Tough Justice

by Colin Bainbridge

  ‘I may be gone for some time,’ he said. She gave him an enquiring look. ‘I have some business to attend to back at the ranch,’ he continued ‘but I think I may safely leave you to look after things here.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘How long will you be away?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not too long.’ She smiled and he leaned slightly in her direction.

  ‘How do you find your duties here?’ he said. She didn’t reply immediately and he continued. ‘You do a very good job. Don’t think I haven’t noticed or appreciated your work here or the contribution you make to the smooth running of the business. How would you feel about taking on more responsibility? Of course, any additional duties you might assume would be more than adequately compensated.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Rickard,’ she said.

  He bent lower and then straightened up again. ‘That’s settled then,’ he said. ‘We can talk further when I get back.’

  He gave an awkward smiled and made for the stairs. The secretary listened to his footsteps and when the outer door closed, adjusted her skirt, observed her nails and opened the pages of a magazine.

  The last of the cattle had been rounded up and trail branded. They were ready for the drive. Conrad had mixed a few old bulls with the herd to set a steady pace and exert a calming influence. His intention was to drive the herd hard, at least during the early stages of the drive, and tire the cattle so that when they were bedded down for the night they would be too weary to attempt to bolt. In the early morning, before dawn, they started out. Fuller rode at the head of the herd, with Eliot and Lowell riding point on either side. Conrad had a more general role, acting as trouble-shooter and guide, riding up and down the line, looking out for points of strain or stress, riding ahead to look out for good grass and bedding ground. Right at the rear came the chuck-wagon, with Lorna riding alongside the cook.

  Almost from the start the drag rider had to apply his whip to encourage some of the trailing cows, being careful at the same time not to crowd them. At the start, a lot of cattle were inclined to be difficult but Conrad was confident that they would soon settle down. The herd was strung out for about half a mile; they travelled slowly, leaving the Long Rail behind them.

  The men had been warned right from the start that there might be trouble and they were prepared to meet it if it arose. Fuller had no doubts about their commitment. Most of them had worked for him for a long time and they were all loyal to the brand. His main concern was Lorna. He felt she had somehow outmanoeuvred him. He would certainly have felt happier if she were back in Granton. Conrad, for the moment, was riding alongside him, and he felt a need to voice his doubts.

  ‘It maybe isn’t ideal,’ Conrad said, ‘but look at it this way. Would she have been very much safer if you had left her in Granton? Rickard has a lot of influence. If he’s got it in for the Long Rail, it might not have been the best place for her to be.’

  ‘He wouldn’t. . . .’ Fuller began, but a moment’s reflection was enough to remind him that Rickard was probably capable of anything. ‘You’ve got a point there,’ he conceded. ‘I hadn’t looked at it like that.’

  ‘At least this way we can keep an eye on her ourselves. She’ll be safe enough.’

  Conrad’s words helped calm Fuller’s fears. He felt a lot better. He certainly had no worries about Lorna’s abilities to last the course. She was young, strong and toughened by her time out west. She was a fine rider and good with horses. In fact, she might prove really useful with the remuda. All in all, maybe it wasn’t such bad thing to have her along.

  They carried on riding till noon, when the cattle were halted and allowed to graze. Conrad wanted to push on fast so before long they were on the trail once more, continuing till the sun began to sink. Then the men started to work the cattle into a more compact space, circling round them till within a short period of time they were all nicely bedded down. They had to be watched throughout the night, and the men took it in turns to do a shift of about two hours. Eliot and Lowell took the cocktail watch, the last watch before daylight. As they circled the herd they murmured softly to soothe the cattle and when they crossed, they pulled their horses to a halt.

  ‘So far, so good,’ Eliot said.

  ‘Yeah. We’ve made a start.’

  Lowell looked about. It was a clear starry night. The resting herd seemed contented. Away to their left a light shone where the cook had hung a lantern on the boom of the chuck wagon, inside of which, probably sleeping, was Lorna Fuller.

