by Zane Grey
Texas stepped over to her horse, and flashing a lean, brown hand up, like a striking smoke, he clutched the front of her blouse high up and jerked her sliding out of her saddle.
“Oh-h!” cried Reddie, in a strangled voice. “How dare...Let me go! — Texas, wha — what air yu goin’ to — —”
“I cain’t slug yu one as I would a man — an’ I cain’t spank yu no more as I once did,” said Texas, deliberately. “But I’m shore gonna shake the daylights oot of yu.”
Then he grasped her shoulders and began to make good his threat. Reddie offered no resistance whatever. She was as one struck dumb and helpless. Brite grasped that Texas’ betrayal of his love had had more to do with this collapse than any threat of corporal punishment. She gazed up with eyes that Texas must have found hard to look into. But soon she could not see, for he shook her until she resembled an image of jelly under some tremendous, vibrating force. When from sheer exhaustion he let her go she sank down upon the sand, still shaking.
“There — Miss Bayne,” he panted.
“Where — Texas Jack?” she gasped, flippantly.
“Gawd only knows,” he burst out, helplessly, and began to tear his hair.
“Heah comes the herd!” rang out the thrilling word from Pan Handle.
CHAPTER VIII
THE OLD BULL Mossy-horns, huge and fierce, with his massive horns held high, led the spear-shaped mass of cattle over the brow of the long slope. Densely packed, resistless in slow advance, they rolled like a flood of uprooted stumps into sight.
“By all thet’s lucky!” yelled Texas, in elation. “Pointed already! If they hit the river in a wedge like thet they’ll make Moses crossin’ the Red Sea only a two-bit procession.”
“Orders, Texas, orders,” replied Brite, uneasily. “It won’t be long till they roll down on us.”
“Got no orders, ‘cept keep on the upriver side. For Gawd’s sake don’t ride in below ’em. The boys have been warned.... Ben, yu ride on the wagon. We’ll come back an’ float it across.”
“I will like hell,” shouted Ben, derisively, and he ran for a horse to saddle. Brite did likewise, and while he was at the task he heard Texas cursing Chandler for not obeying orders. When he was in the saddle the magnificent herd, a moving, colorful triangle of living beasts, had cleared the ridge, and the leaders were close. Drivers on each side of the wedge rode frantically forward and back, yelling, shooting, waving. But the noise they made came faintly through the din of bawls.
“Reddie,” called Texas, earnestly, turning a stern, tight-lipped face and falcon eyes upon the girl, “this heah’s new to yu. Yore hawse is a duck, I know, but thet won’t save yu if yu get in bad. Will yu stick close to me, so I can tell yu if yu start wrong?”
“I shore will,” replied Reddie, with surprising complaisance.
“Boss, yu hang to their heels,” concluded Texas, curtly. “Pan, yu drop back aboot halfway. Above all, don’t drift into the herd.... Come on, Reddie!”
Bad rivers had no terrors for old Mossy-horns. A rod ahead of his herd he ran, nimble as a calf, down the sandy slope, roaring like a buffalo. All sound was deadened in the trampling thunder of the cattle as they yielded to the grade and came on pell-mell. The ground shook under Brite. Nearly five thousand head of stock in a triangular mass sweeping like stampeding buffalo down a long hill! Certain it was that Brite’s sombrero stood up on his stiff hair. No daring, no management, no good luck could ever prevent some kind of a catastrophe here.
Texas plunged his horse into the river ahead of Mossy-horns, swinging his lasso round his head and purple in the face from yelling. But Brite could not hear him. Reddie’s big black lashed the muddy water into sheets as she headed him after Texas. Then the great wedge, like an avalanche, hit the shallow water with a tremendous sound. Hundreds of cows and steers had reared to ride on the haunches on those ahead, and the mass behind pushed all in a cracking, inextricable mass. But those to the front, once in the water, spread to find room. Herein lay the peril of the drivers, and the dire necessity of keeping the herd pointed as long as possible. Such a feat seemed utterly futile to Brite.
Across the backs and horns Brite espied Ben Chandler on the downstream side of the herd, close to the leaders, and oblivious or careless of danger. Bent on retrieving his fatal error, he had no fear. Soon Brite lost sight of Ben’s bloody, bandaged head in the flying yellow spray. Try as he might, he could not see the reckless driver again. San Sabe and Ackerman, both on the downriver side, slowly gave ground toward the rear of the herd, intending to fall in behind as soon as the end passed. Rolly Little, Holden, and Whittaker passed Brite in order, fire-eyed and gaunt with excitement.
