House of Winslow 14 The Valiant Gunman

by Gilbert, Morris

  The owner, Tal Bonner, didn’t think so, and he made it a point to get acquainted with Dan. He was a towering man in his early sixties, wise in the ways of men and cattle. When he saw that Dan Winslow was a man who could be trusted, he raised his pay and offered him extra work. Somehow he came to understand that it was Winslow’s ambition to own his own place, and he approved.

  “When you get ready, Dan, I’ll sell you some stock dirt cheap. But don’t try to make it in Texas. Take them up north, to Montana or Dakota. Land’s cheap there, and the railroad ties in to the East.”

  When Winslow came to tell Bonner that he was ready to try it, the big man said, “Stay with me, Dan. I’ll make you foreman in a few years. You’ll be set for life.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Bonner,” Dan answered. “Nobody ever treated me as fair as you have. I’m probably crazy, but—”

  “You’ve got to have your own place,” Bonner smiled. “Sure, Dan, some of us are like that. Well, go after it. How much money you got saved?”

  “Just under twelve hundred dollars.”

  “Well, I’ll do my best for you. I like to see a young man with your spirit. Come along, and we’ll see what stock would take the trip and those cold winters up north—”

  Bonner did his best, better than any other stockman would have done. He and Dan rode his range for a week, hand-picking a small herd. Finally, the two of them stood looking at two hundred and forty-three head of stock milling around, and Bonner shook his head, “That’s the strangest-looking herd I’ve ever seen, Dan.”

  “I’m not buying them to put in a show, Mr. Bonner,” Winslow grinned. “They’re tough, and that’s what counts.” Many of them were longhorn-hereford crossbred two-year-old heifers, but added to those was every cow that didn’t fit into the pattern for a big rancher like Bonner. There were wild steers with an eight-foot sweep of horns, undersized cows that would never be first-class stock, and mavericks and half-grown calves who’d lost their mothers. They were red, brown, spotted, and streaked, but they were cows, and Dan Winslow felt that his dream at least had hooves and horns. He had agreed to send back five hundred dollars when he sold part of the herd, and he knew that Bonner was losing money on the deal.

  He chose the name Circle W for his brand, and the crew, ordered by the owner, branded them and slit the ears. Most of them were doubtful about his venture; one of them offered his advice: “Be good to your ma, never vote Republican—and never start your own spread, Winslow. Reckon you’ll find out about that right soon!”

  It was a small herd, but too big for one man to drive. Winslow had kept enough money out to pay for one hand and hired a short, morose cowboy named Leon Wilkins to make the drive. Wilkins was not a good hand—and was of a surly disposition—but there was no line of applicants for the job at the small wages Dan could offer.

  Bonner rode up as Dan and Wilkins started the herd moving just after dawn. He pulled alongside and stuck his hand out, saying, “Good luck, Dan. I’ll be praying that you make it.”

  “Can’t ever thank you enough, Mr. Bonner,” Dan said. “If I had any sense, I’d stay right here with you. But I got to try this thing.”

  “Sure. Well, hang on to your scalp.” Bonner looked at the lowing cattle, remarking, “Quite a few of those calves are too young for a long drive. You’ll lose them.” Then he turned and rode away, calling back, “Let me hear from you, Dan—!”

  “Sure thing!” Dan called back, and then turned to say, “Let’s head north, Leon.” He expected no answer and got none.

  The sun was hot and the trail in front of him was long and dusty, but Dan Winslow didn’t care, for there was a new hope in him. He began to sing a song about a poor young cowboy who lost his sweetheart, and laughed out loud at himself. He hadn’t sung for years, but there was a good feeling in him that he had to express, and he ignored the sour glances he got from Leon Wilkins. He sang as he rode along, some ribald saloon songs, and some hymns that he’d sung when he was a boy in Virginia. The dust billowed up under the hooves of his cattle, caking his face, but he spit it out and kept on singing. It was a fine time for Dan Winslow—the best he’d ever had!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AN OLD FRIEND

  “Ain’t never gonna get these cows to Dakota Territory.”

