by Lyle Brandt
“He’ll go along. Might need to let him have a little something when he’s coming off a long day.”
“How about his life?”
“Should do it. We can likely make it over altogether on a single run, then what’s he gonna do?”
“Could talk,” Finch said.
“Who to? The nearest U.S. marshal’s in Fort Smith, some eighty miles away.”
“Unless one of ’em is patrolling in the territory.”
“Well . . .”
“I don’t like thinking of them on our trail. They can go anywhere. Borders don’t even slow ’em down.”
“I know.” Gretzler was coming around toward seeing sense.
“It’s better if he can’t say anything to anybody.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“It might be easier, coming from you.”
“I doubt he’ll feel that way.”
“Don’t ask him, then. Just get it done.”
“Sure, Amos. Don’t give it another thought.” Not loving it, but relenting.
“Good man. A little something extra in it for you when we dump those other two.”
“Full extra share?” asked Gretzler, perking up a bit.
“Why not?” Finch said. An easy promise, coming out of Jaime’s end, or Mariano’s.
“Done,” said Shel. “Thinking about it now, I never cared much for him anyway.”
* * *
* * *
THERE WAS A single barge on hand for crossing the Canadian. It seemed in decent shape, though Bishop couldn’t say the same about the ferryman.
He was a ratty-looking fellow, with a sunken chest and cheeks. Some missing teeth, and those that showed were nothing to write home about, tobacco-stained, looking worn down to stubs almost. Lank hair was thin across the boatman’s pate, head mounted on a stalk-like neck, with shoulders sloping down to skinny arms. If he had bathed that month, you couldn’t prove it by his smell.
For all of that, he had sharp eyes and quick hands fidgeting around the buckle of his gun belt, with a big Colt hanging backward on his left hip. From a distance, Bishop recognized the weapon as a British Beaumont-Adams double-action, made in London, one of many shipped to the Confederacy while the war was on. Once a muzzle-loading piece, most still in use had been converted to fire metal cartridges, .44-caliber, although the manufacturers in London called them .442s.
It would be deadly in a practiced hand, but Bishop knew its cylinder would only hold five rounds. Supposing that the ferryman had devilment in mind—and the ability to herd two thousand longhorns on his own—he had to know he wouldn’t stand a chance against fourteen armed men.
Bishop hung back and watched as Mr. Dixon parleyed with the ferryman, discussing price. He watched the boatman take a stub of pencil from his sagging shirt’s breast pocket, with a folded piece of paper, eyeballing the herd and jotting down some calculations, handing them across to Mr. D. The boss examined what he’d written, seemed to make a counteroffer, which the boatman mulled, then nodded to accept.
Some cash changed hands, not much, but likely a down payment with the balance due when all the steers had safely crossed. The ferryman tucked it into a pocket of his grubby blue jeans and retreated toward his barge.
The boat was thirty, maybe thirty-five feet long and nearly square, say twenty-some-odd feet across. Stout rails guarded its sides to left and right, while fore and aft were open, save for twin ropes tied between the side rails, like the velvet ropes Bishop had seen inside a fancy Dallas restaurant one time, used to keep customers in line while they were waiting for a table. Toby hadn’t been among those diners, rather working as a bouncer on a boozy New Year’s Eve, but he remembered well enough.
The trick today was guiding steers aboard the barge, already skittish when they felt it bobbing underneath their hooves, and not allowing them to gore each other accidentally with their long horns. Drovers got the beeves situated with some difficulty, one riding in front, another at the stern, leaving the farrier to man the barge’s rudder.
For propulsion it depended on a thick rope strung from shore to shore, which the Circle K men hauled with gloved hands, drawing the barge across a few yards at a time. The boatman steered and kept a long pole handy for corrections if the river seemed intent on sweeping them away downstream.
It was a slow process and had to be repeated ninety-nine more times. The barge went over heavy laden and came back empty and a good deal faster, though the ferryman had to do all the work himself on the return trip.
That would be most of their day, and Bishop found himself anticipating his turn at the crossing, doing something more than sitting on his snowflake Appaloosa, making sure the dwindling mass of longhorns didn’t break apart and wander off. The good news: once they’d all gotten across and pushed the herd another mile or two northward, it would be time to camp.
And the bad news: He’d have to watch the darkness close around them once again.
* * *
* * *
SURPRISED TO SEE you here, Shelby,” said Gilly Chalmers, reaching up to wipe his bristly chin free of tobacco juice.
“I get around,” Gretzler replied.
“Uh-huh. You always did.”
“So, what’s the price for crossing over?” Amos Finch inquired.
Chalmers considered it, squinting one eye. Dusk crept across the prairie, moving west to east, its shadow slowly overtaking them.
“Four bits apiece,” the ferryman decided, finally. “Dime each for horses.”
“Jesus, Gilly.” Shelby shook his head.
“Now, now,” Finch interposed. “That ain’t so bad. How ’bout we say five bucks and keep the change for working overtime.”
The boatman smiled at that. “Suits me right down to the ground,” he said. Then, looking sly, “You fellas wanna catch that herd, you’re gonna have to spur your mounts.”
