Sam Bass Read online

  Sam Bass

  Books By Bryan Woolley

  NONFICTION

  Texas Road Trip

  Where I Come From

  Generations

  The Bride Wore Crimson

  The Edge of the West

  Where Texas Meets the Sea

  The Time of My Life

  We Be Here When the Morning Comes

  FICTION

  Sam Bass

  November 22

  Time and Place

  Some Sweet Day

  FOR CHILDREN

  Mr. Green’s Magnificent Machine

  Home is Where the Cat Is

  Sam Bass

  Bryan Woolley

  Dzanc Books

  5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd

  Ann Arbor, MI 48103

  www.dzancbooks.org

  Copyright © 1983 by Bryan Woolley

  All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Published 2015 by Dzanc Books

  A Dzanc Books rEprint Series Selection

  eBooks ISBN-13: 978-1-941531-40-2

  eBook Cover Designed by Awarding Book Covers

  Published in the United States of America

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For my sons

  Bryan and Patrick

  in memory

  of the summer of ‘78

  Contents

  Dad Egan

  Frank Jackson

  Maude

  Frank Jackson

  Jim Murphy

  Mary Matson

  Frank Jackson

  Dad Egan

  Author’s Note

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Sam first came out to Texas, a cowboy for to be; A kinder-hearted fellow you seldom ever see.

  —The Ballad of Sam Bass

  1878

  Great God! what a fearful calling was theirs. How the angel mother of Sam Bass, from the battlements of Heaven, must have wept as she looked down upon him in his degradation and infamy…

  Charles L. Martin A

  Sketch of Sam Bass, The Bandit

  1880

  … this ubiquitous wraith, this knight of the road, this generous and open-handed highwayman…

  Walter Prescott Webb,

  The Texas Rangers

  1935

  Dad Egan

  He had seen the dream many times before. It was night, and a horse of some dark color was galloping along the ridge of a long, flat mountain. The mountaintop was strewn with small boulders. Bushes and small trees grew everywhere. The horse’s iron shoes struck fire from the rocks sometimes, but it never stumbled.

  He was the rider, but he also was standing on the mountain and watching the horse’s run, in that way that dreams have of letting you be in two places at once, both doing the thing being dreamed and seeing it done at the same time. As the rider, he felt his hair blown back by the wind of the horse’s passage. He felt the wind against his cheeks, too, and in his eyes. He rode bareback and felt the movement of the animal under his legs and the coarseness of its mane between his fingers. The rhythm of the horse was very smooth, and the rocks and the brush seemed to offer no impediment at all to its progress along the ridge. The iron shoes striking fire from the rocks made no sound. As the watcher, he saw the rocks and trees and fire and the horse running. The animal had one spot of white on it, a stocking leg, the left hind one. It glowed in the moonlight as it moved across the ground like a small ghost. He saw his own face, too. It was as pale as the horse’s leg and was smiling a smile of such abandon as to suggest madness.

  Suddenly the horse would approach a cliff, and instead of stopping or turning aside it would plunge into the void. Not downward, as if falling, but straight out into the darkness, like an arrow, until the horse and rider were swallowed by the gloom.

  The dream came to him years ago, when he was a boy on his uncle’s farm in Indiana. It had appeared to him many times since then. It never varied in any detail.

  It was always followed by another dream, or a second part of the same dream, that also was always the same.

  It was still night in the same hilly country. But now the horse was standing in a corral. It was standing quietly, making no sound at all. Its stocking leg still glowed in the moonlight, and its chest and withers and flanks were flecked with foam. The rider was outside the fence now, gazing at the horse. He was tired. Then he noticed the dark shape of a small house next to the corral. A light was glowing behind a curtained window. The rider thought he had never been in that place before, but he walked to the house and opened the door without knocking, as if he knew he was expected there. He entered a narrow hall, longer than such a small house could have contained. The hall was dark, except for a light at the far end. Standing in front of the light was a woman. He couldn’t see her face. Only the black silhouette of a woman wearing a long, straight skirt. “There’s a horse for you in the corral,” he said. And she said, “Thank you.”

