The Chuckwagon Trail

by William W. Johnstone

  The farmer pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 20

  The bullet passed within an inch of Mac’s nose. He jerked away so abruptly that he fell off his horse. He landed hard, then had to curl up in a ball to keep the horse from stepping on him as it nervously pawed the ground. Rolling got him away from the hooves. He came to his feet, sorry now that he hadn’t worn his Smith & Wesson.

  Then he realized the farmer had no qualms about plugging him. If he’d slung his gun belt around his waist, the nester had reason to kill him outright. With both his boys as witnesses, the murder would be overlooked by the local law.

  Mac held his hands up to make sure the farmer saw he wasn’t going for a hideout gun.

  “I’m not armed. You can’t murder me in cold blood.”

  “Not cold.”

  “Do you cut down anyone who rides up to your spread?”

  “Farm. Only cowboys call it a spread.”

  Mac saw the determination in the man’s face. He believed he was protecting his farm against destruction, and no amount of talk would convince him otherwise.

  “I’ll go. Let me mount and ride on out.” He started to lower his arms, but the set to the farmer’s body made him freeze. He kept his hands over his head as he went to his horse, found the reins, and pulled himself up into the saddle.

  Even mounted, he held his hands up where they were in plain sight.

  “I don’t take kindly to being shot at like that.”

  “Kill him, Pa,” one of the boys said. “It’ll save trouble later. It will!”

  Mac saw that the boy’s attitude was come by honestly. The farmer considered the merits of doing as his son suggested.

  “No need for any more shooting,” Mac said quickly. “I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t come back.” The farmer pointed with the rifle, then pulled it back into line with Mac’s chest.

  Hands still up, using his knees to guide the horse, he turned and started the animal walking away. More than anything in the world, he wanted to gallop. He felt the gun centered on his spine. Another bullet would shatter his backbone, killing him if he was lucky and leaving him paralyzed if he wasn’t.

  Still, lighting a shuck like that would show how frightened he was of the farmer and his two sons. It never paid to show weakness. But when he topped a rise some distance away and out of sight of the farmer, Mac brought the horse to a gallop to get as far away as possible from the homicidal sodbusters.

  As he rode back in the direction of the herd, Mac took care to memorize every detail of the countryside. This was the route they needed to get back on schedule, but the farmer stood in their way. Going around him and his property was possible, but Mac worried that would only add to the delay.

  Flagg saw him before he located the trail boss. Trotting up, Flagg looked grim.

  “I hope you’ve got good news, Mac. I crossed the river, and sure as shooting, we’d be going into the middle of a damned oxbow, like I feared. If we don’t find a quick trail on this side of the river, we’ll be another week behind getting to Abilene. Give me some good news. You find a good way to the west?”

  Mac explained his problem with the farmer. He took his hat off and examined it for new holes. The bullet had missed both him and his hat, but that was the only good luck he’d had.

  “I’ve come across men like that farmer,” Flagg said as he eased his back in the saddle. “There’s no reasoning with them.”

  “If we had some money left, he might be convinced by the flash of greenbacks.” Even as the words left his lips, Mac regretted reminding the trail boss how he had used the drive’s money to pay for liquor to get Marshal Wilkinson drunker than a lord. It had been necessary to spring Flagg from the jailhouse. That incident brought back unpleasant memories for both of them.

  “He’s got at least two boys. Probably a wife. Maybe other family in the house. Younger boys, girls. That’s quite a brood to feed. A cow would give them fresh meat for a week. Two cows, with one’s meat jerked and salted, would last them through the winter.” Flagg looked at the clear blue sky. “This part of the country gets mighty fierce Blue Northers blowing through come January. Snow two feet deep makes a body rely on stored food. We can be the difference between starving and living to plant in the spring.”

  “Maybe you can make the case to him. I was warned off.” Mac remembered the whine of the bullet past his face. “And watch out for his boys. They’re young but bloodthirsty.”