  Dan Winslow looked across the small fire at Leon Wilkins, wishing for the one hundredth time he had never laid eyes on the man. He was tired to the bone and hadn’t had over two or three hours sleep on any night since leaving the Running Y.

  “We’ll make it, Leon,” he said. Taking a swig of the bitter black coffee in his cup to wash down the hardtack they’d stopped to eat, he nodded toward the herd, adding, “We’ll cross the Red River tomorrow or the next day.”

  Wilkins spat out a mouthful of the hardtack and got to his feet. “That puncher said the Red was out of its banks. Ain’t no way jist the two of us can get ’em across—not without losin’ half of ’em.”

  Winslow rose, forcing back the angry retort that gathered in his throat. Wilkins had not said one encouraging word on the drive, and Winslow knew at that moment that taking the puncher on the long drive north would be more than any man could bear. However, he could not afford to lose him until he could find more help, so he said quietly, “We’ll get across. Let’s get moving.”

  They reached the Red the next day, and as Winslow had feared, the river was high. He sat there studying the swirls in the water, knowing that they needed at least two more hands to safely make the crossing. Yet there was nothing they could do but to try. It might be days before the river went down, and he couldn’t wait. “I’ll find a good crossing,” he called out to Wilkins, who shook his head, responding gloomily, “Not on this river you won’t.”

  Winslow rode the banks, going downstream, where he found a bend that slowed the river down. Urging his horse into the stream, he felt the power of the water, but he got over halfway across before the river deepened so much that the horse had to swim. “Come on, Duke!” he urged, and the big black horse swam powerfully, his hooves touching bottom not far from the opposing bank. Winslow looked around quickly and was pleased to find that the bank made a gradual slope. It was sheer good luck that had brought him here, for much of the riverbank was composed of high banks eaten away by the river, too steep for cattle to climb.

  When he got back to the herd, he said to Wilkins, “We’re in luck, Leon. Good spot to cross no more than a quarter mile downstream.”

  “We can’t handle this many.”

  “That big red steer with the bent horn,” Winslow motioned. “He’s a herd leader. We’ll start him across, and the rest will follow. We’ll get downstream and drive any strays back into line.”

  “Won’t work.”

  Winslow gritted his teeth, but said only, “It’ll be all right. Get ’em moving.”

  As the herd turned and started downstream, Winslow took the lead, keeping his eye on the big red steer. He was a cantankerous animal, and Bonner had thrown him in for nothing. “He’s a pest around here,” the cattleman had said. “But he’s beef, and I think he might be useful to you on the trail.”

  Winslow had named the animal “Old Bent” for the peculiar shape of his horns. One of them pointed out then turned upward, while the other was turned downward about a foot from his head. Now Winslow looked at him fondly, saying, “Well, Bent, looks like you’re the boss.” He grinned suddenly despite the pressure, adding, “We ain’t much, but we’re all we’ve got. You get us across that river, and I’ll retire you. Lots of green grass and water—how’s that sound?”

  Old Bent turned his head, fixed a malevolent eye on Winslow, and snorted. This delighted Winslow, who nodded, “You and me, we’ll make us a ranch.”

  When they reached the crossing, Winslow yelled, “Get downstream! I’ll get ’em started.” As Wilkins moved to the right, Dan spurred Duke, moving ahead until he was beside Old Bent, who took a swipe at the horse with a quick sweep of his horns. Batting him across the nose with his hat, Dan yelled, “Turn, y
ou mossyback!” Old Bent bellowed but turned and plunged into the river, and the cattle behind followed him. Winslow moved Duke downstream and made for the bank, he and Wilkins yelling like maniacs as they chased strays back into line.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dan saw Old Bent reach the deepest part of the river and begin swimming strongly. The bawling of the herd grew louder, but the mass of horns above the water seemed to press forward, and soon Old Bent was pulling himself out of the water. Dan turned his attention to the strays and young calves who were having trouble. Two calves, he saw, were being overcome by the current, and he made for them at once. He put his rope over one of them, hauled him across, then got the other who was about to be carried away. For the next fifteen minutes he was busy, but there was no real problem.

