by Zane Grey
The long-horns had not quieted down for the night. Distant rumblings attested to restlessness at the other end of the herd. Brite patrolled a long beat, rifle across his pommel, keeping a sharp lookout for wolves. He saw coyotes, jack-rabbits, and far away over the grass, a few scattered deer. Before dusk settled thick Reddie Bayne appeared with the remuda, working them off to the eastward, toward a sheltered cove half a mile beyond Brite. Twilight stole on them down in the bowl, and over the western horizon gold rays flushed and faded.
Before dark Reddie rode up to Brite.
“Hawses all right, boss. I reckon I’ll hang around yore end. We all got orders to stand guard till called off.”
“Maybe somethin’ brewin’. Maybe not. Quien sabe?”
“I reckon what’s brewin’ is in thet hombre’s mind.”
“Which hombre, Reddie?”
“Yu know.... Wasn’t it perfectly awful — what he did to me, Mr. Brite?”
“Wal, it was kinda tough,” agreed Brite. “Tex got in action so quick I just was too flabbergasted.”
“Yu shore wasn’t very chivalrous,” rejoined Reddie, dubiously. “I’ve my doubts aboot yu now.”
“It sort of paralyzed me ‘cause I knowed yu was a girl.”
“I’ll bet thet would paralyze him, too,” retorted Reddie, darkly. “Boss, I could get even with Texas by tellin’ him thet he had insulted a lady.”
“By thunder! yu could. But don’t do it, Reddie. He might shake the ootfit.”
“I’d hate to have him know I — I’m a girl,” replied Reddie, musingly.
“Let’s hope none of them will find oot.”
“Mr. Brite, I’d never forgive myself if I brought yu bad luck.”
“Yu won’t, Reddie.”
“Listen,” she whispered, suddenly.
A weird chanting music came on the warm air, from the darkness. Brite recognized the Spanish song of a vaquero.
“San Sabe singin’ to the herd, Reddie.”
“Oh — how pretty! He shore can sing.”
Then from another quarter came a quaint cowboy song, and when that ceased a faint mellow voice pealed from far over the herd. The rumblings of hoofs ceased, and only an occasional bawl of a cow broke the silence. San Sabe began again his haunting love song, and then all around the herd pealed out the melancholy refrains. That was the magic by which the trail drivers soothed the restless long-horns.
The moon came up and silvered the vast bowl, lending enchantment to the hour. Reddie passed to and fro, lilting a Dixie tune, lost in the beauty an serenity of the night. From a ridge pealed forth the long, desolate, blood-curdling moan of a prairie wolf. That brought the ghastly reminder that this moment was real — that there was death waiting just beyond.
The cowboys smoked and sang, the cattle slept or rested, the balmy night wind rustled the grass, the ducks whirred to and fro over the lake. The stars paled before the full moon.
Texas Joe came trotting up. “Boss, yu an’ Reddie go to bed. Two hours off an’ then two on, for five of us. I ain’t shore yet thet all is wal.”
Reddie never stopped singing the sweet ditty.
“Gosh, Tex, it cain’t be midnight yet!” exclaimed Brite.
“It cain’t be, but it shore is. Go along with yu.... Reddie, yu got a sweet voice for a boy. I shore am a-wonderin’ aboot yu.”
“Boss, yu see?” whispered Reddie, fiercely, clutching Brite’s arm. “Thet hombre suspects me.”
“Let him — the son-of-a-gun! Then if he finds yu oot it’ll be all the wuss.”
“For him or me?”
“For him, shore.”
“How yu mean, boss, wuss?”
“Wal, it’d serve him right to fall so dinged in love with yu thet — —”
“O my Gawd!” cried Reddie, in faint, wild tones, and spurred ahead to vanish in the shadows.
“Wal!” quoth Brite, amazed. It was evident that he had said something amiss. “Thet was an idee. Didn’t she fly up an’ vamoose?”
Brite made his way slowly into camp. Hallett and Ackerman were already in by the fire, drinking coffee. San Sabe came riding up, still with the remnants of song on his lips. Reddie’s horse was haltered out in the moonlight and something prone and dark showed beside a low bush. Brite sought his own blankets.
Next morning, when Brite presented himself for breakfast, Whittaker and Pan Handle were the only drivers in camp. They were eating in a hurry.
“Herd movin’, boss,” announced Smith. “We been called.”