“What herd is that?” asked Gretzler, trying to sound casual and falling short.
“I’ll make believe you didn’t say that, Shel. Insulting my intelligence when we’ve been friends so long.”
“Looks like he’s got our number,” Finch remarked. “Can’t pull the wool over this fella’s eyes.”
“No, sir,” Chalmers agreed. “And tryin’ it’s a plain old waste o’ time.”
“Maybe we ought to add another five-spot to the fare and call it quits.”
“I like the way you calculate, mister,” Chalmers replied.
“Then call it done, soon as we’re all across.”
“We’d best get started, then,” Gilly allowed, “afore we lose the light.”
The boatman watched them board his craft, giving directions as they moved up toward the rope in front, without crowding too close. None of their number felt a need to test the river’s chill by plunging in.
The trip across used up most of a quarter hour, with Ybarra and his buddy Mariano hauling on the bow rope, Gilly Chalmers steering from the stern. Finch kept a tight grip on his grulla gelding’s reins until they’d reached the other side and had their feet on solid ground once more.
“Ten dollars, then,” the boatman said when they were all onshore. “And I can say it’s been a pleasure doin’ business with ya.”
Finch turned to Shelby Gretzler, nodding, his eyes dropping to the Arkansas toothpick Gretzler wore sheathed on his gun belt. They had already talked about the need for quiet, no gunfire to spook the drovers who were just a couple miles ahead of them and likely settling into camp.
“I’ve got you covered, Gilly,” Gretzler said, pulling the knife as he advanced. Departing sunlight glinted from its twenty-inch-long blade.
“Hey, now!” yelped Chalmers, going for the backward pistol on his hip, but he was too slow reaching for it, bitter recognition dawning in his rheumy eyes.
Gretzler buried his blade, or most of it, u
nder the boatman’s chin, piercing the turkey wattle there and thrusting up through his soft palate to his brain. Blood trickled from the wound at first, with Gilly going stiff, held upright by the penetrating dagger, then a gush of crimson came as Shelby gave the knife a twist and yanked it free.
Chalmers folded and dropped before them like an empty suit of clothes. Gretzler took time to wipe his blade and knife hand on the dead man’s shirttail, sheathed his dagger, and stepped back, checking to verify that no gore had been spattered on his own clothing.
Ybarra swore, crossing himself.
“That ought to shut him up,” said Gretzler, sounding grim.
“Had to be done,” Finch told the rest of them.
“No skin off me,” Reed Dyer said. “He wasn’t worth five dollars, much less ten.”
Shel looked as if he might respond to that, then let it go, shot Finch a look, and shrugged.
“All right, mount up,” Finch ordered. “I want to catch up with them in time to scout the layout one last time before we make our play.”
* * *
* * *
SUPPER WAS PORK and beans with bread again, no great surprise since fording the Canadian had used up most of Varney’s time for cooking. Toby Bishop guessed they wouldn’t have another taste of beef unless one of the longhorns died or came up lame and had to be put down, at which point nothing would be left to waste.
All things considered, he would rather make do with the fare on hand and spare the herd from any losses that would eat away the final payoff in St. Louis. Not that higher profits for the Circle K would lead to any bonus being passed along his way. No extras would be accrued, no handouts for performance of a job the drovers already agreed to carry out.
He had first watch, along with Isaac Thorne and Paco Esperanza, their numbers cut back to three per shift now that they’d put a river in between themselves and whatever Bishop had seen, heard, or imagined two nights back.
He wished it were that easy to forget, and yet . . .
Better to guard against a nonexistent danger than to blithely forge ahead on hope and wind up with your throat cut in the middle of the night.
Maybe the river was enough to see them free and clear until they reached Missouri’s border, but he wasn’t counting on it. If a herd of longhorns managed crossing over, with its drovers and chuck wagon, anybody could. The ferryman who’d served them would be open to all comers if he halfway trusted them and they had ready cash in hand.
That was the Wild West for you. Anyone who had the wherewithal to travel and put up a show of self-defense could get along, until some obstacle loomed up and blocked the way for good. Bishop had managed to avoid that sticky end so far, but everybody’s string ran out sometime, someway.
The trick was doing unto others before they did unto you.
He wouldn’t want to argue that with Pastor Lott, but Bishop couldn’t think of any reason why it might come up between them. Every cowboy on the drive knew what might be expected of him if the herd was threatened. Anyone who balked at that would likely wind up buzzard bait, or at the very least get sacked and sent packing with no recourse.
That wasn’t Toby Bishop. He’d already proved that he could pull a trigger when the chips were down, and if that wasn’t clear to Mr. Dixon yet, it might be soon enough.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEIR EIGHTH DAY on the trail came off without a hitch and stayed that way until late afternoon, when one steer unaccountably collapsed and died. Cursing from Mr. D aside, that meant a feast of beef for supper after Mel Varney and Rudy Knapp were finished butchering the carcass, roasting half of it, and salting down the other half to keep awhile.
The night was undisturbed, despite a distant pack of coyotes baying at a waxing gibbous moon. None of them ventured near the herd, at least not during Toby Bishop’s watch with Leland Gorch and Whit Melville.