When next Brite cast his racing glance out ahead he was in time to see old Mossy-horns heave into deep water. He went clear under, to bob up like a duck and sail into the current. Like sheep the sharply pointed head of the herd piled in after him. Texas went off the bar far upstream, and Reddie still farther. As Brite gazed spellbound the wide rear of the herd, in crashing momentum, rolled past his position. It was time for him to join the drivers. He spurred ahead, and the mustang, excited and fiery, his blood up, would have gone anywhere. Brite had one last look out into the current, where a thousand wide-horned heads swept in a curve down the middle of the river. Then he leaped off the bank and into the water, just even with the upriver end of the herd. Thunder would not have done justice to the volume of sound. It was a strange, seething, hissing, bone-cracking roar. But that seemed to be diminishing as the cattle, hundreds after hundreds, took to the deeper water. Texas and then Reddie passed out of sight. The great herd curved abruptly. Next Ackerman disappeared round the corner, and then Holden. That left only Whittaker in sight and he was sweeping down. Behind the herd Brite espied Bender, who was nearest to him, and certainly a scared young man if Brite had ever seen one.
In a maelstrom of swishing water and twisting bodies the broad rear of the herd smashed off the bar. Magically then all sound ceased. There was left only a low, menacing swish and gurgle of current against Brite’s horse. Easily he took to deep water, and Brite felt at once that he had drawn a river horse. What wonderful little animals those Spanish mustangs of Arabian blood!
The scene had immeasurably changed. No white splashes now! A mile of black horned heads, like a swarm of shining bees, sweeping down the river! The terror, the fury of the onslaught upon the flood were no longer evident. There was left only the brilliance, the action, the beauty of this crossing. Brite had never seen anything in his life to compare with it; and once he had seen a million buffalo cross the Brazos River. But they just blotted out the river. Here the wide flood held the mastery. The sun shone down on an endless curve of wet, shiny horns and heads; the sky bent its azure blue down over the yellow river; the green trees of the opposite bank beckoned and seemed to grow imperceptibly closer.
Then Brite’s mustang met the swift center current of the river. Here there were smooth waves that rolled over the horse and wet Brite to his shoulders. And he saw that he was going downstream, scarcely quartering at all. The long head of the curve appeared far toward the opposite shore.
To Brite’s right the three drivers were working their horses away from the herd, or so it appeared to him. Then Brite saw San Sabe point up the river. A mass of driftwood was coming down on the crest of a rise. What execrable luck to be met by a heavy swell of flood and current in the middle of the river at the most critical time! Brite reined his mustang to avoid the big onrush of driftwood. With hands and feet he pushed aside logs and branches. A whole tree, green and full-foliaged, surrounded by a thick barrage of logs, drifted right into the middle of the swimming herd. This the drivers were unable to prevent. They could only save themselves, which in the case of two of them, at least, was far from easy.
The swift-floating island of débris split the herd, turned the rear half downstream, and heralded certain disaster. Brite saw the broad lane between the two halves, one quartering away toward the north shore, the other swimming with
the current. If it kept on downriver it was doomed.
Brite came near to becoming entangled in heavy brush, which he had not seen because his attention was fixed on the separated half of his herd. He owed it to the clever mustang that he was not engulfed. Thereafter he looked out for himself and his horse. All the while they were sweeping down, at the same time gaining toward the shore. Looking back, Brite was surprised to see the chuck-wagon, a dot on the horizon line, a mile back up the river. Ahead and below somewhat less of a distance, began the cutting edge of the steep bank Texas had warned all they must not pass. Standing in his stirrups, Brite made out the head of the herd now beyond the current, well toward the shore. There! A horse and rider had struck shallow water again. That must be Texas.
An eddy caught the mustang and whirled him around and around. Brite was about to slide off and ease the burden, but the horse tore out of the treacherous whirlpool and, thoroughly frightened, he redoubled his efforts. Brite’s next discovery was sight of the vanguard of cattle wading out on the wide bar below. Already two of the riders were out. Grateful indeed for so much, Brite turned to see what had become of the endangered half of the herd. They were milling back toward the center of the river. This amazed Brite until he heard the boom-boom-boom of a heavy gun. Chandler, the daredevil, must be on the other side there, driving the cattle again into the current.
