Longhorns East

by Johnny D. Boggs

Genres: Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

From nine-time Spur Award–winning Western author Johnny D. Boggs comes the incredible story of the biggest, longest, wildest cattle drive in America’s history—from the heart of Texas to New York City.

Tom Candy Ponting was no ordinary trail boss. He didn’t smoke, chew, cuss, or even carry a gun. Unlike his competitors, he learned how to herd cows on a farm back in England—and how to handle cowboys in bareknuckle prizefights. But his skills and know-how were really put to the test when he accepts a bet he might live to regret: lead a cattle drive from Texas to New York City.

Not one to back down on a dare, Ponting assembles the motliest crew of cowboys ever seen—Texans, Englishmen, Mexicans, Freemen, Cherokee—and charts a course through the unfriendliest country to move seven hundred head of cattle, never easy in the best of times.

Along the way, they’ll cross railroads and rustlers, hucksters and hustlers, with detours and dead ends aplenty. But if they succeed, the team will make more than just a whole lot of money. They will make history.

Inspired by the real-life adventures of legendary cattleman Tom Candy Ponting, Longhorns East takes listeners on an unforgettable journey as big and bold as America itself.

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

“I have been informed that you are a grazier.”

Tom Candy Ponting took one step back to consider this stranger to Somersetshire. Guessing the wayfarer to be a gentleman, Tom had been wondering why a man of means would seek out the fifteen-year-old son of a stock farmer. Now Tom reevaluated his first impressions.

Granted, the man wore a top hat, but those weren’t just for the upper classes anymore. Not even for those in the middle class. Coachmen wore them all the time these days. Why just Sunday last, Harriet Portbury said she had spotted one atop the head of Goolsby, the potter. True, the stranger’s clothes were clean, but the toes of the boots showed their age, plus countless miles, and his face had been tanned by long days in the sun. Yet that cigar must have cost him eightpence at Ryland & Warwick’s, while the glass of Madeira would have been another seven shillings. Then Tom recalled the man’s grip when they shook hands. Gentleman or not, he knew hard work.

“We Pontings have been breeding cattle since we arrived with William the Conqueror,” Tom confirmed.

The stranger sipped his wine, then dipped the end of the cigar into the glass before lifting weed to mouth for another pull. He blew out smoke and said, “I would not have guessed you to be quite that old.”

Twinkling blue eyes punctuated that statement, and Tom failed to suppress a short chuckle.

“I turned fifteen last August,” Tom said.

“William the Conqueror.” The man smiled again. “Hastings, 1066.” He looked around. “I supposed William got the better end of the deal.”

Tom shrugged. “I cannot say. William went to the throne. But we Pontings found Somersetshire to our liking.”

Which was true. True enough, anyway. Somersetshire was all Tom Ponting had ever known, and little of that. The Mendip Hills. Stone walls. Cattle. And this village called Kilmersdon.

Tom had left the farm that morning, sent on the monthly errand to pick up the month’s post. Mail did not come often enough to the Pontings to make regular trips into Kilmersdon, and neither John nor Ruth Ponting, Tom’s parents, could read or write. That was likely why they paid Old Lady Hallett a tuppence a week to teach eight Ponting kids, Ann being too young for schooling. If a post—with luck, an inquiry into the availability of Durhams or Herefords for sale—by chance arrived, Old Lady Hallett might read it aloud. She would have to. The Ponting brood had not taken to the alphabet any better than John or Ruth Sherron Ponting had.

This happened to be Tom’s month to walk to Kilmersdon. Brothers John, the oldest, and Frederick, three years Tom’s junior, and Mary tried to buy Tom’s errand, but none came up higher than a fourpence. Only Mary, seventh-born and five years younger than Tom, showed him coin, and had she gone up even just a penny or two, Tom might have accepted.