  ‘You know,’ he said. ‘I haven’t felt so good in a long time.’

  ‘Rickard might have somethin’ to say about that,’ Eliot remarked.

  ‘He can come whenever he wants. We’re ready for him.’

  The first day set the pattern for the ones that followed. Early in the morning the men made their way to the chuck-wagon and had breakfast while the wrangler went out to drive in the horses. Lorna proved Fuller right, making herself useful by helping the wrangler bring them in and taking an inventory of them by name and colour to make sure none were missing. The men roped and saddled new mounts.

  When everything was ready, the cattle were thrown off their pasturage and set in motion till noon when they were allowed to drink and graze. Some of the men changed their horses. Late in the afternoon the cattle were driven another few miles before being allowed to graze again until night fell, when they were put on the next bedding ground. The herd was becoming trail-broken. Once they were moving, they carried on with little need for close supervision, their heads swaying to the steady rhythm of the pace they set. The cowhands lounged in their saddles. One bull had established himself as leader of the herd, an old mossback with drooping scaly horns, clipped and broken from fighting. Every morning, when the herd was starting out, he was pointed in the direction Fuller wanted to go, towards the railhead at Shoshone Flats.

  Lowell had plenty to keep him occupied, but as they progressed he began to think more and more about what he would do once he got there. Since he had learned that Mossman was responsible for the fire that had killed his wife, his thirst for revenge had become all consuming. Once the trail drive was over, he intended to find Mossman. Other than that Mossman was living somewhere in the vicinity of Shoshone Flats, he didn’t know exactly where he was to be found. No one seemed to know much about him. He himself had not seen him more than a couple of times. That had been quite a long time ago and he wasn’t even certain he would recognize him. It seemed like Mossman went out of his way to court obscurity. Was his elusiveness just a way of preserving his anonymity or was there something more to it? During the course of his rise to power, he must have upset plenty of people. Maybe it was just a way of keeping his enemies at arm’s length, of staying alive. As far as Lowell was concerned, his time of security was over.

  Rickard had been giving thought to launching an all-out assault on the Long Rail, but when his spies reported that Fuller had started on the trail drive his mind was made up. It would be easier to attack him while he was on the move. When he had dealt with him, he could take over the herd and incorporate it into his own before starting up the trail himself. The question he now had to consider was where to deliver the attack. Since the weight of numbers was heavily on his side and he had employed some of the fastest guns for hire, it probably didn’t make a lot of difference. Still, it was only sensible to take the terrain into account. He knew the country between Granton and Shoshone Flats a little himself, but some of his ranch-hands knew it a lot better. Summoning one of them, an oldster by name of Bennett, to his office, he broached the matter.

  ‘There’s a few places along the trail might be suitable,’ he replied. ‘Yes, quite a few.’ He paused, rubbing his grizzled chin.

  ‘Let me see. There’s the river. That might be a good place. Catch ’em while they’re tryin’ to get across. But it ain’t that wide. There’s one or two other places they might get held up.’

  ‘Never mind goin’ though the whole shebang,’ Rickard snapped. ‘Just t
ell me what’s the best place.’

  ‘Well, if you’re figurin’ to take over those cow critters, you might want to save yourself the bother of havin’ to drive ’em all the way back from Shoshone Flats. On the other hand. . . .’

  ‘I’m beginnin’ to lose patience,’ Rickard snapped.

  Bennett looked at him with a grin on his face.

  ‘I got just the spot,’ he said. ‘Yes, just the right spot. Count on it. Fuller won’t know what’s hit him.’

