by Zane Grey
CHAPTER II
BRITE’S FIRST CAMP was Pecan Swale, some twelve or more miles out of San Antonio. Grass had been scarce until the drivers reached this creek bottom. The gigantic herd had drifted faster than usual, arriving at the Swale before sunset.
Shipman with the chuck-wagon, and Ackerman with the second herd, rolled in together.
“Any drive close behind?” called Brite, from his resting-spot in the shade. He was tired. Tough as he was, it took several days to break him in to saddle and trail.
“Nope, boss. Henderson is startin’ next with two herds. But he won’t be ready for days. Then the herds will come a-whoopin’,” returned the rider.
“Wal, thet’s good. Shipman, I reckon yu better take charge now.”
“Then we’ll all lay off till after supper. Looks like a mighty good place for cattle to hang.”
The location was a most satisfactory one, and would be hard to leave, at least for those drivers who had been up the Trail. A grove of pecan and walnut trees and blackberry bushes choked the upper end of the valley with green and yellow verdure. Below it a lazy shallow stream meandered between its borders of willow. Grass grew luxuriantly all through the bottom-lands, and up the gentle slopes. Dust clouds were lifting here and there where the mustangs were rolling. The drivers threw saddles, blankets, and bridles to the ground, and flopped down after them. Gloves, sombreros, chaps, and boots likewise went flying. The boys were disposed to be merry and to look each other over and take stock of the whistling cook. Alabama Moze, they called him, and he was a prepossessing negro, baffling as to age. His chuck-wagon was a huge affair, with hoops for canvas, and a boarded contraption at the rear. Moze was in the act of letting down a wide door which served as a table. He reached for an ax and sallied forth for firewood. That article appeared scarce, except for the green standing trees.
From his lounging-spot Brite studied his outfit of men, including the cook. Shipman had not been able to secure any more drivers. Brite thought it well indeed that he had taken on Pan Handle Smith. That worthy followed Moze out into the grove. Divested of coat and chaps, he made a fine figure of a man. Even on the Texas border, where striking men were common, Smith would have drawn more than one glance. In fact, he earned more than that from Joe Shipman. But no remarks were made about Smith.
Bender, the tenderfoot from Pennsylvania, appeared to be a hulking youth, good natured and friendly, though rather shy before these still-faced, intent-eyed Texans. He had heavy, stolid features that fitted his bulky shoulders. His hair was the color of tow and resembled a mop. He had frank, eager blue eyes. Whittaker was a red-faced, sleepy-eyed, young rider of twenty-two, notable for his superb physique.
The Uvalde quintet mostly interested Brite. In a land where young, fierce, rollicking devils were the rule rather than the exception this aggregation would not have attracted any particular attention in a crowd of drivers. But Adam Brite loved Texas and Texans, and as he studied these boys he conceived the impression that they had a shade on the average trail driver. Not one of them had yet reached twenty years of age. The dark, slim, bow-legged Deuce Ackerman appeared to be the most forceful personality. The youth who answered to the name San Sabe had Indian or Mexican blood, and his lean shape wore the stamp of vaquero. Rolly Little’s name suited him. He was small and round. He had yellow hair, a freckled face, and flashing brown eyes, as sharp as daggers. Ben Chandler was a typical Texas youth, long, rangy, loose-jointed, of sandy complexion and hair, and eyes of clear, light blue. The last of the five, Roy Hallett, seemed just to be a member of the group — a quiet, somber, negative youth.
Preparations for supper proceeded leisurely. Brite marked that Pan Handle helped the negro in more ways than packing in firewood. The drivers noted it, too, with significant stares. On the trail it was not usual for any rider to share the tasks of a negro. Manifestly Pan Handle Smith was a law unto himself. The interest in him increased, but it did not seem likely that anyone would question his pleasure.
Texas Joe left camp to climb the ridge from which he surveyed the valley. Evidently he was satisfied with what he saw. Brite’s opinion was that the cattle would not stray. It was unusual, however, to leave them unguarded for even a moment. Presently Smith appeared to be studying the land to the north. Upon his return to camp he announced,
“Trail riders haided for Santone. An’ there’s a lone hawseman ridin’ in from ‘cross country.”
“Wal, Shipman, we’ll shore see more riders than we want on this trip,” said Brite.
