The Chuckwagon Trail

by William W. Johnstone

  Mac had no idea how much time he had before they overtook him, but they had found the trail easy enough. Even he could have done that in spite of the darkness. So many horses tore up the ground as they raced along. Mac vowed they wouldn’t get all the horses, especially the one he rode. If he had to abandon the others, so be it. Better to have a story of failure than to lose his scalp.

  “Damn it, why won’t you keep going in the direction I want?” He swatted at the lead horse, only to be ignored. The horse had a mind of its own. “What? You smell your barn stall? Is that it?” He started to lasso the horse and forcefully drag it toward the east.

  As the pursuing hoofbeats welled up, he gave up the attempt and leaned back to pull his rifle from its saddle scabbard. The Indians had caught up with him. He swung around, lifted the rifle, and squeezed off a round. In the dark he fired blind. He heard the commotion the bullet caused but saw nothing to show he had even come close to any of the braves. Another round didn’t produce any better results. Then the leading Indian galloped toward him, a war lance leveled and aimed at his chest.

  Forcing himself to remain calm, Mac got off a third shot. The Comanche tumbled over the head of his horse and somersaulted along the ground to land flat on his back, staring up at the stars. Mac started to congratulate himself on a good shot when he realized the horse had stepped into a prairie dog hole. The Indian would have gone down, shot or no shot from a tenderfoot’s rifle.

  He pulled the trigger again, aiming into the middle of the black mass surging toward him. The hammer fell on a dud. He levered it out and a bullet whined past his head. Confused, he stared at the rifle, got a new round in, and heard two more bullets sail past him. A quick pull got another bullet out of his rifle barrel, but it joined a dozen others, all coming from behind him.

  Mac let out an excited whoop and called, “This way, boys! I got the horses the Indians stole. Give ’em hell!” He fired until his rifle came up empty.

  By then the Comanche tide had broken, turned back, and retreated. They had no stomach for fighting what had to be the entire Rolling J outfit.

  “You did it,” Mac went on excitedly as riders clustered around him. “You boys surely did pull my fat from the fire.”

  Mac grinned at the rider beside him, but that grin turned into a puzzled stare. Mac’s mouth opened, then closed. When he got his senses back, he asked, “Who’re you?”

  He looked at the half dozen others and didn’t recognize a solitary one of them, either.

  “Who are you?” He asked again as he worked to get his rifle reloaded, but the man beside him reached over and plucked it from his grip.

  “Ain’t no need for you to fire that no more.”

  “Who are you?” Mac asked for the third time.

  “We’re the owners of these here horses. Thank you kindly for fetching them back for us.”

  “Wait, you can’t take those horses, too. Those are Rolling J horses.”

  “Not anymore. They belong to us for all the trouble we went through.”

  “Come back here!” Mac reached for his knife, only to realize a blade against almost a dozen armed cowboys was a one-way ticket to the boneyard. He caught sight of the brand on the rump of one rider’s mount as the man trotted past, keeping the horses bunched in a tight knot.

  H Bar H.

  “I was going to give back your horses!” Mac shouted after them. “You can’t keep the Rolling J’s!”

  His words faded in the night, ignored. In a few minutes, he sat alone in the darkness. The pounding hooves had disappeared to the north. Mac took off his hat and smacked it against his leg in frustration.

  “That pretty well explains why those horses weren’t inclined to go the way I wanted. They knew where their home was—with the rest of the H Bar H remuda.”

  He considered heading back to the Comanche camp to find Flagg, then realized all he would accomplish by doing that was to get himself killed. Once more finding the nighttime stars to guide him, he headed east for a couple miles, picked up the trail of the Rolling J herd, and turned northward. By midnight he rode into the camp.

  “That you, Mac? Damn me if I didn’t think you was dead.” The sentry snorted as he shook his head. “Truth is, I lost a dollar bettin’ that you were.”

  “I’m glad you lost that bet. Who’s been acting as trail boss? I need to talk to him.”

  “What’s wrong with Flagg? He rode in a couple hours ago.”