The post office stood in the postmaster’s two-story stone house, where Squire Corbyn let two upstairs rooms to travelers since Kilmersdon had no hotel. No post awaited Tom, but that was no surprise. Under new regulations, a letter that weighed between a half ounce and an ounce cost fourpence to be carried fifteen miles or fewer from the post office; eightpence for up to fifty miles. People did not write so much these days. Sometimes, the Ponting child might be instructed to bring back flour, tools, or clothing, putting the payment on the Ponting bill, but not this trip. Tom’s brothers would have been pleased to have escaped work on the farm, but Tom cursed his luck. Trodding six miles for nothing. With six miles to go, up and down those hills, back home.

Tom had walked outside, stared at the road that wound its way past the trail that led to the farm, but before he had stepped onto the street, the stranger had approached him and asked, “Pray tell, my good lad, but are you Tom Ponting?”

Now the man was asking: “What cattle do you breed?”

“Shorthorns,” Tom answered. “They are known for their milk. One of Father’s bulls is to be sold at the Boolk farm in Gloucestershire.” Maybe the man would want to talk to Tom’s father. Perchance, as a stranger would likely not know his way to the Ponting farm, the man had a fine barouche—even a gig would please Tom—and might let Tom ride with him.

“Black cattle?”

Tom thought about this. “Well, some are black. Black and white. Mostly we have Durhams and Herefords that are, well, red, I guess. Red and white. Some black, though.”

“Ah.” Setting his glass on the sill, the man dropped his cigar into the dregs. “My name is Sydney Ivatts. I have purchased fifty-three head of cattle from Daniell and Forrester. Black cattle. Black is gold today.”

So much for a comfortable ride in a carriage back home. Tom tried to keep his face expressionless, though disappointment made his feet and legs ache. Tom’s father had done business with those auctioneers several times, but had never mentioned that color drove up the price at market. When Tom got home, he would have to remember to ask his father or grandfather about that.

“Their cattle are black,” Sydney Ivatts continued. “Aberdeen Angus and Galloway polled. The Scots did something right after all as black brings a good price in London markets. Good price in all markets today.”

Again, the wayfarer reached inside his waistcoat. This time he pulled out a tiny piece of paper, and extended it to Tom.

“My card,” Sydney Ivatts said.

Tom stared at it. He recognized some letters that Old Lady Hallett had drilled through his skull, and nodded as though he understood what the words meant.

“I can show you my badge.” The stranger turned and tilted his head up toward the stone house’s second floor. “It is number thirty-two. It just seemed silly to wear that piece of metal until I near London with my beeves. And, of course, my license is as a Smithfield drover. Not a country drover. Though I have a bit of metal for that, too.”

He winked.

This Sydney Ivatts might as well have been speaking Latin, another favorite subject of Old Lady Hallett that left Tom perplexed. “Badge?” Tom asked, hating to show his ignorance.

“Oh, drovers have been licensed for years,” Sydney Ivatts said. “But now we have even more regulations. I supposed the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals had a hand in getting this legislation passed. And merchants, as well. The residents of London want meat on their plates, but dare not wish to see their supper being walked down the city’s streets. But as long as the market holds, I can live with a nuisance.”

Tom nodded as though this made sense.

“I was told to seek you out,” Sydney Ivatts said.

Tom might get that carriage ride home after all. “Do you wish to see my father?” Though Tom had no idea what business Sydney Ivatts would have with John Ponting—not having already purchased fifty-three head of cattle at an auction, and learning of the scarcity of black animals on the Ponting farm.

Sydney Ivatts’s smile widened. “It is you, Tom, that I desire to hire.”

The licensed drover explained before Tom could ask the obvious question, and that proved merciful to Tom, so shocked that he did not think he could form a coherent sentence for hours.

“I am driving this herd to market. I have hired George Croumbie as one drover. You came highly recommended as a second.”

Tom recovered to ask: “Driving cattle to . . . Newport?”

Tom had never been to Newport, either. He would finally get to see the Bristol Channel. Would they take a ship across the inlet?

“London,” Sydney Ivatts said. “I did say I was licensed as a Smithfield drover, did I not?”

