The Women in Pants

by Stan Himes

  He snapped his reins to pick up the pace. The sooner to Dodge, the sooner to Katie. He continued to compose the telegram as he rode, and with each passing mile he became less convinced that he was as smart as he thought he was. A telegram wouldn’t do it. He needed to meet the man.

  Chickens. Enough with the chickens. Jonas was part of the way on his walk to the henhouse and had no intention of going any farther. He was a rancher, dammit. He wanted to see cattle, not feathers.

  Doc’s orders were to take it slow and stay on the crutches, but Jonas reasoned that Doc knew him well enough to know that he’d eventually reach a point where he could no longer stand to take it slow. Therefore, in a logic that Jonas thought best not to dwell on, it could be considered doctor’s orders that he not take it slow. In fact, if Doc was here right now, he’d likely advise Jonas to hitch up the buckboard and ride out to see how the remaining herd was doing. Yes, sir, he owed it to Doc to go!

  The only problem—well, the first of several problems—was that the horses were out in the field. He shifted his weight onto his good leg, then lifted his crutch to study it. Sturdy wood. No visible cracks. Top padding intact.

  Time for a real walk.

  Two hours later his hip was searing with pain and hot enough he could have fried the henhouse eggs on it, but he had a horse in tow. He guided it into the barn, took a look at the wagon, and decided that tomorrow would be soon enough for a ride to see the herd. He settled the horse in a stall with hay and water, then limped to the house to lie down with a cool, wet towel on his hip, pausing only long enough to collect the day’s eggs from the henhouse.

  We were up well before dawn. After a long day of hurrying and a short night of rest, the herd was in no mood to get moving again. It took three of Ernestine’s now-hoarse screeches to start them stirring and continuous whooping from all of us to maintain any forward motion. As the sun rose and their joints loosened, the pace picked up, not as quick as the previous day’s pace, but steady.

  Each of us had changed mounts. Katie hated to lose the security of riding Pitch, but she couldn’t risk wearing him out after such a hard day. He seemed to sense his duty and trotted along behind her, the remuda following.

  All at once the land cleared and what I think of as a miracle happened. We crossed the Cimarron River. Just like that. It was hard to imagine following all the trouble we’d had at the other river crossings, yet this time—with no planning or scouting—we rode up to the river and crossed it without incident. Perhaps not making note of the river was a strategy on Mary’s part, or perhaps too much was on her mind for her to even realize the river was there. Whatever the reason, Mary led the herd into the river without so much as looking back. Clean Through followed with the chuckwagon and Katie with the remuda. Ruth and I rode in with the front of the herd, Prudence and Sally moved along with the middle of the herd, and Ernestine and Pearl followed the herd across. No one said a word beyond the normal hollering to encourage the cattle. There were no lightning storms, no hawks scaring horses, no falling in, no problems with a soft river bed, no Indian attacks, no gunfighters, no wandering by Uncle Angus, no bears or panthers or wild elephants, no rockslides, no sudden bouts of cholera or fever or plague.

  It was far and away our best crossing. However, it wasn’t perfect. Later in the day, Prudence would note that she received a mosquito bite.

  Brute was big enough that had he had horns he might’ve been mistaken for a stray steer on the trail. Hornless, though, he rode his unfortunate horse toward where we should be, all the while keeping his eyes scanning up ahead for any sign of movement. He had traveled far enough that he felt sure he should have seen us by now.

  A dark patch to the east caught his eye. He paused on the trail, again studying up ahead, seeking any movement or sign, wary of a trap as people who set traps tend to be. Seeing nothing, he spurred his mount and directed it toward the dark area. Soon he was close enough to see the trampled earth where the herd and us had turned into the brush. With an angry scowl, he spit on the hoof prints etched in the now-drying ground, turned his horse, and galloped back the way he came.

  By nightfall we were settled into another dark camp. Using what little starlight and moonlight was available, I scratched away on my paper. With slow movements and creaking bones, Ruth lowered herself down beside me, propping up on her elbows.

  “You should put that paper away and sleep while you can.”