  “I crossed a well-traveled road a mile back that away,” Flagg said, pointing. “It has to lead to a town. You go on in and ask around for other ways to move the herd through. That one farmer might have a bug up his ass for no good reason. Others liking the taste of prime beef can be persuaded.”

  “How many cattle can I offer?”

  “Use your own good judgment, Mac. Right now, I’d give half the herd to get the rest through, but that’s a mite extreme and my aggravation speaking.” Flagg rode away, leaving Mac to stew. He had a new job. Not only was he cook and scout and wrangler, now he was a negotiator.

  Kicking at his horse’s flanks, he got onto the road Flagg had found and turned toward town. A twenty-minute ride took him to the edge of the settlement. He looked around before slowly riding down the middle of the main street. Nobody turned away from him. They all showed the usual curiosity about a stranger, but nothing hostile. Not one of them scowled at him or spat like the farmer. The nester had taken one look and opposed him and the herd going across his land.

  Mac tied his horse to a ring in front of the general store and went inside. He heaved a sigh when he saw all the supplies he couldn’t afford.

  “Howdy, mister,” the proprietor greeted him. “What can I do for you?”

  “Not a whole lot unless you’re willing to swap a cow or two for supplies. I’m with a herd that’s been on the trail for close to six weeks, and we’re running low on a lot of things, like vegetables.” Mac took a deep sniff of a box holding onions and garlic bulbs. Those would go a long way toward giving flavor to whatever he fixed for the cowboys.

  “Don’t swap like that. Wish I could.”

  “Could? Is there something keeping you from dealing with a trail drive?”

  The man had close-set eyes and a long, pointed nose. The mustache on his lip twitched like a mouse’s whiskers. He looked around as if someone might trap him. Two women at the back of the store measured cloth from a big bolt. The clerk looked back and shook his head.

  “Can’t do business like that. Can’t.”

  The women stared coldly at Mac. He politely touched the brim of his hat and flashed a smile. The younger woman’s lips crinkled up in the beginning of a return smile, only to be quickly quashed by the older woman. Turning back to the clerk, he asked in a low voice, “Who’s the woman wearing the gold cross?”

  “That’s the pastor’s wife. And her daughter Ruth.”

  “It didn’t take her long to come to a conclusion about my character, did it?”

  The clerk started to laugh, then sobered and nodded brusquely.

  “They got their reasons. Now if you want to buy something, it’s cash on the barrelhead. No trading.”

  “Much obliged.” Mac turned to leave, only to find the door blocked by a man with big girth and a star pinned on his vest. He nodded politely and said, “Marshal,” then waited for the lawman to move so he could leave.

  The marshal didn’t budge.

  “You come on with me,” the lawman rumbled. “We got to talk.”

  A thousand things flashed through Mac’s head. Not the least of which was the chance that this star packer had seen the wanted poster like the one he’d snatched off the marshal’s desk in Lewiston and taken from the barber in Waco. But the man stood with his thumbs hooked behind his gun belt. He made no move for the heavy iron dangling at his hip. If he intended to arrest a man wanted for murder in New Orleans, he likely would have brought a scattergun with him. At the very least, his revolver would be pulled and aimed, not resting easy in i
ts holster.

  “I always enjoy a friendly chat.”

  “That’s what it’ll be.” The marshal stepped back and let Mac out.

  As he exited the store, the hairs on the back of his neck rose, waiting for the marshal to draw that six-shooter and buffalo him. Or worse. Getting shot in the back made an arrest a lot easier. But the marshal huffed and puffed as he caught up.

  “Over there’s my office.”

  “That’s convenient. Right next to the saloon.”

  “I didn’t pick it. With the saloon that close, I have to break up more than my share of fights that would otherwise take care of themselves. Yes, sir, I’ve seen two men whaling away at each other like mortal enemies. After a few punches and maybe a bloody nose or swollen eye, they use each other to stand up, then go back in to drink. They’ve gotten to be best of friends.”

  “But now you throw them in the calaboose?”

