by Zane Grey
In a maelstrom of swishing water and twisting bodies the broad rear of the herd smashed off the bar. Magically then all sound ceased. There was left only a low, menacing swish and gurgle of current against Brite’s horse. Easily he took to deep water, and Brite felt at once that he had drawn a river horse. What wonderful little animals those Spanish mustangs of Arabian blood!
The scene had immeasurably changed. No white splashes now! A mile of black horned heads, like a swarm of shining bees, sweeping down the river! The terror, the fury of the onslaught upon the flood were no longer evident. There was left only the brilliance, the action, the beauty of this crossing. Brite had never seen anything in his life to compare with it; and once he had seen a million buffalo cross the Brazos River. But they just blotted out the river. Here the wide flood held the mastery. The sun shone down on an endless curve of wet, shiny horns and heads; the sky bent its azure blue down over the yellow river; the green trees of the opposite bank beckoned and seemed to grow imperceptibly closer.
Then Brite’s mustang met the swift center current of the river. Here there were smooth waves that rolled over the horse and wet Brite to his shoulders. And he saw that he was going downstream, scarcely quartering at all. The long head of the curve appeared far toward the opposite shore.
To Brite’s right the three drivers were working their horses away from the herd, or so it appeared to him. Then Brite saw San Sabe point up the river. A mass of driftwood was coming down on the crest of a rise. What execrable luck to be met by a heavy swell of flood and current in the middle of the river at the most critical time! Brite reined his mustang to avoid the big onrush of driftwood. With hands and feet he pushed aside logs and branches. A whole tree, green and full-foliaged, surrounded by a thick barrage of logs, drifted right into the middle of the swimming herd. This the drivers were unable to prevent. They could only save themselves, which in the case of two of them, at least, was far from easy.
The swift-floating island of débris split the herd, turned the rear half downstream, and heralded certain disaster. Brite saw the broad lane between the two halves, one quartering away toward the north shore, the other swimming with the current. If it kept on downriver it was doomed.
Brite came near to becoming entangled in heavy brush, which he had not seen because his attention was fixed on the separated half of his herd. He owed it to the clever mustang that he was not engulfed. Thereafter he looked out for himself and his horse. All the while they were sweeping down, at the same time gaining toward the shore. Looking back, Brite was surprised to see the chuck-wagon, a dot on the horizon line, a mile back up the river. Ahead and below somewhat less of a distance, began the cutting edge of the steep bank Texas had warned all they must not pass. Standing in his stirrups, Brite made out the head of the herd now beyond the current, well toward the shore. There! A horse and rider had struck shallow water again. That must be Texas.
An eddy caught the mustang and whirled him around and around. Brite was about to slide off and ease the burden, but the horse tore out of the treacherous whirlpool and, thoroughly frightened, he redoubled his efforts. Brite’s next discovery was sight of the vanguard of cattle wading out on the wide bar below. Already two of the riders were out. Grateful indeed for so much, Brite turned to see what had become of the endangered half of the herd. They were milling back toward the center of the river. This amazed Brite until he heard the boom-boom-boom of a heavy gun. Chandler, the daredevil, must be on the other side there, driving the cattle again into the current.
The milling circle of horned heads struck into the swift current, to be swept on down the river, past the wading vanguard, surely to slide by that steep corner of bank, beyond which could lie only death. Brite could stand the loss of stock. But a rider sacrificed hurt him deeply. He had never lost one until this drive. Still he clung to hope. Somewhere down around the bend, on one bank or the other, there might be a place for Chandler to climb out.
At this juncture Brite saw another rider, one of the three ahead of him, wade his horse out and go across the bar at a gallop, to mount the bank and ride swiftly along its edge, the mane and tail of the mustang flying wildly in the wind. He did not recognize either Texas’ or Pan Handle’s horse, so that rider must have been Ackerman, speeding to give aid to Chandler.
When Brite at last waded out on the bar there were only a few hundred head of stock behind and below him. They were wearied, but safe, as all had found footing. Three riders were waiting. Texas and Reddie had vanished. Bender, Pan Handle, and San Sabe were working out behind the cattle, and all three were facing downriver, no doubt watching the cattle that had been swept away.
