The Last Trail Drive

by J. Roberts

  As Flood had said, Daltry was scared stiff to be in front of the herd and was much more comfortable riding flank—as was his compadre, Roland.

  As they got on toward late in the day, Clint had to admit that Flood had done the right thing. The herd was moving along much better and strays were kept to a minimum.

  That night the men were in a good mood, laughing and arguing good-naturedly while they ate. Clint and Flood sat together, quietly eating Spud Johnson’s latest concoction of potatoes, meat, onion rings, and apples, which he called Range Riders Stew.

  “You thinkin’ about Ryan?” Flood asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too,” Flood said. “Supposed to be back in twenty-four hours.”

  “That still gives him three,” Clint said.

  “I know,” Flood said, “but I was hopin’ he’d be back before then.”

  “So was I.” Clint put his empty plate down, picked up his coffee cup. “I knew I should have gone myself.”

  “Can’t start blamin’ yerself at this point,” Flood said. “Besides, I needed you here.”

  “I couldn’t have done much more harm, if I’d been gone today.”

  “Don’t sulk,” Flood said. “So I had to make a few changes. So what?”

  “I’m not sulking,” Clint said. “I’m just saying I probably would have done more good—”

  “Forget it,” Flood said, cutting him off. “What’s done is done. Ryan’ll be back later. I’m gonna get me some more of this stew.” Flood stood up. “Best idea you ever had, hiring Spud—and the men agree.”

  Clint agreed, too. Every supper they’d eaten so far had been a hit with everyone. Spud Johnson sure belonged in a chuckwagon more than he did behind the bar in a saloon.

  Clint decided to get some more stew for himself, too, before the rest of the men started crowding around for seconds.

  “I wonder what was goin’ on today?” Al Swisher said aloud.

  “Whataya mean?” Daltry asked.

  “I mean with Flood and Adams,” Swisher said. “Adams makes some changes, and the boss changes ’em back.”

  “I think they was tryin’ ta prove who the real boss was,” Eddie Pratt said.

  “Naw,” Roland said. “Not Adams.”

  “Whataya mean?” Daltry asked, again.

  “Adams don’t care who’s boss,” Roland said. “He helped me and Daltry load the buckboard at Doan’s store the mornin’ we left.”

  “And he takes his turn every night,” Swisher pointed out.

  “I heard them talkin’ one night,” Roland said. “Adams is just along to help Flood out, because Trevor got hisself killed in Doan’s Crossing.”

  “Yeah, what was that about?” Swisher asked.

  “Nobody knows,” Daltry said.

  “Maybe Jack slept with the wrong girl,” Swisher said.

  “I don’t know,” Pratt said. “I think somethin’s goin’ on that we don’t know about.”

  “I don’t wanna know about it,” Daltry said. “That’s why there’s bosses, so they can worry about stuff like that.”

  “Damn, this stew is good,” Swisher said, changing the subject. “That new Cookie is great . . .”

  Roy Sobel, Bud Coleman, and some of the others were out with the herd. They’d be in later for their supper, changing places with some of these men.

  Sitting off by himself, Andy Dirker kept quiet the whole time.

  THIRTY

  By morning Chip Ryan had not returned. Clint and Flood were not happy. They scowled at breakfast, didn’t discuss the matter. They both knew the chances were good the man was dead. Larry Morgan’s men must have caught him and killed him.

  Finally, breakfast done and Spud starting to load the wagon, Flood looked at Clint.

  “What do we wanna do?” he asked.

  “Let’s get the herd moving,” Clint said. “Once we’re under way I’m going to go looking for Ryan. I’ll slip away, using the herd to hide my movements.

  “You think that’s wise?” Flood asked.

  “I sent him out there, Hank,” Clint said. “I’m going to go out and find out what happened to him. And while I’m, out there, I’ll have a look around.” He pointed at Flood. “And I can promise you I’ll be back by morning.”