Brite answered their greetings, while his ears attuned themselves to the distant sound of hoofs. The hour was early, as the sun had not yet risen. A cloudless sky and balmy air attested to promising weather.
“Where’s Reddie?”
“Off with the hawses. When he heahed Joe yell he quit eatin’ like a scared jack rabbit. I called for fresh hawses.”
“Must be somethin’ up,” muttered Brite. “Wal, it’s aboot time.”
“I don’t care much aboot this heah trail drivin’,” drawled Whittaker. “Too slow. I hired oot for action.”
“Humph! Son, yu’ll get yore belly full of action,” declared Brite, grimly.
“Heah comes Red with hawses,” announced Pan Handle. “Boss, I shore like thet kid. Nice quiet lad. Rides like a vaquero an’ shore knows hawses.”
“Hey, men, ketch yore ponies,” shrilled Reddie, and flashed away out of sight.
It was everybody for himself. Fortunately, a rope corral aided the drivers in catching the fresh, unwilling horses. Brite haltered his, a ragged little bay, and returned to finish his meal. Soon the others were off.
“Moze, what started the herd so pronto?” queried Brite.
“I dunno, boss. Jes’ started themselves, I reckon. Cattle is sho pustiferous annimiles. De Lawd Hisself nebber knows what dey’ll do.”
“Right.... Pack without washin’ up, Moze. An’ move right along.”
“Ise a-movin’, sah.”
Brite climbed aboard the little bay. He, like all the drivers, had to ride what horses Reddie could fetch in promptly, and in this case he realized at once that he was in for tricks. The bay showed every indication of bucking, but by spurring him off over the prairie Brite wore off his mean edge. A red disc of sun peeped up over the eastern rim. The day had begun. Flocks of black birds wheeled from the water in the direction of the cattle. A distant low cloud of dust moved to the northward. Brite caught up with it to find the cattle slowing down and spreading out. Bayne had the remuda in order on the right, and half a mile behind.
Ackerman sat his mustang, waiting for Brite, whom evidently he had seen following.
“Boss, did yu run acrost thet daid steer back a ways?” he queried.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Wal, I did. An’ I had to shoot it.”
“What for?”
“Somebody had crippled it. Laig broke by a needle-gun slug.”
“Yu don’t say! We haven’t any buffalo guns in this ootfit.”
“Looks queer to me. Must have been done jest before daylight.”
“Does Texas know aboot it?”
“Cain’t say. Reckon not. He was off guard. Went on at dawn. Same for me. But one of the boys must have heahed thet big gun.”
“Ahuh. Plenty of thick brush around thet lake. There might have been a camp somewhere. Somebody wantin’ beef, mebbe.”
Brite rode on to fill in a wide breach behind the herd, and there he walked his horse, and rested, and watched the horizon to the rear, and found the long hours pleasant. By mid-afternoon the endless, long slope, almost imperceptible until it had been surmounted, lay behind the herd and in front the land dropped to a creek bottom. Wide white bars of sand hemmed in a winding sheet of water. Across on the far bank dark green groves of timber and light green levels of grass invited camp and rest for that night. Four drivers, one after the other, pealed back the foreman’s order: “Cross above. Keep movin’. Push the drags.”
Brite saw the head of the great herd
swerve to the west along the bank. Seven riders congregated on that side. The cattle wanted to drink, and after drinking they would cross. The danger evidently lay in stragglers working off the bars into bad places. Gunshots attested to hard practice in turning stock. Brite could not recall just where the trail did cross, but he calculated anywhere along there. Smith waved a red scarf from a high bank. He alone rode on the west of the herd. Then he disappeared, and the cattle appeared to roll in a bobbing stream down the incline. The after mass of long-horns crowded those in front, and the knocking of horns and bellowing of cows grew incessant. Brite saw that he was needed more around on the right flank, to help keep the stragglers in line, and the slow ones from dropping back. When the red and white front of the herd appeared wading and wallowing across, then the difficulty of holding back the rear grew greater, and passed from hard riding to hazardous toil. Seven riders on that side had their work cut out for them. Reddie Bayne got the remuda in line to the left, then joined the drivers on the right. Brite yelled for the youngster to keep out from in front of those ugly old mossy-horns. Some of these charged, kicked their heels like mules, and wickedly shook their heads. When at length the wide ragged rear end of the herd passed on into the shallow water they left a number mired in the quicksand. These were mostly the unruly cattle that had run too soon off the bank. Some of them were floundering; some were sinking; all were bellowing lustily.