Drawing in a deep breath, Tom fastened his eyes on the stranger. This must be some jest? But who would play a joke like this on Tom Ponting? The man looked serious. Maybe . . . Tom exhaled. London. Another city Tom had never seen. Back when Tom was only five years old, maybe six, his father had driven a herd to one of the London markets, returning with a puzzle for the children, and an India shawl for their mother, a hat for Grandfather Theophilus. And John Ponting never displayed . . . What was the word Old Lady Hallett used?

Extravagance.

Mostly, John Ponting sold his cattle here, or drove them to Bristol or Bath, forty miles at best.

Tom had only heard stories and seen drawings of London. A city of almost two million people—a number almost impossible to comprehend, and Tom knew his numbers. The greatest city in England, perhaps the mightiest city in the world. A city . . .

“That is one hundred miles from here.” Tom’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Nearer one hundred and ten,” Ivatts said. “Perhaps farther, depending on the graze.”

Their eyes met, held.

Part of Tom wanted to shout out an immediate acceptance, but he also pictured his mother. She would worry herself sick. And his father had taught him to think first.

“What . . . ?” he started, but quickly remembered another of his father’s rules regarding business. Don’t bring money into the conversation first. Leave that to the other man.

“When,” Tom said slowly, “do you begin this drive?”

“Thursday.”

The day after tomorrow. Tom sighed. “I would miss the ploughing match.”

“Ploughing match?”

Tom nodded until he could speak without his voice cracking. “This year it is scheduled for next Tuesday.”

“You have entered in this . . . ploughing match?”

“No, sir, but my grandfather, Theophilus Ponting, is umpiring.”

A few seconds passed. The breeze cooled Tom’s sweaty face and body. “I dare say that I have never seen a ploughing match,” Sydney Ivatts said after a moment, “but, alas, I cannot delay my departure. It is a long way to London. The market for beef is strong now. Wait, and it might not be as strong.” He sighed. “However, I am sure I can hire another drover. Times are hard. Men need work. And if not, I daresay one hired man and I can handle fifty-three head. I would just, well, rather not work as hard as I’ve been doing these past ten years.”

“I am not declining your offer, sir.” Tom spoke too quickly, and he had not been able to hide the panic in his voice. That might have cost him a shilling or two in what Sydney Ivatts planned to offer. “It is just that I must ask my father for permission.”

That easy smile returned to Sydney Ivatts’s face. “And receive your mother’s blessings.”

That might come a bit harder, Tom knew, but he nodded and mumbled, “Yes, my lord.”

“I am neither your lord nor your grace, Tom,” the man said. “I am a dealer in cattle. Much like your father.” He reached inside his waistcoat and retrieved a silver watch, glanced at it, and slid it back into a pocket. “Talk to your father and your mother, lad, and your grandfather Theophilus. Let me know your answer by half past six o’clock this evening.”

Half past six. Tom would have to run those six miles back to the farm. And race back.

“If your answer is yes,” Sydney Ivatts said, “then you will be paid two pounds in London.”

“Two pounds?” Tom had expected maybe a handful of shillings.

“Two pounds. It is what I shall pay Croumbie, too.”

“But George Croumbie is at least twenty years older than I.”

“You will be doing the same amount of work as George Croumbie, will you not?”

Tom could not stop his own grin, though it must have looked gawkish compared to that of Sydney Ivatts.

“You shall find me here. I hope and pray that your answer will be yes.”

I do, too.

When Sydney Ivatts turned back to retrieve the wineglass and started for the front door, Tom cleared his throat and said, “Sir?”

Ivatts turned, waiting.

“By your grace, sir, but might you confide in me who recommended me for this job you have so generously offered?”

Names had been going through his head. The Reverend Henry Quicke? Robert Fitzpaine? Hugo Hannaford?

“I desire to know this so I might thank him should fortune and my parents allow me to accept this opportunity,” Tom quickly explained.

The smile had departed. Sydney Ivatts turned into a solemn minister or jurist.

“It would be a breach of confidence to answer that inquiry without blessings from the man who spoke so highly of you.” The drover spoke with formality.

Solemnly, Tom’s head bobbed.

“But I guess, between the two of us, that I can at least reveal to you that his last name is Ponting.”

