The Chuckwagon Trail

by William W. Johnstone

  CHAPTER 25

  Mac scrambled to pull on his boots as some of the cowboys ran past him. “What do we do about the herd?”

  His question was drowned out by the rising wind. Turning in a full circle, he located the distant tower of clouds. During the day, the formation would have been obvious: the flat bottom, perhaps the color of corroded copper, the funnel dipping down toward the ground until it finally touched. When that happened, all hell broke loose. Winds of impossible ferocity tore away at the very earth. Trees were uprooted and entire houses picked up and turned into splinters.

  He had seen one farmhouse picked up, carried three miles, and deposited so gently the windows weren’t broken or the door frames knocked out of square. But out here on the wide-open prairie, the only things to be picked up were cattle and horses.

  And cowboys.

  He made his way to the rope corral. Many of the horses were gone, either because the men had already saddled and headed out to control the herd or they had simply taken off, running in fear. The three horses left fought him as he dragged and pulled and cajoled them to the front of the chuckwagon. He hitched them up the best he could, leaving the left front spot open. He climbed into the driver’s box and sat, reins in hand.

  Mac had no idea where to go. Which way would avoid the dancing, bobbing, erratic tornado?

  The times in Missouri that a twister had swept past, he had never been allowed to watch. The family always crowded together in the storm cellar, buried next to their house. Now Mac wished his pa had let him watch so he would have some idea what to do.

  With the sky totally black with clouds and the air filled with gusts of wind and a whine that rose until it hurt his ears, he realized no amount of study could have prepared him to deal with a tornado. It went where it wanted, and it went randomly. Bouncing this way and that, it reminded him of a dark bare-knuckle fighter avoiding punches and jabs, only there was no opposing fighter and the stormy body filled with lightning flashes.

  He snapped the reins and forced the horses to pull as he shouted at them. With only three hauling a load where four worked normally, he made them concentrate on the job rather than their fear. At least, that’s what he told himself as he struggled to find a trail across the prairie and avoid thinking of the monstrous windstorm coming for him.

  He worked the horses up to a quick walk, straining as they went. Not knowing it, he headed for the herd and soon found himself surrounded by the frightened longhorns. The steers swung their deadly horns back and forth. Mac feared losing a horse to one of the slashing movements and hung back. The herd moved away, then began to stampede. The slowest cow proved faster than him with his wagon pulled by a trio of horses.

  Mac was content to follow the running herd. He hoped all the cowboys had avoided being trapped in front, yet knew that was the only way the herd could be stopped. From before, when Billy Duke and Huey Matthis died under the cattle’s cutting hooves, he knew someone had to race to the front and, using whip or gun, force the leading longhorns to turn from their course. Force them across the front of the herd, making the scared ones behind the leaders turn or run into the cattle in front.

  He wasn’t sure who rode that section of the herd. He said a silent prayer not only for that rider but for all of them.

  Deafened by the spinning storm, he kept his horses pulling until they were exhausted and stumbling. Even then he kept them moving. It took him a full minute to realize the roar had gone from the sky and that he could stop whipping the team.

  He pulled to a halt and looked around in the night. The cloudy tower filled with lightning and death had disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. The roar in his ears died, and he turned the chuckwagon around to return to where he had parked it earlier.

  As he drove, he saw that the herd had calmed, and the cowboys worked to reform it into a single giant mass. As he returned, he hunted for stray horses. Dark shapes moved in the night that might have been escaped horses, but he couldn’t be sure. Without even the flashes of lightning, it was worse than driving around in an inkwell.

  At least the herd had stopped its stampede.

  Hoofbeats sounded in the night. Mac waited until Flagg caught up with him and inquired about the condition of the wagon and team.

  “We’re all right, but I’ll need another horse when I get to scouting in the morning.”

  “Sorry,” Flagg said, “but there might not be enough horses to go around. We’ll round up what we can, but they scattered across the plains when the tornado roared past.”

  “It missed us,” Mac said. “Lucky the stampede wasn’t worse. Nobody was hurt, were they?”

