Dusty nodded. “I can do that.”
After they ate, Josh asked Fred to fetch him another horse. Josh thought it might be good for the segundo to go out and do a little night herd duty. It was good for the men to see one of their leaders pitching in with the less-desirable duties.
The rest of the men bedded down. By the time the moon was up, the camp was quiet. The men were asleep. The horses were still, and the wind was blowing with that easy feel a night wind often has.
Johnny strolled out to the edge of the camp and looked off into the night. Just to make sure there were no campfires off in the distance. There were none.
He had a tin cup of coffee in one hand. His back porch wasn’t available at the moment, so he stood at the edge of camp and looked off at the darkness, and at the stars overhead.
He would be riding point in the morning. Josh would be riding as a sort of second point, as his segundo. This would allow one of them to ride back occasionally and check on things while the other maintained position. Kennedy would be right swing, and Coyote left. Patterson and Palmer would be right and left flank. Palmer was one of Zack’s men and Johnny didn’t know him, but Zack said he was a stand-up man. Good enough for Johnny. Riding drag would be Searcy and Moffit and Abe Taggart, as the newest members of the crew. Matt and Joe would be off to the side, riding along. But they would be pulling their fair share. They would be riding night herd, and filling in if someone became injured.
With most trail drivers, the new men rode drag. Drag meant riding behind the herd, to keep the stragglers in motion. Drag was the least desirable job because it meant eating the dust of the herd, and a herd could kick a sizable amount of dust. Men riding drag wore bandanas over their faces like highwaymen.
Johnny’s feeling on this was a little different from most trail bosses. He felt the men should all share the duties, so while the positions for the first day would be based on seniority, they would rotate beginning the second day.
There were two stark differences for Johnny between this trail drive and the ones that had come before. One was that this was going to be the last long trail drive. By the time they had grown the herd enough to be taking it to market again, the railroad would be here. At least as close as Bozeman. A cattle drive to Bozeman would take no more than four days. But the big difference was there was a woman waiting at home for him, a woman who brightened his days and warmed his heart. A woman he missed when he wasn’t with her.
His coffee cup was empty, so he turned back toward camp. He unrolled his soogan, then pulled his boots off and climbed into the covers. Time to get some sleep, he figured. Tomorrow was going to come all too soon.
He set his gunbelt on the ground within reach, but he left his pistol in the holster. Something he had never done in camp, before. He had always kept it drawn and no more than two feet from his pillow.
I’m making progress, he thought.
22
The morning sun was resting just above the eastern horizon and Ches had the chuck wagon loaded and was already in motion, off a bit south of the path the herd would take. Zack Johnson had saddled up and was somewhere ahead, scouting the trail. Chuck and Fred had headed back to the ranch.
Dusty and Ramon already had the remuda moving, and they were also off to the south and were almost out of sight. They wouldn’t roam too far ahead, because when a drover needed to change a horse he didn’t want to have to ride too far to do it. But the remuda needed to be off and away. Removed from any dust, and if the herd should start running, you didn’t want the horses to get hurt.
The herd was gathered together, covering an area of about a quarter square mile. By Josh’s count, three thousand seven hundred and forty-four of the critters. Many were standing and grazing lightly, and a few were still down.
Johnny sat on Midnight and gave the herd a look-over. The countryside was black with cows. Kind of reminded Johnny of the old buffalo herds, from years back.
Old Blue was up at the front. He was standing and looking at Johnny, as though he knew what was required of him.
Johnny nudged Midnight forward a little, moving at an easy walk. Johnny’s revolver was on his hip, leather batwing chaps were strapped over his jeans, and a large bandana was hanging over the front of his shirt like a bib. His rifle was in the chuck wagon and he had left his vest there, too. Kennedy was in position as right swing, and Coyote as left. Further back were Patterson and Palmer and Searcy and the others.
