Billy rode up to the bed wagon and tied the mouse to the tailgate. Limpy, the driver, gave him a curious look as he stretched out on top of the lumpy bedrolls. But he was too tired all of a sudden to bother to explain. The jolting and swaying of the wagon was to him like the gentle rocking of a baby’s cradle. He fell immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep.
* * * *
He came awake slowly, trying to figure where he was and what was wrong. Then he saw the orange glow of the setting sun filtering through the canvas wagon cover and he remembered where he was. The wagon was no longer moving, and that, he guessed, had wakened him. There was the sound of a horseman approaching and he saw Limpy lean down from the seat to listen.
“Wake up Condo and tell him we’re almost there.”
It was Joe Metcalf’s voice. Billy crawled from under the wagon flap, rubbing the heavy sleep from his eyes. Full wakefulness came when he looked around him. Before them stretched a gentle slope leading to a shallow valley, and from the valley floor he caught the reflection of the orange light of the setting sun. The Cimarron!
He felt a thrill surge through him, tempered with a sense of danger. His eyes wandered along the broad sweep of the river, lingering on the ragged dunes and shallow red clay cliffs beyond. It seemed peaceful, deceptively so in the soft amber glow of the setting sun. But he knew that somewhere among the long shadows of those rolling dunes across the placid stream, death lurked, sudden, swift, and sure. He smiled a bit grimly as he untied the mouse from the tailgate and mounted. Somewhere over there, too, a troop of cavalry lay in wait. He hoped the plan had been well thought out.
Billy joined Joe Metcalf, and together they rode the length of the strung-out herd toward a little knoll near the river where Old Thad waited, his eyes following the line of the far bank.
“Everything all set?” Billy asked as they rode up.
Thad nodded, his inner tenseness reflected in the tight lines in his face. “The boys are ready. Hope your cavalry is, too!”
Billy put the thought out of his mind. Something could go wrong—a mistake in timing, a misunderstanding of the exact place of crossing. But that was the chance they’d have to take.
“The boys know what to do, do they?” Billy asked.
“They’re ready,” Thad assured him. “We just start across like we didn’t know any better. The boys know what to do from there on.”
Billy looked along the length of the herd, then back to the leaders already winding down the slope toward the river. He let his eyes roam once more to the far side. “All right,” he said tersely, pulling his hat down firmly, “let’s start ’em across.”
The lead steers were less than seventy-five yards from the water’s edge when Billy and Joe Metcalf rode up. Will Pryor and Tooker Cobb were there, on either side, holding the cattle down to a shambling run.
“They’ve smelled the water,” Will yelled across. “It’ll be hard to get ’em across without a drink.”
“They’ll drink as they go,” Billy yelled back. “Main thing is to keep ’em movin’.”
The air was filled with the bawling of steers and the clacking of horns, and the earth shook slightly to the rumble of hoofs as the eager cattle pressed toward the river. The lead steers hesitated at the water’s edge, then pressed on under the urging shouts of the riders, stopping to drink when the water reached their bellies.
“Move ’em across!” Billy heard himself yell, swinging the mouse into the river. The others moved with him, converging on the leaders, slapping their coiled ropes against their stirrup straps or boot tops with a loud popping noise, or swinging at a rebellious rump when convenient.
The leaders began to move, slowly, muzzling the water, snuffling and blowing, now and then raising their heads to bawl a protest. Behind, the other cattle were jamming up, spreading out to drink. Billy swung back to break the jam, keeping the herd in motion. The leaders were in deep water now, swimming. He urged the mouse back into the water, caught up with the swimming leaders at mid-stream.
Once he caught Joe Metcalf’s eyes and saw the questioning look in them. He only shrugged his shoulders in answer and let his eyes roam again to the far bank. Any time now—any moment.