Texas Joe came galloping back from upstream.
“Reddie, what’n hell yu mean layin’ off yore remuda?” he shouted, his amber eyes flashing. “Git oot of heah!”
Reddie took to the shallow water with his horse on the run. Then Joe sent Whittaker, Bender, and Smith across.
“Boss, yu ain’t needed heah. Go along,” he concluded.
“Let ’em alone, Tex. There’s only twenty-one haid,” replied Brite.
“Hell no!” rang out the foreman, untying his lasso. “We ain’t lettin’ nuthin’ go.... Pile in, boys, an’ stretch hemp. Keep away from thet ooze an’ drag ’em upstream.”
Whereupon Shipman rode off the bar, swinging the loop of his rope around his head. His horse sank up to his fetlocks, but kept moving. Texas cast a long loop and snared a bull that had only horns and head above the mire. Then spurring and yelling, the driver set to the task of dragging the long-horn out. The other boys followed suit, and there ensued a scene of strenuous noisy activity. They all got fast to a cow or steer, and put spurs to their mounts. Some of the cattle were dragged out easily. Others came but slowly and by dint of tremendous effort on the part of horse and rider. Texas could not budge the big bull, and Brite yelled to let that one go. Then the foreman’s horse bogged down to his flanks. Like a flash Texas was off to loosen his cinch and tear his saddle free. Thus encumbered, with the rope still fast to the pommel and the bull at the other end, he bogged down himself. His horse floundered out to safety, but Texas had to yell for help. Ackerman and San Sabe rode to his assistance.
“Cut free,” yelled Ackerman as he pitched an open loop to Texas.
“Sans, go below an’ sling yore rope over thet damn bull,” ordered Texas, and catching Ackerman’s rope he fastened it over the pommel of his saddle. He was half way up to his thighs in the quicksand and perceptibly sinking.
“I’m fast, Deuce,” called out San Sabe, wheeling his horse. “Now drag ’em oot!”
The horses plunged, the ropes twanged. Texas was pulled over on his side, but clinging to the rope he held on. The two riders broke the bull loose from the anchoring mire and began to drag him upstream. Presently he let go and found his footing, to crawl out like a giant mud-turtle. A third rider swung in to catch the bull, and then with three ropes on him he was literally dragged out of the quicksand. Texas cursed the old mossy-horn as if he were human.
Brite revelled in this scene, and only once thought it necessary to lend a hand, and then he was not wanted. Like Comanche Indians these young riders yelled and rode, with fierce flashing eyes and many a ringing shout. Their profanity and grim humor seemed to fit their actions — all so hard, primitive, and inevitable.
The last unfortunate cow appeared to be too far out and too deeply sunk to be extricated. But these boys labored on. They did all save get off and wade. The lassoes were too short. Only one caught over a horn and it slipped off.
“Boys, she’s gone. Stranglin’ now,” called Brite. “Come off an’ let well enough alone.”
“Aw, put her oot of her misery,” called one of them.
Guns boomed. One bullet whizzed off the skull of the cow.
“Hey, I thought yu fellars from down Uvalde way could shoot,” drawled Texas, pulling his gun. He took deliberate aim. There was a significance in his posture. At the discharge the rolling eye of the animal went out. She laid her head over, and it sank until only the tip of a long horn stuck up.
“Aw, hell!” laughed Deuce Ackerman, sheathing his gun.
“Tex, I shore hope yu hit plumb center like thet when some redskin is aboot to peel my hair,” said Less Holden.
Texas made no further comment. Dragging his saddle out of the mud, he shook the blanket and flopped it over his horse. The saddle went on, dripping water an sand. Soon Texas mounted to ride after the boys, now splashing across the shallow stream. Brite followed, careful to go briskly and let his horse pick the way. He had been in quicksand before.
They drove the twenty rescued cattle across the broadly marked sand bar and up into the timber. Beyond the strip of trees the great herd had stopped to graze on the green level, now contented with their lot.
“Right heah is good enough,” said Texas, wearily. “Deuce, keep an eye open for Moze. He’ll need some direction an’ mebbe help comin’ across.... Gosh! I’m as tired as if I’d done a day’s work. An’ wet. Sand in my boots! —— the luck! Nice new boots!... Heah, Red, pull ’em off for me. Thet’s a good kid.”