  “With you gone I’ll be two men short,” Flood said. “Ol’ Bud Coleman is gonna have to pull his weight, today.”

  “Let him handle the remuda,” Clint said.

  “That’s a good idea,” Flood said. “Okay, go ahead. We’ll manage.”

  “I’m not going to let you know when I’m going,” Clint said.

  “I think I’ll be able to tell you’re gone,” Flood said, sourly.

  “You got a better idea, Hank?” Clint asked.

  “Ah,” Flood said, “I ain’t mad at you, Clint. It’s that goddamn Morgan. He just couldn’t let me have this, could he? He’s gotta make it hard.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “maybe before this is all over, we can make things hard for him.”

  “Now that is somethin’ I’d like to see,” Flood said.

  They saddled their horses, and as they mounted up Flood said, “You watch yerself and get your ass back here tonight.”

  “That’s a promise,” Clint said.

  Clint was still hoping that Ryan would show up on his own, but by noon he hadn’t, and Clint decided to make his move.

  It wasn’t unusual, during the course of the day, for a cowboy to peel off and chase down some strays, bringing them back to the herd. Or spotting some wild strays and collecting them to add to the herd. So Clint simply drifted off to one side, into the brush, and then just kept going.

  Once he put some distance between himself and the herd he turned to check his back trail. If they were being watched and someone had noticed his move, they might have sent someone after him.

  Eventually, he decided no one was following him. He turned Eclipse and started riding back the way the herd had come. Luckily, ten or fifteen miles a day is as much as a herd can cover each day. Retracing that with Eclipse would not take very long. He was going to circle, though, so it would take him a little longer. He wanted to get back to where they had camped two nights ago, which would be where Ryan had left them. From there he’d try to retrace Ryan’s steps and find out what happened to him. Meanwhile, he’d do what he’d sent Ryan out to do in the first place, and see if they were being followed.

  Right around midday Santiago Jones noticed something different. He turned and walked down from the rise he’d been using to watch the herd. His men were huddled together, waiting.

  “Sterling and Dawkins.”

  “Yeah, Boss?” Dawkins said.

  “Adams is gone,” Jones said.

  “Whataya mean, gone?” Sterling asked.

  “He is not with the herd,” Jones said, slowly. “Gone. See?”

  “We see, Santiago,” Dawkins said. “Whataya want us to do?”

  “Locate him.”

  “And do what?”

  “Nothing,” Jones said. “I just want to know where he is.”

  The two men stood up.

  “Where do we look?” Sterling asked.

  “One of you ride on ahead, see if he went that way for some reason,” Jones said. “The other ride back the way we came.”

  “Why would he go that way?” Sterling asked.

  “Maybe,” Jones said, “he’s looking for us.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Clint picked up a trail near their two-day-old campsite. He wasn’t sure it was Chip Ryan’s trail, but it was the only trail he had. While following the trail, he started to think he’d made a mistake telling Flood he’d be back by morning. At this rate he was going to have to make up almost thirty miles, and he wasn’t going to be able to do a lot of it after dark.

  He stuck to the trail for about five miles and then came to Chip Ryan’s horse. It was lying on its side with a bullet in its head. Clint could see that the right front leg had been snapped almost in two. Apparently, despite a
ll warnings, Ryan’s horse had somehow managed to break a leg. It looked bad enough to have been violent, meaning Ryan may have been thrown when it happened. If that was the case then he was probably injured—but not too injured to have done the right thing by the horse. Plus, the saddle was gone, which means Ryan at least tried to carry it. How far was anybody’s guess.

  It was late in the day when Clint found out he had guessed wrong. He found Ryan’s saddle lying on the ground. The saddlebags and canteen were missing, so at least the man was still trying to carry those—for another mile. At this point he was carrying only the canteen, which was probably not far from being empty.