Josh came riding up. He had been riding the perimeter of the herd and checking on the men, making sure everything was in order. He kept his horse to a walk. No need to spook the herd and start them running. A stampede wouldn’t be a good way to begin the first day.
Josh nodded to Johnny, then Johnny nudged his horse forward until he was maybe fifty feet from Old Blue. The steer raised his mighty rack and looked at Johnny.
Johnny said to him, “All right, old friend. Let’s start ‘em goin’.”
In years past, when Blue was younger, Johnny would ride behind him and urge him on. The first trail drive Johnny and Zack made, back in ’68, Johnny had done this. The second one he did the same. But on the third one, all he had to do was look at Blue and the steer knew it was time to get the herd moving.
Johnny turned Midnight south and started along. Old Blue had pulled some grass and was chewing it. He chewed for a moment more, then began walking along behind Johnny.
Coyote and Kennedy began urging the steers along, one at a time. Josh went to assist. The first day, it was a slow process. After a day or two, the critters would be more accustomed to the rhythm of life on the trail.
Johnny looked back over his shoulder. Eight or ten of them were following Blue. One decided he wasn’t of a mind to and cut away from Josh, and Josh went galloping after him, twirling a loop overhead. Kennedy got three moving, then four. Then one tried to cut away from him, but Kennedy turned his horse into the steer’s path and blocked him.
Matt and Joe were joining in. Johnny could hear the drag riders calling out. “Get a-movin’!” or “Hiyaa!” One of them—he wasn’t sure which—let loose with something that sounded like the old rebel yell.
By mid-morning, the herd was moving. Old Blue was leading the way and the herd was following. They were moving at a walking pace. Some were bunched together and others were walking alone.
Some trail bosses rode ahead and scouted for camping spots, or streams where the herd could get some water, or to see if any streams they might have to cross would be running deep and present a problem. And the cook drove the chuck wagon ahead of the herd. Johnny preferred to be with the herd should problems arise, and so had a scout ride on ahead, and Ches had said he didn’t want to drive the wagon ahead of the herd in case of stampede.
He said, “I seen a chuck wagon reduced to splinters once when there was a clap of thunder and the herd started runnin’.”
Josh rode up to his father. “Looks like things are progressin’ nicely.”
Johnny nodded. “You ride point. I’m gonna ride ahead a bit and see if I can find Zack.”
Not that Johnny needed to find Zack, but it gave Josh an opportunity to ride point and be in charge while Johnny was gone.
Chandler was not a man of the outdoors. He had been raised in Chicago and he preferred cobblestones underfoot. When he rode, he preferred to be in a carriage or even on a train. Horseback was not something his backside liked, and he vowed to himself that once he was safely back in Chicago, he would never sit in another saddle.
His horse moved along at a pace between a walk and a light run. Every time the horse took a step, Chandler bounced in the saddle. The first couple of times, his teeth had clacked together, so he had learned to keep his mouth shut and his jaw tightened.
The man riding with him moved like he and the horse were one. In some manner Chandler couldn’t possibly figure out, when the horse stepped along, the man just moved up and down with the saddle instead of bouncing. Like he had applied glue to the seat of his pants.
&nb
sp; The man’s name was Jenkins, and he wore a gun like he knew how to use it. He had a beard that was more from a lack of shaving than a fashion statement, and smelled like he hadn’t bathed since the last time it rained. But Mister Reed had hired Jenkins for the job.
Mister Reed had said Jenkins had the necessary qualifications. From what Chandler could see, Jenkins was a killer and a horse thief. He didn’t know what qualifications he really needed, other than the fact that he had managed to avoid the noose so far.
Chandler had been there when Reed hired him. Reed had said to him, “So, Mister Jenkins...is Jenkins your actual name?”
Jenkins said, “It is when it has to be.”
Reed had nodded. Apparently he liked that answer. Chandler did not.
Reed and Jenkins discussed money and then shook hands.
Jenkins’ job was to make sure the McCabe herd didn’t reach Cheyenne. Or, at the very least, very little of it did.