The milling circle of horned heads struck into the swift current, to be swept on down the river, past the wading vanguard, surely to slide by that steep corner of bank, beyond which could lie only death. Brite could stand the loss of stock. But a rider sacrificed hurt him deeply. He had never lost one until this drive. Still he clung to hope. Somewhere down around the bend, on one bank or the other, there might be a place for Chandler to climb out.
At this juncture Brite saw another rider, one of the three ahead of him, wade his horse out and go across the bar at a gallop, to mount the bank and ride swiftly along its edge, the mane and tail of the mustang flying wildly in the wind. He did not recognize either Texas’ or Pan Handle’s horse, so that rider must have been Ackerman, speeding to give aid to Chandler.
When Brite at last waded out on the bar there were only a few hundred head of stock behind and below him. They were wearied, but safe, as all had found footing. Three riders were waiting. Texas and Reddie had vanished. Bender, Pan Handle, and San Sabe were working out behind the cattle, and all three were facing downriver, no doubt watching the cattle that had been swept away.
Presently Brite joined the six drivers on the bar and surely encountered a disheartened group of cowboys. Pan Handle was the only one to present anything but a sad countenance.
“Mr. Brite, we had bad luck,” he said. “The herd split in the middle an’ the back half went downriver taking Chandler with it. Our good luck is thet more of us might have been with him.”
“Hell with — the cattle!” panted Brite. “Any hope for Chandler?”
“Shore. He’s a gamblin’ chance to get oot somewhere. But I wouldn’t give two-bits for the cattle. Ackerman is ahaid, keepin’ up with them. Texas followed with Reddie.”
“What’ll we do?”
“Make camp heah on the bank in the grove. Plenty of grass. The stock shore won’t move tonight.”
“Thet chuck-wagon’s to be got over. An’ I wouldn’t give much for it.”
“Boss, thet wagon was made to float,” said San Sabe. “It’s got a double bottom of heavy planks. Don’t worry none aboot our grub.”
They rode up the sandy slope to a level bank of timber and grass, an ideal place to camp. The horses were heaving after their prolonged exertions. “Get off an’ throw yore saddles, boys,” said Brite, suiting action to his words. “Somebody light a fire so we can dry oot.”
A little later, while Brite was standing in his shirt sleeves before a fire, Texas Joe and Reddie rode into camp.
“We cain’t send good money after what’s lost,” he said, philosophically. “I reckon Ben is gone, an’ there’s only one chance in a thousand for thet bunch of cattle. We gotta look after what’s left an’ fetch Moze across.... Reddie, yore hawse ain’t even tired. Wal, I never seen his beat. But yu don’t weigh more’n a grasshopper. Let San Sabe have him to help me with the wagon.”
“Shore. But I’d like to go,” replied Reddie, eagerly.
“My Gawd! air yu still wantin’ more of thet river?” queried Texas, incredulously.
“Oh, I was havin’ a grand time until the herd split.... Poor Ben! If he’s lost I’ll never forgive myself. I — I was mad an’ I said too much.”
“Wal, yu shore said a heap,” drawled Texas. “If yu’d said as much to me I’d drowned myself pronto.”
“Don’t — don’t say it — it might be my fault,” wailed Reddie, almost weeping.
“No kid. I was only foolin’. Ben was just makin’ up for the wrong he did us. An’ he’s shore square with me.”
“Oh, I hope an’ pray he got oot,” rejoined Reddie as she dismounted.
San Sabe removed her saddle and put his own on the black. Then he followed Texas, who was already far up the bar, making for the bend of the river, from which point they would head across. It was a somber group that stood drying out around the blazing fire. Reddie looked sick and wretched. Her gaze ever strayed down the stream, where the muddy current swept out of sight.