  Clint figured at this point there was an easy thirty miles between him and the herd—most of that covered by him and Eclipse. When he found Ryan, they were going to have to ride double. The big Darley Arabian would be able to handle it, but it would cut down on the ground they’d be able to cover. It would be late the next day by the time they caught up to the herd, unless he could find an extra horse.

  Of course, there was always the possibility that Ryan was dead.

  It was two more miles before Clint found out for sure.

  Dawkins and Sterling had drawn straws to see who would ride ahead and who would retrace their steps. Dawkins ended up going back.

  He and Sterling were not very smart, but they were each good trackers, which is why they had been hired by Santiago Jones. Each of the men he had hired—with Larry Morgan’s money—were good at one particular thing. It was the only way to run a gang—don’t hire anybody smart enough to want to try to take over.

  He picked up the trail soon after he left camp, tracked it until it started to get dark. He didn’t know what to do, then. Jones had not given him specific instructions on what to do when it got dark—camp, or keep tracking. He decided to camp, and since he had no specific instructions on what kind of camp to make—cold or not—he decided to make some coffee.

  When Clint found Chip Ryan he was lying facedown on the ground. An empty canteen and his rifle were next to him. A stick he had probably picked up to use as a crutch was also lying next to him. His gun was still in his holster.

  Clint dismounted, went to Ryan, and turned him over. He was still alive. He got his own canteen from his saddle, poured some water into his hand, and then slapped Ryan’s face until he woke up.

  “Wha—where—hey—”

  “Here, drink some of this.” Clint tipped the canteen up so Ryan could have a few sips.

  “That’s enough,” Clint said. “Which leg hurts?”

  “It’s—It’s my right foot.”

  “Just relax.”

  Clint checked the foot, found it swollen in the boot.

  “Sprained, maybe broken,” Clint said.

  “Should we take the boot off?” Ryan asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “not till we get you back to camp.”

  “How are we gonna do that?”

  “You, me, and my horse,” Clint said. “Come on. Let’s get you mounted, and then you can tell me what happened.”

  Clint got Ryan to his feet and they limped together over to Eclipse. With Clint’s aid, he managed to get up in the saddle.

  “Clint, thanks for comin’ lookin’ for me,” Ryan said.

  “How else was I going to yell at you?” Clint asked.

  “Yell at me? For what?”

  “I told you not to let your horse break his leg, didn’t I?”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Clint mounted up behind Ryan and then they started back. Ryan told Clint what had happened.

  “I spotted our tail,” he said. “Seven men, one of them was just watchin’ the herd.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Big man with a head band. Might be a half-breed,” Ryan said.

  “What’d you do then?”

  “Well, I watched them for a while, then decided to come back. I had to circle around again, though, so they wouldn’t see me. That’s when my horse took a bad step, and I heard his leg snap.”

  Clint closed his eyes. He’d heard that sound before. It wasn’t pretty.

  “He step in a chuckhole?”

  “No,” Ryan said. “He just took a bad step.”

  That was the trouble with horses. They weighed about twelve hundred pounds or more and they carried it around on spindly legs. The slightest wrong step could cause a leg to snap. Eclipse weighed even more, and as strong as his legs were, they were still spindly. And now he was carrying two of them.

  They rode for a while in silence, and then Clint reined Eclipse in.

  “What is it?” Ryan asked.

  “Coffee.”

  “You want coffee now?”

  “No,” Clint said. “Sniff the air.”

  Ryan did and he smelled it.

  “Ah, coffee,” he said, nodding.

  Clint dismounted, handed the reins to Ryan.

  “Stay here. Don’t come unless I call for you.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “Find out who’s camp it is.”

  “You gonna kill him? Without knowing if he’s part of the gang?”

  Clint looked at Ryan. “Maybe not even then. Remember, don’t come unless I call. And don’t get down. Eclipse might kick you to death.”

  “I already feel like I’ve been kicked to death,” Ryan said.

  “Well, you haven’t,” Cling said. “Not yet. And if he starts to move, don’t try to stop him. He’ll know what he’s doing.”

