Stringer and the Hell-Bound Herd

by Lou Cameron

  “A lot you know about the mine at Wagon Springs!” Old Waco cut in. “To begin with it was never a gold mine. It was one of them Nevada silver strikes. I know more about beef than I do about mining, but everyone knows that the silver over in the Great Basin lies close to the surface for some reason and that there’s just no use digging deeper, once the surface vein pinches out.”

  Pete allowed he’d heard that, too. Stringer nodded but said, “As I was saying just before someone intimated I was a jackass about the subject, I grew up in mining country and while I share your doubts about delving the depths for fun and profit, they do say gold is where you find it and they sure found a lot of gold, mixed with silver, over in Virginia City, Nevada, not the other Virginia City in Montana.”

  Waco shook his head and insisted, “The big old Corn-stock Lode was struck in the regulation rocks of the Sierra Nevada. The long, low desert ranges like the Stillwaters are another sort of mining country entirely. There’s never been a big gold strike in them shoestring ranges way out amid the salt and sage, old son. Like I said, there’s some silver close to the surface. They hit bottom at Wagon Springs way back around 1880 and nobody’s lived there at all since afore the turn of the century.”

  Pete shrugged and said, “Must be somebody there unless Chuck Tarington’s headed somewheres else with over fifteen hundred head of beef on the hoof. He told us he meant to deliver „em to Wagon Springs and while it’s true he drinks a mite I’ve never caught him in an outright lie in the past.”

  Waco decided, “Mayhaps someone’s lied to him, then. I’ll allow fifteen hundred head ain’t much of a herd next to the market drives we used to see, but it’s still way more beef than the inhabitants of a ghost town could consume, and ain’t we about due a round on the house here, Curly?”

  The barkeep just sneered like a mean little rich boy meeting up with barefoot Mex kids in the schoolyard, so Stringer caught his eye and gave him the high sign, making a mental note that he’d spent all he intended to on this conversation, now that it was starting to run in tedious circles. As Curly served, Stringer noticed Sally had dropped out already. He’d figured she’d give up as soon as she noticed how easy they’d all found it to keep their hands to themselves. He was glad. It was costing him enough to prime the pumps of men who might know something, even if another fancy gal was paying for it, once you studied on it.

  He nursed his last drink as he let the two locals chew the rag about the mysterious business methods of Chuck Tarington, and as they did so, Stringer began to picture the cuss better. He’d already known Tarington was a contract drover of some experience and not too bad a local rep. From the way the two older men jawed about him, Stringer pictured Tarington as about their same age and experience in the beef industry. To his credit, Tarington was said to be a man of his word who treated his hired help decent enough. Less to his credit, Pete allowed Tarington drank pretty good and had a stubborn streak that had gotten him in trouble in the past. Waco said, “I heard about him almost winding up in Folsom Prison that time. Wire cutting, wasn’t it?”

  Pete shrugged and said, “Dumb place for anyone to string bob wire, or plant infernal fruit trees, come to study on it. Anyway, Chuck’s lawyer got him off by proving the infernal fence had been strung across a traditional cattle trail and agreeing his client wouldn’t do that no more.”

  Waco opined, “Won’t be no fence that does him in this time. Them poor cows’ll just naturally start volunteering to go no further, once they spend a few days on the desert.”

  Pete sipped the last of the drink Stringer had bought him and said, “I surely agree this is the thirsty time of the year. But old Chuck’s herd ain’t halfways to the hard country yet. I doubt they’ve made it further than the canyon-oak range this side of Auburn yet, and there’s plenty of water to wash down all that summer-cured grama and mustard.”

  “If there’s any forage left, this late,” Waco pointed out. “Lots of wagon freight still follows the service roads in line with the railroad tracks over Donner Pass, you know, even if nobody but a total asshole would try to drive such a big herd that way so late in the dry season.”