  But as he turned to cross, he saw Wilkins’ horse go down, spilling the puncher into the deepest part of the river. Wilkins came up choking and spluttering, fighting to keep his head above water. It was obvious that he couldn’t swim. “Duke—!” Dan yelled, and the big horse turned and plunged into the roiling waters.

  Dan kept his eye on the struggling puncher, saw him go under, and timed his approach to a spot twenty feet down the river. He did a good job, for just as he arrived Wilkins bobbed to the surface, his eyes glazed and his mouth open. Winslow leaned down, threw his arm around the drowning man, and hauled him out of the water and across the front of his saddle. He urged Duke to shore, where he dismounted and eased Wilkins to the ground. The puncher had taken in quite a bit of water, but after some gagging and retching, he sat up and stared around with wild eyes.

  “You’re okay, Leon,” Dan said. “You rest here. I’ll get your horse.”

  Mounting quickly, he caught up with Wilkins’ horse, brought him back to where his owner sat with his head down. He put hobbles on the horse then turned his attention to the herd. They were still moving forward, and he rode at once to where Old Bent was forging ahead steadily. “Here—Bent!” he yelled and turned the steer to the left. The herd followed obediently, and soon he’d brought them to a stop. He kept circling them as they milled around restlessly then began feeding.

  When he got back to the river’s edge, he found Wilkins in the saddle—hatless, pale, and angry.

  “I quit!” he said morosely.

  Dan sat there, staring at him, but said only, “All right. When we get to the next town, I’ll find somebody else.”

  “I’m leaving now!”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Wilkins looked up, startled, and something he saw in Winslow’s eyes made him say, “Well—I’ll stay till you get another man.”

  Winslow nodded. “I’d appreciate it.” He studied the herd, then said, “We’ll push on in the morning. You fix supper while I watch the critters.”

  The cattle were tired and unlikely to give any problems, but Dan took no chances. He moved slowly around them until he was convinced they weren’t going anywhere. Then he helped himself to a supper of bacon and canned beans and coffee. “You watch ’em till midnight,” he told Wilkins. “I’ll take ’em till morning.”

  He sat there after Wilkins left, trying to make plans, but he was so tired his brain refused to function. Finally he put the tin plate and cup aside, stretched out, and fell asleep at once. He had pushed his body to the limit. There is some point at which no matter what is in a man’s mind, the body simply refuses to obey, and Dan had passed that point.

  When Wilkins called to him at midnight, he seemed to swim upward out of a deep pool, every muscle and nerve crying out to ignore the call and drop back into the warmth of unconsciousness. Fighting to get his eyes open, he struggled to his feet and drank the last of the coffee from the pot. It was cold and bitter, but it helped him to get moving. He rode out on his one spare horse, a small mare, in order to rest Duke, and found the cattle resting.

  The stars were cold and brilliant in the sky—faint pulses that diluted the coal blackness of the earth. Glancing back toward the camp, Winslow saw a tiny amber-orange cone of light that broke the velvet density of the night. Wilkins had made a small fire, and the tiny flickering dot of flame broke the unity of nature in a startling fashion. He watched it glow for a while, then as his eyes grew heavy, he dismounted and led the mare slowly around the herd.

  Time passed slowly, and it was all he could do to stay awake. He knew the day would be hard, and in his half-awakened state, doubts began to come. It was a thousand miles or more to the heart of Dakota Territory. The trail was lined with danger all the way. Hostile Indians, resentful of the infringement on their hunting grounds by whites, would be quick to see an opportunity in a small herd led by two men. One war party of Comanche or Sioux could swoop down upon them, killing them almost instantly; or if less fortunate, they could be staked out with their eyelids cut off staring up at the merciless white sun. The rivers could drown men and cattle, or the long stretches without water could mean disaster and death to the herd. But there was a resilient streak in Winslow that refused to be crushed, and he said aloud, “Men can get killed crossing the street or picking blackberries.” His voice sounded hollow and small, shrunk by the vast, open spaces that surrounded him.