  “Where? Where is he?” Mac trotted into camp and found the trail boss quickly enough. Flagg, Rattler, and a half dozen others sat around a low fire, drinking coffee.

  “Mac!” Rattler greeted him. “’Bout time you showed your face. Pull up a rock. Have some coffee that don’t take a layer of skin off your tongue.” Rattler held up his tin cup. “I fixed it myself.”

  Quickly, Mac swung down from the saddle. “Flagg, you’re not dead. When the Comanche came after me, I thought—”

  “I’m better than any bunch of redskins.” Flagg coughed and looked sheepish. “Truth is, I fell off my horse and lay in a ditch while they rode past. When they found out they weren’t chasing anything except an empty saddle, they came back hunting for me. By then I was ready. I jumped one of them, took his horse, and came right on back. But what about you?”

  Mac rushed to get his story out and ended, “So the H Bar H riders took all the horses, even ours. And I was going to return their horses!”

  “At least they ran off the Indians,” Flagg said. “Dealing with Compass Jack is easier than arguing with a Comanche raider . . . although not by much.”

  “Let’s get over to the H Bar H herd and get those horses back right now!”

  “Settle down. We both need a night’s sleep, and you have to fix breakfast for the boys tomorrow morning. Then we’ll ride along and see what kind of a deal we can make.” Flagg spat. “I’m afeared Compass Jack is going to ask for a few head of cattle to give us back our own horses. That’s still cheaper than leaving our scalps with the Indians.” He took off his hat, ran his hand over his mostly bald head, then laughed. “Them Indians would have been mighty disappointed lifting this scalp. There’s not as much of it as there was once upon a time.”

  Mac was all fired up and sure he could never get to sleep, but once he unsaddled the horse he’d been riding, he supposed there was nothing else to do but turn in. As he passed Flagg on the way to his own bedroll, the trail boss slapped him on the back and said, “Glad you got back all safe and sound.”

  “Thanks,” Mac said, touched by the gesture.

  “Yeah. Rattler’s coffee is worse than yours.”

  * * *

  Mac felt as if he had ridden into the Comanche camp and was surrounded by warriors wanting nothing more than to count coup on him before killing him. He stood close to Flagg, who kept his distance from Compass Jack Bennett. The two trail bosses had started with a staring contest. When that proved unwinnable on either side, they resorted to threats. Neither was moved. Mac felt they had sanded down the rough to the actual matter now, but lead might fly at any instant.

  “You got horses with the Rolling J on their hindquarters, Compass Jack,” Flagg said. “You know why they got those brands? Those are Mr. Jefferson’s horses.”

  “They were all mixed up in a herd of ours,” Bennett replied. “That means they were out running free, and we claimed them cayuses.”

  “After Mac here stole them back from the Indians, who’d taken horses from both of us. We don’t want much. Just our horses back. We’ll let you keep the ones of yours that were stole by the Indians, even though it was a Rolling J man who got them back.”

  “Now ain’t that mighty fine of you, letting me keep my own horses? If my men hadn’t come along when they did, you wouldn’t have this fellow beside you. He’d be dead and buzzard bait by now.”

  “Looks like we’re even.”

  “How can that be?”

  “He got your horses back from the Indians, you saved his life.”

  “We’re keeping
them. Those horses are property of H Bar H now.”

  Mac caught his breath. That was about as plain as Bennett could put it.

  “You want me to offer a few head of longhorns in exchange for the horses, don’t you? I won’t do it.” Flagg sounded adamant.

  “There ain’t much else I’d trade ten horses for, not out here.” Compass Jack sounded as set in his ways.

  Mac felt a rush of inspiration. Sometimes boldness was called for. He said, “There might be something you’d hanker after that I’ll bet you haven’t had since leaving Waco.”

  Compass Jack frowned at him, as if seeing him for the first time. “Now what might that be?”

  “We’ll trade you a custard pie for the horses.” Mac’s heart felt like it was about to explode in his chest. He had no business getting involved in Flagg’s dickering, but he read both men pretty good. Neither was going to budge.

  “You will?”

  Mac had to laugh. Both men asked the same question at the same time.

  “I will. If I get you a custard pie before evening chuck, you’ll give us back our horses.”