  Chapter Five

  Conrad, having ridden ahead, surveyed the herd from the summit of a rising crest of land flanked on either side by high outcrops of rock. It was stretched out in a long sinuous line like an extended column of ants. So far they had met with only minor difficulties, but he foresaw more serious problems in getting the cattle through the narrow defile. They would have their work cut out to keep them in order. The ground was more broken and it would be essential to keep them from getting too close to the rocks. But it wasn’t the difficulties of the terrain that most worried him. For some time there had been a thick, muffled feeling to the air and he knew it presaged a storm. Dark clouds had blown up and on the horizon he saw the first flicker of lightning. The heaviness in the atmosphere was replaced by a growing wind as squalls came streaking towards him across the prairie. He rose in his stirrups and looked back once more at the herd. The column was slowly approaching. After watching it for a little longer, he spurred his horse and rode on, looking for the nearest good place to bed the cattle once they had got through the gorge.

  Conrad wasn’t the only one watching. Concealed behind the rocks and granite outcrops on either side of the trail was Rickard and his gang. As Conrad rode away, one of the gunnies raised his rifle and drew a bead on his back. A moment later the rifle was knocked out of his hand by Rickard.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doin’?’ he snapped. ‘If you’d taken a shot, Fuller would have been warned. You might have blown the whole show.’

  ‘I coulda had him. He was an easy target.’

  ‘He’s out of range. If you try and pull a stunt like that once more. . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, boss. It won’t happen again.’

  Rickard struggled to contain his anger. The men nearby were watching the outcome closely. Rickard turned on them.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the trail,’ he said.

  He looked hard at the offending gunman once more and then stomped off.

  He wasn’t in the best frame of mind and was feeling hot and uncomfortable. The air had grown heavy and it seemed almost an effort to breathe. There was a tense expectancy in the atmosphere which wasn’t just to do with waiting for the herd to arrive. It was unfortunate, because the ride itself had been easy. There was no question about the route Fuller had to follow. The cattle trail was a familiar one. It was just a matter of getting on ahead of the herd and taking up position without being spotted. Fuller was no fool. He would anticipate the possibility of an attack and he would be careful to keep an eye out for trouble. It had not been an easy matter to avoid detection. A big group of riders kicked up a lot of dust. It had been an exhausting experience but now they had arrived at the place Bennett had selected he was satisfied. The oldster was right. It was a good spot. He had been a little worried when he saw Conrad riding ahead of the herd in case he detected something, but they had come from a different direction and taken care to leave their horses at a little distance. He felt a resurgence of anger when he thought again of the fact that one loose shot could have jeopardized the whole thing. But the danger was past. All they had to do now was to sit and wait till Fuller and the rest of his Long Rail cowboys fell right into the trap he had prepared.

  When he had taken his place high among the rocks, he looked out over the landscape. Far off he could just make out the course of the river Fuller would have to cross. He had considered making that his point of attack, but as Bennett had indicated, the river was not much of an obstacle. It was little more than a stream. Besides, it would have been difficult to make an approach without being detected. He had also considered a night attack but had rejected that idea too. Fuller would probably expect it and make appropriate arrangements. In the darkness, anything could happen. Things could get out of hand. No, this way he had control of the situation. Fuller was riding straight into a deadly ambush. He would be taken by surprise and he would be routed.

  At the same time, his choice of cover was a fair guarantee of his own safety. He certainly didn’t intend getting involved with any shooting. That was what he employed men for, men who were accustomed to using a gun. With a grin replacing the scowl on his face, he licked his lips in anticipation. It was then that he spotted something he hadn’t noticed because it had been concealed by an outcrop of rock and was coming from a direction other than the river; in fact from the direction of Granton. His grin fell away immediately. What was it? The last thing he wanted was any extraneous element over which he had no control risking his plans. He reached into a bundle lying beside him on the ground and, pulling out his field-glasses, put them to his eyes. For a few moments the lenses roved over the waving field of buffalo and gamma grass before focusing on the distant object. Rickard gave a curse. It was the mule-train carrying his own store of hides to Shoshone Flats.

  Lowell and Eliot were riding close to the herd and the swing men were doing the same. The gathering storm was making the cattle restless. The clouds which had gathered slowly now piled and mushroomed. The air was dark and the rumble of thunder below the horizon was getting closer. As if that wasn’t enough, the going was more difficult. The land sloped upwards and the cattle felt the resistance. The ground was rockier and hurt their hoofs. Lowell’s eyes, searching the terrain, saw for the first time something else which was making them uneasy. It was the mule train. Even from a distance his nostrils picked up the faint rank smell of animal hides. Just at that moment Fuller rode up to him.

