The Chuckwagon Trail

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’ll give me and the boys time to finish off one of those bottles.” Fontaine dismounted, went to the chuckwagon, and started pawing through crates, hunting for the liquor.

  “You don’t listen. Your ears as broken as your thumbs?” Mac grabbed Fontaine’s right wrist and twisted. One of the malformed thumbs should have pointed up at the sky. Instead it stuck out at a crazy angle. The thumb on his left hand was just as misshapen.

  Fontaine jerked away, his face fiery red with anger.

  “Don’t you ever say nuthin’ ’bout my thumbs.”

  “Why not? That’s why they call you Thumbs, isn’t it? Or maybe you spend all your time with a thumb stuck up your butt. I don’t see you doing much work.”

  Mac expected the punch and dodged it. What he didn’t expect was someone coming up from behind and grabbing his elbows to keep him from returning the blow. He struggled, but he was too firmly held, his chest and belly vulnerable.

  “You got a big mouth. You got a big belly, too.” Fontaine unleashed a short, hard jab straight to the midriff.

  Mac was ready for it and tensed his stomach. The blow still doubled him over. The man holding him pulled him upright. The next time Fontaine hit him took the wind out of him. He sagged to the ground and rocked under the impact of kicks from both sides. He drew up his arms to protect his head as he curled into a ball. Try as he might, he couldn’t get his breath back. The pain in his chest got worse, and then one of the booted feet caught him in the head, stunning him. A few more kicks landed before the words came from a long ways off.

  “I found the bottle. Let’s get this to Deke so we can empty it ’fore the rest get back.”

  “What about him?” Another kick thudded into the small of his back. Mac hardly felt it.

  “What about him? If anybody asks what happened to the booze, we’ll say we saw him guzzlin’ it. Ain’t that what happened, cook?” Another kick dug in the pit of Mac’s stomach. He started dry heaving as the world spun around him.

  He knew the two cowboys had walked away, not because he saw or heard them but because the punishment stopped. Mac lay there for an eternity before Rattler came trotting up. The lanky cowboy swung down quickly and hurried over to help him sit up.

  “What in blazes happened to you, Mac?”

  “Fell,” Mac grated out. “Got clumsy and didn’t watch what was going on around me.”

  “Like hell!” Rattler started to repeat the question, but one look at Mac silenced him.

  “Like hell,” Mac agreed. He let Rattler help him to his feet, but that was all. He could do his job himself.

  And he wouldn’t be caught without his gun next time.

  CHAPTER 11

  It hurt to move. Every time Mac sucked in a breath, pain boiled up inside him and the top of his head threatened to blow off like a riverboat venting steam from its boiler. He rested his hand on the butt of his S&W, then carefully pulled the gun up a few inches before letting it drop back into the holster.

  “I can do it,” he said softly to himself. He imagined himself facing down Fontaine. “I need to get him to tell me who held me. Then, then—”

  Mac’s hand flew for the gun. He drew smoothly, cocked, and almost fired, holding off on the trigger at the last instant. The ease and speed of his movements startled him. What made his gut clench even tighter was the notion that he would have fired if Fontaine had been in front of him.

  Can I kill him? I’ll have to. Can I?

  A surprising calm settled over him. He strode off to find Fontaine. Not only could he pull the trigger, he would. Nobody sucker punched him and then beat him up. Nobody.

  Boisterous singing came from the men passing around the whiskey. As Mac came closer, he saw Fontaine tipping back the bottle, only to have it snatched from his hand before he drained it.

  “Don’t hog it, Thumbs!” said the man who had taken it. “I got as much right to it as you.”

  “About time we enjoyed something on this drive. I’m fed up with—” Another man began, then broke off what he was going to say. He nudged Fontaine and got his attention. “Lookee there, Thumbs. We got company. You don’t want to be unneighborly now, do you? Did you save enough of that crappy firewater to share?”

  Fontaine turned, saw Mac standing there, and laughed.

  “Ain’t necessary to share with him. He’s a teetotaler. He won’t swill this fine booze like a real man. He had plenty of chances to do that, and he never so much as tried one little nip.”

