He rolled over and looked back to see if anyone was coming from Concho’s bunch to help him get away.
He was on foot. Concho had his horse.
He was trapped.
Randy didn’t know what to do. He rolled back on his stomach and saw the riders fanned out, heading straight for him.
He left his rifle on the ground and sprang to his feet.
He began to run back toward where he thought Concho and his men must be. There was only an empty plain.
He heard one of the drovers call out to him.
“Stop,” the man yelled.
Randy kept running. He ran as fast as he could command his legs to move.
He ran until he heard a rifle shot.
It sounded like the crack of a leather whip. It sounded as though it would never go away. It seemed to linger on the morning air for an eternity.
It was the last sound Randy ever heard.
Chapter 30
Lyle Fisk crept along the bank of the narrow creek while it was still dark. He had changed out of his boots and now wore Sioux moccasins he had bought at a trading post in South Dakota some years before. His horse was ground-tied a half mile away, out of sight of the Circle K men. It grazed in a shallow ravine he had scouted out the day before when he had left Concho’s gang to spend the night out on the prairie.
“You know what you’re doin’, Lyle,” Concho had told him, “but if I were you I’d wait until that kid shoots off his Sharps and then you take another of them cowboys down right soon after that.”
“I’ve got it all figgered, Conch,” Lyle had said. “Don’t you worry ’bout me. I’ll see you and the boys by noon tomorrow.”
Just before dawn, Lyle sharpened a forked stick he had found near the ravine. He had sharpened the longest part of the branch. He was close to the herd and knew where the nighthawks crossed paths during the night. He rammed the pointed end of the stick into the ground, then pushed on the apex of the fork to drive it firmly in the ground. He had done this before when he hunted buffalo up in Wyoming and Montana for their hides.
He leaned his heavy Henry “Yellow Boy” so that the barrel rested in the fork. He squatted and settled into position. He knew he would only get one shot. But it would be daylight by then and he’d have the sun at his back.
He was very close to the herd. He could smell them and he could hear them breathing. The shadows of the two nighthawks passed within twenty or twenty-five yards of his position. He knew they could not see him, but he knew just where they would pass as they made their rounds.
He only wanted to drop one of them.
And he wanted to get away clean.
But Lyle was sure that he had it all figured out. If the kid did his job, then every one of the cowhands would be looking in Randy’s direction. Timing was the key to his success. He didn’t expect both night riders to cross in front of him after Randy shot at the lead cow. One would ride up to the head of the herd and the other would come along on his flank to catch up. By then, of course, the herd would be up and moving.
He felt the dampness of the dew on his face and hands. He pulled a bandanna out of his pocket and dried his hands off, then wiped his face.
It was close to dawn, he knew. He was ready.
The sun rose below the horizon and emblazoned the eastern sky. The herd rose to its collective feet as the hands prodded them awake. He heard the clank of the cowbell and the shouts of the men urging the cattle to follow the leader.
Lyle squeezed the trigger of the Henry gently, then cocked it. The pressure off, the hammer made only a slight sound as it came to full cock.
Light crept across the prairie. Lyle shouldered his rifle and sighted on a steer that was on the edge of the herd.
“Perfect,” he said to himself.
He had a clear field of vision. There were no obstructions in his line of sight.
He looked both ways for the night riders. They were out of sight, but he saw that there was a commotion at the tail end of the herd as one of the hands pushed to get the cattle moving.
A moment or two later, he saw one rider round the tail end of the herd and come his way at a slow walk. His horse was bobbing its head and shaking it as if flies were already dipping into the fluid in its eyes.
He turned the other way and saw the other night rider emerge from the front of the herd and head for his station on the flank.
The cowbell clanked and Lyle gritted his teeth.
The sun was up and the sky was red.
“When is that kid going to shoot?” he whispered to himself.
Then he heard the shot and there was a second or two of absolute silence as the crack of the rifle seemed to vanish into a vacuum.