  Stringer automatically glanced about for ladies present as Pete agreed Chuck Tarington had always been an asshole, albeit a good old boy as well. But the drably-dressed Sally seemed to be working some younger hands further down the bar right now. Before she could strike out and hit him for another free drink, Stringer yawned elaborately and allowed it was past his bedtime, interesting as all this cow talk might be. Nobody argued when he added it was time he tallied some sheep. He left a handsomer tip than Curly deserved by his empty beer schooner and headed for the batwings to hire himself that room across the way, now that he’d gotten himself more than enough pocket-jingle for now. He made a mental note to change the other big bills at a bank, come morning, for he didn’t want to have to play the big spender every time he wanted to bust one.

  As he stepped outside, the drab Sally materialized like a lost soul from the darkness, grabbing his elbow to murmur, “You don’t want to head back to the Drover’s Rest, honey. You’d best come on home with me, hear?”

  She wasn’t big enough to move him anywhere against his will, but he stopped in his tracks lest he look silly dragging her, as he told her, not unkindly, “You’re wrong. I don’t have a more delicate way of putting it, but since I admire you too much to risk insulting you, I’d best just confess I came up the river this evening aboard a blonde as well as a steamer. So, no offense, I’m too tired to go home with you, pretty as you know you are.”

  She didn’t let go. She said, “You can act as virtuous as you like, once I get you forted up safe at my place. I think you’re pretty, too, and there’s a couple of rascals laying for you across the way, see?”

  He stared hard at the plainly visible barnlike structure across the not-too-broad dirt road. The upstairs windows were naturally dark at this hour. But enough light came from the open doorway and lobby windows on either side to make him suspect she was making up a bedtime story indeed. “I don’t see one such sinister character, let alone two,” he said. To which she replied with a stamp of her foot, “You’re not supposed to see thugs out to rob you, you fool. They never noticed me whilst they were talking about you staying at yon hotel just now. I was sort of flirting with another old boy who didn’t hear them at all, see?”

  Stringer nodded soberly and said, “I see indeed. Remind me never to bust a fifty dollar bill in front of so many poor folk late at night if it can possibly be avoided. It’s been swell talking to you, Miss Sally, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get an early start, come morning, and so we’d best just say buenoches and nice try.”

  She said something mighty nasty about his mother as well as his manhood but didn’t follow as he strode across to the hotel with a smile of mingled amusement and distaste. As he stepped into the lobby the old desk clerk was nowhere to be seen. As a floorboard creaked somewhere in the night Stringer dove forward just in time, and hit the floor on his left elbow to somersault himself into a far corner and come back up armed and dangerous, facing the two roughly-dressed sons of bitches with his .38 blazing.

  He hit the one with the whorepistol in the right bicep, inspiring him to bounce his nickel-plate .32 off the pressed tin ceiling above them and scream like a woman whilst he spun around like a ballet dancer.

  It had been a lucky shot. Then Stringer shot again and nicked the one with the blackjack across both buttocks. The man with the butt wound spun gracefully to bolt for the doorway, grabbing his more seriously wounded sidekick by the good arm to get them both out the door as Stringer sent a last encouraging round over their heads.

  As he heard shouts from the saloon across the way encouraging them to greater speed, Stringer ambled over to the desk, had a look-see over it, and discovered the old room clerk had been gagged as well as hogtied by the rascals. Stringer rolled over the top and hunkered down to reload his .38, first, saying, “I’ll get to you as soon as I make it tou
gher for anyone to get either of us.”

  He ejected the three spent shells and refilled the four empty chambers with fresh rounds from the ammo loops of his gunrig before he holstered the results and, first things coming best, ungagged the old man before getting to work on his wrists and ankles. As he tugged at the tight knots the room clerk gasped, “Lord have mercy, I thought we were both gone geese. The one allowed it made more sense to just backshoot a man with your rep. I can see why he might have had that grand notion. The other said gunplay in such public places could be risky. They was still arguing about whether to shoot you or sap you when you busted in to settle the argument.”

  Stringer finally figured the last stubborn knot and got the poor old cuss all the way untied as he growled, “I let both the bastards get away under the soft-hearted impression they were only after some money I’d flashed in the saloon across the way. If they knew me as well as it sounds like they knew me, I may have to go through all of this some more and my luck’s already stretched tighter than I like to even think about!”