  “You and your friend shouldn’t have stolen that bottle,” Mac said. He watched carefully. The man standing beside Fontaine stiffened when Mac mentioned a friend. He knew now which of the men following Northrup had helped with the beating.

  “The way I see it, whatever you got in that chuckwagon is for all of us,” Fontaine snapped. “I wanted it, and you wasn’t inclined to dish it out, even a shot at a time.”

  “I’m here to remedy that. I’ll take you two on, one shot at a time.” Mac squared his stance.

  “Oh, lookee there. The little boy thinks he’s—”

  Mac drew and fired in one smooth motion. The bottle and what little whiskey remained in it exploded in Thumbs’s hand. A quick move cocked the S&W again. The roar of the .44 was deafening and caused a sudden silence to fall around the camp.

  “You little son of a bitch.” Thumb Fontaine clawed for the gun on his hip. He jerked to one side when a man came up behind him, grabbed his wrist, and shoved him away.

  “You settle down. I’ll handle this.” Deke Northrup stepped around Fontaine and hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. Sneering at Mac, he went on, “So you think you got a spine? You think you’re some kind of gunman? Let’s see if you can stand up to me, boy.”

  Mac knew Northrup intended to rile him so he’d do something stupid. A wrong move now meant he died. Mac promised himself he wasn’t the one going to be fitted out for a marble top hat.

  “Step away so I don’t get excited and shoot the rest of them,” he said.

  “Oh, listen to him,” Northrup jeered. “He thinks he’s faster ’n me. Hell, boy, I’ll let you keep that six-shooter trained on me, and I’ll still outdraw you and put a bullet in your worthless carcass.”

  Mac was young. He wasn’t stupid. He went into a crouch and fanned off two quick rounds. The man with Fontaine, the one he believed had held him so Thumbs could beat him up, caught both bullets in the leg, just under his holster. A split second later and he would have hauled out his smoke wagon while Northrup was distracting Mac.

  Mac swiveled back to cover Northrup.

  “You done having these owlhoots do your dirty work for you, Northrup?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, boy.”

  “So they did it on their own. That’s good to know. I’ll have to reload after I take care of you.”

  His vision narrowed to a dark tunnel with Deke Northrup at the far end. He never saw the man come up from the side and shove him hard. Mac stumbled and went to his knees. Strong hands grabbed his gun hand and yanked his S&W away.

  He looked up into Patrick Flagg’s weathered face, but Flagg wasn’t looking at him. Flagg faced Northrup.

  “You try to go for that pistol, Northrup, and I swear I won’t even bury you. I’ll let the buzzards eat your worthless flesh.”

  Northrup still glared, but a wary look had come into his eyes.

  “That’s mighty big talk, Flagg. Why don’t you let your pup here fight his own battles?”

  “This is about us, Northrup. Ever since Lem died, you’ve been hankering for a fight.”

  “You’re not the one to head this drive, Flagg. You’re old and washed up.”

  “Then the two of us ought to make one good cowboy,” Mac said as he got to his feet. “You think he’s too old and I’m too young. You got the pair of us to fight.” He saw Flagg’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. Flagg wasn’t pleased one little bit. Mac didn’t care. What Flagg said about Northrup was true. The two of them had been spoiling for
a fight ever since Carson’s death. But Mac had his own quarrel with Fontaine and the man beside him.

  Try as he might, Mac couldn’t remember that one’s name. It didn’t matter. He had enough firepower left to take both of them out if Flagg handled Northrup.

  “For two cents, I’d leave you dead on the ground, Flagg. You’re a no-good, no-account, cowardly snake.” Northrup moved his shoulders, as if shrugging out of a coat.

  Flagg didn’t stir. Not a betraying twitch, not a muscle, except to say, “If that’s the way you want it, Northrup. One of us is going to the Promised Land, and it’s not going to be me.”

  The two stared at each other. Northrup broke first.

  “You got it wrong, Flagg. I want the job as trail boss because I can do better, but—”

  “Clear out, Northrup. You’ll be twenty miles from the herd by sundown, or I swear, you’ll never see the sun come up in the morning.”