  That was all. It wasn’t particularly unusual, as dreams go. I’ve dreamed stranger dreams myself. During the war, I dreamed terrible dreams that made me sweat and wake up screaming. Sam’s dream wasn’t at all frightening. The first part, the running of the horse, made him feel light and free, he said. And the second part made him feel calm.

  Sam told me about the dream not long after he arrived in Denton, before he went to work for me and came to live in my house. I was the first person in Denton to meet him, I guess. It was dusk, in the early fall of 1870, and I was sitting on the steps of the courthouse, taking the air. The courthouse was closed at that time of day, of course, but I liked to put the town to bed before I went home. I would inquire politely about the business of any strangers I found and make an early round of the saloons. Not to drink, you understand. Drink is the most dangerous thing an officer of the law can do. Liquor impairs a man’s wit and strength when he needs them most, and in a place like Denton, where the forces of decency and the forces of perdition are so delicately balanced, a whiff of whiskey on the breath can destroy a sheriff at the polls as well. The law is the heaviest weight on decency’s side of the scale, and the odor of sour mash on the breath of the law inspires a fear in decent people that the scale is tipping against them. In that dark time, only five years after the death of the Confederate States of America, when we were still trying to free ourselves from a carpetbag governor in Austin and a thuggish state police that poured salt into our wounds at every opportunity, it was especially important that the local law be decent and upstanding.

  Beyond these professional and political considerations, I abstain from alcohol because I’m a family man, a man of property and a Christian and try to be a friend and worthy example in my own home and in the town and county. And I’m proud that although I was only thirty-six years old at the time, even older men chose to call me “Dad,” in place of my Christian name, William. That may be why Sam was so drawn to me. He hadn’t called any man “Dad” in such a long time.

  Anyway, I was rising from the courthouse steps, about to commence my round of the saloons, when a wagon entered the square. I knew the driver. He was Bob Mayes, who used to run a livery stable in Denton. He had given it up in a fit of homesickness two years before and had gone back to Mississippi. Now he had returned. His wife was on the wagon box beside him. Their sons, Little Bob and Scott, had shot up like saplings since they left. They had the appearance of men now, slouching in their saddles. I didn’t know the third rider, a young man about Little Bob’s age, eighteen or nineteen. I stepped up to the wagon and shook Bob’s hand a
nd welcomed him back to Denton. While Bob climbed down and I helped Mrs. Mayes, the boys dismounted and tied their horses to the courthouse hitching rail. Bob said, “Dad, meet Sam Bass. He’s come from Indiana to be a cowboy, and he kept an eye out for Indians all the way across Arkansas.” He winked at me.

  The lad grinned sheepishly as he shook my hand. He was slightly built, five-foot-eight or so, and stood with a stoop that made him look even smaller. He was wiry, though, and although he didn’t grip my hand hard, I knew he was strong and used to hard work. His high cheekbones and black hair and eyes made me think that if he wanted to see an Indian, he should look in a mirror. I welcomed him and told him he had come to the right place to be a cowboy, for Denton is a sort of border between the farming country to the east and the cow country to the west. And if he wanted to see Indians, I said, he could ride on west and find plenty.

  The boy didn’t reply, and I turned back to Bob and his family and the kind of chat that old acquaintances get into when they haven’t seen each other for a long time, inquiring after the health and prosperity of each other’s families, comparing carpetbag governments and nigger problems in Texas and Mississippi, and things like that. I remember saying that so few men in Denton County had taken the oath of allegiance to the government in Washington that it was hard sometimes to find twelve white men for a jury. And he said the same was true in Mississippi.

  Sam Bass stood listening for fifteen or twenty minutes, shifting from one foot to the other and looking at the ground. Finally he said, “Sheriff Egan, where can I go to get a job on a ranch?”