  Compass Jack didn’t hesitate. “Son, you’ve got yourself a deal,” he exclaimed as he grabbed Mac’s hand and pumped it like he was drawing water from the center of the earth. “Now you go fetch that pie.”

  He nodded to Flagg with a smirk, turned, and began yelling orders to his men to get the H Bar H herd moving. Flagg took Mac by the arm and steered him away.

  “What was that about? You can’t deliver no damned custard pie. We lost our horses. Worse, when I ransom them, Compass Jack will charge me a couple longhorns per head now.”

  “We need the horses, right?” Mac’s mind raced. “I can deliver that custard pie. Let’s get back to the outfit.”

  The ride back passed in utter silence, Flagg glaring at Mac and saying not one word. For his part, Mac went over the times he had watched his ma fixing pies. When they returned to where the chuckwagon was parked, he hit the ground, tossed his reins to the nearest cowboy, and never paid any more attention to what happened to the horse. He had work to do.

  Getting out the fixings, he worried about the flour laced with salt. If he put plenty of spice in, that wouldn’t be noticed. He had cinnamon enough to hide any salty taste in the crust.

  “I need milk,” Mac called to Rattler. “Get on out to the herd and find a couple cows to milk. There’s got to be some with their udders still full.”

  “Might have to nose out a calf, Mac. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” Rattler laughed, and the men crowded behind him did, too.

  “Damned right I do. Get to milking.”

  “Where are you getting eggs?” Flagg motioned for a couple of cowboys to get out to the herd with a bucket for the milk. “You think of that?”

  “I’ve had a half dozen turkey eggs bouncing along for a few days that I didn’t know what to do with. Frying them wouldn’t do any good since I could only serve a few of the men. This benefits everybody.”

  The questions flew fast and furious. Mac ignored them and only spoke to impress men into his service. When they realized he was handing them more work, they began drifting away. That suited Mac just fine. By the time the milk came, he had whipped up the turkey eggs and started the crust.

  Milk, eggs, spices, he had the custard filling ready to pour into the crust after it had baked a few minutes. He sampled it. The taste was odd because of the salt, but he poured in the custard and returned everything to the Dutch oven before he leaned back to rest.

  “You got a full meal to prepare. Get to it.” Flagg took special pleasure in driving him.

  Mac felt good about his pie. Food was served and consumed, with more than a few of the cowboys asking to sample just a little of the pie. One even came up with a complicated idea of slicing out a piece, then scooting the rest of the custard around to cover the spot where the sample had been removed. Mac chased them away, using his wooden cooking spoon to rap knuckles and push joking men back.

  “All ready, once it cools down a mite,” Mac told his trail boss. “I’ll need a few hands to go with me to make sure those horses don’t get away from me again.”

  “I’m going. I got to see Compass Jack’s face when you give him that pie.” Flagg whistled, got three men saddled and ready.

  Mac found a crate and carefully placed the pie inside. Using burlap bags, he made a cushion, then gingerly settled down in the saddle with the crate in front of him. Riding as if he carried a crate filled with nitroglycerin rather than a pie, he headed north to where the H Bar H herd had bedded down for the night.

  Compass Jack sauntered out to greet him. The trail boss looked up and grinned.

  “Come to tell me you promised something you can’t deliver?”

  Mac lifted the lid on the box and said nothing. The trail boss’s nose twitched as the aroma wafted out. He took a step closer and licked his lips.

  “What’s that in the box?”

  “What’s it smell like?” Mac asked.

  “A fresh-baked pie. You have one in there? You baked a custard pie?” Compass Jack reached up, but Mac held onto the box.

  “We have some horses to cut out of your corral. Then I’ll pass it over.”

  “Let me look at it. Let me sniff.” He did exactly that as Flagg and the other Rolling J cowboys went to the H Bar H remuda to retrieve their mounts.

  “Here you go,” Mac said, handing the crate over. “I have to ask one thing, though. How are you going to divvy it up among your men?”