He looked back for an instant. The herd was following nicely now, slowing a bit to drink as it entered the water, then moving on in behind the lead steers. Billy swung around to look ahead again. The red clay banks were closer now. They were well past mid-stream, coming into shallow water. He hung back, motioning for Joe and the others to do the same. Apprehension began to creep over him. He hadn’t counted on having to go this far across before it would happen. They had to maintain a pretense of unawareness, but it could go too far. It would be suicide to ride out of the water on the far side.
When he heard Tooker Cobb grunt it didn’t dawn on him right away what it was. He looked across at the man, noticing the strange expression on his face. Then he saw it. It looked at first like a little brown bird had landed on Tooker’s shoulder. A sort of dumb fascination came over Billy, and it seemed he sat for a long time before the truth dawned on him. What he’d thought was a small bird—it was the feathered end of an arrow, buried almost completely down through Tooker Cobb’s neck and shoulders. The man began to slip quietly from his saddle toward the water just as the air was filled with the blood-curdling war cry of the Comanche!
Out of the rolling dunes they swept in a ragged line, their naked bodies glistening in the fading sunlight, their yelling, contorted faces streaked with the white and ochre paint of war.
In the bedlam that followed it seemed to Billy that they must be at least two hundred strong, even though he knew differently. His own shouts to the others were drowned in the rattle of rifle fire, the whistle and thump of arrows and the eternal ear-splitting howl of the warriors. He had a vague recollection of seeing Will Pryor and Joe Metcalf ahead of him as he headed for the shore down which they’d come. Pulling his .44, he fired hastily over his shoulders as the other two did, not bothering to aim. The river was a frothing mass of pink-red foam as riders and floundering cattle whipped the clay-reddened water in a frenzy of panic.
Over the pitch of chaotic uproar came a sound that dwarfed the popping of the riders’ pistols or the cracking of Indian rifles—it was the authoritative boom of Old Thad’s .45-70. For an instant Billy saw him, crouched beside a hummock, the heavy rifle resting on a log. There was a spurt of smoke. Billy turned, saw a screaming buck jerked from his bareback cayuse as though by an unseen mighty hand. But he also saw that it would take more than one such shot to turn the yelling horde. Panic seized him for an instant as he realized how hopelessly they were trapped unless the support he counted on came soon. What if the cavalry had lost the trail? Or what if they’d misinterpreted his instructions and were waiting, wondering, at some other crossing while the trail riders were being cut to ribbons?
In the next breath he cursed his own folly for having crossed the river so far. Already he saw a buck leaning from a pony in belly-deep water, holding the half-submerged body of Tooker Cobb with one hand while with the other he performed a grisly ritual with a gleaming knife. An all-consuming anger flooded over him, sending the hot blood coursing through his veins. He took aim over his shoulder and fired, looking back just long enough to see the warrior’s body slip beneath the surface of the water.
The mouse-colored horse reared with a suddenness that nearly threw him from the saddle. Billy jerked down on the bit, but the animal reared again, screaming in agony. It was then he saw the tufted shaft protruding from beneath the horse’s ear. The mouse fell forward, stumbled in the shallow water, then turned on its side. Billy kicked free, cursing freely as he felt the water close around his waist. A gleeful yell from the red raiders brought him quickly around. Not fifty yards away three Indians were swimming their mounts toward him. The one in the lead fitted the nock of an arrow to the short war bow and took aim. Billy fought for footing in the sli
ppery mud, raised his .44 and pulled the trigger. The click of the hammer on a dead cartridge brought a cry of despair from his lips. He threw open the loading gate with feverish haste, fumbling for his cartridge belt with one hand while the other spewed empty shells into the water.
Suddenly, above the din, came the silver notes of a bugle, sending the pulse-tingling call of the charge rolling across the river. The arrow meant for Billy was never loosed. Surprise and terror on their faces, the three lead warriors turned in time to sep the line of blue-clad horsemen sweep into the water beneath the guidon lance fluttering in the breeze. Billy turned and scrambled for the shore.