  “I need to get down all that’s happened while it’s still fresh.”

  She slid her arms down and dropped her head to the ground. “Ain’t nothin’ fresh in my mind right now.” A second later she was asleep.

  I looked around at the others, all asleep. The surprising uneventful river crossing had been the topic during our cold meal of beans (Clean Through was out of bread and biscuits, so it was cold beans and water until Mary gave the go-ahead to build a fire), but even that excitement wasn’t enough to overcome the weariness that had soaked us to the core. My pen felt heavier in my hand. My sheaf of paper weighed upon my lap. I wrote “And now to bed” and was asleep within a minute.

  Jonas went to bed that night with the fire in his hip replaced by a cold stiffness. As he lay on his back, he raised and lowered his leg hoping to stretch it out and prevent it stoving up any more overnight. Despite his aches, he felt good. He had done something today, even if it was just rounding up a horse, and he would do something tomorrow, even if it was just hitching up a wagon and riding out to see the herd.

  Hitching the wagon by himself, with one side of his body hampered by a crutch, would be time consuming, but it was something he felt he could do. He had to, after all, since he didn’t have Katie or Mary there to do it for him like they had before.

  What really would have made him feel good, what would have loosened up both his hip and his mind, was more news on how the drive was going. The two letters in one month had spoiled him, and he was anxious for more. By his calculation, based on the information in my letters, we should have the herd very close to Dodge City—perhaps even in it— by now. He knew Mary would wire him when the drive was complete, and he had a fair idea that that would be one telegram Edward would feel compelled to deliver.

  Perhaps tomorrow he would see how his remaining herd was faring and also hear of the safe, successful arrival of Mary, Katie and the rest of the herd. Well, he thought as he put out the light, it couldn’t hurt to dream of good news while he awaited the real news. Yet, as always seemed to be the case, he felt certain his sleep would be troubled.

  Chapter 21

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!”

  Starting each day with a scream is more rousing than coffee, which was good since we didn’t have coffee. We were off at first light. Clean Through had suggested that Mary ride ahead to scout the terrain and perhaps find a clearer path, but she didn’t want to leave the group with one less gun should the gang chase and attack. She remembered how she had been about the last to arrive when that first group of bad men had stolen some of us. If anything happened again, she wanted to be creating survivors, not counting them.

  A hot day was in store, despite the slate-gray sky. There had been little cooling overnight, and the air was already thick with humidity. It was tiring to breathe. Even if Mary had found a clear path to the Chisolm, the cattle could not have run far. We felt it best to push them at a steady walking pace.

  By the Cimarron River, where we had crossed without incident, the gang of men stopped. Sean examined the drying tracks. Brute scowled as one of the band took a swig of water.

  “Drink later. We need to ride.”

  Sean remained squatted by the tracks. “They aren’t far ahead. We should start hearin’ ’em by mid-day.” He smiled as he rose. “The herd’ll be ours by nightfall.”

  A red-haired man grumbled, “Gonna be a lot more work takin’ the cattle back to Dodge from out here.”

  “Couple more days outside a saloon won’t hurt the likes of you,” Brute fumed.

  The red-haired man wante
d no part of a fight with Brute, but needn’t have worried. Sean stepped in to calm the group. “Sure, and it’s just like ladies to add work where none was needed,” he said, his Irish brogue laid on extra thick. “But the herd should be easy pickin’s and once you hold your cut in your hands, you’ll find it quite rewarding for a few days effort.”

  “Might find some of those women rewardin’, too,” laughed the red-haired man.

  Brute was lightning quick for a giant. In a flash, he had the red-haired man on the ground. “You get the cattle, not the women. You hear me?”

  “Sure, Brute, sure.”

  Brute gave the man a final shove, then moved to his horse. “Then let’s ride. If it’s those same women, I’ll learn ’em not to run from me, startin’ with that girl.” Fire burned in his eyes as he spurred his horse to action.

  Occasionally the brush and trees would thin, easing our chore of keeping the herd together. During those times, Mary would loop back to check on everyone and, of course, take a long look behind us in search of movement or any sign that we were being trailed.