  “Just stay in town and talk to the ranchers when they come in,” I said.

  “I ain’t got the money to hang around,” he said, “or the time.”

  “Well, ride that way in the morning, then,” I said, pointing to the road westward out of the square, “and stop at every house you come to. They’re far between, but you’ll find somebody who can use you.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll start now.”

  “You won’t get far before dark,” I said. “You’d better stay the night here and leave in the morning.”

  “No, I’ll go now and get a jump on the day,” he said. He shook hands all around, thanked Bob for letting him ride along with him, and promised to look up Little Bob and Scott the next time he came to town. Then he mounted his little buckskin horse and rode out.

  “That boy,” said Bob, watching him. “He’s going to amount to something real fast, or he’s going to bust a gut trying.”

  Sam was hired by Bob Carruth, fourteen miles west of Denton, and I must have seen him sometime during that fall or winter, but if I did, I don’t remember it. Maybe I didn’t. Some of the cowboys stay on the ranches for months at a time without coming into town, especially those who want to keep their pay for a while. I wish they all would. The town needs their money, of course, and I guess we’d be pretty bad off if they just stayed out on the range or went elsewhere for their good-timing. But I dread seeing them, especially when they arrive in bunches. They get drunk, and then start playing cards. Men who gamble are fools, and men who gamble while drunk are bigger fools. They forget the value of their money while they’re losing it, but when it’s gone they remember how hard they worked for it and resent the ease with which it’s taken from them. They get mad and fight. Sometimes they kill, and then head into the cross-timbers or light out to the west, where, likely as not, their scalps wind up in the belts of the Comanche or the Kiowa. There’s no telling how many men in Denton have been wasted on whiskey and cards, some slowly, over a number of years under their awful influence, and others extinguished suddenly in the violence inspired by them. “Wine is a mocker,” saith the Lord. And whiskey is worse.

  Sam had been drinking when I saw him next, and he had won a few dollars at the card table. He didn’t look happy, though, when he sat down beside me on the courthouse steps. “Well,” I asked, “how do you like being a cowboy?”

  He was rolling a cigarette, and he licked the paper and stuck it down and twisted the ends before he answered, “I don’t.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The hands at my uncle’s sawmill in Indiana told stories about Texas,” he said. “So did the river men in St. Louis and the boys at the sawmill in Mississippi. They all made it sound like heaven, and said they was coming here someday. But Texas ain’t nothing but a barren place where everything bites, and cowboying ain’t no more fun than standing in a fire.”

  I was amused at the bitterness of his complaint, which he spoke in a high, nasal twang that made him sound even younger than he was. “Most people come here expecting more than there is,” I said, “especially since the war. But they get used to it. Most even like it after a while.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind the place so much,” he said. “But I’m a sorry cowhand.”

  “Who says?”

  “Carruth’s told me I ain’t going on the drive to Kansas. He says I got to learn the tricks before I can be any use on the trail.”

  “Well, he’s right,” I said. “If you don’t know what you’re doing, you’ll get yourself killed on the trail. Or get somebody else killed. Be patient, son. You haven’t been here long, and you’ve got all the time in the world to get whatever you want.”

  Sam squinted through the smoke of his cigarette. “No, I ain’t,” he said. “What if I spend a year or two learning to rope a cow? What am I then? Just a cowboy. Nothing. Them longhorns ain’t nothing but misery, and I ain’t going to wear myself out on them.”

  His face was flushed, perhaps by the alcohol, and I thought he was going to cry. I felt sorry for him, so young and alone. “Why don’t you do something else?” I said.

  “I’m going west to hunt buffalo,” he said. “Hides is bringing up to two dollars apiece, and a lot of boys is going out to get them.”

  “Are you good with a rifle?” I asked. “Not very good,” he said quietly.

  “Have you ever skinned a buffalo? It’s the hardest, filthiest work there is. Worse than working cows. And if you’re not good with a rifle, you won’t get many hides.”