Presently Brite joined the six drivers on the bar and surely encountered a disheartened group of cowboys. Pan Handle was the only one to present anything but a sad countenance.
“Mr. Brite, we had bad luck,” he said. “The herd split in the middle an’ the back half went downriver taking Chandler with it. Our good luck is thet more of us might have been with him.”
“Hell with—the cattle!” panted Brite. “Any hope for Chandler?”
“Shore. He’s a gamblin’ chance to get oot somewhere. But I wouldn’t give two-bits for the cattle. Ackerman is ahaid, keepin’ up with them. Texas followed with Reddie.”
“What’ll we do?”
“Make camp heah on the bank in the grove. Plenty of grass. The stock shore won’t move tonight.”
“Thet chuck-wagon’s to be got over. An’ I wouldn’t give much for it.”
“Boss, thet wagon was made to float,” said San Sabe. “It’s got a double bottom of heavy planks. Don’t worry none aboot our grub.”
They rode up the sandy slope to a level bank of timber and grass, an ideal place to camp. The horses were heaving after their prolonged exertions. “Get off an’ throw yore saddles, boys,” said Brite, suiting action to his words. “Somebody light a fire so we can dry oot.”
A little later, while Brite was standing in his shirt sleeves before a fire, Texas Joe and Reddie rode into camp.
“We cain’t send good money after what’s lost,” he said, philosophically. “I reckon Ben is gone, an’ there’s only one chance in a thousand for thet bunch of cattle. We gotta look after what’s left an’ fetch Moze across. …Reddie, yore hawse ain’t even tired. Wal, I never seen his beat. But yu don’t weigh more’n a grasshopper. Let San Sabe have him to help me with the wagon.”
“Shore. But I’d like to go,” replied Reddie, eagerly.
“My Gawd! air yu still wantin’ more of thet river?” queried Texas, incredulously.
“Oh, I was havin’ a grand time until the herd split. …Poor Ben! If he’s lost I’ll never forgive myself. I—I was mad an’ I said too much.”
“Wal, yu shore said a heap,” drawled Texas. “If yu’d said as much to me I’d drowned myself pronto.”
“Don’t—don’t say it—it might be my fault,” wailed Reddie, almost weeping.
“No kid. I was only foolin’. Ben was just makin’ up for the wrong he did us. An’ he’s shore square with me.”
“Oh, I hope an’ pray he got oot,” rejoined Reddie as she dismounted.
San Sabe removed her saddle and put his own on the black. Then he followed Texas, who was already far up the bar, making for the bend of the river, from which point they would head across. It was a somber group that stood drying out around the blazing fire. Reddie looked sick and wretched. Her gaze ever strayed down the stream, where the muddy current swept out of sight.
Texas and San Sabe gave their comrades some bad moments when even their heads disappeared in the waves, but it turned out they crossed safely. Meanwhile Moze had driven the chuck-wagon down to meet them. It was too far for Brite to see distinctly, but he knew that the riders would tie on to the wagon with their ropes and encourage and help the team. With little ado they were off and soon in the water. Great furrows splashed up as the wagon ploughed in. Brite had his doubts about that venture, and when horses and wagon struck off the bar into deep water,
to be swept down by the current, he expected it was but a forerunner of more misfortune. The wagon floated so high that part of the bed and all the canvas showed above the water. It sailed down like a boat and gradually neared the shore, at last to cross out of the current, into the slack water, and eventually to the bar. He had suffered qualms for nothing. Moze, however, although he was a black man, looked a little pale about the gills. The usual banter did not appear to be forthcoming from the dejected drivers, an omission Moze was quick to catch.
“Men, I reckon yo-all will hev to dry yo beds,” he said, his big eyes rolling. “I packed them under de grub.”
“Aw, my tobacco!” wailed Deuce.
“Niggah, I ooght to petasterize yu,” added Whittaker, severely. “I had my only extra shirt in my bed.”
“What is dis petasterizin’?” asked Moze, beginning to throw off the packs. “Yo-all is a glum ootfit.”