Texas and San Sabe gave their comrades some bad moments when even their heads disappeared in the waves, but it turned out they crossed safely. Meanwhile Moze had driven the chuck-wagon down to meet them. It was too far for Brite to see distinctly, but he knew that the riders would tie on to the wagon with their ropes and encourage and help the team. With little ado they were off and soon in the water. Great furrows splashed up as the wagon ploughed in. Brite had his doubts about that venture, and when horses and wagon struck off the bar into deep water, to be swept down by the current, he expected it was but a forerunner of more misfortune. The wagon floated so high that part of the bed and all the canvas showed above the water. It sailed down like a boat and gradually neared the shore, at last to cross out of the current, into the slack water, and eventually to the bar. He had suffered qualms for nothing. Moze, however, although he was a black man, looked a little pale about the gills. The usual banter did not appear to be forthcoming from the dejected drivers, an omission Moze was quick to catch.
“Men, I reckon yo-all will hev to dry yo beds,” he said, his big eyes rolling. “I packed them under de grub.”
“Aw, my tobacco!” wailed Deuce.
“Niggah, I ooght to petasterize yu,” added Whittaker, severely. “I had my only extra shirt in my bed.”
“What is dis petasterizin’?” asked Moze, beginning to throw off the packs. “Yo-all is a glum ootfit.”
“Moze, we lost half my stock an’ Ben Chandler, too,” replied Brite.
“Lawd Amighty! I done reckoned trubble when I seen dis ribber.”
That was the end of jocularities, as well as other conversation. The hour was approaching noonday, an astounding fact to Brite. If it had been at all possible for the stock to move on for several hours more, he would have ordered it. But cattle and horses alike were spent.
The herd following Brite’s would bed down that night on the south shore, and cross in the morning. It was too close for comfort. But the cattleman could not see how that might be avoided. Presently the silent drivers stirred to the advent of Deuce Ackerman riding into sight up the river bank. His posture and the gait of his horse were significant of what had happened. Deuce rode into camp, haggard of face, his garb mud from head to foot, and he all but fell out of the saddle.
“Come to the fire, Deuce. I’ll throw yore leather,” said Little, solicitously.
“Mr. Brite, I have to report thet Chandler was drowned,” he said.
“So we all reckoned,” returned Brite, resignedly.
“Stake me to a drink, if yu want to heah aboot it.”
But Ackerman did not soon begin his narrative. Finally he began: “Wal, I rod
e along the bank an’ ketched up with the cattle. An’ there was thet idjit Chandler hangin’ along the leads, slappin’ his rope ahaid of him. He hadn’t given up pointin’ thet bunch of long-horns to this shore. I yelled an’ yelled my lungs oot, but he never heahed me. After a while, though, he seen me. I waved him oot of the river an’ he paid no attention. He kept on, the herd kept on, an’ so did I. I’d run a coupla miles, I reckon, before I ketched up. An’ we wasn’t long travelin’ another mile or so. Then I seen far ahaid on my side a wide break in the bank. Dam’ if Chandler hadn’t seen it, too. An’ he lashed them lead cattle like a fiend from hell. He beat them farther an’ farther to this side. An’ I’m a son-of-a-gun if he didn’t work ’em over to shore just when the current had carried ’em to this break. The water close in was shallow too. Once the leads hit bottom they come to life, an’ my! how they swarmed off thet bar!”
“Yu mean to tell us Ben drove them cattle oot on dry land?” demanded Texas, incredulously.
“Dam’ if he didn’t! But his hawse was all in, an’ on account of the cattle blockin’ his way he couldn’t get oot of deep water. So he was carried on downriver, past the break. I rode on for all I was worth, yellin’ to Ben to hang on. By this time he was on his hawse’s neck. But for the current thet little dogie would have sunk. He could hardly swim a lick. I seen where the swift water run close under the bank, an’ I made for thet place. Shore enough Ben swept in close, an’ I leaped off with my rope. Fust throw I hit Ben clean with my loop. But it was too small. It didn’t ketch, an’ he missed it. I kept runnin’ an’ throwin’, but no good. The bank was awful steep an’ crumbly. Then I broke off a section an’ damn near fell in myself. Seein’ thet wasn’t gettin’ us nowhere, I run ahaid a good ways an’ waited for Ben to float by a likely place.... But jest as they was aboot to come within reach of my rope the game little pony sunk. Ben made a feeble effort to stay up. He seen me. He opened his mouth to call.... Only a gurgle! His mouth filled — an’ the water come up over his bloody face. My Gawd! There he floated, a hand up, then his back, his haid onct more — an’ thet was the last.”