  Sam stared at the dust at the foot of the steps for some time, then pulled off his hat and swiped his brow with his sleeve. “Well, Dad,” he said, “is there nothing here for me?”

  “Sure there is, son. Maybe something in town. Maybe you could get work in one of the stores.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t read or write or do numbers.”

  “Well, what can you do?” I asked. “What do you like in this imperfect world?”

  “Horses,” he said. Then he told me about the dream.

  The Widow Lacy hired him. She ran the Lacy House, the biggest and best hotel in Denton, a two-story, white frame structure on the square. She had a fine well, too, and could water as much stock as you brought, which was one reason her place was so popular. That and her cooking. But she had had a hard time of it since her husband died, and she looked worn down by the worry of it. Business was too good. The inside work kept her hopping, and she was having trouble keeping a man around to do the lifting and carrying and taking care of her customers’ animals. The pay was low and her tongue was sharp, particularly when she was tired, which was most of the time, and no male helper of hers stayed more than a few months, despite her food. I saw her one evening, drawing and carrying the water for the stock herself. Her hair was coming unpinned, and the hem of her skirt was spotted with manure. I hurried to help her, and while I carried the water buckets I told her about Sam. “Lordy, Dad, if he’s got two arms and a back, I’ll take him,” she said. “I won’t even ask for legs.”

  They hit it off well. Sam worked hard and didn’t have to be told what to do. He didn’t complain about the work or the wages. The hotel’s customers liked him. Some said their horses and mules looked better after a day or two in Sam’s care than they’d ever seen them before. That was high praise, because animals are important around Denton, and most men consider themselves better than most at handling them and ta
king care of them. But Sam had such a special way with them that people could compliment him without taking anything away from themselves.

  It’s a strange thing. Most people don’t think of cleverness with animals as a gift of God, because everyone has to deal with them in one way or another. But some are so much better at it than others that you have to consider it a special gift. And Sam had the gift. That made him popular with the Lacy House customers, and valuable to the Widow. She knew it, and treated him nicer than she had his predecessors. She would save a piece of pie from supper and give it to him right before bedtime. She would buy him a new shirt or a new pair of pantaloons occasionally, and would fuss when he didn’t wear them. He did look scruffy much of the time, letting his black hair grow almost to his collar, wearing old patched clothes and going for a week without being shaved. “I ain’t no preacher,” he would say when the Widow suggested improvements, and she would shrug and let him go, since his appearance didn’t harm his good standing with her customers.

  He was popular in the town, too. Although he rarely spoke and wore a sad, vaguely troubled expression on his face much of the time, people who saw him around the square learned that he wasn’t unfriendly, and after he had a drink or two, he could be congenial. He drank moderately and gambled moderately, and when he lost, he didn’t rail against his own bad luck or curse the good luck of others or mumble of cheating as some did. He accepted his losses with grace, and when he won, he always bought a drink or two for the other players, thus taking some of the sting out of their ill fortune or bad sense. Because of that simple courtesy, cowboys and townspeople sought him out for their games.

  And he made three special friends. Frank Jackson, who was about five years younger than Sam, seemed to worship him. To this day I don’t know why. Frank was a tinner, and worked in the shop of his brother-in-law, Ben Key. He was a blond, gentle boy who read every book he could find and said he wanted to be a doctor. In appearance, manner and mind he was Sam’s opposite. Yet he hung on Sam’s every word as if it came from an oracle, and sometimes he even aped the peculiar stoop that made Sam appear to be carrying some invisible burden. I’ve watched them pitch hay and carry water to the Lacy House stock together, Frank babbling of what he had been reading in some book or newspaper, and Sam working silently, maybe listening to Frank’s words, maybe not. Frank was only fifteen or sixteen then and didn’t have many willing listeners to his book learning, I guess. Maybe Sam’s silence was what Frank treasured in him.