The Last Trail Drive

by J. Roberts

  “Uh-huh.” Roland didn’t look too happy with the news.

  “Don’t worry,” Clint said. “By the time this drive is through, you’ll know every job inside and out.”

  “Um, okay.”

  “And I’ll know every man on this drive,” Clint added, “inside and out.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The next morning Clint made wholesale changes. He left the drivers where they were. They usually worked in pairs on either side of the herd, kept the steers from spreading out too wide. But he moved flankers to ride drag, drag riders to the point, and pointers back to drag just to see how they’d perform. He left the remuda and the hoodlum wagon alone for the moment.

  Flood and Clint roamed the herd, watching the steers and the men at the same time. They also watched their back trail and hillside they passed along the way.

  At one point Clint came up alongside Flood and asked, “Who do you trust the most?”

  “You.”

  “Besides me,” Clint said, and then added quickly, “and besides yourself.”

  Flood thought for a moment.

  “Bud Coleman,” he said. “He’s ridden with me before.”

  “Coleman,” Clint said. “I know who he is. Tall man, in his forties?”

  “Sits his horse kinda crooked, after all these years,” Flood said. “He’s pretty much in pain all the time.”

  “What from?”

  “Bad hip,” Flood said. “Got thrown a few years back, landed on it.”

  “You know, I noticed we had somebody who was struggling to keep up. Why don’t we let him drive a wagon?” Clint asked.

  “Because he’s a trail driver and that’s what he wants to do,” Flood said. “He don’t care how much it hurts.”

  “Well, maybe I can give him something to do that won’t require so much cutting and turning.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like checking to see if we really are being watched,” Clint said.

  “I ain’t sure about that,” Flood said.

  “About what?”

  “I don’t think he’d be up to that.”

  “What are you telling me, Hank?”

  “We’re carryin’ Bud, Clint,” Flood admitted. “I wanted him along on this drive, but he ain’t really doin’ us much good.”

  “Okay, then,” Clint said, “who’s the second man you trust the most?”

  During the course of the day, Clint watched Bill Coleman and saw what Flood was talking about. The man was so intent on not falling off his horse that he barely did any work at all. He would have been so much better off driving one of the wagons, but his pride would probably have hurt more than his hip did.

  Flood came up with another name, a man called Chip Ryan. He said he’d used Ryan on a couple of drives, but that the man had a lot of other talents.

  “What kind of talents?”

  “You’ll have to ask him,” Flood said. “I don’t know which ones he’d want to admit to.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll do it at chow tonight.”

  So as the camp filled with the wonderful smells of Spud’s supper, Clint approached Chip Ryan, who was sitting with some of the other hands. They all stopped talking as Clint approached.

  “’ Evenin’, Boss,” one of them said.

  “Good evening,” Clint said. “Which one of you is Ryan?”

  “That’s me.” A red-haired man in his thirties stepped forward. “What can I do for you, Boss?”

  “You can come and eat with me,” Clint said. “I have something to talk to you about.”

  Ryan looked confused.

  “Am I gettin’ fired?” he asked.

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Clint said. “I just have somethin’ I want you to do for me.”

  “Like what?”

  “We’ll talk about it over supper,” Clint said. “Join me by the chuckwagon in ten minutes.”

  “Yessir.”

  Clint turned and left, heard the conversation erupt behind him.

  “Wonder what he wants you to do?” somebody asked.

  “And why he picked you?” another said.

  Let them wonder, he thought.

  He joined Flood by the fire.

  “I’ve asked Ryan to come and eat with us.”

  “With you,” Flood said. “I’ll take my plate over there, let you talk to him alone.”

  “All right.”

  “I hope you’ll be able to trust him, Clint,” Flood said.

  “Yes,” Clint said. “So do I.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Chip Ryan got his chow from Spud Johnson, then walked over to where Clint was sitting with his plate and coffee.

  “Pull up a crate,” Clint said.

  Ryan sat down, his movements very tentative.

  “Relax,” Clint said. “I told you you’re not getting fired. Eat your supper.”

  Spud had created a combination of bacon, beans, and potatoes that lived up to his name. There were also some fresh biscuits that just about melted in your mouth.

  “Flood tells me you’re trustworthy, Ryan,” Clint said. “What do you say?”

  “I do my job,” Ryan said.

  “He seems to think you have other talents, though,” Clint said. “You don’t spend all your time working cattle.”

  “I’ve done other things,” Ryan admitted, still not comfortable with the situation.

  “Like what?”

  “A little bit of everything,” Ryan said.

  “Okay, let me get to the point, Chip,” Clint said. “Can you handle a gun?”

  “Well . . . yeah. I’ve worn a badge a time or two, was a bounty hunter for a year or two. I can hit what I shoot at.”

  “How good are you on a horse?”

  “Real good.”

  “Can you ride somebody’s back trail without them seeing you?”

  “Well, sure, but—”

  “I think we’re being followed,” Clint said, “or watched. I want somebody to lay back and find out for sure. Is that something you think you could do?”