Cowhands shouted and the rider on his left rose in the saddle and stood in his stirrups, staring at the front of the herd and the other rider on Lyle’s right. That rider turned his horse and went back to the head of the herd. Lyle heard one of the men, probably the trail boss, order someone to find out who had shot.
The cowbell was silent.
Lyle curled his finger around the trigger inside the guard and watched the rider on his left put his horse into a slow trot.
The rider came closer. Lyle sighted on him and waited. When the horse and rider were directly opposite him, he held his breath. He lined up his sights and led the rider a half foot.
Then he squeezed the trigger with a gentle pull of his finger. The rifle bucked against his shoulder as it belched lead and ignited powder into a multitude of firefly-sized sparks.
The bullet struck the rider in his side, heart high, knocking him sideways in the saddle. His right arm dropped to his side and the reins slipped from his grasp. He gurgled in his throat as blood gushed from his mouth.
Seconds later, the nighthawk slumped, then toppled from his saddle. The horse, suddenly deprived of the weight on its back, bucked, then skittered forward for a few yards, dragging its reins.
Lyle knocked down the forked stick and pulled his rifle free.
He duck-walked away from that spot toward the path he would take back to where his horse was tethered.
Men shouted and horses raced to the front of the herd. None of them were looking in his direction.
In moments, Lyle was well away from the herd and running toward the ravine. A few minutes later he was atop his horse and rammed his Henry into its scabbard.
He did not look back but rode a wide loop to the other side of the herd.
He didn’t care about the kid. Neither, he knew, did Concho.
“I don’t care what happens to him,” Concho had said the night before. “He’s served his purpose.”
Lyle hoped the kid had gotten away. He was harmless and not a bad kid as far as he knew.
But the truth was, he didn’t give a damn about Randy either.
Out here on the prairie, a man’s life wasn’t worth much. That’s the way the West had always been and that’s the way it was now.
One less kid in the world didn’t make much difference.
Not in Lyle’s book.
Not in Concho’s either.
Chapter 31
Paddy looked down at the body of Randy Bowman.
“’Tis a cryin’ shame,” he said. “A good boy gone bad. Fallin’ in with thieves like he did. And now it’s come to this. The poor lad is dead long before he reached his prime.”
“Paddy, that boy shot Bossy, our lead cow,” Whit said.
“And who put him up to it, I ask?” Paddy said. “Concho and Throckmorton, the lowest scoundrels on the face of the earth.”
“It’s real sad,” Chub said. “To die over killin’ a damned cow.”
“I guess that’s life,” Whit said as he shouldered his rifle.
Paddy turned to walk away.
“I got to get that bell off Bossy and get me another lead cow,” he said. “I’ll get Alfredo to butcher that dead cow. No use lettin’ the meat go to waste. But we ain’t gonna get the herd movin’ like we should.”
“Are w
e goin’ to bury the boy, or just leave him out here for the buzzards and coyotes?” Whit asked.
“Bury him,” Paddy said. “But be quick about it.”
He had started to walk back to the herd when they all heard the boom and snap of a rifle shot.
“Now what?” Paddy exclaimed.
They heard the drovers shouting and Paddy took off at a dead run while Skip and Whit stood there like statues.
There was a ripple through the herd as cattle on the right flank pushed against those in the middle and on the left flank.
Paddy stopped and turned around. “Whit, you and Chub better get back to the herd. They look like they’re trying to stampede.”
The two men nodded and mounted up. They rode to the herd, which was still moving. They started to turn those cattle that were trying to bolt.
Paddy knelt down beside the dead cow and unbuckled the collar with the bell on it. He held the clapper so that it wouldn’t clang, then yelled to one of the hands to bring up his horse.
There was pandemonium and confusion all up and down the line as riders lashed their horses to keep the herd from breaking up and starting out on a stampede.
Dewey Rossiter, one of the younger hands, brought Paddy a saddled horse.
“Here, Dew,” Paddy said as he handed him the collar with the cowbell. “Put this in the supply wagon for the time being. What’s goin’ on?”
“Other side of the herd. I think somebody shot at a wolf or a coyote.”
“Bullshit,” Paddy said. “We don’t shoot wild dogs when the herd is movin’.”
