The Trail Driver

by Zane Grey

  Deuce’s face fell. He was wholly unconscious of the sincerity and depth of his emotions. Brite detected another reaction to this innocent fun Texas was having. Reddie betrayed signs of the green-eyed monster.

  “An Arabian? Oh, I shall love to ride him,” Ann replied, with enthusiasm. “But I’d rather go on the wagon to be close to Daddy.”

  “Yu win, lady,” retorted Texas, with dry humor. Manifestly the fair sex was beyond him. Brite made certain that the girl had spoken the simple, natural truth. But that Texas cowboy had a suspicion that Ann wanted to ride beside her rescuer.

  After that all hands became busy, except the new members of the outfit. Ann rested with closed eyes. Her father lay still, as he had been advised, suffering patiently. Brite thought that the settler had a good chance to recover. The bullet had missed his lung. Blood poisoning was the only complication to fear. That very often set in from a dirty slug of lead, tearing through the flesh. Evidently Williams was no poor hand at dressing gun-shot wounds, and the medicine Brite had packed for just such a contingency was a sure preventive if applied in time.

  Just about sundown the cowboys rode in from downriver, leading two saddle horses, and following them came a wagon with Williams and Smiling Pete on the seat.

  Texas Joe lost no time acquainting the hunters with his eagerness to start at once up the river, so that they could be on hand when Hite drove the herd across the river.

  “Texas, great minds run the same,” boomed Williams. “I had thet idee myself. What did San Sabe report?”

  When this information had been briefly imparted he said : “Good! Send Sabe an’ another rider up the trail pronto. An’ we’ll foller as soon as we can start.”

  Pan Handle, Texas Joe, and Smiling Pete rode at the head of that caravan. Reddie Bayne and Brite drove the remuda next. Ackerman, at the reins of the Hardy wagon, with Ann on the seat beside him, came next. Whittaker was prevailed upon by vast argument and some anger to handle the third wagon. Moze followed with his chuck-wagon, and Hash Williams, accompanied by Less Holden and Bender, brought up the rear.

  The wagon-drivers had orders to keep close together on the tail of the remuda. If there had ever been a road up this river-bottom, the herd had plowed it out. The ground was sandy and therefore made hard pulling for the horses. It was so dark that the drivers had difficulty in keeping to the most level ground.

  After an hour’s travel Brite noted a brightening of the sky and paling of the stars. The moon had risen. But it was behind the high bluff to their left and for the time being did not materially help the progress. Presently the rim of the opposite bluff turned silver, and this shiny line slowly worked downward. The time came when the far shore grew bright and then the river shone like silver. Eventually the blackness under the cliff yielded to the rising moon, until all was clear and blanched.

  Better progress was made then. The valley narrowed until there appeared to be scarcely a quarter mile of land between the river and the bluff. It was brushy, too, and often dotted by clumps of trees. These did not offer any obstacle to Brite’s caravan, but it would certainly slow down the herd of cattle.

  The hours passed. It was comfortable travel for the trail men, except for the menace that gradually grew with their progress toward an inevitable climax. Suspense always wore upon Brite. Texas Joe, no doubt, chafed under it. Probably Pan Handle and the hunters were the only ones in the outfit who were not affected one way or another.

  Some time long after midnight Texas rode back to halt the remuda, and then the wagons as they came up.

  “We heahed cows bawlin’ ahaid,” he said. “An’ I reckon we’re just aboot too close for comfort now What yu say, Williams?”

  “Wal, let’s haul up heah while some of yu sneak ahaid on foot. I’ll go along. Texas, it ain’t so long till mawnin’. An’ we shore want to be around when Hite’s ootfit drives the herd across.”

  “Hash, we want the cattle to get over,” replied Texas, forcibly. “Thet’ll save us work. An’ we oughtn’t begin hostilities until the rear end is halfway across.”

  “Ahuh. Ha! Ha! Kinda hot for the drivers at the tail, huh?”

  “Miss Ann, how yu ridin’?” queried Texas as he passed the Hardy wagon.

  “All right, but I’ll be glad to lie down,” she replied.

  “Deuce, have yu made a bed for her in the wagon?”

  “Not yet. But I have a roll of blankets handy. I’ll take care of her,” returned Deuce, too casually. He was obsessed with his importance.

  “Wal, so long. Some of yu boys stand guard, so the girl an’ the boss can sleep.”