“Moze, we lost half my stock an’ Ben Chandler, too,” replied Brite.
“Lawd Amighty! I done reckoned trubble when I seen dis ribber.”
That was the end of jocularities, as well as other conversation. The hour was approaching noonday, an astounding fact to Brite. If it had been at all possible for the stock to move on for several hours more, he would have ordered it. But cattle and horses alike were spent.
The herd following Brite’s would bed down that night on the south shore, and cross in the morning. It was too close for comfort. But the cattleman could not see how that might be avoided. Presently the silent drivers stirred to the advent of Deuce Ackerman riding into sight up the river bank. His posture and the gait of his horse were significant of what had happened. Deuce rode into camp, haggard of face, his garb mud from head to foot, and he all but fell out of the saddle.
“Come to the fire, Deuce. I’ll throw yore leather,” said Little, solicitously.
“Mr. Brite, I have to report thet Chandler was drowned,” he said.
“So we all reckoned,” returned Brite, resignedly.
“Stake me to a drink, if yu want to heah aboot it.”
But Ackerman did not soon begin his narrative. Finally he began : “Wal, I rode along the bank an ketched up with the cattle. An’ there was thet idjit Chandler hangin’ along the leads, slappin’ his rope ahaid of him. He hadn’t given up pointin’ thet bunch of longhorns to this shore. I yelled an’ yelled my lungs oot, but he never heahed me. After a while, though, he seen me. I waved him oot of the river an’ he paid no attention. He kept on, the herd kept on, an’ so did I. I’d run a coupla miles, I reckon, before I ketched up. An’ we wasn’t long travelin’ another mile or so. Then I seen far ahaid on my side a wide break in the bank. Dam’ if Chandler hadn’t seen it, too. An’ he lashed them lead cattle like a fiend from hell. He beat them farther an’ farther to this side. An’ I’m a son-of-a-gun if he didn’t work ‘em over to shore just when the current had carried ‘em to this break. The water close in was shallow too. Once the leads hit bottom they come to life, an’ my! how they swarmed off thet bar!”
“Yu mean to tell us Ben drove them cattle oot on dry land?” demanded Texas, incredulously.
“Dam’ if he didn’t! But his hawse was all in, an’ on account of the cattle blockin’ his way he couldn’t get oot of deep water. So he was carried on downriver, past the break. I rode on for all I was worth, yellin’ to Ben to hang on. By this time he was on his hawse’s neck. But for the current thet little dogie would have sunk. He could hardly swim a lick. I seen where the swift water run close under the bank, an’ I made for thet place. Shore enough Ben swept in close, an’ I leaped off with my rope. Fust throw I hit Ben clean with my loop. But it was too small. It didn’t ketch, an’ he missed it. I kept runnin’ an’ throwin’, but no good. The bank was awful steep an’ crumbly. Then I broke off a section an’ damn near fell in myself. Seein’ thet wasn’t gettin’ us nowhere, I run ahaid a good ways an’ waited for Ben to float by a likely place. …But jest as they was aboot to come within reach of my rope the game little pony sunk. Ben made a feeble effort to stay up. He seen me. He opened his mouth to call. …Only a gurgle! His mouth filled—an’ the water come up over his bloody face. My Gawd! There he floated, a hand up, then his back, his haid onct more—an’ thet was the last.”
Reddie burst into tears and ran from the camp fire. Texas knelt to throw bits of wood upon the coals.
“Ross Hite or no—Ben shore paid for his fling,” he muttered to himself.
“Ackerman, thet was a terrible thing,” declared Brite, badly upset.
“’Most as tough on me as Ben,” said the cowboy, huskily. “I’ll never forget his eyes. At the last he wanted to be saved. I seen thet. When I first come up to him he didn’t care a dam’. All he wanted was to get the haid of thet string of cattle pointed to land. An’ he done it. Never did I see the like of thet.”
Texas rose dark and stern. “I’ll get me a hawse an’ ride down to locate thet bunch. How far, Deuce, aboot?”
“I don’t know. Four miles, mebbe.”