  “Something like that. We got men who hate each other’s guts now when they ought to be drinking buddies. Why, two men who came to town as partners now cross the street if they see the other. Mark my words, one of these days, one’s gonna shoot the other, probably from ambush and in the back.” The marshal shook his head sadly. “That’ll be a pity. Both of them are good men.”

  “A man like you should be able to talk them out of their feud. Why don’t you move the jail away from the saloon? There must be other places that would serve as well.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind.” He heaved his belly up and down, using both hands. With that he went into the jailhouse, strode around to his chair and sank down. The wood creaked as it took his bulk.

  Mac looked around. There wasn’t a chair for him to sit. He moved closer to a sheaf of wanted posters nailed to the wall. He didn’t see himself peering back from the top one, so he figured it was safe to stand there.

  “We want you folks to just keep on going,” the marshal said. “This is a peaceable town, ’cept when drovers come through. Then things get out of hand.”

  “We have to move on pretty quick, Marshal,” Mac said, “but if we cross the river, it’ll add a week or more to our travel. That farmer out west of town took a shot at me.”

  “That must be George. Him and his boys are pretty . . . religious.”

  “I ran into the preacher’s wife and daughter over at the general store. That was an experience.”

  “I’m sure it was. Let me guess. The girl took to you right away, and Mrs. Hunnicut didn’t.” The marshal grinned at Mac’s expression. “If it was the other way around, you’d be out of town by now, driving your herd like a son of a bitch.”

  Mac frowned. “Are you saying it’s the preacher’s wife who’s against us driving the herd across farmland?”

  “You didn’t hear that from me—no, sir. I’ll lie like a trouper if you say I did, too. I have to live in this town, and the pastor’s got an iron grip on folks and their opinions.”

  “And his wife has an iron grip on him.”

  “You are one smart gent.”

  “Why is she so opposed to trail drives? Or is it the men? I promise we won’t come into town, not a one of us. There won’t be fights or saloons shot up. Nothing of the sort.”

  “You’d be surprised how many trail bosses make that claim.” The lawman cleared his throat. “And I’m always surprised how many keep that promise. But one of them didn’t when Mrs. Hunnicut was a youngster. Promises were made and broken. The drive went right through one of her pa’s fields with winter wheat just sprouting. Ruined it. The family came close to going bankrupt.”

  “And?”

  The marshal bounced his paunch, then stood.

  “You’re way too smart to be a cowboy. You ought to get a job where you can use that brain of yours. I never heard, and she don’t tell anyone, but I suspect something else went on.”

  “Forcibly?”

  “Never had that feel to her words. More like she fell for one of the cowboys, and he used her for his own pleasure before moving on with the herd.”

  “She can’t blame every cowboy for what one did!”

  “It’s not logical, but if you’ve ever been in love, you know logical’s not got a whole lot to do with it.” The marshal eyed him closely. “I see a glimmering there. You do know. Now, clear on out of town, or I’ll have to run you out on a rail. You’re smart enough to know why.”

  “Where’s the pastor’s church?”

  “Now, son, you’re showing me a stream of black, tarry stupid. Getting Pastor Hunnicut to talk his wife into letting you do squat is not going to happen. Ever. Not this side of the Pearly Gates.”

  “I don’t want to drive the herd up there,” Mac said, eyes rolling toward the heavens, “but I have an idea that might appeal to both the preacher and his wife.”

  “More power to you. Just don’t make me arrest you.” The marshal shooed him out of the office and followed into the street. “And it’s not a cell you’ll be seeing the inside of if you try wooing Ruth Hunnicut as a way to her ma. It’ll be the inside of a coffin.”

  “Don’t worry, Marshal.”

  “I won’t worry. I never do. I just keep the peace and make sure Mrs. Hunnicut doesn’t disapprove of whatever I do.”

  Mac watched the rotund marshal waddle away and started to fetch his horse back at the general store. He hesitated. A quick look at the stack of wanted posters would tell him if Leclerc had spread the word about the murder at the Dueling Oaks this far north. He twisted this way and that, then decided not to look. The marshal wasn’t the kind who ignored details, not if it kept things quiet in town. A notorious murderer would have him hauling out his six-gun as fast as he could. While he might not be all that fast reaching around his beer gut, a dozen deputies might rove the town keeping the peace, too, for all Mac knew.