The surprised Comanches hesitated for an instant. From the one bank winged the bullets of the trail riders who had taken cover where they found it. From the other came the smart crackle of army carbines punctuating the pulsing notes of the bugle. The Indians faltered, then broke pell-mell, riding upstream and down in disorganized retreat. Like an avenging shadow, the cavalry troop split easily in two, one group turning upriver, the other down.
From behind the shelter of a cottonwood log Billy Condo drew a breath of relief, tried to wipe the sweat from his face on his water-soaked shirtsleeve. He squinted into the setting sun, and along the crest of a ridge a retreating silhouette told of the departure of the last of the Comanche raiders. From down along the flats beside the river came the cry of the bugle once more—this time sounding assembly.
They later found Tooker Cobb’s body on a sandbar downstream and buried him in a shallow grave on a knoll overlooking the river. On a small piece of pine board he’d found in one of the wagons Billy carved: “Tooker Cobb, August 30, 1867.” General Sheridan himself read a short passage from the Bible and then said briefly, “Gentleman, it may seem difficult for us here to realize, but this man died in the service of his country. Historians will take little note of this brief engagement, yet it was fought, as many others will be, in the true pioneering spirit which will one day succeed in establishing this nation of ours as the greatest on earth.”
A squad of riflemen fired three volleys over the grave, and as the last echoes of the shots reverberated along the silent river the plaintive note of the bugle came again—this time sounding taps. When the last note had died away far out across the rolling prairie, the little knot of men turned away and made their way to their camp, their faces solemn in the pale light of the dying day.
* * * *
The following morning at daybreak the trail drivers stood looking on as the cavalry troop broke camp. Under ordinary circumstances, Billy knew, the troopers would have been in for some good-natured joshing from the cowhands concerning equipment and method of handling horses. But on this particular morning a discreet silence was maintained.
“Prepare to mount!”
The command rang out, clear and loud in the still morning air. There was a hushed note of expectancy hanging over the watching trail drivers.
“Mount!”
There was the squeak of rigging and rattle of equipment as the troopers swung aboard as one man.
“By damn!” Old Thad whispered to Joe Metcalf. “That sure is pretty!”
Billy grinned at the way Joe looked at his boss under his eyelids. “Now, Thad!” Joe said gently. “Don’t go gettin’ any ideas about…”
“Yessir,” the old-timer mused half aloud. “It would sure make a snappy lookin’ cow outfit!”
There was a murmur from behind and the three of them turned to see General Sheridan shaking hands with the cowhands there. When it was his turn Old Thad remarked, “Gen’ral, you sure got a mighty nice lookin’ outfit there. I’m gettin’ some ideas of my own.”
General Sheridan laughed. “I’m not too sure how well cavalry procedure would work on a cattle ranch, but you’re welcome to borrow it. This man can give you a few pointers,” he said turning to Billy.
“General, I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for all of us,” Billy said sincerely.
“It’s been a pleasure to serve with you again, Condo,” the general said, gripping his hand firmly, “and I hope we meet again someday. Good luck to all of you.”
Billy stood watching as the grey-haired man swung easily into his saddle. He felt a slight lump rise in his throat as the ramrod straight figure turned and raised his hand in salute, then turned to his troop.
“By column of twos, forward…”
The group of riders stood watching as the line of blue-clad troopers splashed across the Cimarron, then disappeared out of sight over the crest of the ridge beyond.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Billy looped the latigo through and pulled it tight. Then he heard Old Thad’s voice boom out, “Line them horses up there even, Goddammit! If them sojer boys can do it there ain’t no reason…”
Billy gave the latigo one last tug and turned to grin at what he saw. A reluctant line of cowhands stood in what might have been Thad Harper’s impression of a company front. The riders, of varying heights and thickness—as were their mounts—presented anything but the military appearance he knew Thad was after. Bow-legged, some in batwing chaps, some in patched denims and assorted sizes and colors of hats, clinging tightly and mistrustingly to the reins of the walleyed ponies behind them, the riders watched Thad with something akin to embarrassment.
“Now—prepare to mount!”
One rider put his toe in the stirrup and started to swing his leg up.