  He melted into the darkness.

  Dawkins drank his coffee and cursed his luck that he was riding around out here on his own. He didn’t know why they couldn’t just ride ahead to Ogallala and wait for the herd there. They had enough men to make sure the herd never made it past there. And while they were waiting he could help himself to the best whores Ogallala had to offer.

  He was about to pour himself another cup of coffee when he heard something—a boot scraping across a rock. He put the coffeepot down carefully rather than drop it. As he started to draw his gun, a voice said, “I wouldn’t. You’re covered.”

  Dawkins froze.

  “What’s the story, friend?” he asked. “I’m just sittin’ here drinkin’ coffee.”

  “I can see that,” Clint said. “Why go for your gun, then?”

  “Well, ya never know who you’ll run across these days, do ya?” he asked. “Figure that’s probably why you had your gun out, huh?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “I like being real careful. What are you doing out here alone?”

  “I was just thinkin’ about that myself,” Dawkins said, “I’m headin’ for Dodge.”

  “Nothing much happening in Dodge, these days,” Clint said. “What takes you there?”

  “A job,” Dawkins said.

  “Doing what?”

  “This and that. Just a job, and a look around at what used to be a hot town. I ain’t never been to Dodge City before.”

  “How much coffee you got there?” Clint asked.

  “Maybe a whole pot,” Dawkins said. “You’re welcome to some.”

  “I got a friend along.”

  “Bring him in.”

  Clint whistled loud enough for Eclipse to hear. He knew the horse would come running—well, trotting—and he hoped Ryan would remember not to fight him.

  Finally, horse and rider came into the camp and Eclipse stopped.

  Dawkins looked up at the new arrival, didn’t know him.

  “Have you ever seen this fellow before, Ryan?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Ryan said. “I don’t know him.” But then he looked over to where the man had secured his horse. “But I seen that pinto before.”

  “Where?” Clint asked.

  “He was with those other men I seen watchin’ the herd.”

  “Well, well,” Clint said to Dawkins, “you’re ridin’ with a man named Santiago Jones, riding for Larry Morgan.”

  “I’m—I’m what?” Da
wkins asked, nervously. “Naw, naw, I don’t know them fellas.”

  “I’m going to ask you to drop your gun to the ground, friend. Nice and easy. Don’t get brave and don’t get clumsy. Either one will get you killed.”

  “I don’t know what this is abou—”

  “Just do it!”

  “Sure, sure, mister,” Dawkins said. “I’m doin’ it.”

  Dawkins took his gun from his holster, briefly thought about trying to use it, and then realized that this was probably the Gunsmith. He dropped his gun into the dirt.

  “Good boy,” Clint said. “Now, my friend has a bad leg, so you’re going to go and help him off his horse, take him to your fire and pour him and me some coffee. You got that? I’m going to watch you real close.”

  “Okay, mister, okay,” Dawkins said. “I’m doin’ exactly what yer tellin’ me ta do.”

  “Keep it that way,” Clint said, “and we’ll all see the sun come up.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Clint and Ryan were sitting on one side of the fire, with Dawkins on the other. The man had volunteered his name, but nothing else. Clint and Ryan were drinking coffee, and eating some beef jerky they’d found in Dawkins’s saddlebags.

  “How about some of that for me?” Dawkins asked.

  “Sure,” Clint said, “just answer some questions.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can,” Clint said. “Tell me you work for Santiago Jones.”

  “I don’t—I don’t even know anybody named Jones,” Dawkins said.

  “Now that was a bad lie,” Clint said.

  Dawkins looked taken aback.

  “Why?”

  “Because everybody knows somebody named Jones,” Clint said. He looked at Ryan. “Don’t you know somebody named Jones?”

  “Sure do.”

  “I do, too,” Clint said. He looked at Dawkins. “See what I mean?”

  “Okay, well, I meant I don’t know anybody named—whatsit? Saint Jones?”