Shipman trudged wearily away, despite Brite’s call for him to rest awhile longer. Perhaps Texas wanted to be alone, a disposition more than one of the drivers soon manifested. Reddie had evidently hidden in the green brush. Being a woman, she would take this tragedy hardest to heart, believing she had been partly to blame.
“Then, judgin’ from what I’ve heahed at Dodge an’ Abilene, we’re just gettin’ a taste of real trail drivin’,” said Pan Handle. “It’s a gamble an’ the cairds air against us.”
“I take the blame,” spoke up Brite, feelingly, “It was my hawgishness. Half my herd would have been plenty to start with.”
“We doan’ know how things ever will come oot,” declared Whittaker, in his quaint drawl.
Moze called them to eat, to which they answered eagerly, if not quickly. Reddie Bayne did not come in. And Brite decided he would let her alone awhile longer, until the drivers had gone. But even after eating they remained in camp, still damped by the misfortune, no doubt waiting for Texas to return with orders.
“He ooght to be back,” complained Deuce. “Hadn’t I better have a look?”
“Wal, yu’d likely miss him, Deuce.”
They conjectured as to the probable movements of the separated halves of the herd, gradually gathering conviction among themselves that all was well. The hot fire dried Brite’s clothes and made him drowsy. Lying down in the sand under a tree he fell from rest to slumber. Upon awakening Brite was chagrined to note that the sun was westering. Pan Handle, Reddie Bayne, Rolly Little, and Texas were in camp, a stone-faced quartet. The other drivers were gone.
“Ha, Tex, yu back?” queried Brite, sitting up with stiffened joints.
“Yeh, boss, I’m back,” replied the cowboy, wearily.
“How far’s the split half of the herd?”
“Wal, countin’ the half hour I been heah, I’d say aboot ten miles to the northard.”
“Wha—at?”
“Shore, an’ travelin’ to beat hell!”
Brite sensed more tragedy, and braced himself to continue coolly: “How come?”
“Boss, I plumb hate to tell yu,” rejoined Texas, miserably. “Reddie, clap yore hands over yore ears. I gotta let go!… Of all the———luck any——ootfit ever had we’ve had the wust. I’m seein’ red. I’m madder’n any rattler-bitten coyote yu ever seen. I gotta get pizen drunk or kill——”
“Hell! yu’re not tellin’ me anythin’,” interrupted Brite, testily.
“Tell him, Pan.”
“Mr. Brite, it’s an unheahed-of deal an’ I’m not agreed with Texas aboot its bein’ so bad as he reckons,” complied Pan Handle. “Texas rode oot to get a line on thet split herd an’ couldn’t see it nowhere. So he rode up a high ridge an’ soon spotted yore cattle. They was travelin’ north at a good lick in front of aboot ten drivers.”
“Ross Hite!” thundered Brite, in a sudden rage, leaping up.
“So Tex reckoned. An’ as was right an’ proper he rode back to tell
us. We been havin’ a pow-wow aboot it. Tex was riled somethin’ fierce. He wanted to take fresh hawses an’ ride oot to shoot up thet stampedin’ gang of Hite’s. So did all the boys except me. I was against thet an’ the more I reckon the stronger I am set.”
“I agree with yu, Pan Handle,” rejoined Brite, at once. “We air let down. If we chase Hite an’ pick a fight, win or lose, some of us air goin’ to get killed. An’ we leave what’s left of my herd heah to mix in with the herds comin’ behind. No! Let’s stick with the bird in the hand.”
“By all means,” agreed Pan Handle, with satisfaction. “Now if yu follow me on thet maybe yu’ll see what I see. Ross Hite cain’t get so far ahaid thet we cain’t ride him down in a day. Let him go. Keep close on his trail aboot a day behind. He’s drivin’ our cattle for us. But he’s the damdest fool in this range. There’s no sale for cattle short of Dodge. He’ll take thet branch of the Chisholm Trail, because it’s much farther to Abilene. An’ the night before we expect him to ride into Dodge I’ll take a fast hawse, cut off the trail, an’ be there to meet him.”