  “If I go, I take my men with me.”

  “Do whatever you have to, but I’m trail boss, and you’re only a hired hand.”

  “The Rolling J owes me and my boys for the time we put in. Nine of them, me, a month on the trail, I make that, uh, three hundred dollars.”

  “See Mr. Jefferson back at the ranch. He’ll give you your salaries.”

  “You can’t steal that money from us, Flagg. We earned it.”

  “If you ride out, you’ve all forfeited it. You signed on to stay with the herd all the way to Abilene. Now, what’s it going to be? We got cattle to move, and I’m getting all tired out jawing like this.”

  For the first time, Flagg moved more than a little, sweeping his duster back and exposing the butt of his Colt. His intentions were plain.

  Northrup stared back at him for a second, jaw clenched so hard it looked like his teeth might snap. Then he said, “We’re not wanted here, boys. Get your gear. We’re clearing out.”

  Mac took a step forward, wanting to call Northrup and Fontaine cowards, but Flagg slapped him across the chest with his left hand. He hit a bruise left by Fontaine’s boot and sent a stabbing pain into Mac’s chest that shut him up before he could say anything. He kept silent, backing up Flagg, as Deke Northrup and his men gathered their tack and walked toward the remuda, grumbling as they went.

  “They’ll likely steal some horses along with taking their own mounts,” Mac said.

  “Won’t. I made sure of that.”

  “You’ve got someone guarding the remuda?”

  “Rattler’s there.”

  Northrup and his crew rode off a few minutes later. Flagg watched them until they were out of sight. Once they were, he turned sharply to Mac.

  “That was the stupidest damned thing I ever heard of. You’d be dead right now if I hadn’t pulled your fat from the fire.”

  Mac said, “They stole supplies.”

  “The whiskey.” Flagg nodded. “I can smell it a mile off.”

  “They beat on me to get it. I wouldn’t give it to them.”

  Flagg sighed and gave a slight shake of his head. “Mac, you’re not a bad cook, but you’re about the stupidest, greenest tenderfoot I ever laid eyes on. Northrup wanted to kill you. He sent Fontaine and Ferguson to get you riled up.”

  “Why? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Flagg shook his head and walked back toward the chuckwagon.

  “He don’t give one good damn about you,” he said over his shoulder. “Northrup wanted me. He wanted to get me mad and have the rest of the outfit back him if it looked like I wasn’t fit.”

  “We stood together,” Mac said.

  “Yeah, we did. And now we have to each do the work of two men since Northrup took his boys with him. You wanted a job as a cowboy. You might be riding night herd for a shift. And I have to ride point during the day. That means you get to drive the chuckwagon and scout our trail.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t plug Fontaine.”

  “You’ll be even sorrier Northrup didn’t plug you. The work on this drive just got a hell of a lot harder. Now, is there anything left to eat? I rounded up a hundred-ten head of cattle and brought ’em in. Those longhorned bastards are grazing, and since it don’t look like I’ve got any more sense than one of them, I should be, too.”

  “I can always scare something up for you,” Mac said. “I’ve even got a bottle of whiskey left if—”

  “No! Lem said no drinking on the trail. But I will settle for a couple of those biscuits of yours.”

  Mac grinned.

  “And stow that six-shooter of yours,” Flagg added. “There’s no need for a cook to wear a gun.”

  With that, Patrick Flagg walked away, leaving Mac unsure how to feel. He had stood up to Northrup and his men, but without Flagg’s backing, he’d likely be in a grave about now. Thinking over all that had happened, he returned to the chuckwagon to prepare the biscuits Flagg yearned for.

  * * *

  “I swear, I thought my luck had changed,” Rattler said as he and Mac plodded along on horseback with the vast herd to their left. “Instead, I got you as my partner.”

  “Flagg said—” Mac clamped his mouth shut when Rattler made a dismissive gesture.

  “We all got to do double duty, I know that. And there’s not a minute what goes by that I don’t curse Northrup and the men with him.”

