'Enjoy life whilst you can, cows,' he called out aloud, although not without any sympathy at all. It was hard not to feel just a tad sorry for any critter whose only purpose in life was to be slaughtered and butchered for human consumption. But as soon as you studied on it, you could see there'd have never been a tenth as many domestic brutes, from cows to chickens, if humankind had never learned how swell they tasted.
Some cows tasted more tender than Texas longhorns, although few other breeds enjoyed the taste of Texas grass. It took a tough cow to thrive on such tough range, although both the grass and beef grew just a tad more tender within the salty smell of the Texas shores. The long-horned sea lions all about might have had a better hold on the beef market if it hadn't been for the fevers that seemed to go with such green and muggy grazing.
The Fever Coast seemed to be the breeding grounds for more than one mean ague. One of the meanest was a spleen-rotting cow plague known as Spanish fever in Texas and Texas fever everywhere else.
Longhorns in general and the coastal sea lions in particular seemed immune to Texas fever, which made them about as welcome as a lit cigar in a hayloft in other parts, where folks were trying to raise shorthorn or dairy breeds that just curled up and died when they caught it.
Whether they cottoned to Kansas views on Texas fever or not, the ranchers raising Texas beef along this Fever Coast were maybe twice as firm about the hoof-and-mouth plague carried by healthy-looking cows out of Old Mexico. Nobody was sure about the causes of either. But as in the case of Texas fever, hoof-and-mouth seemed to hide out in immune stock between disastrous outbreaks that could slaughter whole herds and make them unfit to even skin for hides. Stock known to have either highly contagious disease had to be shot and buried deep. That was the law, state or federal. Nobody with a lick of sense wanted to risk the whole Western cattle industry with the price of beef rising ever higher back in the booming East.
By the time he was within three miles, or an easy hour's walk on foot, of those rooftops along the lagoon, he saw more corn, beans, and peppers growing all around than cows. Most such milpas or small truck fields in these parts were tilled by Mexican hoe farmers. That seemed the way most Mexican folks liked to farm, living in close-knit villages or their own barios of larger towns so they could walk out to their scattered milpas. He wasn't sure whether Mexicans stuck to such habits because they were backward or because it made a certain sort of sense. The Anglo Homestead Act had never been tried in Old Mexico, and a Mexican played hell trying to file a homestead claim with the U.S. Bureau of Land Management unless he brushed up on his English or, failing that, convinced some land office clerk he was a dumb Dutchman or Swede. So that was a likely reason you seldom saw isolated Mexican farmhouses off on some lonely quarter section. And there was something to be said for having one's cash crops scattered among, say, half a dozen smaller holdings. For even as he passed some corn milpas flattened by the recent storm, he spied others where, from some natural whim, the green young cornstalks still stood proud in the morning sun. Mexican hoe farmers were independent thinkers when it came to what they had growing in a particular plot too. So unlike many a homesteader with all his seed money tied up in one cash crop, his more casual Mexican competitor, growing all sorts of stuff in modest amounts, could neither make a killing on a rising market in, say, popcorn or get wiped out in, say, a corn-borer plague.
He passed a cactus-fenced field where a small ragged-ass kid was overseeing a half-dozen young hogs, likely from the same litter, as they rooted in a wind-flattened and rain-flooded bean field for such value as that storm had left. A few fence lines along he saw some goats, tethered on long lines, already starting to tidy up a ruined corn milpa by consuming the still-green stalks so they could wind up as goat cheese or gamy meat. Mexicans liked both more than your average Anglo did, but nobody could eat smashed and sun-dried cornstalks unless he or she was a goat.
Longarm didn't see any serious stock, Or serious stockmen, on the modest Mexican milpas this close to Escondrijo. But he didn't find that odd. You had to get out of Denver a ways, maybe a half a day by produce wagon, before you came to more spread-out cattle spreads.
He didn't know whether such outfits in these parts would turn out to be Mexican or not. He knew anyone owning a big enough beef operation to matter would have to be Anglo-Texican, for the same reasons it was risky to one's health to spread out across much range in Old Mexico unless one was an Old Mexican. But while one seldom saw Anglo buckaroos riding for Mexican outfits to the south, a lot of big Texas outfits hired Mexican vaqueros, who worked cheaper as well as better than many an Anglo top hand.
Thinking about that led Longarm into thinking about various Texas cow towns of a surly nature on your average Saturday night. But Billy Vail hadn't sent him all this way to see how the local Mexican and Anglo cowhands got along. He just had to see whether Deputy Gilbert and their prisoner, wanted in Colorado, were fit to get on back there.
He'd have to track down old Norma Richards and give her this old Saratoga, of course, and maybe by now the Rangers had some notion as to why some asshole up in Corpus Christi had such a hard-on for an out-of-state lawman only trying to do his job.
He hoped they had. He was cursed with a curious nature, and he knew Billy Vail would never abide him wasting enough time to matter if Rod Gilbert and Clay Baldwin were fit to travel.
The wagon trace rumbled him onto a simple plank bridge across a tidal creek half choked with tall spartina reeds. He could see some windows under the rooftops ahead now. He'd have doubtless felt a bit closer to town if it hadn't been for a swamping cactus hedge on the far side of the creek. Then a skinny young gal of the Mexican persuasion ran out onto the wagon trace, long black hair unkempt, white cotton frills aflutter, and bare feet really moving, until she spied Longarm and reversed direction toward him coming with that wagon an screaming for help, a lot of help, in a hurry.
Longarm let the mules haul him on to meet her as he called out to her, 'Que pasa? En que puedo servirle, senorita?'
To which she replied in English no worse than his Spanish, 'Is my father. He has been bitten by a beast and we cannot stop the bleeding!'
Longarm reined in long enough to extend a strong hand and haul the small but nubile young gal up beside him. She likely didn't notice, and so he never commented on the one tawny tit the two of them managed to expose getting her aboard. As she sat down beside him, Longarm already had the mules swinging through the opening in the cactus she'd just popped out of. But as he headed for the rambling row of brushwood jacales and corrals across eight or ten acres of beans and corn, his distraught guide pointed off to their west, telling him, 'Me padre is over that way, closer to the water.'
Longarm saw no water. But an older and fatter version of the gal beside him was huddled with two younger boys over something or somebody down in the knee-high peppers they had growing in that corner to his right. So he looked for a good way through their modest crops, and then, as the worried gal beside him said not to worry about the damned old beans, he drove right over.
One of the boys took the reins as Longarm followed the daughter of the house over the side. He was sort of sorry he had as soon as he caught sight of the stocky middle-aged Mexican sprawled there in the mud and crud with his white cotton pants and right leg torn all to hell. Longarm saw they'd improvised a rope tourniquet around the