  A thought came to Dan—of his father, Sky Winslow. He’d crossed the desert with a wagon train in the days when there was no army to protect travelers, and his grandfather Christmas Winslow had pitted his youth and his strength against the Sioux as well. He thought of them for a long time, and of his mother who’d made the crossing with his father, braving the danger of the trail. Then came thoughts of the long line of Winslows that had produced him. He knew their history, all the way from Gilbert Winslow, who had crossed the ocean in the Mayflower. That one had left a journal, and Dan’s father had read it to his children many times.

  A memory came to Dan, clear and sharp, of one of those times. He saw his father, trim and handsome with the trace of Indian blood from his mother reflected in his high cheekbones and coppery cheeks, sitting in a horsehide chair in his study, and around him were his boys, Mark and Tom and Dan, his two daughters, Belle and Pet, and his wife, Rebekah, in the rocker, sewing as always. It was winter, and outside the wind whistled, clawing at the windows with icy hands, and the fire answered by popping and groaning as the big logs settled, sending myriads of white and red sparks swirling up the chimney.

  His father had read of the terrible first winter in Plymouth when more than half of the First Comers had died, and when it seemed likely that all of them would die. He got to the place in Gilbert Winslow’s journal when only a half dozen were able to walk, when those few struggled to tend the others, and when they buried the dead at night so that the Indians outside wouldn’t know how few they had become. Dan could still remember the words of Gilbert Winslow as he recorded them at night, so tired he could hardly move:

  We buried four more tonight, in the frozen earth. Mister Bradford is so ill he can barely stand, but he goes about washing the dirt and soil from those too sick to turn over. He knows I am not a man of God—yet he never tries to force his religion on me. Yet tonight, when I came back with John Alden after burying our dead, he did say something. He was so weak he had fallen beside his bed, and I picked him up and put him there. He opened his eyes, and said, “Gilbert—our God is able to do all things. Do you believe that, my son?” What was I to say? I have given up on God—and yet when I see a man who is dying, yet who still sees God in all things—! I could not answer him, but I know he sees something that I cannot see, that the God I have given up on is there for John Bradford and for these others who have come to this terrible land for God, and even when He allows them to die—they die with praise for Him on their lips!

  Dan remembered how shocked he’d been that night to see tears on his father’s cheeks. He’d never seen his father cry, never! Yet that night Sky Winslow, who had faced the guns of his enemies without blinking, let the tears roll down his cheeks. They had all grown very still—not a sound in the room except the ticking of the clock, the clawing of the wind outside, and
the hissing of the fire.

  Finally his father had closed the book, looked at his family, and said, “Gilbert Winslow found his God. And Rebekah and I have found ours. Tonight my heart is full. I want to pray for each one of you, that you will not leave this earth without finding the pearl of great price—the Lord Jesus Christ.” He had risen then and gone to each of his children, putting his hands on their heads and praying for them.

  It had been a moment none of them ever forgot, and as Dan Winslow sat under the glittering stars, he lived it again; in his fancy he could almost feel his father’s hands pressing lightly on his head and hear the prayer his father had whispered in his ear. It had been a prayer of love, and the last of it came to Dan now: “And you, my son Daniel, may run from God. But I ask God tonight to pursue you, to dog your steps wherever you go, to never give up on you, so that when you have fled from Him as far as you can, you will turn to discover that the One you’ve been running from is the best friend you’ll ever know on this earth—the One who loves you the most, and who loves you forever!”

  Somewhere off in the far distant reaches of the flat Texas plain, a coyote’s lonesome cry broke the silence. Dan brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, shook his head with a quick motion, and said, “I guess if God could get Gilbert Winslow across the whole ocean, he can get me and these smelly old steers as far as Dakota!”

  ****

  Leon Wilkins didn’t run away, but that was only because there was no place for him to run to. That and the fact that he was fairly certain that if he did try to make a break, he’d look over his shoulder sooner or later and see Dan Winslow standing there.

  Two days after crossing the Red River, they came to a settlement where they learned of a town called Jason, twenty miles to the east. It was, the old Mexican with bright black eyes told Dan: “—a big place, señor. Muchas cantinas, plenty whiskey.” When pressed, he also added that Jason was the center of some large ranches—was used, in fact, as a departure point for herds on the way from western Texas to the railheads at Dodge City and Hays, Kansas.