  “Not that I know. I need to—” Flagg cut off his words in mid-sentence as a raindrop fell and spattered on the brim of his hat.

  At least, Mac thought it was a raindrop until he saw the white, slushy residue. Then he heard a splat on his own hat. He looked up and cried out in pain. A hailstone landed on his cheek hard enough to open a tiny cut.

  “Oh, damn.” Flagg raced off again into the night as the hail began falling faster.

  By the time Mac returned to where they had pitched camp, stones the size of marbles hammered at him. Lightning crashed through the sky again, giving the world an eerie aspect. He saw the cattle, the riders, everything in his world with that one flash. Then the storm began pounding away in earnest with hailstones of increasing size. Mac unhitched his team and dived under the wagon to watch hail the size of hen’s eggs bouncing on the ground.

  Then mixed into the thunder from the storm came the sound he had come to fear most. The herd stampeded again.

  The ice piled up until it was ankle deep and showed no sign of slowing as it hammered down. Mac hesitated to go out, but he knew the herd was again in danger. The Rolling J outfit had so few cowboys left that he felt guilty staying safely under the chuckwagon even one more minute. After brushing off his clothes, he took his yellow slicker from his gear, donned it, and went out to saddle a horse. The hailstones drove him to his knees in one heavy downfall driven by a gust of wind that threatened to rip off his hat. Only the wide-brimmed hat kept him from being bruised.

  Once more in the saddle, he headed out to find the herd. Seeing even a few cattle in the storm counted as a victory for him. Without being told, he rounded up the stragglers and drove them toward the spot where the herd had begun its stampede. From here he located a larger segment of the herd. With the hail hitting him like bullets, he kept his head down and let his hat absorb as much of the punishment as possible.

  “Glad you’re out here! We can use the help!”

  Mac barely heard the voice over the noise of the hail bouncing off his hat brim. He wiped rain from his eyes. Rattler had ridden up, and he never knew it until the cowboy shouted at him.

  “What needs doing? I can’t make heads or tails of this.”

  “We got the stampede stopped again. The cattle are millin’ around, but there’s another problem.” Rattler pointed to the cattle Mac had brought back to the herd.

  “I don’t understand.” He swiped at the rain in his eyes again and then saw what the other cowboy already had. The brands on these cattle didn’t match any on the Rolling J longhorns.

  “That’s a Lazy B brand. You put cows that aren’t ours into the herd.”

  “Where’s the Lazy B?”

  “I don’t know, Mac, but they must be close. Their herd scattered either from the twister or the hail, and we got a few head of theirs.”

  “And they got some of ours?”

  Mac watched Rattler shrug. Who could know in this storm?

  “Flagg! Over here. Flagg!” Rattler waved to get the trail boss’s attention.

  The trail boss rode over and barely glanced at the cattle Mac had added to the herd.

  “We got more’n fifty Lazy B cattle mixed in with ours,” he said without preamble. “Don’t worry about that now. Make sure ours aren’t fixing to stampede again.”

  “How can they have any energy left?” Mac marveled at how
easily the cattle spooked and how strong they were. Swinging that eight-foot span of horns had to exhaust a steer, but they always found a reserve of stamina to make life miserable for the drovers.

  “Because they are the Devil’s creature, that’s how.” Flagg spat. The hail was still falling, but at a slower rate. As Flagg rode off, his horse’s hooves crunched on the ice.

  Mac had heard the resignation and exhaustion in Flagg’s voice. The man was reaching the end of his trail even before he delivered the Rolling J herd. So much responsibility when he hadn’t signed on for it had worn him down to a nub.

  He glanced at Rattler, who pointed. Together they rode away from the herd, found tiny knots of cattle trying to escape, and worked to drive the strays back. By the time they had rounded up more than a hundred head, the storm had stopped, and the distant horizon showed dawn’s pink fingers creeping around black clouds. The weather was clearing.

  “We made it through another night,” Rattler said. “I’m gonna sleep all day long.”

  “Unless Flagg wants to get the herd on the trail to Abilene,” Mac said.

  “You have to fix us breakfast, too.”