  He mounted his horse and rode slowly through the town. Townsfolk weren’t hostile at all, and this marshal certainly didn’t have an attitude like Marshal Wilkinson. Everything rational could be talked about. At least he hoped so. He halted when he saw the church steeple rising behind a store on the main street. Cutting down an alley, he found the road running to the church. It was well kept, whitewashed, and had two men cutting weeds down in the front. To one side stretched a cemetery divided off into sections.

  As he rode past, he saw that both the Elks and the Masons had maintained plots for their members. The rest of the cemetery showed some disrepair, but not enough to cause mention. As he rode to the side of the church, his half-baked idea turned into a solid conviction.

  Before he could enter the front, the preacher came out, clutching a Bible to his chest as if it would protect him from any bullets Mac sent his way. He was a medium-sized man with a mostly bald head and watery blue eyes behind a pair of spectacles.

  “Good afternoon, Reverend.” Mac took his hat off and held it with both hands, waiting for acknowledgment.

  “My wife saw you in Mr. Dunlap’s store,” the preacher said without returning the greeting.

  “If that’s the general store, I reckon she did, sir. She was measuring some mighty pretty cloth, for a dress, unless I miss my guess.” Mac held back his opinion that it would be a dress for their daughter because that would just derail whatever goodwill he had going so far.

  “She’s handy with needle and thread.”

  “I’m sure she is, sir.” Mac said nothing more. The preacher got a bit nervous. When he started to speak, Mac cut him off. “I’ve talked with your marshal. A fine lawman, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is. I—”

  “He agreed that a town social is exactly what everyone needs before the weather gets real cold.”

  “Social? What’re you talking about?”

  “On behalf of the Rolling J ranch and Mr. Jefferson, the owner, we’d like to host a church social.” He pointed to the area freshly cleared of weeds. “That’s a fine place for me to do the cooking.”

  The sky pilot frowned, obviously baffled, and said, “What are you going on about?”

 
“Why, I’m sorry if I didn’t make it clear. I’m the Rolling J cook, and my boss would appreciate the chance to show his appreciation for everyone in town by doing a Texas-style barbeque right here. You can do a little preaching, the folks can socialize. Why, I suspect this might draw in people you haven’t seen in awhile, maybe not since Easter.”

  “There are, indeed, those who only make it to church at Easter and Christmas.”

  “Well, they’ll want to sample prime beef done up special just for them. If you want to make it a potluck, you can get the ladies involved and let them show off their cooking and baking skills.”

  “That’s a good idea. Something Mrs. Hunnicut has been talking about.”

  “We have to move on soon,” Mac said. “The next couple days would be fine for us. I’m sure we can get everything arranged by then. How many cows should I fix? One? Two? There’d have to be a donation to the church, of course. A couple more cows?”

  “A donation?”

  “I can dig a roasting pit over there, away from where it would cause any trouble and be easy to fill in afterward. You’ll never know it was there.”

  Mac and the preacher walked about the yard, making arrangements until Mrs. Hunnicut came out of the church with her daughter trailing behind. It took a bit more convincing, but with both the preacher and his daughter working on the woman, she finally relented. From there, Mac felt as if he were racing downhill, the wind at his back.

  All he had to do now was convince Patrick Flagg that hosting a church social was the way to get the herd moving again.

  CHAPTER 21

  “You’re such a good cook,” Ruth Hunnicut said, peering into the pot Mac stirred slowly. “Are you going to keep cooking like this after you’re married?” The honey-haired young beauty looked at him with wide brown eyes. Her earnest expression made him a tad uneasy.

  “Only if I had a houseful of children to feed.”

  “How many children would you like?”

  “I cook for twenty or so cowboys. At least that many.”

  “Twenty?” She looked perplexed. “That’s a powerful lot of kids running around. What job would you do to keep them? And a wife?”