  Reddie bunched the remuda on the best available space, fortunately large and grassy enough to hold it, and then unrolled her bed as usual next to Brite’s.

  “Yu awake, Dad?”

  “Yes, lass. Anythin’ troublin’ yu?”

  “Lawd, yes. But I only wanted to ask if yu don’t think there’ll be hell to pay before long?”

  “Reddie, I don’t see how we can avoid it,” replied Brite, gloomily. “Some of our ponies gone, all our cattle gone. Two riders daid! An’ not even to the Red River yet. It’s between the Red an’ the Canadian thet the trail drivers ketch hell.”

  “Oh, it’d just be my luck!” she exclaimed, disheartened, as she kicked off her boots.

  “What’d be?”

  “To get stole by stampeders or scalped by redskins or drowned, or lose yu, just when I’ve begun to be happy.”

  “Wal, Reddie, don’t give up. Hang on like a Texan. Remember the Alamo!”

  “Dog-gone it, Mr. Brite, them Texans shore never gave up. They hung on till they was all daid.”

  “I meant their spirit, honey. Now yu go to sleep.”

  Brite was pulled out by Texas Joe in the gray of dawn. “Boss, I just rode back with the news. Hite is crossin’ the herd,” he whispered. “If yu don’t want to miss the fun, come on. Don’t wake Reddie. We’re leavin’ five men heah. An’ we’ll be back before sunup.”

  “Don’t wake Reddie!” spoke up that young person, derisively. “Fine chance yu have of keepin’ me from seein’ the fun, Texas Jack.”

  “Say, yu must want to be kissed some more,” drawled Texas, coolly.

  “Shore do. But not by the same gentleman—I mean hombre—who kissed me last.”

  “Gosh! Who was thet lucky hombre?” laughed Texas, and went his way.

  Brite had been swift to comply with his foreman’s suggestion, and had only to snatch up his rifle. Texas waited in the gray gloom with Pan Handle, San Sabe, and Williams. Reddie joined them there, rifle in hand.

  “Listen,” whispered Texas. “Foller me an’ keep still. Do what I do. The idee is to break up Hite’s ootfit before it gets across the river. Most of his drivers, yu know, will be behind the herd. When they get all in the river then we gotta do some tall shootin’. Thet’s all.”

  He set off up the trail at a swift stride. The others followed in single file. San Sabe brought up the rear. Texas did not stop until he got around a bend in the river. He listened. The bawl of cattle arose on the still, warm air. Brite calculated that they could scarcely be more than a mile—two at the most—from the crossing Hite had chosen.

  The valley had widened. On the opposite side of the river the rim of the bluff sloped down to a distant break. Soon Texas led off the trail into the woods. Here going was impeded by brush until they emerged upon the sandy bank of the river. It was wide here and shallow, flowing on with a gurgle and murmur. Judging by the wet sand and weeds, the water had dropped several feet during the night. By this time broad daylight had come, but not under a clear sky as usual. Hazy clouds presaged rain.

  Texas hurried along, keeping in the lee of willows, halting to listen every hundred paces or so. At length he turned a corner to stop with a low: “Hist! … Look!”

  Half a mile beyond, the wide river space presented a wonderful spectacle. It appeared to be blotted out by a great mass of moving cattle that extended across, and out on the opposite bank, and up u
nder the trees. The herd had not been pointed by expert trail drivers. Brite did not see a rider. They would be, of course, on the upstream side, if the water was swift and deep. All the cattle were wading, which insured a safe, though slow crossing.

  “Wal, pards, this heah is shore low-down, Comanche work we’re goin’ to do, but Hite’s ootfit ain’t worth us riskin’ a scratch. Careful now. Watch me an’ not the river. It’ll come off soon enough!”

  He took to the willows, and glided through them, scarcely moving a leaf. Brite could see the water and hear its soft flow, but had no clear view. Meanwhile the intermittent bawling of cattle grew closer. Texas led on slower and slower. In places the willows became almost impenetrable, whereupon he had to worm a way through, but he always worked toward the river and not inshore.

  Yells of the drivers halted Texas. He sank down on one knee and beckoned his followers to come close. They stooped and crawled to surround him.

  “Reckon a—hundred yards—more will fetch us,” he panted low. “Get yore breath. A winded man cain’t shoot. Wait heah.”