  “Especially Fontaine,” Mac said, almost under his breath. He spoke loud enough for Rattler to hear. The glum look on his face told the story. Rattler shared his feelings on the matter. It was good to see those troublemakers gone, but it was hard on every one of the Rolling J cowboys remaining who now had to do the work of two men.

  “All you got to do is ride at the side of the herd and keep them knucklehead cows from wanderin’ off, thinking to find a little better graze. And,” Rattler said, heaving a deep sigh, “we’re gettin’ into Indian Territory. That means they’ll try to steal as many head as possible, then dicker with Flagg to pay ’em even more cows for safe passage.”

  “I heard him talking to the men working the horses.” Mac nodded. He understood all this and didn’t envy Flagg one little bit. “He’s afraid we’ll lose more of our mounts.”

  “Never decided if the twenty head we lost two nights back just ran off or if they were stolen,” Rattler said. “We lost track of ’em, so it don’t matter. What counts most is keepin’ the herd headed toward Abilene.”

  “I saw dust to the west of us when I was scouting this morning. Another herd’s running alongside.”

  “That’s all right out here on the prairie, but when we get closer to the railhead, it might be a problem. The ones what get to the railroad first get the best prices for their cattle. Now you drop back some, ’bout halfway from here to the drag.”

  “I’ll need to ride ahead in a couple of hours to fix the noonday meal.” Mac had scouted the route as he drove the chuckwagon ahead, parked it when he located a suitable spot, and then ridden back to help with the herd. He was riding four times as far as the men and expected to do not only some of their work, but that of the trail-boss scouting, and then take care of his own chores as cook.

  He ought to have been angry about that. Somehow, though, it made him feel good, wanted, important for the first time in his life. His euphoria died down as he realized he had felt this way once before, when Evangeline Holdstock had caught his eye. Having her as his lady had made him feel as if he were successful at last. It didn’t matter that her pa hadn’t wanted him anywhere near his daughter. She had enjoyed his company and would have married him if it hadn’t been for . . .

  He jerked around, seeing something moving at the edge of his vision. The cattle ambled along slowly, but they kept up the pace that got them decent miles to the north. He rode a few hundred yards straight away from the herd and looked around at the woods where he thought he had seen something. A black streak. Movement. He wasn’t sure what it was.

  Maybe a wolf, but more likely an Indian stalking the herd and waiting for the chance to cut out a few head for his own use.


  Mac prowled around for a few minutes but failed to find whatever it was that had spooked him. Wanting to keep hunting but realizing the cattle were going to drift away from the herd without his constant supervision, he rode slowly back. Even occasional glances over his shoulder didn’t catch whatever he had seen by surprise. By the time he was shouting, waving his hat, and sometimes using a loop of lariat to whack the balky cattle back in line, he forgot about it.

  Checking his pocket watch and then looking up at the sun for corroboration told him it was about eleven o’clock. He made one last attempt to bunch up the cattle close to the main herd, then rode faster to find Rattler.

  “Time for me to get back to the chuckwagon,” he called.

  “Don’t burn the damned biscuits this time. You turned them into charcoal lumps last night.”

  “That didn’t stop you from eating six of them.”

  “I needed the roughage. Your damned cooking’s got me all stoppered up tighter’n a banker’s wallet.”

  “I got a bottle of camphorated tincturate of opium.”

  Rattler looked aghast. “You tryin’ to kill me? That’s a paregoric and would stopper me up even tighter.”

  “I’m just offering you the chance to show your true colors,” Mac said with a grin. “Build up enough pressure and you’d purty near explode.”

  “If I get to that point, I’ll make sure to find you.”

  Mac rode off at a gallop, Rattler still going on about what it would be like once the dam broke. He doubted if any of the men actually suffered from his cooking, but he decided to hunt for more greens to throw into the pot. A diet of nothing but beefsteak and taters got boring after a couple weeks, no matter how good the steaks were. He was running low on the potatoes and needed onions for some flavor. The whole ride back to where he’d parked the chuckwagon, he pondered on how to fix the same food in different ways.

  As he rode up to the wagon, he slowed. Something felt wrong to him. He rode in a wide circle. His team had been put into a rope corral and nervously pawed at the ground, as if something had frightened them.