“Hell, I don’t know, boss. Everybody’s runnin’ around like their heads was off.”
“Git,” Paddy said, and shooed Dewey away. He climbed into the saddle and galloped around the front of the herd.
Dewey rode back toward the supply wagon like a pony express rider at full speed.
The first man Paddy saw on the east flank was Lester Pierson.
“Lester,” he said, “can you tell me what’s goin’ on?”
“I got my hands full keepin’ this herd from runnin’ off in all directions, Paddy, but I think somebody shot Steve.”
“Steve was ridin’ night herd,” Paddy said.
“Hell, I don’t know,” Lester said as he let his cutting horse have its head to turn back a wild-eyed steer that was trying to run off from the herd.
When Paddy rode up to the cluster of men gathered around the fallen night rider, he saw right away that it was not Steve Atkins lying there on the ground, but Cal Ferris.
Paddy swore under his breath and swung out of his saddle. Steve looked over at him.
“Did you see what happened, Steve?” Paddy asked.
“I was up at the head of the herd. Heard the shot and came ridin’ over.”
“You see anybody?”
Steve shook his head.
“Nary,” he said. “I just heard the shot and saw Cal fall out of the saddle. Got here as fast as I could, but knowed it was too late when I saw him a-lyin’ here.”
“Shit,” Paddy said.
“Cal didn’t have no chance,” another drover said. “Bushwhacked, just like Tolliver.”
“Shut up, Summers,” Paddy said to Pete Summers, who was going to ride drag that day in Tolliver’s stead. “Let’s not jump to no goldarned conclusions.”
“Well, it warn’t one of us what shot Cal,” Summers said. His thin face contorted into an indignant snarl.
“I told you to shut up,” Paddy said. “Go get a damned shovel. Steve, take off his gun belt and go through his pockets. One of you other men strip his horse and take it into the remuda.”
“Where do we put Cal’s stuff?” Steve asked.
“Supply wagon for now. One of you help Summers dig a hole. The damned blowflies are already at him, for Christ’s sake.”
The flies were at Randy’s body too. The men could hear them buzzing as they dug a grave. They stripped off his pistol and gun belt, picked up his rifle. When they went through his pockets, all that he had was a twenty-five-cent coin.
Alicante spread a tarp out in the open and got one of the hands to drag the dead cow over to it and help him lift the cow onto the canvas. He took a long sharp knife and cut from the throat to the anus, then began to peel back the hide. The cattle moved off as he butchered the cow and packed the smaller cuts of meat into wooden boxes. He wrapped the legs and haunches in damp cheesecloth, then wrapped the fabric with butcher paper. He loaded these on the chuck wagon. By the time he finished, the herd was out of sight. All that remained of the cow was the head, hide, and tail, along with the windpipe, lungs, four-barreled stomach, a pile of intestines gleaming like oiled eels in the sun. Four cloven hooves lay in a separate pile, guillotined from the legs by Alicante’s meat cleaver, and as he drove by, the blowflies were crawling over the cow’s face, sipping from the eyes and crawling into its nostrils and streaming along the raw remnants of its hide.
An hour later, the herd had moved a mile or more and Paddy watched the cows in the lead jostle for dominance. One cow seemed to want to lead, so he sent a man back to get the cowbell and collar.
It took three of them to bulldog the cow and wrestle it into submission so that Paddy could attach the bell collar.
“Now, let’s see if Bossy Two can lead these cattle north,” Paddy said as they released the cow. It bellowed and staggered to its feet, then took to the trail.
The men gave out hoorahs and returned to their positions on the flanks.
Skip rode with Paddy on point. They both looked in all directions as they rode, looking for any movement, any sign that they were being watched by Concho and his dry-gulchers.
“Do you think Concho and them other rapscallions is watchin’ us, Paddy?” Chub asked.
“I been thinkin’ on it,” Paddy said. “’Pears to me that Concho is tryin’ to scare hell out of us by pickin’ us off one by one.”
“Well, he’s scarin’ hell out of me,” Chub said.