  He crawled out to the sandbar, where he could just be made out through the willows. Soon he came back.

  “In aboot five minutes—the brawl will open,” he whispered. The beads of sweat dropped off his dark stern face. “They’re quarterin’ across current. Thet’ll fetch the men in range, if we can—work up a little—farther.”

  He arose to a stooping posture and glided on, this time without any apparent caution, probably because he had ascertained that they could not be detected. Brite kept close to Reddie’s heels, marveling the more at her all the time. Every few steps she would turn her head, like an alert bird, to see if he was close to her. At such moments she smiled. Her eyes were dark and daring, and only the pearly hue of her cheek indicated that her blood had receded. Faint whistling pants issued from her lips.

  The cattle were now close. They made a stamping, splashing roar, above which neither the bawls of cows nor yells of drivers could be heard. Brite could smell the herd, and through interstices in the foliage he could see moving red and white.

  Texas’ steps grew shorter and slower, until they ceased. He knelt, and all followed suit. His eyes acquainted his comrades with the issue close at hand, and if that was not sufficient, the way he tapped his rifle and pointed surely spoke volumes. Then he listened intently to the clattering, splashing roar. It appeared to pass by their covert, working out.

  “We gotta rustle,” he whispered, fiercely. “We didn’t get far enough up an’ they’re quarterin’ away from us. Spread oot an’ crawl to the edge.”

  Before Brite, who encountered a tangle of willows, could reach the open the thundering boom of needle guns dinned in his ears. He rushed ahead, split the willows with his rifle, and peered out. Reddie slipped in a few feet to his right.

  The wide rear of the herd was a full hundred yards out. Half a dozen riders were beating and spurring their horses in a mad haste to escape. Brite saw horses down and one man pitching in and out of the water.

  “Aim low an’ shoot, Reddie,” he called, harshly, yielding to the fight lust of the moment. Then he tried to cover the rider of a plunging horse, and fired. In vain! Guns were banging on each side of him, until his ears appeared about to crack. The last rider, whose horse was crippled, threw up his arms and lunged out of his saddle into the water. He did not come up.

  Puffs of white smoke from the retreating drivers told of a return fire. Bullets began to splatter on the water and sand, and to whistle by into the willows. But the danger for Brite’s men appeared negligible, owing to the fact that the thieves were shooting with small arms from plunging horses. Only a chance bullet could find its mark. The swift water came up to the flanks of the horses, hindering progress on foot. It was not deep enough for them to swim. Nevertheless, the riders drew nearer the shore in a hail of bullets. This pursuing fusilade ceased almost as suddenly as it had begun, because Brite’s men had exhausted all the loads in both rifles and revolvers.

  The yelling, frantic robbers reached the land, five of them, where they joined one who had crossed ahead of them, and they surrounded him like a pack of wolves, no doubt cursing him for this attack. They pointed to three horses down, and one man floating, face up.

  Texas, having reloaded his buffalo gun, took a long shot at them by way of farewell. The big bullet splashed water and sand in their faces, making them beat a hasty retreat into the willows.

  “Wal, dog-gone!” ejaculated Texas, pleased as a child. “It turned oot better’n I hoped when we got heah. What yu say, Hash?”

  “Not so good as I was hankerin’ for. But not bad, either,” replied Williams. “Thar’s three hawses down, an’ yu bet I didn’t see no fellar wade ashore.”

  “There’s a crippled man in thet bunch,” averred Texas. “I hit him myself.”

  “Mr. Brite, we’ll be drivin’ yore herd again before we cross the Red,” said the hunter. “We’ll have these robbers buffaloed from now on. They’ll have to leave the herd or croak, thet’s all. Reckon thet tall fellar on the bay hawse was Hite, reckonin’ from the way they ranted at him.”

  “Load up, everybody. We mustn’t forget we’re now in Comanche country,” advised Texas. “Boss, who’s the young fellar with burnt powder on his nose?”

  “This heah?—Oh, this is Red Bayne,” replied Brite, eager for some fun now the tension was removed. “Did yore rifle kick?”

  “Did it? Wuss than a mule. I forgot to hold the darn thing tight,” rejoined Reddie, in rueful disgust.

  “Let’s rustle back to camp, eat, an’ get goin’ ’cross this river,” said Texas. “It’ll shore be little sleep or rest Ross Hite will get from now on.”