  “That bunch of scoundrels?” Compass Jack laughed. “I’m taking a piece. I ought to eat it all for myself.” He looked sly. “But I won’t. A couple of my boys got shot up fighting the Indians. They get first dibs on a piece. After that, well, we’ll see.”

  “Not much will be left,” Mac predicted.

  “Won’t bet against that.” Compass Jack took another sniff, then looked at Mac when he was sure Flagg could hear. “You want a job cooking? I can bury my cook where his body’ll never be found.”

  “The maggots will betray the burial plot,” Flagg said.

  Compass Jack shook his head.

  “Won’t happen. He’s already put every last one of them slimy little worms into his biscuits.”

  “Mac has a job. Don’t you, Mac?”

  Mac heard the joshing tone and knew things had been patched up between Compass Jack and Flagg.

  “I’d have to watch my back. Every single man in the Rolling J outfit would come to kidnap me back. Sorry, Mr. Bennett, I’ll stay where I am.”

  Flagg got the small herd of Rolling J horses moving, leading the way back to their camp. As Mac stepped up, Compass Jack reached out to take his arm.

  “Just so you know, he’s aiming to steal your herd.”

  “Who’s that?” Mac frowned.

  “Deke Northrup. Him and his gang wanted jobs with the H Bar H, but I chased them off. While he was here, I overheard him saying he had big plans for the Rolling J cattle. Watch your back. He’s a mean one.”

  “Thanks,” Mac said, stepping up into the saddle.

  Compass Jack had already called for his cook to bring his sharpest knife and cut the thinnest pieces possible. Mac smiled. It wasn’t possible to make a small pie stretch out for more than forty men, but every one of them would at least get a taste. As he galloped after Flagg, his exhilaration at doing good faded, and Compass Jack’s words began to gnaw away at him.

  “Damn you, Northrup.” He put his heels to his horse to catch up with Flagg and tell him what he had learned.

  CHAPTER 15

  Mac drew alongside Flagg and said, “It might just be that we’ve got a problem.”

  “Nope, no problems, thanks to you,” Flagg said. “Was that pie any good? Surely did smell good.”

  “The flour I used for the crust had salt in it, but you could hardly taste it by the time I added enough spices. But that’s not the problem.”

  “Problem is you can’t make one of them for us. You had to give the pie to
Compass Jack Bennett, damn his eyes.” Flagg laughed. “That old cayuse owes me for this. Stealing Rolling J horses is one thing, but taking a pie ransom the way he did is something else. When we get to Abilene, I—”

  “Flagg! Listen up. You had ridden away already when Compass Jack told me what he’d overheard. Deke Northrup is planning on rustling the herd. The Rolling J herd!”

  Flagg cocked an eyebrow. “Do tell. I wondered where he went when he and them mangy dogs of his left us in the lurch the way they did.”

  “Northrup’s shown he won’t stop at anything to make trouble for us. Fontaine and the other two owlhoots could have killed me if I hadn’t cut myself free.” Mac instinctively reached and touched the knife sheathed at the small of his back. That knife had saved him, all right, just as it had taken Micah Holdstock’s life.

  “He’d find himself in worse shape than we are. We’re shorthanded, but we got more riders than him. Almost twice as many. How’s he expecting to drive that many cows to Abilene? Those knuckle-headed longhorns would be scattered from here all the way to the Canadian border in a day. He’d need every last one of his gang to ride night herd. Nope, Mac, you worry too much.”

  “Compass Jack thought fit to warn me.”

  “Because he knew I’d say to him what I just said to you. Ain’t gonna happen, no way, no how. You get yourself a good night’s sleep. You have to be up early to feed everyone and then get to scouting our trail.”

  “I looked around the H Bar H camp,” Mac said. “Following them all the way into Abilene might make scouting easier, but our cows are going to get mighty hungry. There wasn’t hardly enough grass for Compass Jack’s herd. If we come along a day later, ours will starve.”

  “Good for you, keeping your eyes open and not getting all caught up in the horse–pie swap. I saw that, too. That means your job just got a bit harder. The Shawnee Trail stretches out across the countryside for miles and miles. Find a spot we can use that hasn’t been cropped like a bunch of damned sheep have passed through.”