fellers, but we’ve already got more mouths than we know how to feed. I don’t get how we’ll handle one more? Besides we have a funeral to attend. You don't need a little one like this to take care of in addition to everything else you have to do.

Ah, Pa, we’ll never realize we’ve got this little young’un on the place. Maybe the Good Lord sent us this new soul to replace Poppa Scarburg we just lost, who knows? We'll love the little feller is all I can say.

Yeah, I knew that’s what you’d say, but you’ve already got Hank who is about the same age as this little Indian lad, and there's Jesse. Say, if he’s staying what are we goin’ to call him?

Already named him, said Bert from across the table. Me and Mamacita have been callin’ him ‘Charlie.’

So, I guess ‘Charlie’ it is, Pa Scarburg replies. Now, let's take Charlie and go bury Poppa and git rid of all those heathers littering our front yard.

Hank and Roberta’s oldest son Jesse leaning against the dining room door listens to every word spoken at the table. Jess, as the family calls him, is biting his tongue. He is the oldest at fifteen and doesn’t relish surrendering any of the families attention on another snot-nosed kid. Putting up with the oohs and aahs of the family fussing over little Haskell has been enough to choke a goat, Jesse thinks. When Poppa Scarburg died he knows he left the ranch to Pa Scarburg, and now Jesse, Pa's oldest, will be next in line, it is going to be his ranch someday – and he doesn’t want to share it with anyone, especially a ‘found in the woods’ redskin.

Jess might only be a kid of fifteen, but he has the dreams of a full-grown man. He can vision this ‘small’ ranch as a big spread. Hundreds if not thousands of more acres. Horses and cattle so numerous that you can’t count 'em. On a recent trip to Austin, he met a cattleman from Kentucky that sparked Jess’ interest in a new breed of cattle – Herefords or as they are better known - whiteface cows. He is all enthused to breed the Jericho’s hearty long-horns with a pure-bred Hereford bull and raise a beef producing line of steers and heifers that will revolutionize the Texas livestock market.

Chapter Two

THE BEGINNING

What I have been trying to tell you is a true story – it's the chronicles of my great-grandfather's family. However, since it is a second or third-hand tale to me, I must profess it might be solely an imaginary Texan's tall tale, but a great story at that, who knows, it's not impossible that it could have happened.

Anyway, I will continue as far back as I can remember.

It all began on a spring day back in the 1800’s in the old west. Texas, as I said, to be exact. That was a good time, a great time to live. The days were long, and the work was hard, but the only thing one had to worry about was the day's work and the activity on Jericho.

My great-grandfather was known as Hank. Hank was his substitute for his given name – Haskell Edward Scarburg. I said it was his sub; not everyone disliked his given name. He is supposed never to have favored Haskell – sounded too formal, he said. Hank, he liked better, and shoot if he wanted the name Hank that is what it was to be.

TEXAS LIFE

Life on a ranch in central Texas is the same old dreary, mundane day in and day out routine. Up before sunrise, punch, brand, rope cows, eat supper and go to bed to get ready for another exciting day of doing the same things tomorrow.

As the boys grow so do their dreams – Jess wants a whiteface Hereford bull but Hank and Charlie, or the twins as they have become to be known, want to work Quarter Horses. Jess is cow crazy, and Hank and Charlie love horses.

The twins, now twenty-one years old, try to convince their father to let them go north into the Great Plains, to trade or buy purebred Indian ponies. These Broncos or Mustangs are known for their stamina and long wind. Their bloodline extends back to the Spanish Conquistadors. They want to breed these Indian ponies with their hard-working, fast running, Quarter Horses and get a breed that the U.S. Cavalry should find very useful. The Quarter Horse gets its name from the fact that it cannot be outrun in a quarter-mile race.

One night after a great meal prepared by Mamacita, their longtime Mexican cook, Charlie relates a story he heard about a raiding party of Comanche that left Texas, rides up into the plains of the Dakotas, and steals a whole herd of Indian Mustangs. By the time the Sioux discover their animals are missing the Comanche are well on their way back to Texas. The chase is on - the Sioux are breathing smoke and want the Comanche strung up by their heels and skinned alive. By riding one horse until it tires the Comanche jump onto the back of one of the stolen colts and by swapping horses they ride non-stop for three solid days before returning to Texas. This type of horsemanship long outlasts the Sioux ponies, which have been run until exhausted long before they get half-way across the state of Nebraska.