“Who was yore nigger this time last year?” asked Reddie, coolly.
“Never mind who, darn yu....” Then Texas subtly changed. “Say, I asked yu a favor. My hands air all skinned.”
“Shore,” agreed Reddie, hastily, and with good grace he pulled off Shipman’s boots.
Deuce Ackerman sat his horse, peering back through the thin strip of trees to the river.
“Tex, did yu see thet crippled steer this mawnin’?” he asked.
“No. How crippled?”
“By a big buffalo gun. Laig broke. I shot it.”
“Buffalo gun! Who’s got one in this ootfit?”
“Nobody.”
“Deuce, air yu shore?” queried Texas, suddenly interested.
“Shore. I know needle guns. An’ the holes they make.”
“What’s on yore mind?... Hey, boss, yu heah him?”
“Yes. He told me this mawnin’,” replied Brite.
Pan Handle Smith knelt on one knee, after the manner of riders, and he looked keenly at Ackerman.
“Somebody not in our ootfit shot thet steer this mawnin’ aboot daylight,” returned the rider.
“Texas, I heahed thet gun,” put in Smith. “It woke me up.”
“Ahuh. There was a camp near us, then. I reckoned I smelled smoke when we rode down to the lake.”
“Shore. I seen smoke way down to the west. Made a little stringy cloud ag’in thet gold sunset.”
“Campers wantin’ meat, I reckon,” spoke up Brite. He suggested what he wanted to believe.
“Ump-umm,” responded Deuce, pondering. “Thet was a tough old steer. An’ he’d been shot from far off. Somebody took a pot shot at thet herd. But not for meat.”
“What for, then?” demanded Texas, sharply.
Nobody replied to that. Brite knew that the three men were thinking the same as he was, and did not readily voice their suspicions.
“Wal, heah comes Moze,” went on Ackerman. “Come on, Reddie. Yu got a big hawse. We’ll lend Moze a drag.”
The two rode off under the trees out upon the bar. Moze had halted the chuck-wagon on the opposite bank, where evident
ly he was looking for a safe place to drive across.
Texas looked from Pan Handle to Brite, and the curious, cold, little gleam in his amber eyes was something to see.
“Do you reckon we’re bein’ follered?” he queried.
“Like as not,” returned Brite.
“What’d the idee be, if we was?” asked Smith. “We’re a dozen strong. Thet’d be a fool trick.”
“Smith, it looks bad. Tex has been up the Trail before. He knows an’ I know thet the chances air stampeders air on our track. My herd is too big. An’ my ootfit too small.”
“Stampeders, eh? I sabe.”
“Never had any trouble before,” went on Brite. “Fact is I’ve been amazin’ lucky. But I’ve heahed of the hell other herd-owners have had. There’s a regular drain on herds. Most of it comes from two-bit stampeders who collect a few haid heah an’ there an’ finally get enough to drive to Dodge on their own hook. An’ again jealous drivers hire some of the trail-dodgers to stampede the herd ahaid of them. It’s a dirty bizness.”
“Say, it’s a shootin’ bizness,” declared Texas, with fire in his eyes. “Boss, will we do a little scoutin’ back tonight, or wait an’ see if — —”
“Let’s wait,” interrupted Brite. “If we air trailed we’ll shore find it oot soon enough. An’ if we’re not it’s no matter.... Ask Moze if he seen any riders back along the Trail.”
* * * * *
During the night Brite was awakened by he knew not what. The three belted stars he knew were sloping to the west, so the hour was late. It was also very still. No sound from the herd! No sing-song of lonely cowboys on duty! The insects had thinned down their melancholy dirge to a faint ghost of its earlier strength. The fire had burned down low. Coyotes wailed piercingly off to the north, no doubt on the edge of the herd.
Then a ringing shot cracked the silence. Brite sat up, fully awake.
“Forty-five,” he soliloquized, and peered around in the darkness to see who lay near him. Three sleeping drivers never stirred. Then heavier shots boomed out, reports that Brite recognized as belonging to buffalo guns. One of the cowboys stalked erect like a specter. Texas Joe! He turned his ear to the south. The biting ring of a .45 brought a sharp command from Shipman.