Inside the barn, Grandfather Theophilus sat on a stool, milking Rebecca, the Durham that gave the sweetest milk in Somersetshire. Tom’s father forked hay into the stalls. Without stopping or even glancing at Tom, John Ponting asked, “Any post?”

“No, Father.”

“Took you long enough to get home.” More hay sailed toward another Hereford.

Tom frowned. His feet and legs hurt from covering the distance in such remarkable time. Sweat pasted his shirt to his body. And he still had not completely caught his breath.

“A stranger in town, a licensed drover, stopped me outside the post office,” Tom began.

His father forked more hay.

“He seeks to hire me as a cattle drover.”

Grandfather Theophilus must not have heard, for he kept tugging on one of Rebecca’s teats with thumb and pointer finger, sending streams of milk into the bucket. Tom’s father, however, turned away from the stall and the mountain of hay, and stared hard, waiting, with great annoyance, for Tom to finish the joke.

“He has bought fifty-three head. At an auction. Daniell and—”

“A drover?” John Ponting turned to his father. “I have not heard of a country drover in these parts in ages. Have you?”

Grandfather Theophilus grunted, and kept milking Rebecca.

“Steamboats are used more today,” Tom’s father said. “Or a farmer ships them himself, negotiates a contract with a licensed drover who brings the beeves to some jobber.”

His father started to smile at some ancient memory, but then his brain finally picked up what Tom had just said.

“He desires to hire you?”

Tom swallowed. “Well, he has engaged Mr. Croumbie for his services, as well.”

For a great eternity, all Tom heard was Rebecca’s milk splashing against the sides of the oaken bucket. Now, Tom’s father placed the hayfork’s tines on the hard-packed earthen floor, and set his right boot atop the iron.

John Ponting put his hands on his hips. “You desire work as a hired drover?”

His father looked furious. Tom stammered, then tried to blink away the tears that welled in his eyes.

“I was . . . re-re-recco-comended.” He choked out the words. Tom never stuttered.

“Recommended? You?” His father roared. “A twelve-year-old pup. Who would recommend a lad like you for a man’s job?”

The scene outside the stone house in Kilmersdon played through Tom’s mind again.... I can at least reveal to you that his last name is Ponting. Maybe Tom had been played for a fool. It wouldn’t be the first time. But who? Frederick was too young to be giving recommendations to a stranger in the village. Besides, Frederick had not been off the farm since December. At nineteen, brother John left on errands more frequently, but he was too mature to dream up such tomfoolery, especially something this mean-spirited—even for a big brother. Perhaps it was the gentleman calling himself Sydney Ivatts who had perpetrated this caper.

“Son, I recommended Tom for the job.”

The sound of the milking had stopped, but Tom did not move. Only when his father turned toward Theophilus Ponting did Tom exhale and look at his grandfather.

“You?” Tom’s father started toward the cow and old man but stopped, and his shoulders sagged. “But why? What on earth were you thinking?”

The old man stroked his beard. Tom tried to remember his grandfather’s age. Seventy-five. That was one subject Tom picked up quickly. Arithmetic. Even Old Lady Hallett praised Tom’s abilities. Sums. Differences. Powers. Progressions. Proportions. Roots. Tom mastered those faster than any student Old Lady Hallett had ever taught, and she looked more ancient than Grandfather Theophilus. “Why,” the hired teacher had once said, “he can do sums in his head and without even glancing at an abacus.”

“Two pounds is a lot of money,” the old man said. “When I was a lad, and the Scots came down with their beeves, a drover would earn three, maybe four shillings, and get ten shillings for his return home.”

Rebecca chewed her cud.

“Aye.” His father sighed. “And when you were a lad a drove would have two hundred head of cattle, with four hired men working on foot and a topsman riding ahead to clear the road and make arrangements for lodging, meals, and a place to bed down the beasts.” He shook his head. “Now we have one topsman hiring a drunkard and a child to work just more than fifty cattle.”

“My days as a lad passed many a year ago.” Grandfather Theophilus kept his voice level.

“Why Tom? Why not John?” Tom’s father said. “He’s the oldest.”

“Ruth would never let John go. He’s her favorite. Besides, John has dreams of America.”