  As he helped the old-timer to his feet they were joined in the lobby by some of the boys from across the way and a couple of sleepy-eyed guests from upstairs. As Curly, packing a shotgun, asked what all the noise had been about the room clerk opened a drawer, heaved a great sigh, and said, “They didn’t even get the cash from our till, praise the Lord and give MacKail here some credit as well.”

  A younger stockyard hand from across the way said, “I saw two jaspers running like hell as I come out front, just now. They was streaking south toward the woodlots down that way. Anyone here but me want to chase after the sons of bitches?”

  Nobody answered at first. Then Curly said, “Never catch „em, now, even if they didn’t have ponies waiting down amongst them buttonwood trees where the saddle tramps camp out.” Stringer gently added, “It’s tough to cut trail in town, even when you know what sort of boot or hoof prints you’re scouting for. It’s my fault they got away and that’ll teach me a thing or two about trusting the word of a strange woman, cuss all their sweet hides.”

  Curly cocked an eyebrow to ask how womankind had gotten into this discussion. So Stringer explained, “I just said the whole thing was my fault. I just learned to my sorrow that you can’t even trust strange females to lie to you when it’s important to know whether they might be lying or not!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  In the morning Stringer enjoyed a hearty breakfast and sent a less enjoyable progress report to Sam Barca via Western Union near the depot at the foot of Fourth Street. He had no call to wait on a reply. He knew old Sam would expect him to ride after the hell-bound herd and ask Chuck Tarington where the hell he thought he was driving it.

  Tarington was said to be a contract drover of some experience and nobody with a lick of sense, or the slightest desire for profit drove beef to market faster than a man could travel cross-country afoot. So, despite the lead the Tarington outfit had on him, Stringer could have hired almost any horse and saddle at the livery across from the nearby Traveler’s Hotel and caught up with them in less than a full day.

  He could have done fifty push-ups just for the hell of it, for that matter. Knowing the route Tarington meant to follow over the High Sierra, it being about the only one for many a mile north or south, Stringer simply had that haircut he needed, stocked up on Bull Durham, waterproof matches and .38 Longs, and still had plenty of time to board an eastbound Western Pacific local with a view to beating the Tarington outfit up the line to, say, Dutch Flat, the easy way, and simply waiting for them. Dutch Flat was about sixty miles east and considerably higher than Sacramento, meaning less than two full hours aboard a train, or a good three days eating dust behind a market herd. Tarington’s notions about moving beef cross-country made even less sense to Stringer as he rode out of Sacramento in a club car with a booted foot on a brass rail and a tall schooner of Steamer Brand in a fist.

  This early in the trip, the club car wasn’t crowded. That was why Stringer had chosen to ride standing at one end of the modest bar in favor of trying to get settled in the crowded coach cars up ahead, only to have to get off just as things were commencing to calm down. The conductor started punching tickets from the rear of the train foreward, no doubt hoping to deal with club car riders whilst they were still halfway sober, so Stringer knew he’d be in a hurry, this early on. He still asked how much a head the railroad was asking these days for shipping beef. The conductor didn’t reply until he’d punched Stringer’s ticket. As he handed it back with a grimace he grunted, “I’m a passenger conductor, pilgrim. You’d do better asking any brakeman in the freight yards, although I can tell you the line gives better rates to established customers shipping far and numerous. Are you a range detective, too?”

  Stringer explained he worked for the San Francisco Star and asked, “Did you say someone who might take such matters more serious has been asking the same sort of questions?” To which the railroad man replied, “More than one. If you’ll be good enough to gaze out the windows as we climb up into cow country, you’ll no doubt view cows in considerable numbers moving hither and yon the hard way. With both state and railroad brand inspectors overseeing the shipping yards, lawmen searching for purloined cattle concentrate more on beef on the hoof. As I surmise from your line of questioning, and them tie-down spurs you wear on such scuffed Justins, you already know there’s a razor-thin line between driving a cow through the chaparral and buying it a railroad ticket. I’ve had this conversation before and it’s been generally agreed it all depends on how far you want to move your beef. Driving a herd up to, let’s say, fifty miles costs less than shipping it by rail. After that, the day wages of your hands and the wear and tear on your cows tips the scales the other way, the moreso as the time and distance gets longer, of course.”