“Ahuh, I reckon.”
“Boss, yu mean painted riders?” spoke up Ackerman.
“Not particular, if we’re lucky. I had to feed a lot of Comanches last trip. But they made no trouble. I reckon the riders thet bother me most are the drifters an’ trail dodgers.”
“Boss, mebbe we’ll be an ootfit thet breed had better pass up,” drawled Shipman.
“Wal, I hope so. Yu cain’t never tell what yore ootfit is until it’s tried.”
“Tried by what, Mr. Brite?” asked the tenderfoot Bender, with great curiosity.
The boss laughed at this query. Before he could reply Shipman spoke up: “Boy, it’s jest what happens along.”
“Nothing happened today in all that nice long ride. I’ve an idea these trail dangers are exaggerated.”
Suddenly one of Ackerman’s boys let out a stentorian: “Haw! Haw!” This would probably have started something but for the cook’s yell following and almost as loud. “Yo-all come an’ git it!”
There ensued a merry scramble, and then a sudden silence. Hungry boys seldom wasted time to talk. Brite called for Moze to fetch his dinner over under the tree. It took no second glance for the boss to be assured that this cook was a treasure.
The sun set in a cloudless, golden sky. An occasional bawl of a cow from the stream bottom broke the silence. A cooling zephyr of wind came through the grove, rustling the leaves, wafting the camp-fire smoke away. Brite had a sense of satisfaction at being on the Trail again and out in the open. Much of his life had been spent that way.
“Moze, where yu from?” asked Shipman, as he arose.
“Ise a Alabama niggah, sah,” replied Moze, with a grin. “Thet’s what they calls me. Alabama.”
“Wal, so long’s yu feed me like this I’ll shore keep the redskins from scalpin’ yu.”
“Den I’ll be awful sho to feed yu dat way.”
“Wal, boys, I hate to say it, but we gotta get on guard,” went on Shipman, addressing the outfit. “There’s ten of us. Four on till midnight, three till three o’clock, an’ three till mawnin’. Who goes on duty with me now?”
They all united in a choice of this early-night duty.
“Shipman, I’ll take my turn,” added Brite.
“Wal, I’ll be dog-goned,” drawled the foreman. “What kind of an ootfit is this heah? Yu all want to work. An’ the boss, too!”
“Fust night oot,” said some one.
“I reckon I gotta make myself disliked,” returned Shipman, resignedly. “Bender, yu saddle yore hawse. Lester, same for yu. An’, Smith, I reckon I’d feel kinda safe with yu oot there.”
“Suits me fine. I never sleep, anyhow,” replied the outlaw, rising with alacrity.
“Deuce, I’ll wake yu at midnight or thereaboots. Yu pick yore two guards.... An’ say, boss, I ‘most forgot. Who’s gonna wrangle the hawses. Thet’s a big drove we got.”
“Shore, but they’re not wild. Herd them on good grass with the cattle.”
“All right, we’ll round them up. But we ought to have some one regular on thet job.... Wal, so long. It’s a lucky start.”
Brite agreed with this last statement of his foreman, despite the strange presentiment that came vaguely at odd moments. The Brite herd of forty-five hundred head, trail-branded with three brands before they had been bought, had a good start on the herds behind, and full three weeks after the last one that had gone north. Grass and water should be abundant, except in spots. Cattle could go days without
grass, if they had plenty of water. It had been rather a backward spring, retarding the buffalo on their annual migration north. Brite concluded they would run into buffalo somewhere north of the Red River.
“Moze, couldya use some fresh meat?” called Deuce Ackerman.
“Ise got a whole quarter of beef,” replied Moze. “An’ yo knows, Mars Ackerman, Ise a economical cook.”
“I saw a bunch of deer. Some venison shore would go good. Come on, Ben. We’ve a half-hour more of daylight yet.”
The two drivers secured rifles and disappeared in the grove. Hallett impressively acquainted Little with the fact that he was going to take a bath. That worthy expressed amaze and consternation. “My Gawd! Roy, what ails yu? We’ll be fordin’ rivers an’ creeks every day pronto. Ain’t thet so, boss?”
“It shore is, an’ if they’re high an’ cold yu’ll get all the water yu want for ten years,” returned Brite.