However, the more the ‘twins’ argue for advancing the horse side of the Jericho ranch, Jess maintains a lively rebuttal in favor of raising whiteface cattle.

PA'S DILEMMA

Pa Scarburg sits with his head in his hands listening, elbows on the table – both sides of the argument make sense. Raising a herd of whiteface Herefords seems logical and appears to have a lot of promise, but the twin’s idea of breeding Indian ponies with Jericho’s Quarter Horses for use by the Calvary makes sound reasoning too. Pa has a dilemma – which approach to choose? He only has enough money to try one of the two proposals – horses or cattle?

Raising his head, he looks at Charlie, Son, tell me more about this yarn you heard, did you know the person telling this account? You believe he was serious about Indian ponies being up in the high plains? Or did you purely believe him since it was a good tale of a Comanche raiding party?

Nodding, "Yeah, Pa I believe him. He rides shotgun now and again for the Overland Stage Line. He has got kind of a salty reputation and is good with a gun, but he seems to be a straight shooter. Oh, forgive the pun. I see him all the time at the stage relay station, I like him and believe he would not steer us wrong. In fact, he said if you agreed with the idea he would like to go along. He thought life around the stage line was getting pretty dull. He said he knew of a couple of places up north where we might find some good Indian breeding stock."

What's his name Son?

Ringo! Ringo is all I have ever heard him called, Pa. Only Ringo.

RINGO TAYLOR

In east Texas, Ringo Taylor's family was involved in a fierce feud with a family called the Suttons. The Taylor bunch was headed by Pitkin Taylor, a Captain in the former Confederate Army. After the war, Captain Taylor and his family moved to Texas.

The Sutton's family patriarch was William 'Billy' Sutton.

Billy Sutton ran for and was elected sheriff in Clayton, Texas and shot and later killed a Taylor kinsman when Sutton tried to arrest him for presumably stealing a horse. On Christmas Eve that same year, Sheriff Sutton murdered a couple more Taylors in the Lucky Horseshoe saloon in Clayton. They all had gotten into an argument over the sale of some horses.

The feud intensified, later Sheriff Sutton was appointed to the Texas Rangers. The Texas Rangers, along with Union soldiers, job were to enforce 'Reconstruction' which angered many of the Texas southern sympathizers. The feud then evolved into a fight between the Suttons and the southern-leaning Taylors, including John Wesley Hardin, an outlaw, and gunfighter. Both sides had recruited 200 cutthroat, gunfighting members each.

A year later, Sutton arrested Pitkin Taylor's two sons-in-law. The charges were trivial, but they never made it to jail, they were shot down in cold blood. That summer James Sutton, was taken from his home by a group of Taylor sympathizers and murdered in his front yard. His son bent on revenge rode into town and shot through the saloon door, killing Thomas Taylor.

After the murder of Thomas Taylor, Sheriff Sutton decides to move his family to a safer place. However, as the Sheriff and his wife, are boarding the Wells Fargo stagecoach Thomas Taylor's two brothers gun him down in front of his wife.

In the meantime, Ringo Taylor, Pitkin's nephew, was arrested for murder and sat in the county jail awaiting trial. The word of the Taylor and Sutton feud had spread throughout the region, and folks from near and far came to town, along with journalist and newspapermen to witness Ringo Taylor's trial. However, the night before the court proceedings was to begin a giant tornado came roaring out of the western sky and wiped half the town off the map.

The next day, as the citizens crawled out from underneath the rubble of the remainder of their town, they found the jailhouse destroyed and all the prisoners gone, including Ringo Taylor. With his getaway, the bloody feud gradually came to a halt. The Taylor faction lost twenty lives compared to eighteen fatalities among the Sutton clan during the feud, but Ringo was still a wanted man with a reward on his head.

THE DECISION

Here’s what I’ve decided. Jess your idea of breeding those whiteface cows, is fine, but boys you know I’ve always had a special place in my heart for them mangy ole four-legged ridin' critters. Sure would like to see what kind of special horse we could come up with using those Indian Mustangs from the great plains and our Quarter Horses.