  Stringer nodded soberly and said, “That’s the way my Uncle Don on the M Bar K sees it. We used to drive our beef about a hundred miles until they built a rail spur up to San Andreas, no more than a half day’s drive from our spread. Uncle Don said shipping our cows with all the shit and water they could hold had driving „em into Sacramento skinny beat all to hell.”

  The conductor said, “I’ll bet your uncle ties his spurs down with wet rawhide, too. Is there any point to this conversation, old son?”

  Stringer smiled sheepishly and said, “I was just thinking about a herd due to arrive in Dutch Flat some time after I get off. Keeping in mind what you said about being a passenger expert, is it safe to say nobody’s saving dime-one by moving the poor brutes so far afoot, uphill all the way?”

  The conductor nodded without having to give the matter much thought and confided, “Eastbound freight’s getting a break right now because of all that fussing over in the Philippines.”

  Stringer started to ask for a fuller explanation, but the conductor was already punching another passenger’s ticket and, on reflection, it didn’t really call for all that much explanation. He’d just come from the bay area, where most of the piers along the Embarcadero were bustling like bee hives and the army transports were shoving off from Fort Mason low in the water with their cargo holds jam-packed with civilizing influences such as schoolbooks and shrapnel. Food and fodder was produced in the west, but most manufactured goods had to come from the eastern industrial states by rail, leading to a heap of lightly-laden if not empty freight cars headed the other way, meaning Chuck Tarington, or perhaps the people he was driving for, had to be acting even dumber than they’d have been acting if they’d chosen to make the same drive just a war or so back.

  As he was ordering a second beer, another passenger drinking before noon drifted down the brass rail to join him, saying, “I hope this won’t inspire you to go for that S&W on your hip, friend, but I couldn’t help overhearing what you said about being a newspaperman.”

  When Stringer simply shrugged and made room for him the more dapperly-dressed passenger confided, “I’m paid to be curious, myself, as a railroad dick instead of a newspaper reporter. No
offense, but I do find it curious that you seem more interested in mundane matters like freight rates than the more interesting brush we had with the Wild Bunch just last night.”

  Stringer blinked in surprise and honestly replied, “I hadn’t heard a thing about anyone trying to stop trains this far west.” To which the railroad dick replied with a sigh, “Try, hell, they stopped the night flyer cold, just this side of midnight and Soda Springs! Got away clean with a heap of specie from the safe and a couple of lady passengers they must have fancied as well! They do say both Kid Curry and the Sundance Kid are cautions with the unfair sex and both the gals they abducted were lookers.”

  Stringer pictured where Soda Springs might be on his mental map of the west slope of the High Sierra as he shook his head to object, “Kid Curry shot himself just a spell back and some say Sundance is down in South America right now with Butch Cassidy and Etta Place, or vice versa, since Etta and Sundance have to cuddle more with each other than either might want to with old Butch.”

  He dug the makings from his shirt pocket and thoughtfully proceeded to build a smoke as he added, “I just covered some recent activity of the Wild Bunch that’s still amongst us, over Colorado way. No offense, but I can’t see „em working this far west. They know the Rockies like they know the backs of their hands and the peaks up around Soda Springs don’t even smell the same.”

  The railroad dick shrugged and pointed out, “The Wild Bunch ain’t the only bunch as knows of all the hell they’ve been raising along the U.P. right of way. Old Union Pacific Harriman has more bounty money posted on „em than the Pinkertons ever posted on Jesse James, and they say U.S. Deputy Marshal Lefors has enlisted the services of a full posse on rails and a ferocious full-blood tracker called Lord Baltimore to scour the Rockies high and low from north to south, so…”