  “That’s what this is about?” Ryan asked.

  “That’s it.”

  He stood up.

  “I’m gonna get some more of this chow. I’ll be right back.”

  Clint watched as Spud spooned more food into Ryan’s plate, and then the man came back, sat down, and started eating with gusto.

  “You just about ruined my supper, Mr. Adams,” Ryan said. “I didn’t know what you were gonna say to me. Now that I know, I can enjoy my food.”

  “Well, I wasn’t looking to ruin your appetite, Chip,” Clint said. “I told you your job was safe.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “Can we talk about it now?”

  “Sure, Mr. Adams,” Ryan said. “I ain’t especially fond of herdin’ cattle. I was just doin’ this for the money, and because it’d gimme time to decide what I wanted to do after.”

  “Well, what I want you to do is simple,” Clint said. “You have to do it without being seen. If you don’t think you can—”

  “If I don’t wanna be seen,” Ryan said, cutting him off, “I don’t get seen.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I suggest you circle around for miles, then come back. That way if there’s somebody, there you’ll come up behind them. Even if they do see you, they won’t connect you with the herd if you’re coming at them from behind.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “When do you want me to go?”

  “Well, that’s the other thing,” Clint said to the younger man. “Can you ride at night without breaking your neck?”

  Ryan smiled.

  “No problem.”

  After Ryan went back to the other men—with instructions not to tell them what he was doing—Flood came back over to Clint.

  “What’s the story?”

  “He’ll go out tonight, circle around, and see if we’re being watched.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then he’ll come back and tell us,” Clint sai
d. “Is there anything distinctive about this fellow Morgan? I mean, if Ryan comes back and describes him will you know him?”

  “Morgan’s normal-lookin’,” Flood said, “but Jones, now there’s another story.

  “So if he comes back and describes Jones . . .”

  “Oh yeah,” Flood said, “I’ll know him.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Clint sipped his coffee and stared out into the distance.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “If we are being followed, and it’s Morgan’s men, and the point is to see that you don’t finish this drive, why not just stampede the herd?”

  “I dunno,” Flood said. “Maybe they’re worried some of my men would get killed.”

  “You really think that’s a worry for Morgan?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Flood said, after a moment “I don’t think that, at all.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  After dark Clint walked with Chip Ryan to where the horses were picketed, watched while the man saddled his horse.

  “You sure you want to do this, Ryan?” Clint asked.

  “You ain’t tryin’ ta talk me out of it, are ya, Boss?” Ryan asked.

  “No,” Clint said. “I just want you to know what you’re getting into.”

  “All I’m doin’ is takin’ a ride,” Ryan said, “and a look see. What harm can come from that?”

  “None at all,” Clint said.

  Ryan smiled and mounted up.

  “Just don’t step in any chuckholes while you’re at it,” Clint said.

  “Ol’ Stony here is as surefooted as they come,” Ryan said. “You don’t have to worry about him steppin’ wrong.”

  “That’s good,” Clint said. “I hope to see you this time tomorrow, Ryan.”

  “Twenty-four hours oughtta be enough, Boss,” Ryan said. “Just have some of Cookie’s coffee ready for me.”

  The men had already taken to calling Spud Johnson “Cookie.”

  “It’ll be ready,” Clint said.

  Ryan nodded and rode out into the dark.

  When Clint returned to the fire, Spud Johnson handed him a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks, Spud.”

  “Somethin’ wrong, Boss?” Spud asked.

  “What makes you ask that?”

  Spud shrugged.

  “I just got a feelin’.”

  “Well, there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  “That’s good,” Spud said. “I don’t want nothin’ to go wrong with this job.”

  “Just worry about keeping the men fed, Spud,” Clint said.

  “Yessir.” He looked over Clint’s shoulder. “Coffee, Boss?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Spud,” Flood said.

  The cook poured a cup and handed it to Flood, who nodded his thanks, again.

  “Ryan get off?” Flood asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you so sour about?”

  Clint looked at Flood.

  “I’m thinking this should have been something I did myself.”

  “I need you here.”

  “I know,” Clint said, “but if something happens to Ryan . . .”

  “You give him a choice, or an order?”

  “I gave him a choice.”

  “Then he knows what he’s doin’,” Flood said. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  They drank their coffee in silence for a while, and then Clint said, “There is something else I’m worried about, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  Clint looked at Flood.

  “I’m worried that there’s still something you’re not telling me.”

  Flood stared back at Clint, then looked down at his coffee cup.

  “Spud?” he yelled.

  “Boss?”

  “We need some more coffee.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  “And bring out that jug I give ya.”

  “Comin’, Boss.”

  Spud came over with a big cast-iron coffee pot, and a bottle of whiskey that was still three-quarters full.

  “My private stock,” Flood told Clint.

  Spud poured the coffee, and then topped it off with a finger of whiskey each.

  “Thanks, Spud,” Flood said.

  “Sure, Boss.”

  Spud walked off with the pot and the jug.

  “Drink up,” Flood said to Clint.