  “And get the chuckwagon rolling to scout ahead so Flagg can move the cattle.” In spite of so much soul-crushing work looming in front of him, Mac felt oddly exhilarated. Once more he had helped save the herd and keep their goal in view.

  The nearer cattle mooed, drawing his attention. Two riders he didn’t recognize worked their way through the Rolling J herd. He called to Rattler and got his attention.

  “They’re not cowboys Flagg just hired, that’s for certain.” Rattler pushed back his slicker and freed his six-shooter.

  “They’re likely not rustlers, either. They’re cutting out the Lazy B stock.” Mac put his heels to his horse and trotted to speak with the cowboys. “You fellas finding any Rolling J cows in your herd?”

  “Haven’t looked,” one of the riders replied. “Still rounding up the ones we lost in the storm.” The cowboy had lost more than one bar fight in the past. His nose was broken and smeared off to one side. Scars crisscrossed his left cheek but not his right. Although he didn’t wear facial hair, he had the bushiest eyebrows Mac had ever seen. It took considerable willpower not to stare as the eyebrows wiggled up and down like woolly worms.

  “I herded a dozen or so into our herd at the peak of the storm. Rattler here noticed the Lazy B brand. Where do you hail from?”

  “South.”

  “Where in the south? Texas? The Rolling J is outside Waco.”

  “Know that.” The man’s horse cut suddenly, turned, and worked the cattle trying to return to the Rolling J herd.

  Mac rode over to keep the Rolling J cattle from joining the Lazy B head going back to their herd.

  “Where’s your herd bedded down? Since you’ve cut out yours, we’ll need to look for our brand and return them. Unless you want to swap?” Mac watched the bushy-browed man intently. His eyebrows rippled as he scowled and then relaxed.

  “Nope.”

  “What do you mean by that? You intend to keep our cattle? Maybe we should keep yours, just until we cull your herd.”

  “We got ours. Time to hit the trail.”

  Before he snapped his reins and got his small herd moving, Mac cut off his retreat.

  “Nope,” Mac said, duplicating the man’s tone.

  “What do you mean?” His busy eyebrows rose in an arch, as if he had no idea.

  “We need to talk to our trail boss about what he wants us to do. Rattler? Go fetch Flagg.”

  “We’re leaving.” The Lazy B rider started to circle around Mac, only to find his way blocked again. This time Mac rested his hand on the butt of his Smith & Wesson.

  “It’s mighty neighborly of you to want to talk with our trail boss,” Mac said.

  “Don’t want to talk.” Now the man reacted. He pushed back his coat and reached for his gun. Before he had the weapon half drawn, Mac pointed his cocked S&W at him.

  “We want to talk. I don’t want to shoot, but you just said you have a few head of our cattle that you won’t return or let us fetch back. That sounds like rustling to me, stealing another rancher’s cattle.”

  “You don’t want to start flinging lead around. You’ll lose.”

  “You’ll lose first,” Mac said.

  For a split second, he thought the Lazy B rider was going to throw down on him. That would make killing him self-defense, but Mac saw it as shooting a fish in a barrel since he had his pistol out and aimed. Something in his expression must have changed from doubt about shooting to certainty. The other outfit’s cowboy let his six-shooter slip back into its holster without making any other hostile move.

  “The law might see this different. You’re the one with the drawn gun preventing me from taking what’s rightfully mine.”

  Mac never wavered. He lowered his six-gun only when he heard Rattler returning with Flagg. The trail boss would know how to handle this.

  “My man’s told me you’re here to collect your cows. Glad to see you recovering them,” Flagg said. “Why don’t I send my two men with you to bring back any Rolling J cattle in your herd?”

  “You’d spook my cattle riding around through the herd. After the tornado and hailstorm and a pack of wolves we shot at a couple nights back, they’re likely to stampede again. I’m not inclined to let that happen.”

  “Your men can return any of our cows, then,” Flagg said. “One way or the other, we want our cattle back.”

  Mac chimed in, trying to lighten the mood.

