by Zane Grey
“Lieutenant Coleman advises you stay at the fort for a while,” concluded the sergeant. “There’s only one herd ahead of yours. An’ that outfit wouldn’t listen to reason.”
“Ross Hite’s ootfit?”
“Didn’t get the name. Tall sandy-complexioned Texan with deep slopin’ lines in his face an’ narrow eyes.”
“Thet’s Hite,” confirmed Pan Handle.
“He’ll run plump into everything this range can dig up. You’d better hold up for a spell.”
“Impossible, Sergeant,” replied Brite. “There air two big herds right behind us. One an’ two days. An’ then six days or so more there’s no end of them. Two hundred thousand haid of stock will pass heah this summer.”
“My word! Is it possible? Well, a good many of them will never get to Kansas. …Good-by and good luck.”
“Same to yu,” called Texas, and then turned to his outfit with fire in his eyes. “Yu all heahed, so there’s nothin’ to say. We’ll go through shootin’. Boss, I reckon we better load up with all the grub an’ ammunition we can pack. No store till we get to Doan’s, an’ they’re always oot of everythin’.”
Brite’s outfit of drivers went on, prepared for the worst. And again they had days of uneventful driving. At Bolivar, a buffalo camp, the Chisholm Trail split, the right fork heading straight north to Abiline, and the left cutting sharply to the northwest. The Abiline branch was the longer and safer; the Dodge branch the shorter, harder and more hazardous, but ended in the most profitable market for cattle and horses.
“Brite, do yu reckon yu can find oot which fork Hite took? A coupla drinks will do it. Shore this ootfit heah might be just as bad as Hite’s. All the rustlers an’ hawse thieves call themselves hide-hunters.”
“Yu go, Tex. I’ll lend yu my flask,” replied the boss.
“All right. Come with me, Pan Handle,” replied Texas.
“Let me go, too,” spoke up Reddie.
“What!—Why yu want to go?”
“I’d like to see somebody. I’m tired of all yu cross men.”
“Ahuh. Yu want to meet some new men? Wal, it’s nix on thet. The Brite ootfit wants to hang on to yu, seein’ we done it so far.”
The afternoon was not far spent and camp had been selected on a stream that ran on into Bolivar, some little distance east. There was a beautiful big swale for the stock to graze on without strict guarding. It was the second best site so far on the drive. The stream was lined with trees that hid the camp from the little settlement. Brite proposed to Reddie that they go fishing. This brought smiles to the girl’s discontented face. Whereupon Brite procured fishing lines and hooks from his bag, and cutting poles, proceeded to rig them while Moze was instructed to get grubs, worms, or grasshoppers for bait.
Then followed a happy and a successful hour for Brite. Reddie was a novice, but wildly enthusiastic and excruciatingly funny. The climax of this little adventure came when Reddie hooked a heavy catfish which not only could she not hold, but that was surely pulling her down the bank on the stout line and pole. She was thoroughbred enough not to let go, but she yelled lustily for help. It was one of Brite’s rules never to aid a fisherman; in this instance, however, he broke it and helped Reddie hold the big fish until it became exhausted. They landed it, and adding it to their already respectable string, hurried back to camp in triumph. Moze was delighted. “I sho’s glad of dis. Yu-all beat the niggahs fishin’. Mebbe a change from dat meat will be good.”
Before supper was ready Texas Joe and Pan Handle returned, to Brite’s great relief.
“Wal, boss, Hite took the Dodge trail yestiddy aboot noonday,” said Texas, cheerfully. “He’s ahaid of us right smart, but accordin’ to them buff hunters he’ll be stuck in no time.”
“Wal, thet’s good news, I guess,” replied Brite, dubiously. “What yu mean—stuck?”
“Wal, if nothin’ else stops Hite the buffalo shore will.”
“Then they’ll stop us, too.”
“We don’t give a damn so long’s we get our cattle back. Thet Hite deal shore went against the grain for me.”
“A rest wouldn’t hurt us none,” rejoined Brite.
“Reckon this’ll be the last peaceful rest in camp we’ll get,” drawled Texas. Then he espied Moze cleaning the fish. “Dog-gone! Where’d yu get them?”
“Miss Reddie an’ the boss snaked dem oot of de crick dere.”
“Did yu ketch any?” Texas asked Reddie.
“Shore. I got three—an’ thet big one.”
“No! Yu never pulled thet oot.”