  This time, as we came upon a clearing that extended far to both the left and the right, Mary rode over to Clean Through instead. He had stopped the chuckwagon and she could see that he was pondering their location.

  “Looks more like a trail than a clearing,” she said.

  “Does indeed.” Clean Through squeezed the bridge of his nose. Mary said nothing, knowing Clean Through well enough by this time to feel sure he’d do his thinking out loud. He did. “We been goin’ northeast… crossed the Cimarron yesterday… this trail goes northwest…” He perked up. “I heard tell that some of the Texarkana ranchers had plans to blaze a branch off the Chisolm that went northwest into Dodge! They must’ve done it and we’ve stumbled right into the middle of it! Hot damn! Oh, sorry, Boss.”

  “Swear all you want once you tell me what this means. You’re saying we could still go to Dodge City, takin’ this trail in from the east?”

  “That’s what I think this trail is. We can cross it and continue on through the brush, probably reaching Caldwell in four, five days and on to Newton from there. Or turn the herd here and head back for Dodge from this angle.”

  “How long to Dodge?”

  “Three, four days.”

  “So it’s like a triangle. If the rustlers are chasin’ us, we could swing back and maybe get to Dodge with them behind us the whole time?”

  “Lotta ‘ifs’ and ‘maybes,’ but I reckon so. Don’t mean there won’t be more rustlers.”

  “There might be gangs on the main Chisolm, too, for all we know. What do you think? Should we turn northwest back to Dodge?”

  The only answer she received was a harsh groan as a bullet pierced Clean Through’s right shoulder. Mary snapped her head around to see the gang of men charging us. They were spread out, eight of them, attacking from the side of the herd where Prudence, Ernestine and me rode, bearing down on us with guns drawn. They weren’t shooting, perhaps thinking Clean Through was the only one who’d shoot back or maybe hoping they wouldn’t scatter the herd. Just in case, by hitting us from the side, they’d effectively protected themselves from half of our guns.

  We surprised them by shooting back, though I wish I could say that we hit at least one of them. Prudence fired again and then blended in with the herd, eyes wide with fear. She had no intention of being stolen a second time.

  As I fired toward the red-haired man—another miss—Clean Through used his good arm to snap the reins and turn his mules toward a treed area to the south. The scattering and bellowing wails of the herd alerted Sally and Ruth of the attack. With a bravery worthy of soldiers, they raced through the herd, rifles at the ready. We’d been rushing so much that we had no plan, only guts and hope, and just enough smarts to stop trying to ride and shoot at the same time. We stopped. I fired again. Sally fired. Ruth fired. We had all fired at the same man, and whether we all hit him or just one did I don’t know, but the gang of eight was now a gang of seven.

  Mary had reached us now and she, too, fired. We all did. That the four of us could all miss a target the size of Brute speaks volumes about our lack of marksmanship. The giant of a man rode hard right past us. The one shot he took hit Sally’s horse square in the jaw, dropping it and sending Sally flying.

  “Follow Clean Through,” shouted Mary. “Head for the trees!” She took another shot at one of the men while I helped Sally up to ride double. We sprinted for the trees, Sally’s arms shaking as they gripped my waist. Ernestine was beside us, blood oozing from a wound in her arm.

  “They’re headin’ for those trees!” I could hear the red-haired man shout.

  “Let ’em run,” Sean directed. “Get the herd!”

  The gang spread farther to circle the cattle before the herd could scatter completely.

  “Come on!” Mary yelled to Ruth, who kept her horse stopped and steady.

  “I’ll catch up!” Ruth yelled back, her gun at her shoulder. One of the men raced right at her, pistol raised. Boom-boom! came the roar of both guns. The man fell from his horse, dark red liquid staining his chest. Ruth heard the searing sound of a bullet whizzing by just above her ear, taking part of her hair with it. She turned her horse and had no need to do more to send it rushing for the trees.

