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  The War Between the States had forced young Chuck McAuliffe to take over the management of the family cattle ranch in Texas when he was only a boy. When his father comes back from battle, minus one arm and accompanied by only one of Chuck's two older brothers Chuck has grown into young manhood, and resents being treated once again like the youngster in the family. But "Old Man" McAuliffe, Chuck's father, has too many troubles to have much time to be tactful. He has losts a son, his army has been defeated, his ranch has inevitably deteriorated, mor as a result of war than because of any mismanagement. And his wife has died.

  Now, three years alter the end of holstilities, the remaining McAuliffes are undertaking an arduous and dangerous trek across country to try and recoup at least some of their fortunes, they and their hands are driving a herd of valuable cattle north to sell them in Kansas. where beef on the hoof commands a good price.

  But with the Arkansas River crossed and Kansas only a week away, their journey is far from over. They cleverly frustrate a gang of "bushwackers," guerilla rustlers who strike by night and kill every human shepherding a herd. Only to meet further difficulties. A quarantine of Texas cattle set up by the northeners, supposedly to protect against “Texas fever," in reality part of a scheme to buy the animals at far below their worth, impedes them. The worst threat however is a personal one, and comes from a villain named Jack Keller.

  Who with his infamous associates, will not stop short of murder. Who, with his infamous associates, will not stop short of murder.

  Young Chuck a Lone Star kid suddenly saddled with more responsibility than he had bargained for, finds he is up to the challenge, even after a brutal beating from a large and skillful opponent. But can he handle, as well, the mysterious and ladylike Amanda Netherton, whose beauty could disguise a danger more deadly than the guns of the predatory outlaws? In this fast moving novel of the cattle war that shaped the old frontier, readers will thrill to the sweep of out nation's history brought to very real life by the men who made it.

  Texas Fever

  Copyright © 1981 by Donald Hamilton

  All Rights Reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  All the Characters and events portrayed in this story are fictitious.

  First published in the United States of America in 1960 by Fawcett Gold Medal Books.

  Published simultaneously in Canada by John Wiley & Sons, Canada, Limited, Rexdale, Ontario.

  ISBN: 0-8027-4002-2

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 81-69104

  Printed In the United States of America

  Jacket design by David Wool

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  This was the summer of the year 1867, the third summer of peace—the third summer in which Texas men, civilians again in a land impoverished by war, had been free to drive their half-wild cattle up the long trail, known as the Shawnee Trail, that led from far below the Brazos all the way to Baxter Springs in Kansas and on up to the railroad at Sedalia, Missouri. They had been free, that is, to try. . . .

  Chuck McAuliffe watched his father come riding in towards the wagon, past the edge of the herd now bedding down for the night with two riders on guard, one of them Chuck’s brother Dave. In the fading light, the Old Man’s straight-backed, cavalry-officer style of riding made him look even taller than his six feet three. The empty, pinned-up sleeve of his gray army coat fluttered in the evening breeze as he checked his mount and stepped from the saddle, performing each action with the careful calculation of a man who still had to remind himself that he had only one hand to work with. Chuck went forward to take the horse.

  “Turn him out with the remuda and throw my saddle on the black,” Jesse McAuliffe said curtly.

  “Yes, sir,” Chuck said, and began at once to strip the saddle from the sweaty pony.

  The Old Man started off, but checked himself and turned back. “No,” he said, “not like that. I appreciate your indefatigable industry, boy, but just this once take it kind of easy, like you had all night. And maybe you’d better not saddle up again until it’s too dark for anybody out there to see what you’re doing.” He threw a casual glance back the way he’d come. “Tell the boys, when they get their night horses, to make it look lazy and peaceful. And tell them, when they turn in, to leave their trousers on, or they’re apt to find themselves riding in their drawers. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Chuck said.

  Before the war, he’d have asked questions. Before the war, his father had been a genial and kindly man, and he’d been an eleven-year-old sprout with a large and uncontrollable curiosity. He still had the curiosity at eighteen, but it was halter-broke now; and the Jesse McAuliffe who’d come back from the war had been a grim and sarcastic and domineering person who displayed a sharp impatience towards unnecessary questions, and a kind of cool aloofness towards the son who’d stayed home.

  Well, if that was the way he wanted it, Chuck thought, that was the way he could damn well have it. He, Chuck McAuliffe, had got along pretty well for four years without any paternal pats on the back, and he could continue to do so as long as necessary.

  The Old Man hesitated, as if about to speak again, but turned and strode away. Watching him go, Chuck wondered just what he’d found, scouting ahead, to justify this preparedness. Indian sign, probably, and in the morning there’d be the usual collection of greasy, arrogant, armed bucks coming to exact their toll from this herd passing through their country. That is, if they couldn’t manage to stampede it tonight and make off with a big bunch of strays in the confusion.