“Not yet! Wait’ll I say the rest of it!” Old Thad bellowed at the offender, a man whose face now rivaled the color of the sun peeping over the rim of the prairie.
“Mount!” Thad roared.
At various intervals riders hit their saddles. Then what little resemblance there had been to a military formation disappeared entirely. The range mounts, accustomed to their morning exercise before being put to work, began their usual spree of bucking. The “company front” disintegrated in a cloud of dust and whooping riders as the cowhands sought to bring their mounts under control. One or two went crowhopping off toward the river, three others lined out after a little bucking, on a dead run for the bedground. Old Thad threw his hat on the ground in disgust while Billy Condo found himself bumping into Joe Metcalf as they rolled in the dust and howled with laughter.
* * * *
They made a quick stop beside a little creek that noon while the cook passed out cold biscuits and jerky. In twos and threes the riders came in, wolfed a few mouthfuls of the dry food, washed it down with a tin cupful of water, and returned to the herd.
Billy Condo was the last to eat, stopping only long enough to exchange information with Thad and Joe Metcalf.
“This’ll be a long stretch,” he told them, beating the dust from his shirt with his hands and squatting to roll a cigarette. “We won’t make water again till well after sundown tonight, and tomorrow we won’t find water all day long till we stop for night.”
Old Thad squinted out across the arid plains to where the herd gathered along the creek. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from inside the band. “Is this the worst stretch we’ll hit?”
“If we make it through tomorrow we’ll be all right from there on in,” Billy told him. He ground the cigarette under his bootheel and stood up. “I guess the herd’s watered by now. Joe, I’m going to scout on up ahead again. You just keep ’em moving. I’d like to see us get as far as we can before nightfall.”
“It ain’t gonna be easy to get ’em away from that grass along the creek there,” Joe commented, nodding toward the herd.
“I know it,” Billy told him. “But water’s more important than grass right now. After we make it through tomorrow we can afford to let ’em browse a little as we go along.”
He walked over and unsaddled the dapple grey he’d been riding since morning and turned it back into the remuda. Then he roped out a chestnut from his string and saddled up. The August heat was sending up shimmering waves from the
sun-baked Kansas hardpan, making it miserable for both horses and men. Billy figured the oftener a man changed from his string the better off he’d be, especially with short water ahead. He mounted and rode down past the creek, watching the shouting riders sashaying the stubborn and reluctant cattle away from the grassy creek and lining them out on the trail.
Two miles ahead he paused to look back. The herd was stringing out nicely and he noticed Shorty Long and another rider watering the remuda. A faint streak over the horizon to the southwest caught his eye and he squinted in the bright sunlight to try and make it out. It was a column of dust, rising almost perpendicular in the motionless air. But whether it was a dust devil or something else he couldn’t be sure. There was one way to tell. He watched it for a good five minutes, noticing that it didn’t move much in that time. A dust devil would have moved. So he figured that it came from something else. And that something else could be only one thing—Jase Thornhill’s Lazy S herd. He estimated the distance with his eye, trying to locate a tell-tale dark splotch at the base of the dust column. It was every bit of twenty miles away, he guessed, but a swell in the prairie hid the cattle from view. He turned away and started on ahead of his own herd. Twenty miles was a good separation.
The stars were out bright and clear by the time they made water and bedded down that night. The word of the long ride tomorrow had gotten around, and there was none of the usual lingering around the fire that night. As soon as they’d eaten, the tired riders sought their bedrolls, with the exception of those on the first nighthawk. Billy smoked a last cigarette beside the fire before turning in, looking across the starlit sky for the faintest sign of a cloud. An overcast sky and a little rain would be welcome on tomorrow’s drive.
But the morning dawned bright and clear. The sun was a brassy hot ball rising out of the east by the time the herd was underway, and already the cool of the night had been dissipated and the heat of the long day had begun to set in. Tempers were short, both animals’ and men’s, and as the long heat of the day seemed to drag into an eternal dusty inferno a sort of sullen silence settled over the trail herd.
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