“I’m gonna, anyway,” said Hallett.
“Roy, I’ll go if yu’ll pull off my boots. They ain’t been off for a week.”
“Shore. Come on.”
Soon the camp was deserted save for the whistling Moze and Brite, who took pains about unrolling his canvas and spreading his blanket. A good bed was what a trail driver yearned for and seldom got. At least, mostly he did not get to lie in it long at a stretch. That done, Brite filled his pipe for a smoke. The afterglow burned in the west and against that gold a solitary rider on a black horse stood silhouetted dark and wild. A second glance assured Brite that it was not an Indian. Presently he headed the horse down into the Swale and disappeared among the trees. Brite expected this stranger to ride into camp. Strangers, unfortunately many of them undesirable, were common along the Chisholm Trail. This one emerged from the brush, having evidently crossed the stream farther above, and rode up, heading for the chuck-wagon. Before the rider stopped Brite answered to a presagement not at all rare in him — that there were meetings and meetings along the trail. This one was an event.
“Howdy, cook. Will yu give me a bite of grub before yu throw it oot?” the rider asked, in a youthful, resonant voice.
“Sho I will, boy. But Ise tellin’ yo nuthin’ ever gits throwed away wid dis chile cookin’. Jus’ yo git down an’ come in.”
Brite observed that the horse was not a mustang, but a larger and finer breed than the tough little Spanish species. Moreover, he was a magnificent animal, black as coal, clean-limbed and heavy-chested, with the head of a racer. His rider appeared to be a mere boy, who, when he wearily slid off, showed to be slight of stature, though evidently round and strong of limb. He sat down cross-legged with the pan of food Moze gave him. Brite strolled over with the hope that he might secure another trail driver.
“Howdy, cowboy. All alone?” he said, genially.
“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, looking up and as quickly looking down again. The act, however, gave Brite time to see a handsome face, tanned darkly gold, and big, dark, deep eyes that had a furtive, if not a hunted, look.
“Whar yu from?”
“Nowhere, I reckon.”
“Lone cowboy, eh? Wal, thet’s interestin’ to me. I’m short on riders. Do yu want a job? My name’s Brite an’ I’m drivin’ forty-five hundred haid north to Dodge. Ever do any trail drivin’?”
“No, sir. But I’ve rode cattle all my life.”
“Ahuh. Wal, thet cain’t be a very long while, son. Aboot how old air yu?”
“Sixteen. But I feel a hundred.”
“Whar’s yore home?”
“I haven’t any.”
“No? Wal, yu don’t say? Whar’s yore folks, then?”
“I haven’t any, Mr. Brite.... My dad an’ mom were killed by Indians when I was a kid.”
“Aw, too bad, son. Thet’s happened to so many Texas lads....What yu been doin’ since?”
“Ridin’ from one ranch to another. I cain’t hold a job long.”
“Why not? Yu’re a likely-lookin’ youngster.”
“Reckon I don’t stand up good under the hardest ridin’. ... An’ there’s other reasons.”
“How aboot hawse-wranglin’?”
“Thet’d suit me fine.... Would yu give me a job?”
“Wal, I don’t see why not. Finish yore supper, lad. Then come have a talk with me.”
All this while Brite stood gazing down at the youth, changing from curiosity to sympathy and interest. Not once after the first time did the boy look up. There were holes in his battered old black sombrero, through one of which peeped a short curl of red-gold hair. He had shapely brown hands, rather small, but supple and strong. The end of a heavy gun-sheath protruded from his jacket on the left side. He wore overalls, high-top Mexican boots, and huge spurs, all the worse for long service.
Brite went back to his comfortable seat under the pecan tree. From there his second glance at the horse discovered a canvas pack behind the saddle. The old cattleman mused that it was only necessary to get out over this wild, broad Texas range to meet with sad and strange and tragic experiences. How many, many Texas sons were like this youth! The vast range exacted a hard and bloody toll from the pioneers.
Dusk had fallen when the boy came over to present himself before the cattleman.
“My name is Bayne — Reddie Bayne,” he announced, almost shyly.
“Red-haided, eh?”
“Not exactly. But I wasn’t named for my hair. Reddie is my real given name.”
“Wal, no matter. Any handle is good enough in Texas. Did yu ever heah of Liver-eatin’ Kennedy or Dirty-face Jones or Pan Handle Smith?”