“I had to have help. Took us both. Gee! it was fun. Thet darn catfish nearly pulled me in. I yelled an’ yelled for Mr. Brite. But he only laughed an’ never came till I was shore slidin’ in.”
“Ahuh. Yu like to fish?”
“Like it? I love it. Nobody ever took me before. Oh, I’ve missed so much. But I’ll learn or die.”
Texas Joe nodded his head gloomily over what seemed a fatalistic, inevitable fact.
“Who ever heahed of a girl lovin’ to fish? Dog-gone yu. Reddie Bayne, yu’re just the natural undoin’ of Tex Shipman. Of all things I love in this turrible Texas it’s to set in the shade along the bank of a creek an’ fish, an’ listen to the birds an’ all, an’ watch the minnows, an’—an’——”
“Gosh! Mr. Brite, our Texas Jack is a poet,” burst out Reddie, gleefully.
There were indications, for a moment, of a cessation of hostilities between Reddie and Texas. They looked at each other with absorbing eyes.
“Tex, I thought yu’d stopped her Texas Jackin’ yu,” drawled Brite, with a sly glance at Reddie. She blushed for the first time in many days.
“Reckoned I had. Wal, I’ll have to see aboot it,” replied Texas, leaving no doubt in Reddie’s mind what he meant. Wherefore the truce was ended.
Toward the close of their supper two strangers approached in the dusk. Texas greeted them, thereby relieving Brite’s concern. The visitors proved to be hide-hunters stationed at Bolivar.
“We been lookin’ over yore herd,” announced the taller of the two, undoubtedly a Texan. “An’ we want to inform yu thet Hite’s cattle wore two of yore brands.”
“No news to us. But yore tellin’ us makes a difference. Much obliged. It happened this way,” rejoined Texas, and related the circumstances of the fording of the Colorado and loss of half the herd.
“Then yu needn’t be told no more aboot Ross Hite?” queried the hide-hunter, in a dry tone.
“Nope. Nary no more.”
“Wal, thet’s good. Now heah’s what Pete an’ me come over to propose. We want to move our ootfit up somewheres between the Little Wichita an’ the Red, whar we heah thar’s a million buffs. An’ we’d like to go with yu thet fer.”
Texas turned to interrogate his boss with a keen look.
“Men, thet depends upon Shipman,” returned Brite. “We shore could use more hands, if it comes to a mess of any kind.”
“Wal, I’d like to have yu, first rate,” said Texas, frankly. “But we don’t know yu. How can we tell yu ain’t in with Hite or have some deal of yore own?”
“Hellno, yu cain’t tell,” laughed the hunter. “But yu’ve got guns.”
“Shore, an’ yu might spike ‘em. …Tell yu what I’ll do, fellars.” Texas proceeded leisurely to replenish the fire, so that it blazed up brightly in the gathering dusk. Standing in its glare the two visitors showed to advantage.
“Reddie, come heah,” called Texas. The girl was not slow in complying. She had moved away into the shadow.
“What yu want?” she replied, slowly coming forth.
“Reddie, these two men want to throw in with us, far as the Little Wichita. If yu was Trail boss of this ootfit what would yu say?”
“Gee! give me somethin’ easy,” retorted Reddie, but she came readily closer, sensing an importance in the event. And certainly no two strangers ever received any sharper, shrewder survey than they got then.
“Howdy, Lady. Do yu kno
w Texans when yu see them?” queried one, quizzically.
The shorter of the two removed his sombrero to bow with all Southern politeness. The act exposed a ruddy, genial face.
“Evenin’, miss. If it’s left to yu I’m shore we’ll pass,” he said, frankly.
“Texas, I’ve seen a heap of bad hombres, but never none thet I couldn’t size up pronto. Guess it got on my mind. If I was foreman I’d be glad to have these men.”
“Wal, thet was my idee,” drawled Texas. “I only wanted to see what yu’d say.”
“What yu got in yore ootfit?” asked Brite.
“Two wagons an’ eight hawses, some hides an’ grub. An’ a box of needle-gun ammunition.”
“Thet last may come in handy. …But I understood from my foreman thet there was six in yore ootfit.”
“Thet’s correct. But Pete an’ me want to pull leather away from them, an’ not answer any questions, either.”
“All right. Yu’re welcome. Be heah at daybreak. …An’ say, what’s yore handles?”
“Wal, my pard goes by the name of Smilin’ Pete. An’ mine’s Hash Williams. Much obliged for lettin’ us throw in with yu. Good night. See yu in the mawnin’.”