“Your background is in banking,” Reed said to Chandler over a glass of whiskey after Jenkins had left the room.
Chandler nodded. He said nothing. How he had gone from banking to the business he was in now was a long and tangled road. The more Chandler thought about it, the more whiskey he wanted to drink.
Reed said, “Here is the situation. In a town like this, everyone subsides on credit. The ranchers purchase their supplies with credit. As such, the merchants in town have no capital on hand so everything they purchase must also be on credit. When a herd is sold, the rancher then has cash and can repay debts, so there is an exchange of cash that goes through the entire town. Then the whole process starts over again.”
Chandler nodded. “I was raised in a farming town in Ohio. It’s about the same situation there. All debts are paid at harvest time, then the whole process begins anew.”
Reed smiled. “Exactly. So the McCabe ranch has been living on debt for almost three years. They have made small sales to the army and even to restauranteurs here in town and in Bozeman, but those have been limited. This cattle drive will repay whatever outstanding debts they have. If the herd fails to arrive in Cheyenne, then there will be no sale. If much of the herd is destroyed in the process, so much the better. That’s where Mister Jenkins comes into play. Instead of stealing cattle, which he is experienced at, he is simply to make certain the McCabes make no money from the herd.”
Chandler nodded. “It’ll take them two or three years to rebuild the herd with the brood stock they have.”
“Indeed. And by then, any credit they might have with merchants in town will be lost. Some might be forced to go to court and sue, to avoid bankruptcy. In effect, the McCabes will be forced to sell. And that’s where my employer comes into play. He wishes to purchase the ranch.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
Reed shrugged. “I haven’t asked. It’s not my business. He’s hired me for a job, and I have hired you and Jenkins for a job.”
“So, by the way you say that, I take it my services are still needed out here?”
“Sorry, Chandler. I know you’d like to get back to Chicago, but I need you to ride along with Mister Jenkins. Sort of as my representative on the trail.”
Chandler drained the rest of his glass and reached for the bottle.
He thought about it all as he bounced along in the saddle.
There was a third man with them. He had skin the color of buckskin, and long black hair. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that was a faded gray and a buckskin shirt. Strapped to his back was a buckskin sheath that carried something long and narrow. A flap covered the top end of the sheath but the only thing Chandler could figure that might be in there would be a rifle.
Jenkins had said they were following tracks but Chandler couldn’t see any. They were riding through grass that was green with a springtime suppleness but Chandler didn’t see any tracks. He couldn’t figure how anyone could on ground like this.
They came to a section of land where it looked like someone had taken the blade of a shovel and cut out some rectangular sections of sod and then set them back in place. Each one looked to be about six feet long and three feet wide. The sod was mounded up a little. It then occurred to Chandler they were looking at graves.
Jenkins spat out a load of tobacco juice, and said, “Well, now we know what happened to them men your boss sent out.”
Chandler said, “There was a fifth man. I wonder what became of him.”
Jenkins shrugged. “Prob’ly run off. Some men just want to run when the shootin’ starts.”
The other man—Chandler hadn’t heard his name—said, “That was stupid, sendin’ these rustlers out here to deal with men like this. Johnny McCabe. Zack Johnson. You need more’n second-rate cattle thieves to deal with men like that.”
Chandler said to Jenkins, “Excuse me, but Mister Reed said you are a cattle thief. If these men couldn’t stand up against McCabe and Johnson...”
Jenkins said, “I’ve helped myself to some beeves at one time or another. But I’ve been a bounty hunter. I rode with Quantrill’s raiders before that. And my partner here spent some time with the Apache, and some time in a Mexican prison. That satisfy you?”
The other man said, “I’ve ridden with men who would skin alive a city-slicker like you just to hear you squeal like a pig.”
Chandler swallowed hard. He thought it best to say nothing.
Jenkins grinned and led the way off to where the herd had been.