“You can’t let that get to you, Chub. Long as we keep our heads and don’t get rattled, we got a chance.”
“Tolliver tried to spot them boys with the spyglass you lent him. Didn’t do no damned good.”
“I figger this Concho’s pretty smart. Like most back-shooters. He sneaks up on a man in the dead of the night. So that makes him a coward in my book.”
“A coward who’s a killer,” Chub said.
“Well, keep your eyes peeled, watch your back, and be ready to shoot anybody who don’t look right.”
“You can’t never see no sneak,” Chub said.
“But a coward like Concho is goin’ to make a mistake sooner or later. He’ll think he’s brave one of these days or maybe that he’s invisible. Then we’ll get him.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah, that’s what I think, Chub.”
Chub looked back over his shoulder at the long line of whitefaces, their heads bobbing, their horns glinting in the sunlight. The sky to the northwest was filling with large white clouds just drifting over the horizon. In the wake of the cattle he saw buzzards circling in the sky, wheeling on unseen currents of air, their wings widespread.
There were buzzards in the air, he thought, and buzzards on the ground. It was the ones on the ground he was worried about. They didn’t wait for something to die. They were killers, and their leader was a savage bastard named Concho.
Chapter 32
Lyle didn’t eject the empty cartridge from his Henry until he had rejoined Concho and the others. He cranked the lever, and the brass hull spun out of the chamber and struck the ground with a clang. Another cartridge slid into the firing chamber when he returned the lever to its former position.
“One shot?” Concho asked.
“You didn’t hear it?” Lyle said.
Concho shook his head.
“One shot. One dead cowboy.”
Concho laughed.
“I coulda dropped two,” Lyle said. “Might have been a tight squeak, though.”
“A cowpoke a day is my motto,” Concho said.
Lyle laughed. “Anyways, I think the kid got the lead cow. I didn’t hear no cowbell after he shot.”
“What about the kid? I ain’t seen him.”
“I heard another shot. Figgered they shot him. Like you figgered, right?”
“Yeah, I didn’t think the kid had much of a chance to get away. He never come back for his horse, so we got one extry.”
“No, I’m pretty sure them drovers got Randy. Or I would’ve seen him.”
“Good riddance, I say,” Concho said.
“Who’s trackin’ the herd, Concho?” Lyle asked.
“I sent Logan to see what all went on after you and the kid finished up your business.”
“What’s next?” Lyle asked.
“We’ll hit ’em once more, maybe when they’re crossin’ the Verdigris. Then I figger Paddy will follow the Caney up into Kansas before he cuts over to the Missouri.”
“So?” Lyle said.
“We’ll rustle the whole herd up on the Caney River.”
“Kill ’em all?”
“Kill ’em all, if need be.”
“You think some of the cowhands will turn tail and run?”
“Don’t make no difference to me. Better to kill all of them, though.”
“How come?” Lyle asked.
“No witnesses,” Concho said.
“Yeah, I get what you mean, Concho.”
Late that same afternoon, Logan caught up with them. His horse was lathered and breathing hard when he rode up to Concho and Lyle.
The first thing that he did was hand the binoculars back to Concho. “Thanks, Concho,” he said. “They helped a lot.”
Concho stored the field glass in his saddlebag. “What did you see, Logan?”
“Two fresh graves and a butchered cow,” Logan said.
Concho smiled. “So the kid did kill that lead cow.”
“Paddy’s already belled another and the herd is moving north.”
“A few more days and we’ll be taking that herd south,” Concho said.
“It’ll be a pleasure,” Lem said. “Payday.”
“Yep,” Concho said. “I got a promissory note in my pocket signed by Throckmorton, to pay us ten dollars a head for all the cattle we bring back. Throckmorton balked at my demands, right off, but I told him that we were takin’ all the risks. He was just puttin’ up a small amount of cash while we were puttin’ our lives on the line. So he gave me the guarantee I asked him for. I’ve got Throckmorton by the balls. He don’t pay, he don’t get no cattle. It’s that simple.”
The Omaha Trail Page 18