  “They miss their friends.” Mac saw that his small joke fell on deaf ears. Neither the Lazy B rider nor Flagg took notice of him. They engaged in a staring contest.

  On the one side, Flagg’s face looked like a craggy, weathered image cut out of stone. On the other, the Lazy B rider’s visage might have been something carved into a tree trunk.

  “You owe us,” the other cowboy said. “After what you did to us back in Indian Territory, you owe us.”

  “We didn’t do anything. I’ve never heard of the Lazy B brand before,” said Flagg, perplexed.

  “Them townspeople were chasing you, screaming about your herd infected with Texas fever. We were passing by when they gave up shooting at you and started in on us.”

  “Lazy B,” muttered Mac. It came back to him now. A few head of cattle with that brand had mingled with the Rolling J’s. He had noticed but did nothing about it since he’d almost gotten his neck stretched by the lynch mob. Between the rope burns and wanting Dr. Pointer to get away, he had ignored the cattle.

  “That wasn’t our fault,” Flagg said. “Those people were loco, all of them.”

  “I’d heard of them. That’s why I wanted to sneak by their town, but you riled them up. We figure to have lost fifty head of cattle.”

  “Did they shoot that many?” Flagg showed his first sign of emotion. The corners of his lips threatened to curl up into a grin.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s another problem to face along the trail. Nobody ever claimed driving a herd to market was easy.” Flagg gripped his saddle horn and leaned forward. “That said, how are we going to agree on both of us getting our property back where it belongs?”

  The bushy-browed cowboy thought for a moment, then smiled. Mac thought of a wolf looking at a rabbit, wondering how slow it was.

  “I’m willing to let any of your boys hunt through our herd for, what is it, Rolling J branded cattle.”

  “In exchange for?” Flagg had asked the right question.

  Mac caught his breath when he heard the request and Flagg’s answer.

  “This seems right fair to me,” the man said. “We let you get back your cattle. You let the Lazy B herd in to the railhead before yours.”

  Flagg leaned back and said in a voice almost too low to hear, “Like hell.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “I never caught your name,” Flagg went on.

  “Why do you want to know?” The man thrust out his chi
n belligerently. The scar pattern on his cheek began to pulse a sickly pink, and his nose twitched like a squirrel sniffing the air.

  “It makes it easier to say who I think is one dumb son of a bitch.”

  Mac worried this would start them shooting at each other. Both men looked to be on the edge of a gunfight, but the Lazy B rider only sneered.

  “It’s fitting to know who’s your better. Name’s Weed. Willie Weed, but my friends call me Jimson.”

  “No reason to know that since you’ll never be among friends if you stay in the middle of the Rolling J herd,” Flagg said. “Now are you going to let my men hunt through your herd for Rolling J cattle?”

  “Are you going to let me take my cattle to market ahead of you?”

  “That sounds like we have come to what they call an impasse.” Flagg never took his eyes off the Lazy B rider as he called to Rattler, “If our herd stampeded, where’d it go?”

  “Might go north, might go northeast toward their herd. I scouted it out. The Lazy B ain’t more’n a mile off, boss.”

  “You wouldn’t do that!” Weed protested. “Starting a stampede is crazy. Both our herds would be hurt.”

  “That doesn’t have to be the way this works out, Weed. We each get our proper stock and go on our separate ways.”

  “I did a quick count,” Mac said. “We have more of their cattle than they do of ours. That sounds like a fair trade, each of us going our own trail.” He lied through his teeth. He hadn’t come to any such reckoning, and Flagg knew it. Weed must, also, but it gave him a way to save face.

  “Our cows are better quality. If you have more, you’d be stealing from us.” Weed glanced at his partner, who looked confused at the argument over the cattle.

  Mac doubted Weed’s friend was a mental giant, and if they made Stetsons in the proper shape, he would be wearing a tall, cone-shaped one and be sitting in the corner. If he had ever gone to school, that would be natural for him. Mac doubted he had seen the inside of a classroom, much less had ever worn a much-deserved dunce cap.

  Flagg stayed silent. Mac and Rattler did likewise, putting pressure on Weed to offer the solution they wanted. He finally did.