Ah, Pa, said Jesse, how come the twins always get their way? Don’t my ideas never mean nothing? His anger is almost exploding from inside. He hates the twins! ‘They have always been Pa’s favorites,’ he thinks.

Yes, son, you have always come up with good ideas, but we can have a herd of ponies ready for the Calvary in less than two years. A herd of Herefords will take at least three, that’s why I’m going with the horses. You’ll get your crack at the whitefaces in due time Jess.

Ah, Pa!

Quick as I can come with enough money, you can buy one of them Whiteface bulls, but right now I don't have enough money for both ideas.

Ah, Pa!

Charlie, you and Hank get that man Ringo to go with you. You're right; he might know where to go get them ponies. Jesse'll stay here and help me run the ranch.

Jess has his answer, but not the one he wants, and he hates it. ‘Those darn twins, maybe they’ll get scalped before they get back,’ he contemplates as he glares across the table at them. 'I only hope those Redskins don't eat my dog, Trump.'

RIDING OUT OF TEXAS

This particular fine day, Hank sits tall on Black Magic, his beautiful, coal black, Texas Quarter Horse.

Next to him, riding his tan and white spotted pinto pony named Lil Sue, this early spring morning, was Charlie. Charlie isn’t his actual given name, as we know, since he is a dyed-in-the-wool, bona fide, full-blood Coe-manch, as Hank calls him. No one knows Charlie’s correct Indian name; he was named Charlie after Hank’s Pa found him, you remember I told how he was found barely alive after the Comanche raiding party attacked their ranch back in ’70, 1870 that is. The raid which got Poppa Scarburg killed.

Charlie couldn’t have been more than one or two at the time. With no one else to see after him Hank’s father and mother took the little savage in to raise as their own. He grew tall and strong and loved his adopted white family, but he never shied away from his Indian heritage. Even to this day, he wears buckskins, moccasins, a knife at his waist, and an ever-present eagle feather poked into his glistening, braided, black hair.

Growing up Hank and Charlie, being almost the same age, were inseparable. Hank with his jet-black hair, dark complexion, and dark brown eyes make the two appear almost like brothers. In fact, it is said they are possibly closer than real brothers.

Next to Hank and Charlie rides a strange man. Dressed entirely in black from his broad, Stetson hat on his head to his shiny, black boots on his feet. A mean looking Colt .44 caliber slung low on his right leg and tied off by a short length of rawhide. His black saddle is Mexican, ornately decorated with silver studs. His spurs are silver also, and the rowels so large they jingle each step his horse takes. He goes by the name Ringo, only Ringo, his last name we know, but no one uses it. He is what they call a gunslinger. He is said to ‘be handy with a gun.’ If one looks closely, you can see 'how handy' he is by the tiny notches cut into the pearl handles of his .44. How many? That positively is unknown; he certainly will not let you touch his gun, and you can’t get close enough to count the exact number.

He said his name is Ringo, but that's partially true - his full name is Ringo Taylor and he drifted into the vicinity of the Jericho Ranch on purpose. He was a wanted man with the law on his tail; he was looking for an out of the way place to hide. Jericho and the immediate vicinity was the perfect place for a feller on the wrong side of the law to disappear.

GOING NORTH

Hank digs his spurs into Black Magic's side as the three cowboys slowly gallop north out of Texas. Trump, their faithful German shepherd, trots along in front of them. Giddy up, said Charlie to Lil Sue.

Let's head 'em north, Ringo adds poking his spurs into the flanks of his horse.

Their final destination - somewhere in the direction where the cold winter winds originate. Their mission - ponies, Indian Mustangs to be more precise.

Chapter Three

COWTOWN

Turning in his saddle Charlie speaks to Ringo, Say, Ringo how much farther is it before we cross the Red River into Oklahoma?

Ringo looks at Charlie with a surprised expression, Heck, Charlie, we ain’t even got to Fort Worth yet, and it’s over a hundred miles from there to the Red River at the Oklahoma border. Shoot we’ve only been on the trail for a few days. I think you should’ve took the train.

Fine, I am just asking. We would have taken that train if we had any money, but we have only five-hundred gold dollars to trade for the Indian horses. How much you think the Indians will ask apiece for them Ringo?