  Katie gave up trying to hold the remuda together. She had her gun pulled, but couldn’t find a target in the chaotic movement of the herd. Turning toward the trees where the others were heading, she spotted Brute racing toward her, smiling like a coyote attacking a lame fawn. Her hands quivered. She settled them with a deep breath, took aim and fired, only to have a frantic steer buck up and take the bullet. Brute’s beeline toward her was unchanged. She turned Pitch and rode hard, Brute following and gaining ground before Pitch got up to speed.

  Pearl, the only one of us without a gun—despite being our best shot—and the last to know of the attack due to her position at the far back corner of the herd, had directed her mount toward the chuckwagon when she’d figured out what was happening. But seeing Brute in pursuit of Katie, Pearl galloped past us and took up a pursuit of her own. “Katie!”

  Mary turned at Pearl’s yell, just in time to see Brute slow at the top of a ridge, pull his rifle and fire. “Nooo!!” She jerked the reins to start her own pursuit, but the swarming, scattering, bellowing herd was like a wall with no doorway. Seconds later she saw Brute riding away with Katie squirming under his big arm, blood stains smeared across her shirt. “Katie!!!!” Next she saw Pearl continuing her chase and gaining as Brute’s horse strained under even more weight. Brute, with Katie flopping like a rag doll, ignored the herd and Sean completely, riding past them on into the prairie ahead. Pearl was slowed by the herd, but would not relent.

  Gunshots grabbed Mary’s attention. Members of the gang were firing into the air to turn the herd. Ruth and I were firing at them, with Sally and Prudence reloading guns and passing them up to us. Clean Through was weak from blood loss, but dug around supplies in his wagon to pull out more ammunition with his good arm. Ernestine, blood spattered, clutched our horses—no small task as they wanted desperately to bolt.

  Torn between duty to us and the desire to protect Katie, Mary hesitated, but the wall of cattle made the choice for her. After one last glance and a quick prayer for Katie and Pearl, she leaped from her horse and joined us. Her mount rushed away before Ernestine could snatch its reins. Mary knew instantly that she had made a mistake. Though she fired her rifle, she couldn’t focus on the battle. Her eyes kept going back to where Brute had taken Katie. Her only hope was Pearl, who didn’t even have a gun.

  She turned back to take another horse from Ernestine, but at that very second a bullet tore through Ernestine’s hand. She pulled it back in agony, screaming. The horses sprinted away.

  Moments later the attack ended almost as fast as it had begun. The men had turned the herd and were moving it up the trail. The frightened cattle dashed forward, happy to again be all going in the same direction. The last
thing we saw was Sean pausing at the back of the herd. He looked toward us and tipped his hat. I wish I could say that my final shot brought him down, but I either missed or the bullet fell short. Sean rode off.

  We were alone with our pain, fear, anger and defeat. The torn and trampled trail grew more empty with each passing second as the herd moved away. We were bloodied, robbed, horseless and separated from two of our companions whose fate we did not know.

  Mary rushed to unhitch a mule from the wagon. Sally and I lowered Clean Through to the ground to check his wounds. Ruth went to work cleaning and bandaging Ernestine’s hand. Prudence loaded guns.

  Flailing, kicking, squirming, biting, screaming. Katie’s efforts were fruitless. Brute held her in the crook of his arm like she was a sack of sugar. She gave up struggling in hopes of conserving her strength for an escape opportunity. Her only hope was speed. She could never fight the man, but if she could break free and somehow get him away from his horse, maybe she could outrun him. She’d worry about where to run later.

  She had heard people say “it all happened so fast” and now the phrase had meaning for her. She was just beginning to sort through what had happened. After the steer had taken her shot and she’d raced away, Pitch—oh, poor Pitch!—had collapsed, blood pouring from his neck. She hadn’t heard the shot, but she heard Pitch’s shriek and, even now, felt his sticky blood that had seeped onto her shirt. Before she could even rise from the spill, Brute had snatched her right off the ground, barely slowing, then looped to race back past the herd and down the trail. She had caught but one glimpse of his face before he swirled her into carrying position, but that lustful look was etched in her mind. He had no plans to sell her. She wouldn’t be that lucky. Whoever named him Brute wasn’t lying.