  “You thinking if I’m drunk enough I won’t be mad at you when you tell me?” Clint asked.

  “Tell me what?”

  “Whatever it is you’re going to tell me that needed whiskey.”

  “Maybe I needed the whiskey.”

  “Whoever needed it,” Clint said, “what’s going on, Hank?”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “What makes you think there’s somethin’ I ain’t tellin’ you?” Flood asked.

  “Because no matter how I look at it, it’d still be easy for somebody to stampede this herd,” Clint said. “Then they could pick off whatever men weren’t trampled. So there’s something else going on here, something other than keeping you from completing this drive.”

  Flood studied Clint for a moment, and then sipped his spiked coffee before speaking.

  “No, it’s still about makin’ me fail,” Flood said, “but it’s got to look like I failed on my own. See, Morgan is lookin’ not only to stop me, but to humiliate me, too.”

  “They could still cause a stampede,” Clint said. “It’s happened on a lot of drives.”

  “I know it,” Flood said. “And they still might try, but maybe they got a few other tricks up their sleeves, first.”

  “Like killing Trevor.”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  Clint studied Flood, and then said, “Hank, I can’t help feeling like I’ve been suckered.”

  “Maybe ya have, just a little, Clint,” Flood said, “but damn it, I need you. Some of these men don’t care what my reputation is, but they’ll care about yours. They’ll do their jobs and maybe they won’t run off at the first sign of trouble for fear that you’ll go after them.”

  “So I’m here just to scare them into working, huh?” Clint asked.

  “Maybe it started out that way,” Flood said, “but now I need you. With Trevor gone, I needed a man I could trust. I mean, really trust to get the job done. Even if . . .”

  “Even if what?”

  “Even if I don’t make it,” Flood said. “I don’t care what happens, Clint, this herd has to make it to Fort Laramie. You gotta promise me that.”

  “All right, Hank,” Clint said. “I promise.”

  Clint looked out into the darkness, again.

  “Okay,” he said, “we’ll know more when Ryan gets back here tomorrow night. For now let’s just double up on night duty and tell the men to keep alert.”

  “Keep alert for what?” Flood asked.

  “They don’t have to know that,” Clint said. “We’ll just tell ’em to do their jobs.”

  Two of the six men who were riding with Santiago Jones for his boss, Larry Morgan, sat by their fire drinking coffee and looking at Jones, who was sitting off by himself, as he usually did.

  “So, what’s his story?” Zeke Sterling asked.

  “Whataya mean?” Chris Dawkins asked.

  “Well, they say he’s a half-breed.”

  “So?”

  “So does that mean he’s part white, part Indian?” Zeke asked. “Or part white part Mexican?”

  Chris thought a moment, then said, “I dunno. Maybe he’s part Indian and part Mex. What’s the difference?”

  “I don’t like half-breeds,” Zeke said. “Can’t trust ’em to pick a side, ya know? Ya never know when they’ll turn on ya.”

  “Well, why don’t you go over there and ask ’im, then?” Chris asked. “Tell him you don’t like half-breeds and see what he does.”

  “Are you crazy?” Zeke said. “I don’t wanna get myself killed.”

  “Then keep yer trap shut,” Chris said. “Drink your coffee.”


  Santiago Jones had allowed his men to build a fire each night for two reasons. One, the smell of their camp would be swallowed up by the smells coming from the trail drive’s camp. Second, he didn’t really care if Flood and his men realized that Jones and his men were there. It would give the old trail boss something to think about.

  Morgan’s orders were that Flood and his steers didn’t make it to Fort Laramie. He didn’t care where along the way Jones stopped them, as long as he stopped them. And Jones didn’t care what Morgan’s reasons were. He was getting paid for this job, and that was all he cared about.

  He might have made a move against the herd earlier—perhaps stampeding them—had Henry Flood not replaced Jack Trevor with the Gunsmith, Clint Adams. The presence of Adams made this job much more interesting to Jones.

  The time of the trail drives and big herds may have been passing, but even more important to Jones, the time of the legends was passing. And any man who put an end to a legend would be remembered as a legend, himself.

  So while he was determined to do the job he was being paid to do, he was going to do it in a way—and at a time—that suited his own purposes, as well.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Clint used the next day to see how his experiment with moving the men around was going. But it was Flood who noticed the difference much before Clint did.

  “Did you put Daltry on point?” he asked, halfway through the day.

  “Yes, I moved a few of the men around. I wanted to see how well rounded they were.”

  “Well, he ain’t,” Flood said. “The man is scared to death to be out in front of this herd. Put him back on the flank.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Flood nodded, and then peeled off to ride toward the back of the herd.

  During the course of the day Flood returned to Clint to order more changes. Before the day was over, men had been put back where they had been before Clint moved them. Flood had undone everything Clint had done.

  If this had been Clint’s regular job he would have bitched at Flood that night. There was no way he would have been able to do this job if Flood was going to undo everything. But this was Flood’s baby, and Clint was just along for the ride, so he didn’t object to Flood exercising his authority.