  ‘This storm ain’t good,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. There’s another thing too. Look over there.’ He pointed out the distant line of mules and wagons. ‘The cows must be pickin’ up the scent.’

  Suddenly he had an inspiration. There was only one man trading in buffalo hides. The mule train must be Rickard’s. One thought followed another. Where else would they be going but to the rail-head at Shoshone Flats. And who would Rickard be dealing with? There was no way of knowing for sure, but there was a good chance it was Mossman. In which case, maybe whoever was driving the mule train might know where Mossman was to be found.

  ‘Don’t let any of the critters get out of line,’ Fuller said. ‘This is about the last thing we could have done with.’

  Lowell nodded and Fuller began to ride back towards the head of the herd. Lowell glanced over his shoulder towards the mule train and then directed his attention back to the job in hand. A few of the cows were striving to break loose and he rode up close to turn them back. Some of the cattle were bellowing and bawling and an electric glow flickered along their horns. He had a sudden concern that the iron wheel rims on the chuck-wagon in which Lorna was riding might attract the lightning, but there was nothing he could do about it. The wind had risen to a howling gale and he hunkered down into his slicker as a fork of white fire flashed between the clouds. A thunderclap boomed and before Lowell or anyone else had time to do anything to prevent it, the herd suddenly began to run.

  In an instant he had spurred his horse and was riding alongside the terrified steers. There was a clacking of horns as some of them collided and fell, making a jumble of bodies. The thunder in the heavens was answered by the thunder of hoofs as the roiling sea of cattle lunged on in a blind panic. The clouds opened and rain descended like a curtain. Fast as the cattle were running, his horse was going quicker and he began to get alongside the lead animals. Drawing his gun, he fired into the air in an attempt to get the leaders to swing in the hope that the following cattle would follow and they would circle. Fuller and his men were experienced cow-hands. They knew what had to be do
ne and worked together like clockwork. As they struggled to gain control, they continued to make as much noise as they could; shouting, yelling, cussing and firing their guns. They were gradually forcing the lead cattle to turn and the herd was beginning to mill. If they could keep it up, the cattle would gradually exhaust themselves.

  Lowell urged his horse as close to the herd as he dared, now using his slicker as a flail to smash into the faces if the foremost steers. It seemed to be going well when suddenly he became aware of an increased level of shooting. He felt the close-packed animals begin to yield and a group of demented steers broke away, charging off across the sodden prairie. Instinctively he turned his horse to pursue them and saw a body of riders pouring down on them from the direction of the rocky plateau. Bullets were whining through the air over his head and for just a few moments he thought they were loose shots from some of Fuller’s men. Then, when he managed to take a closer look, he realized that the newcomers were not Long Rail riders. He still didn’t realize what was happening, but a bullet that ricocheted from the horn of his saddle told him that whatever it was, he was in a fight for his life.

  In the heat of the moment, he had allowed himself to get ahead of the breakaway group which was coming up rapidly behind him. A new hazard presented itself. If he didn’t manage to get out of their way, he was in danger of being trampled. His horse was already tiring and he couldn’t hope to stay ahead for long. The leaders were upon him and he was quickly in the midst of them. His attention now was focused simply on keeping his horse from falling. If it was to put its leg into a prairie dog hole or some other obstacle it would spell disaster. There was no way he would be able to avoid the thundering hoofs. His best chance was to try and edge his way out of the heaving mass of cattle, and when he saw a gap he guided the sorrel into it. Gradually the breakaway herd began to string out as the fastest animals forged ahead and he was able to steer his horse out of the press of the frenzied beasts. He slowed down, watching the cattle stream by. There was nothing he could do to stop them. The only thing to do was to let them run on as long as their endurance lasted. He had more urgent matters to attend to.