Tom’s eyes fell to his shoes. America. John was not alone in those dreams. Quickly, he looked up.

“You are thirty-five years old,” his grandfather said. “You need to think about who shall take your place when you can do little but milk cows and give recommendations—because Ponting remains a much-respected name—about cattle and cattle men.”

“Then mayhap William? Or Ann?” John Ponting’s voice rose again.

But the old man remained steady. “Now, you are being silly.”

William was seven. Ann, only three.

Grandfather Theophilus yawned and pushed himself off the stool. He tilted his head toward Tom. “I have seen the fire in this lad’s eyes. And I taught you that the best way to learn the cattle business is to learn all there is to know about the cattle business. Getting a drove to market is part of that business. An important part of the business.”

“He is twelve years old, Father.”

Tom’s grandfather chuckled. “He is fifteen. You were twelve when you went on your first drive. To Bristol. Remember?”

“Yes, but times were different in those days, as you keep saying. And we went there together.”

“Aye. And do you remember how it made you feel? Like a man.”

Sweat stung Tom’s eyes, so he closed them, and prayed, one of the rare times he prayed. When his eyes stopped burning, he raised his lids, blinked several times, and focused on his father. The wind carried a distant bellow from some cow in a pasture. Grandfather Theophilus began searching his trouser pockets for his pipe, his tobacco, and a lucifer. Tom’s father’s eyes bore through Tom’s own.

“What is the name of this country drover?”

“Sydney Ivatts.” Remembering the hard paper card that the cattle buyer had given him, Tom reached into his pocket and withdrew it. It was damp from sweat, but the ink had not run. He handed the card to his father, knowing that the letters would make even less sense to him. But it seemed to stamp Sydney Ivatts as official. Confidence men did not print up cards of introduction. Or did they? Well, no criminal would conspire to steal from Tom Candy Ponting.

“He has a badge, too. Number thirty-two.” Tom did not forget numbers, but he realized that he was taking Ivatts’s word that he was a licensed drover. Tom had not actually seen that particular item.

His father turned the card over and over, his lips moving as though he were reading the words, before he returned the card to Tom. John Ponting blinked, then focused on the cow.

“He drives to Bristol?”

Tom shook his head. “London.”

“London?” The shout caused Rebecca to bellow, and Tom’s father started to yell again, but drew in a deep breath instead. When he exhaled, he turned to Theophilus Ponting. “A licensed drover from London?”

“He is licensed. . . .” Tom fought to remember. “Smithfield,” he finally sang out.

“Enterprising.” Grandfather Theophilus nodded. “Comes and buys the cattle, takes them to London himself. He doesn’t have to pay a Smithfield drover to get the beeves to jobbers.” He drew on the pipe, and exhaled. “Though it always seemed a ridiculous notion to me that you need a license to get your cattle to market in any particular city, or market. Licenses, taxes. All graft if you ask me.”

Tom debated his next move. He did not want to push his father too much, especially now. He forced out the words: “Mr. Ivatts says that I need to let him know by half past six tonight if I might travel with him.”

John Ponting’s face hardened, but quickly relaxed. “When does he desire to begin this journey?” The voice had softened to almost a whisper.

“The day after tomorrow.”

“You will miss the ploughing match.”

Grandfather Theophilus chuckled as he tamped his pipe. “By all that is holy, I wish I could miss that, too.”

This time, Tom’s father grinned.

The wind blew. After a full minute, John Ponting turned and nodded at his son.

“Take the milk to your mother, Tom. Tell her of your opportunity for employment.”

“Mum will ask what you think,” Tom told him.

“Aye. Tell her . . . tell her . . . tell her that two pounds is a tidy sum of money.”

His mother looked old, though she had been born in 1795, as had Tom’s father. But Tom remembered hearing Mrs. Gladys Reeves saying, “You’re looking tired this afternoon, Ruth,” and his mother responding, “Try not looking tired or old after you’ve birthed as many children as I have.”