They found the remains of a large campfire.
“This is where the cook fire was,” Jenkins said. “Chuck wagon was right there.”
He indicated with his eyes a point a few yards away from the fire. Even Chandler could see matted-down grass where it looked like two sets of wagon wheels had rested.
The other man said, “Looks like they pulled out this mornin’. They got maybe a three-hour lead on us.”
Jenkins said, “Which is just about how we want it.”
He spit another wad of tobacco juice to the grass.
The other man had a bowie knife sheathed to the left side of his gunbelt. He slid the knife out and began picking his teeth with the tip.
Chandler said, “Excuse me, but aren’t you going to bring any other men?”
“Don’t need no others. Lawson and me will handle it fine.”
“How is that possible? You’re dealing with Johnny McCabe.”
Lawson looked at Jenkins. “Asks a lot of questions, don’t he?”
Jenkins nodded.
Lawson said, “He might be kind of loud out on the trail. And he might slow us down. An operation like this, we gotta be able to move quiet and fast. In and out. Strike hard and pull back fast.”
Jenkins nodded again. He said, “Go ahead. Do it.”
Chandler was about to ask what Jenkins meant, when Lawson raised his knife and threw it.
It landed in Chandler’s chest. It went in sideways, sliding in between two ribs and buried itself almost to the hilt.
Chandler wanted to ask why. He wanted to ask how they thought they would explain this to Mister Reed. He wanted to ask all sorts of questions, but he was sitting in the saddle with a knife buried deep in his chest and he found he couldn’t breathe.
Strange, he thought. He had always figured it would hurt more than it did. It didn’t really hurt at all. He just felt numb all over.
Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell out of the saddle.
Lawson swung out of the saddle. He said, “Good place to let the horses rest a bit.”
Jenkins nodded and dismounted. He lit up a cigarette while Lawson strolled over to the body of Chandler and pulled the knife out. He wiped the blood off in the grass and then slid the blade back into the sheath.
Jenkins said, “Shame about Chandler. Got hisself killed by McCabe.”
Lawson grinned. “That’s the risk you take when you ride with the big boys.”
23
Charles Cole rode into town. He took the back trail from the ranch, the trail that came out
behind the Second Chance. It was morning and way too early for a beer, but he thought Hunter might still have the coffee pot on.
He turned the horse through the alley between the saloon and the building next to it. It had been abandoned over the winter and now a land office was setting up. It would be another month before it was open, and then no one would have to ride all the way to Bozeman to file a claim.
He rode around to the front of the saloon. One wagon was working its way down the street. A buckboard being driven by two men Charles had never seen before but he thought they looked like farmers. A conestoga wagon was further down the street. Settlers moving in. A man with a long, drooping mustache and a ten gallon hat and big rowels on his spurs was riding by. A man and a woman were walking along the boardwalk across the street, most likely heading toward the hotel. He was in a jacket and tie and a top hat and she had a fancy feathery hat pinned to her head and was carrying a parasol. A man was sitting in a rocking chair to one side of the hotel’s front door. A long white beard and a miner’s cap pulled down to his brow. Charles recognized him as Alton, a prospector who had moved in. Alton was trying to locate a claim, and Charles saw him at the Second Chance sometimes on a Saturday night. A man he didn’t know was sitting on a bench at the other side of the hotel door.
Charles was wearing his gun on his hip and his jeans were tucked into his riding boots and spurs were strapped to his feet.
He had conflicting feelings about being where he was. He wanted to be out there with the herd, sharing the work. And yet, he would have been away from Bree for weeks and would have missed her something awful.
His job was to find out if Bertram Reed’s man Chandler was still here, and to see if there was any other information Falcone might have about the men he had seen Chandler visiting outside of town. But first, Charles was going to enjoy a cup of trail coffee at the Second Chance.
He swung out of the saddle and left his horse at the hitching rail, and went into the saloon.
Trail Drive (The McCabes Book 5) Page 10