When they left, considerable speculation was indulged in by some of the drivers. Pan Handle settled the argument by claiming he would not be afraid to sleep without his guns that night. The guard changed early, leaving Brite, Reddie, and Texas in camp, the very first time that combination had been effected.
For once Texas stayed in camp beside the fire, and appeared more than amenable. He and Brite discussed the proximity of Hite’s outfit and the certainty that a clash would intervene before they reached the Canadian. However, when the conversation drifted to the late Indian depredations Reddie vigorously rebelled.
“Cain’t yu talk aboot somethin’ else?” she demanded. “I always had a horror of bein’ scalped.”
“Wal, kid, yore red curls would shore take the eye of a Comanche buck,” drawled Texas. “But yu’d never be scalped. Yu’d be taken captive to be made a squaw.”
“I’d be a daid squaw, then,” said Reddie, shuddering.
“Wal, to change the subject, Brite, we’ll shore have a party when we get to Dodge.”
“I’m in for it. What kind of a party, Tex?”
“Darn if I know. But it wants to come off quick before yu pay us hands. ‘Cause then we’ll soon be mighty drunk.”
“Why do yu have to drink?” queried Reddie, in unconcealed disgust.
“Dog-gone! I often wondered aboot thet. I don’t hanker much for likker. But after a long spell oot on the prairie, ‘specially one of these turrible trail drives, I reckon it’s a relief to bust oot.”
“If yu had a woman, would yu go get stinkin’ drunk?” queried Reddie.
“A—a woman!” blustered Texas, taken aback. “Reddie Bayne, I told yu I never mixed up with thet sort of woman, drunk or sober.”
“I didn’t mean a painted dance-hall woman, like Mr. Brite told me aboot. … I mean a—a nice woman.”
“Ahuh. For instance?” went on Texas, curiously, as he poked the red coals with a stick.
“Wal, for instance—one like me.”
“Lawd’s sake! … I shore couldn’t imagine such a wonderful girl as yu carin’ aboot me.”
“Cain’t yu answer a civil question just for sake of argument?”
“Wal, yes. If I had a nice wife yu can bet yore sweet life I’d not disgust her by gettin’ stinkin’ drunk.”
A silence ensued. Brite smoked contentedly. He felt that these two were scarcely aware of his presence. Some fatal leaven was at work on them. Sooner or later they would rush into each other’s arms, which probability had Brite’s heartfelt approval. Still, he had an idea that since Reddie had refused once to accept Texas, if she ever wanted him, she would have to take the bit in her teeth.
“Thanks, Tex,” replied Reddie, finally. “I sort of had a hunch yu’d be thet sort.”
Texas betrayed that he realized he had been paid a high tribute from this waif of the ranges. But all he said was : “Dog-gone! Did Reddie Bayne say somethin’ good aboot me?”
“Tex, it’s only three hours till we go on guard,” spoke up Brite.
“Yu’re talkin’. I’m gonna turn in right now an’ heah.” Whereupon Texas unrolled his bed close to the fire, threw the blankets over him so that his spurred boots stuck out, and was asleep almost as soon as he stretched out.
Reddie gazed at him a long time, then she shook her curly head and said: “No hope. …Dad, yu can make my bed an’ roll me in it, if yu want to.”
“Wal, I’ll do the first, shore an’ certain,” replied Brite, with alacrity. And he proceeded to pack their bed-rolls in under the trees close to camp.
“Not so far away, Dad,” objected Reddie. “I may be wearin’ men’s pants an’ packin’ a gun, but I’m growin’ all queer an’ loose inside. I’m gettin’ scared.”
“So am I, dear,” admitted Brite. “I’ve got some funny feelin’s myself.”
“We’re darn lucky to have Texas an’ Pan Handle with us,” replied Reddie, and rolling her bed so close to Brite that she could reach out to touch him, she bade him good-night.
Next morning, two hours after the start, a dust-devil, whirling down into the herd, stampeded them. Fortunately, it was toward the north. The drivers had nothing much to do save ride alongside and keep the herd bunched. They ran ten miles or more, in a rolling cloud of dust and thunder before they slowed up. It was the first stampede for Brite that trip, and was unfavorable in that it gave the herd a predisposition to stampede again.
Texas Joe drove on until the chuck-wagon and the two hide-hunters caught up, which was late in the day.