“I’ve heahed of the last, shore.”
“Wal, yu’ll see him pronto. He’s ridin’ for me this trip.... Air yu goin’ to accept my offer?”
“I’ll take the job. Yes, sir. Thanks.”
“What wages?”
“Mr. Brite, I’ll ride for my keep.”
“No, I cain’t take yu up on thet. It’s a tough job up the Trail. Say thirty dollars a month?”
“Thet’s more than I ever earned.... When do I begin?”
“Mawnin’ will be time enough, son. Shipman an’ the boys have bunched the hawses for the night.”
“How many haid in yore remuda?”
“Nigh on to two hundred. More’n we need, shore. But they’re all broke an’ won’t give much trouble. Yu see, when we get to Dodge I sell cattle, hawses, wagon, everythin’.”
“I’ve heahed so much aboot this Chisholm Trail. I rode ‘cross country clear from Bendera, hopin’ to catch on with a trail-drive.”
“Wal, yu’ve ketched on, Reddie, an’ I shore hope yu don’t regret it.”
“Gosh! I’m glad.... An’ if I have, I’d better unsaddle Sam.”
Bayne led the black under an adjoining pecan, and slipping saddle, bridle, and pack, turned him loose. Presently the lad returned to sit down in the shadow.
“How many in yore ootfit, Mr. Brite?”
“An even dozen now, countin’ yu.”
“Regular Texas ootfit?”
“Shore. It’s Texas, all right. But new to me. I’ve got a hunch it’ll turn oot regular Texas an’ then some. Texas Joe Shipman is my Trail boss. He’s been up three times, an’ thet shore makes him an old-stager. Lucky for me. The rest is a mixed bunch except five Uvalde boys. Fire-eatin’ kids, I’ll bet! There’s a tenderfoot from Pennsylvania, Bender by name. Shipman’s pard, Less Holden. A Carolinian named Whittaker. If he’s as good as he looks he couldn’t be no better. An’ last Pan Handle Smith. He’s a gunman an’ outlaw, Bayne. But like some of his class he’s shore salt of the earth.”
“Ten. Countin’ yu an’ me an’ the cook makes thirteen. Thet’s unlucky, Mr. Brite.”
“Thirteen. So ’tis.”
“Perhaps I’d better rode on. I don’t want to bring yu bad luck.”
“Boy, yu’ll be good luck.”
“Oh, I hope so. I’ve been bad luck to so many ootfits,” replied the youth, with a sigh.
Brite was struck at the oddity of th
at reply, but thought better of added curiosity. Then Deuce Ackerman and Chandler came rustling out of the shadow, coincident with the return of Little and Hallett.
“Boss, I seen a dog-gone fine black hawse oot heah. No pony. Big thoroughbred. I didn’t see him in our remuda,” declared Ackerman.
“Belongs to Reddie Bayne heah. He just rode up an’ threw in with us.... Bayne, heah’s four of the Uvalde boys.”
“Howdy, all,” rejoined the rider.
“Howdy yoreself, cowboy,” said Ackerman, stepping forward to peer down. “I cain’t see yu, but I’m dog-gone glad to meet yu.... Boys, Reddie Bayne sounds like a Texas handle.”
The other Uvalde boys called welcome greetings. Some one threw brush on the fire, which blazed up cheerily. It was noticeable, however, that Bayne did not approach the camp fire.
“Boss, did yu heah me shoot?” queried Ackerman.
“No. Did yu?”
“I shore did. Had an easy shot at a buck. But the light was bad an’ I missed. I’ll plug one in the mawnin’.”
“Deuce, if yu’d let me have the rifle we’d got the deer meat all right,” declared Ben.
“Is thet so? I’ll bet yu I can beat yu any old day!”
“What’ll yu bet?”
“Wal, I hate to take yore money, but — —”
“Ssssh! Riders comin’,” interrupted Ackerman, in a sharp whisper.
Brite heard the thud of hoofs off under the trees. Horses were descending the road from above.
“Cain’t be any of our ootfit,” went on Ackerman, peering into the darkness. “Fellars, we may as wal be ready for anythin’.”
Dark forms of horses and riders loomed in the outer circle of camp-fire light. They halted.