Ten. Though one, the first Mary, did not live out the year. Tom, fourth-born, came after her. Mum sat in her rocker, that worn India shawl—the same one Tom’s father had brought from London all those years ago—over her shoulders, though July was seldom cold. Leaning forward, she tapped her pipe on the arm of her rocking chair. Mum had been using that pipe as long as Tom could remember. If anyone objected to the smoke, she pointed out that tobacco dissolved the evil humors festering in the brain of men and women.

When she smiled, Tom saw the brown stains in her remaining teeth and the valleys of her gums. “I suppose this is something you want to do, Tom.”

Tom nodded. “Yes, Mum. And it pays two pounds. Father said that is a tidy sum of money.”

“I suppose Frederick is too young for the job.” Mum pulled hard on the pipe, blew out smoke, coughing slightly, and then shrugged her shoulders to get the shawl in a more comfortable position. “And John.” Her head shook. “His temperament isn’t like yours, Son. Don’t know where you got it.”

She sighed, shook her head, and started rocking again.

When William began bawling, Ruth Ponting shook her head, raised the pipe, then yelled, “Sarah. Quit tormenting that boy. If you cannot play nice, neither of you will get any supper.”

The shrieks reduced to a whimper, and Tom heard his sister coaxing his kid brother.

Tom looked out the window, trying to guess the time. Half past six, he reminded himself. Half past six o’clock. It wasn’t that late. He could still make it back to town.

“Is this something you have a strong desire to do, Tom?” Mum asked.

“It pays two pounds,” Tom repeated. “A tidy—”

“You have bragged about your salary. I asked you if this is something you wish to do.”

“Yes, Mum,” Tom answered, bobbing his head. “It is. Very much so.”

Ruth Ponting sighed. “Well, it’ll mean I shan’t need to cook as much breakfast and supper. How long do you suppose this journey will take?”

That was something Tom had not even considered. One hundred miles. The drover had called it closer to one hundred and ten. Make it a hundred twenty, for Grandfather had always said that one should always overestimate how long traveling anywhere would take. What? Ten miles a day? Fifteen?

He guessed. One hundred and twenty miles divided by fifteen. Eight days. Walking back home? Six days. No, quicker. Tom could be a mighty fast walker. “No longer than two weeks. But I should ask Father. Or Grandfather.”

Mum sighed, though Tom wondered if she had paid even scant attention. “Well, two pounds would come in right handy. All right, Son, you have my blessing. When do you leave?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

She breathed in, held it, exhaled. “You’ll miss the ploughing match.”

“Yes, Mum. I know.” He painted on a smile. “You shall have to tell me all about it.”

Mum spit again. “Like I’ll be going to that confounded thing.” Her head shook, she stopped rocking, and she leaned forward, setting the pipe on a side table.

“Kiss you feeble old mum goodbye.”

“I’m not leaving till the day after tomorrow, Mum.”

“That should not stop you from kissing your mother.”

He smiled, came to the rocker, knelt, and kissed her cheek, which smelled like tobacco, too. When he straightened, he said, “Mum, I must hurry back to Kilmersdon to tell Mr. Ivatts that I shall be accompanying him and Mr. Croumbie.”

She offered a nonchalant wave. “Off with you, then. If you are lucky, your brothers and sisters shan’t eat everything I cook.”

He did not stop until he came to Martin Buller’s store and peered through the plate-glass window. Kilmersdon was too small to have a clock tower, and the store was closed, but all the clocks and watches displayed showed no more than five minutes past six. Tom wiped his face with the handkerchief he’d fetched before leaving home, and started to breathe a little easier as he walked to Squire Corbyn’s house. The door was open to let in the breeze, but Tom knocked on the frame, and stepped back.

The small-framed postmaster stepped up, red galluses hanging down his tan trousers, his feet in stockings, his shirt removed, and half of his face covered in lather, the right side revealing a fresh shave with only two nicks. His right hand held a razor.

“Begging your pardon, Squire,” Tom began.

“Aye. Master Ponting. Still no posts, laddie.” He smiled. Squire Corbyn was the first good-natured postman the village had seen since Tom was old enough to fetch mail.

Tom grinned at the jo. . .