Oh, I don’t figure them Injuns will ask more than one double-eagle fer each one.

So your sayin’ with our five-hundred dollars we ought to come back with twenty to twenty-five mounts, asks Hank?

Yeah, that’s right, but, Hank where are you keeping them twenty-dollar gold pieces?

Got’em right here, Hank said patting his saddlebag. Safe and sound.

Listen, Hank, I ain’t tryin’ to tell you how to run your business, but when we get to Fort Worth keep that poke of gold tied inside your pants. They’s fellers up there that will slit your throat for only one of them double-eagles.

Thanks, Ringo, good advice, but say, why are we goin’ to Fort Worth anyways. Why not slightly skirt around the west side and keep on heading towards Oklahoma.

Hank you’ve lived at Jericho all your life I only wanted you and Charlie to see the world, especially them cattle yards and those slaughterhouses. It’s worth the trip purely to see thousands and thousands of cows, bulls, and sheep bunched up all together in one place.

The sun is getting lower in the western sky as the sound of a large herd of cattle is heard up ahead. Topping a small rise, they could view the valley below – as far as their eyes can see is a tremendous herd of cattle. They have wandered into a huge herd heading to the cattle yards at Fort Worth.

As they cover their nose and mouth with their bandannas to help breathe through the dust-filled air, one of the wranglers rides up beside them, touches his gloved hand to his hat, Howdy, men, sorry for all the dust. Y'all headed to Cowtown?

After exchanging a few pleasantries, the cowboy asks if they want to fall in with them since they should get to the cattle yards a little before dark. He explains he and three other ranchers have combined their herds to make one big drive to the cattle market at Fort Worth. He introduces himself as August Freeman, or plain ole Gus to his friends and said he is the trail boss for this drive. He further explains they have a pretty decent ‘cookie,’ a well-supplied chuckwagon, and the grub ain't all that bad neither. He invites them to supper and a chance at a reasonably good meal, and if they want they are welcome to bed down around their campfire later on.

An invitation this good cannot be refused, and the three readily agree.

Sitting around the campfire after a hearty supper of son-of-a-gun stew, two bowls each, mind you, they complement the cook on their meal. He describes the delicious stew as nothing more than plenty of Texas beef, potatoes, some wild onions he pulled up, and a few select spicy Mexican ingredients he threw in. He calls it his secret recipe. Also, along with the stew he supplied them with a chunk of homemade, sourdough biscuit baked in the fire in a cast iron Dutch oven. Cookie accompanied this superb meal with cup after cup of freshly brewed 'Six Shooter' coffee poured out of a twenty-cup enamelware pot. Six Shooter so named because it's been known to be so strong it can float a Colt revolver on top. He said the secret to his great tasting coffee is the eggshells he adds right before boiling.

Most of the ten or fifteen wranglers on the trail boss Freeman's herd are cowboys of Mexican-Indian decent known as Vaqueros. A couple are black. Segregation is an eastern idea, out here on the open ranges of the west it is the character of a man's heart and the hours his butt can stay in the saddle, that is all the requirements are to being a good cowboy. Whether a man is black, brown or white is unimportant to the trail boss.

One of the Vaqueros produces a guitar from the chuckwagon and leaning back against the wagon wheel begins to strum a few chords. Charlie, an accomplished musician of his own, pulls his harmonica from his pocket and together they began to harmonize some old south of the border tunes.

THE GAME

Ringo notices three or four cowboys gathering around an old saddle blanket lying on the ground. One pulls out a well-worn deck of cards and begins shuffling. All the cowpunchers have received their wages for the trail drive, and a draw poker game is about to get started. Wranglers and cowpuncher's pay is around twenty-five to thirty dollars a month, and this drive has taken roughly two months, so it is apparent some serious money is about to change ownership.

Ringo saunters over and asks if this is an open game and if so, he would like to join. He believes if someone must take their money why shouldn't it be him. One of the Vaqueros moves over, and squats down on the ground giving Ringo a place at the 'table.'

Earlier, Gus takes Hank, Charlie, and Ringo on a tour of the Fort Worth stockyards right before dark. Gus has been to the cattle yards before and knows most of the important things to show them. One thing that catches Hank's eye is a corral full of whiteface bulls. Gus explains they are there for the cattle auction the following day. He further said