The next morning, bright and early, they were on the move again while the chuck wagon lagged back, Varney and Knapp cleaning their cookware and stowing it away before they caught up with the herd.
Bishop could almost feel his spirits lighten, the gut instinct that he’d learned to trust relaxing as they edged within two weeks of crossing the Missouri borderline. He knew that wasn’t any guarantee of safety, but at least the Show Me State had laws in place and men with badges to enforce them. True enough, Missouri had spawned countless thieves and killers starting well before the Civil War. Some of them, like the James and Younger brothers, still ran wild across the countryside, earning their native soil another sobriquet—“Mother of Bandits”—but their victims, if they managed to survive, knew where to find a county sheriff or town marshal when they needed one.
Whether or not the lawmen would respond was something else entirely. Bishop knew from personal experience that some were bought and paid for by the very felons they were meant to jail or hang. He guessed that had gone on for as long as people flocked together, choosing armed men to defend them, always hoping that they hadn’t made a critical mistake.
On balance, he considered, maybe life was better on the open prairie, where an individual dealt with his problems as they came and settled them for good.
Day nine felt much the same, with clear skies overhead and nothing but a brisk north wind to conjure memories of the unseasonable snow that had delayed them earlier. Huddled in coats and scarves, the drovers pushed on through the tallgrass country, reckoning the miles they’d come without a marker to confirm their progress, leaning forward in their saddles to defeat the wind and hurry sundown on its way.
More beef and beans for supper, with potatoes for a change, and Bishop drew the middle watch with Boone Hightower and Deke Sullivan. By now, he knew that “Deke” was short for “Deacon,” something pointed out by Pastor Lott over one of their meals. That hadn’t won him any points with Sullivan, if looks were any guide, but when did self-anointed preachers spare a thought for anybody’s privacy?
Bishop had no reason to think that he’d face any trouble on his shift tonight, but riding herd was just like anything in life. You took it one step at a time, while trying not to stumble on the path and sprain an ankle, much less fall and break your neck. With any kind of luck, while you were doing that and looking out for number one, you might just have a shot at helping someone else.
The night was fairly quiet as he started his first circuit of the sleepy herd. Somewhere above and to his right, northward, Bishop heard the high-pitched calling of a bat in flight. Farther away and somewhere east of him, a screech owl hooted twice and then fell silent.
Sunrise was just a few hours away. He would hold on to that and get what sleep he could after his turn on guard. Tomorrow was another day and there was no telling what it might hold in store.
* * *
* * *
AMOS FINCH HAD done his best to get the others ready, telling them exactly where the cattle drive’s remuda was secured and talking through his plan until most of them gave up listening and started looking bored. His second in command caught Finch’s eye and shrugged as if to say, What can you do?
Not much, when you were working with a bunch like this.
Amos knew outlaws, being one himself. He fully understood their short attention span and their need for action, whether they were pulling off a job or winding down once it was done. With most of those who followed him, he guessed inherent simplemindedness was part of it, together with a restlessness that marked them for a life outside polite society.
Still, shouldn’t they at least care about whether they survived the night or not?
While they were mounting up and getting squared away, Finch took Gretzler aside and told him, “Focus on the horses, picking up as many as we can. These other sap heads want to fart around and get themselves killed, I don’t give a damn.”
“Leaves more for us,” said Shelby.
“And I like the sound of that,” Amos replie
d.
They rode through darkness for almost an hour before picking up the sounds and smell of longhorns, slowing down on their approach as they moved upwind from the herd. His final scouting trip had found three drovers working the night watch, random patrols around the herd’s perimeter, one or another of the cowboys crooning to the sleepy steers.
That helped. A singing watchman, tired already from a long day on the trail and looking forward to his bedroll, couldn’t count on registering subtle noises in the night. Unless one of the rustlers got balled up and let excitement run away from him, they had a chance to pull this off without a fight.
So why did Finch’s brain whisper to him, Good luck with that?
Maybe because he knew the men who rode with him, and wouldn’t trust five out of six to put their boots on in a rush without confusing left for right.
It started well enough, his riders slipping in toward the remuda, the horses huddled up some thirty yards from the chuck wagon and the dying campfire, nice and quiet. Over all the nights he’d scouted them, Finch hadn’t seen a drover with the tethered horses overnight, and guessed that their wrangler put his trust in their proximity and caught up on his shut-eye when he could.
It was the same tonight. Shel Gretzler and Reed Dyer closed in on foot and started loosening the horses’ tethers, joined by others in the task of leading them away while Finch sat back astride his grulla, Henry rifle in his hand and covering the camp.
He’d just about allowed himself to think that they might pull it off without a hitch when someone shouted from inside the covered chuck wagon, “Wake up and grab your rods! Poachers are after the remuda!”
Scrambling and cursing in the camp then, bedrolls cast aside, as Amos saw his plan start going up in smoke.
* * *
* * *
TOBY BISHOP HEARD the warning call and pegged the voice as Rudy Knapp’s as he swung his Appaloosa through a tight half circle back toward camp. Some of the longhorns close at hand lowed and stirred restlessly at the alarm but they weren’t truly frightened yet.