  Chuck restrained himself from glancing uneasily at the patches of woods that dotted these grassy bottomlands, any one of which, here in Indian Territory, could conceal a party of beef-hungry savages. He did, however, permit himself a possessive look towards the herd. A man couldn’t help a feeling of pride, he reflected, looking at that bunch of misbegotten longhorns, still not much more tame than when they’d been hazed out of the south Texas mesquite—or necked to oxen and dragged out, those that were too mean to move under their own power. They hadn’t wanted to come, and all along the way it seemed as though neither man nor nature had wanted to let them through. But here they were, on the north bank of the Arkansas. The last great river barring the trail north was behind them.

  It had been a drive to write home about, Chuck thought, had anybody stayed at home to receive a letter. They’d had enough rain to drown a herd of bayou alligators, and enough thunder and lightning to celebrate the Fourth of July for a century to come. They’d had Indians and stampedes in full measure, and rivers running bank-full to boot.
They were short a hundred and eighty head of cattle and one man, who’d drowned at the crossing of the Red. But there were still some twelve hundred big steers left, worth at least twenty dollars apiece at the railroad, and Kansas was practically in sight—well, less than a week away, given reasonable progress.

  As he unsaddled his father’s horse, Chuck remained aware of the Old Man walking stiffly towards the fire. Joe Paris—back home he was ranch foreman—got up to meet him. The two men held a consultation, Jesse McAuliffe gave some instructions, and Joe went off to carry them out.

  The Old Man walked over to speak to Miguel Apodaca, a small, dark rider who’d been hired on for the drive mainly because he’d claimed to have been over this trail recently—not that he wasn’t a good top hand as well. But there was some mystery about Miguel and the scar that twisted one side of his face and he wasn’t really popular with the crew, most of whom had worked together before the war. For one thing, Miguel had never volunteered any information about the outfit he’d accompanied to Missouri the previous year, nor would he speak of his experiences along the trail. Even in a land where a man’s private business was his own, his taciturnity seemed a little overdone.

  That he’d been this way before was clear, however; several times his accurate knowledge of the country had saved them time and trouble. Now he nodded, acknowledging the orders that had been given him. The Old Man stood in thought for a moment, rubbing the stump of his left arm, which gave him constant pain; then he moved wearily towards the wagon, where the cook had his supper waiting.

  One hand, Chuck thought soberly, his youthful resentment fading—one hand, this herd of cattle, a handful of loyal men, and two sons. That was about all Jesse McAuliffe had left. There had been more before the war, of course, much more. There had been three sons then, but Jim, the oldest, had been killed at Gaines’ Mill quite early in the war. There had been Chuck’s mother, but, never strong, she’d died of grief and deprivation a year later.

  There had been a fine ranch once, but after years of neglect the big house on Clear Creek stood shabby and forlorn; and land and cattle down in Texas didn’t count for much these days. You could eat only so much beef, and what else could you do with a critter if you couldn’t sell it? And who in Texas had money to buy? The only money left in the land was Yankee money, and to get it you had to go clear to Missouri. Well, Chuck reflected with satisfaction, it was beginning to look almost as if they might make it at that. A few half-tame Indians couldn’t stop them now, Cherokees, Choctaws, Creeks, or whatever. It wasn’t as if they had the real warrior tribes to worry about, like the Kiowas and Comanches farther west. . . .

  Later, with darkness solid about him, he was carrying wood to the fire when Joe Paris stopped him. “Let it die down,” Joe said. “Get in your blankets and act like you’re asleep.”

  Chuck said, “That won’t be hard.” He set down the load of wood, and straightened up to look at Joe, whom he’d known all his life—a spare, dry man with pale, thinning hair and pale blue eyes. He could reveal to Joe the curiosity he’d never betray to the Old Man, and he said, “If it’s Indians, Dad’s taking them mighty serious all of a sudden. Must have come across the tracks of a big bunch out there.”

  “Indians?” Joe said. “Who said anything about Indians? If anything happens, stick close to the Major and forget about the herd. Them’s orders.”

  “What about the horses?”

  “Let ’em go, too, for the time being. Now get in your blankets, but keep your pistol handy and your eyes open. You can catch up on your sleep next winter.”

  Chuck grimaced as the older man moved away. These old-timers were always saying how you could catch up on your sleep next winter. Maybe it had seemed funny to somebody, once. He yawned and moved towards his bedroll, and yawned again, picking his way among the blanketed forms sprawled around the dying fire. They’d all been alerted. From a distance, no doubt, they looked like tired men resting after a hard day’s work, dead to the world; but when you were among them you could sense that they were awake and waiting.

  “Watch where you put your feet, kid!”

  “If you didn’t cover so damn much ground,” Chuck shot back, “you wouldn’t get stepped on, Turkey.”

  He started to spread his blankets, yawning again— not from sleepiness, he realized now, but because he was tense and expectant and a little scared, not knowing exactly what they were all waiting for. When somebody grabbed his shoulder, he reached for the big cap-and-ball Remington at his hip as he turned.

  “What—”

  The bulky shape of the cook towered over him. “Where’s that wood I told you to fetch, kid? You planning on letting that fire go plumb out?”