  Chapter Twelve

  IF IT were needed, Texas’ coup inspirited the drivers who had not shared it. Deuce Ackerman let out one long wild whoop.

  “Hip hip, thet’s great! Look what we missed, Rolly. But some of us had to stay behind. …Tex, we’ll get goin’ yet an’ then Gawd help ’em!”

  In an hour they were on the move, and soon after that halted at the crossing where Hite’s men had been routed. The three dead horses had floated downstream some distance to lodge in shallower water. Williams had sent a scout back in the trail, another up on the bluff, and a third ahead. They met the outfit at the ford, to report nothing in sight but buffalo.

  “How aboot us bein’ ambushed?” queried Texas.

  “Wal, strikes me Hite would pick oot a better place than thet over there,” replied Williams. “Mr. Brite, suppose yu hand up yore glass to young Ackerman, so he can have a look. …Stand up on the seat, son.”

  After a long survey Ackerman shook his head decisively. “Nope. I can see all under the trees an’ right through thet thin skift of brush.”

  “Wal, just to make shore, some of us’ll ride over ahaid,” said Texas. “Come, San, an’ yu Bender, an’ Less. …Look sharp, an’ if yu see puffs of smoke wheel an’ ride for dear life.”

  These riders crossed in good order, proving the validity of Ackerman’s judgment. Reddie crossed next with the remuda, and then Moze made it without going over his wagon wheels. The Hardy vehicle had to have help, stalling a little beyond the middle.

  “Rustle before she mires down,” yelled Texas, who had ridden out. “Come, Miss Ann. I’ll pack yu ashore. Yu’ll get all wet there.”

  Ackerman’s face was a study while Ann Hardy readily leaned out to be taken in Texas Joe’s arms and carried ashore. Then the riders, hitching on with their ropes, aided the team to pull the wagon out. Williams drove the third wagon across without mishap. But the fourth and last stuck in the mud, about halfway over.

  This accident held up the caravan. It was the largest wagon, half full of buffalo hides, and it sank deeper in the mire after every effort to dislodge it. The drivers broke their ropes. Then they got off in water up to their waists and performed all manner of strenuous labor, to no avail.

  Finally, Williams waded in and, unhitching the team, drove them ashore.


  “Wagon’s no good, anyhow, an’ never mind the hides. Thar’s ten million of ’em loose oot heah.”

  They went on with two teams hitched to the Hardy wagon, which held the heaviest load. And soon they were up out of the bottom land upon the vast heave of the range. The cattle herd had been driven almost due east. Williams said that had been done to strike the Chisholm Trail. Before long this proved to be a correct surmise.

  The day was sultry and brooded storm. Bands of buffalo grazed on all sides, attended by droves of wolves and coyotes and flocks of birds. By noon Ackerman, who still retained Brite’s glass, reported the herd in sight ahead less than ten miles. All afternoon the caravan gained, which fact probably was known to the Hite outfit. At sunset Hite halted the herd on the open range, where not a tree or a bush could be picked up with the glass. A little swale well watered and wooded appealed to Texas Joe, who turned off here and selected a camp site. Scarcely half a dozen miles separated the two outfits.

  The sun set in a red flare and dusk trooped up from the west, sultry and ominous. Dull rumbles of thunder heralded an approaching storm, and flashes of sheet lightning flared along the dark horizon. The silence, the absence of even a slightest movement of air, the brooding wait of nature, were not propitious to the caravan caught out upon the open range. Brite told the girls how the electric storms prevalent in that latitude of Texas were the bane of the trail drivers, actually more dreaded than redskins or buffalo.

  “But why?” asked Ann Hardy, wonderingly.

  “Wal, they’re just naturally fearful in the first place, an’ they drive hawses an’ cattle crazy. Fred Bell, a trail driver I know, said he got caught once in a storm near the Canadian an’ had thirty-seven haid of cattle an’ one driver struck daid by lightnin’.”

  Reddie was no less shocked than Ann and vowed she would surely pray that they miss such a storm as that.

  “I been in a coupla electric storms,” spoke up Texas, who had paused in his walk to listen. “Been in hundreds of plain lightnin’-an’-thunder storms. Only two of these darn floods of electricity thet cover the earth an’ everythin’ on it. I’ve seen balls of fire on the tops of all the cows’ horns. I’ve seen fire run along a hawse’s mane, an’ heahed it too. Yes, sir, bad storms air hell for cowhands.”