That night at the camp fire the trail drivers compared notes. San Sabe had seen smoke columns rising above the western hills; Ackerman and Little reported buffalo in the distance; Brite thought he noted an uneasy disposition on the part of all game encountered; Reddie had sighted a bunch of wild horses; Pan Handle averred he had spotted a camp far down a wooded creek bottom.
Texas apparently had nothing to impart, until Reddie tartly said: “Wal, Hawkeye, what’re yu haid of this ootfit for, if yu cain’t see?”
“I wasn’t goin’ to tell. I shore hate to do it. … I seen two bunches of redskins today.”
“No!” they chorused, starting up.
“Shore did. Both times when I was way up front, an’ had first crack at the hill tops. Country gettin’ rough off to the west. We’re nearin’ the Wichita Mountains. I shore had to peel my eyes, but I seen two bunches of Injuns, aboot two miles apart. They come oot on the hill tops. Might have been only one bunch. They was watchin’ us, yu bet, an’ got back oot of sight pronto.”
“Comanches!” cried Reddie, aghast.
“I don’t know, kid. But what’s the difference? Comanches, Kiowas, Apaches, Cheyennes, Arapahoes, it’s all the same.”
“No, Tex. I’ll take all the last on to pass up the Comanches.”
“Men, it’s nothin’ to be seen by Indians,” spoke up Pan Handle, coolly. “From now on we’ll probably see redskins every day. We’ll get visits from them, an’ like as not we’ll get a brush with some bunch before we’re through.”
Smiling Pete and Hash Williams had listened quietly, as became late additions to the outfit. Whatever apprehensions Brite may have entertained toward them were rapidly disseminating. When they were asked, however, they readily added further reason for speculation. Both had seen Indian riders so near at hand that they recognized them as Comanches.
“Reckon yu’ve seen some Indian-fightin’?” queried Brite.
“Wal, I reckon. But not so much this spring an’ summer as last. Our camp was only raided onct this trip out.”
Later council developed the fact that these hunters were a valuable addition to Brite’s outfit. They advised that the remuda be kept close to camp and strongly guarded. Comanches were fond of making raids on the horses of the trail drivers. Seldom did the
y bother with cattle, except to kill a steer for meat when it suited them.
A couple of hours’ sleep for each driver was all he got that night. The herd was pointed at dawn. This day the range land grew wilder and rougher, making travel slow. Buffalo showed in every swale and hollow; wolves and coyotes trotted the ridge tops too numerous to count. Their presence in any force attested to the proximity of the buffalo herd. That night these prairie beasts made the welkin ring with their mourns and yelps. The coyotes boldly ventured right into camp, and sometimes sat on their haunches, circling the camp fire, and yelped until driven away. But the night passed without any other untoward event.
Chapter Ten
EVERY day’s travel was fraught with increasing suspense. Tracks of Indian ponies, old camp fires in the creek bottoms, smoke signals from the hill tops, and lean wild mustangs with half-naked riders vanishing like spectres in the distance—these kept the Brite contingent vigilant and worried all the way to the Little Wichita.
Ordinarily it was a small river, easily forded by stock. But now it was a raging torrent, impassable until the freshet had gone by. That might take a day or longer. A short consultation resulted in a decision to find a protected swale or valley where grass would hold the cattle and timber would afford cover for the trail drivers in case of attack.
The drivers of the herd ahead of them, presumably the one stolen by Ross Hite, could not have crossed, and no doubt had gone up the river with the same idea Texas Joe had decided upon. Buffalo were everywhere, though only in scattered bunches in the river bottom and along the grassy slopes. Up on the range it was probably black with them.
Texas sent San Sabe down the river to reconnoiter and he proceeded up the stream for a like purpose, leaving the rest of the drivers to tend to the stock.
The hour was about midday, hot and humid down in the protected valley. The stock rested after days of hard travel. All the drivers had to do was sit their horses and keep sharp lookout. Most of the attention was directed to the low brushy rims of the slopes. Texas had driven off the trail half a mile to halt in the likeliest place, which was good for the cattle, but not so good for the drivers, as they could be reached by rifle-shot from the hills. The three wagons were hauled into the thickest clump of trees. It looked like a deadlock until the river went down. Smiling Pete and Hash Williams, the hide-hunters, climbed under cover of the brush to scout from the hill tops. The trail drivers held their rifles across their saddles. Brite had two, the lighter of which he lent to Reddie. Armed to the teeth, alert and determined, the drivers awaited events.