  He was getting a little fed up with this fat cook and his domineering ways, but he kept his voice low. “Joe said let it bum down.”

  “The hell he did! How does he expect a man to keep coffee hot—”

  Joe Paris’ voice reached them softly. “Shut up, Coosie. Go play with your pots and pans.”

  “Ah—”

  The cook released Chuck and moved away towards the wagon, growling like a bear. Chuck watched him grimly. He didn’t mind working with the horses so much, he told himself, although the job of wrangler was generally given to a half-grown lad or some broken-down cowhand who could no longer do a day’s work with the herd. Well, he was the youngest in the outfit, and it was fair enough, he supposed, although it went hard to be treated like a kid again after he’d run the ranch for four years while the older men were away at war.

  Fair? he thought wryly. They’d got the riding and the shooting and the glory. They’d got to fight Yankees while he was working his head off trying to keep the place up after a fashion. Then, after getting thoroughly licked, they’d come straggling home, expecting him to look after their saddle stock and fetch wood and water while they stood around criticizing the way things had been let go to hell. Sometimes he even got the idea the Old Man blamed him for his mother’s death.

  Chuck shook his head irritably in the darkness. The Old Man wasn’t really to blame, he supposed. You had to make allowances. You couldn’t blame him for being kind of sour, after losing almost everything. And somebody had to ride herd on the horses and do the chores around camp. But if that lard-assed cook didn’t keep his fat hand where it belonged, he was going to get it shot off. . . .

  He must have made some kind of an angry sound, because there was a rustle of movement beside him and a chuckle.

  “What’s the matter?” It was the voice of his brother. “Coosie been riding you again?”

  “Some,” Chuck said.

  Dave laughed, squatting down beside him. “Don’t let him rile you. If the man wasn’t a misfit, he wouldn’t be cook for a mangy outfit like this, would he?”

  Dave rolled a cigarette and took a smoldering branch from the fire to light it. The stick, breathed upon, burst into flame, showing his face briefly, bold and dark. He was tall, like their father, with a reckless and dashing air, even in his worn range clothes. Chuck couldn’t help a moment of envy, wishing he’d been born to resemble his older brother, instead of being, as he was, the sickly runt of the litter. Maybe that was another reason the Old Man never had much to do with him these days: he’d never grown to look much like a real McAuliffe.

  Dave blew a smoke ring that drifted across the glowing coals and was dispersed by the updraft of hot air. “Seems nice and quiet out there, doesn’t it?” he said idly.

  Chuck asked, “What’s up? I was figuring, the way Dad was acting, it was those sneaky savages again, but Joe said—”

  “Indians don’t ride shod horses,” Dave said. “There’s worse things than redskins along this border. Well, the Old Man’s usually got a trick or two up his sleeve.” He yawned audibly, dismissing the subject, and asked in a different tone: “What are you planning to do when we hit Sedalia? I don’t figure we’ll waste any time in Baxter—anyway, they tell me that’s not much of a town for pleasure—but we’ll make up for it when we’ve got
rid of the herd and have those Yankee dollars in our pockets, eh? What’s the first thing you’re going to do?”

  Chuck scratched himself under the armpit. “Why, I kind of figured I’d take a bath,” he said. “And then maybe I’ll get me something to eat that wasn’t fried in axle-grease.”

  “Sounds good as far as it goes,” Dave said. “I was kind of figuring on a little something to drink, too. About time you learned how, don’t you think? Any other plans?” “Well, no,” Chuck admitted. “I hadn’t thought any farther than that.”

  Dave laughed. “I reckon we can find you something to occupy your leisure hours, if we put our minds to it. They tell me Sedalia’s quite a town. It’s about time you got some education, Charley boy.”

  “Ma taught me to read real good,” Chuck said rather stiffly. “And I can figure better than you.”

  Dave laughed and clapped him on the back. “I had a different kind of education in mind, Sonny,” he said. He rose and tossed his cigarette into the fire. “Well, Sam and Lacey are with the herd. I reckon I’ll take a little look around. Don’t let Coosie worry you. If you’d been eating his cooking as long as he has, you’d hate everybody, too.”

  He chuckled, and vanished into the darkness. Chuck heard him reach his horse and ride off. He hadn’t been gone five minutes—Chuck had barely had time to get comfortable in his blankets—when the night erupted with the thunder of hoofs and the crash of gunfire.

  CHAPTER 2

  They came in from the north, in a bunch, whooping and firing. There seemed to be dozens of them, and Chuck threw off his blankets and drew his pistol as he rose. He looked around for guidance, uncertain whether he was supposed to run for his horse or seek cover and prepare to help stand off the attack. But the yelling mass of horsemen out in the dark veered sharply before coming within range of the camp. Chuck caught a glimpse of Joe Paris, gun in hand, racing towards the picket line, and followed.

  The herd had come to its feet at the first outburst of firing. It stood only a moment longer before it broke.