The Chuckwagon Trail

by William W. Johnstone

  “You three. Nobody else. Come on over to my herd, and you got one hour, no more, to find any cattle wearing your brand.”

  “Fair enough. You and two more of your men can ride through the Rolling J herd hunting for your cattle. Nobody else.”

  “I’ll send men. I’m not taking my eyes off you three.”

  “Suit yourself.” Flagg signaled to a trio of night riders heading in to sleep and told them what he was going to do. Mac saw them sag in the saddle. They knew they had to extend their shift another hour. Worse, with the cook heading off with the trail boss, their breakfast was going to be delayed.

  Weed and his partner galloped back toward the other herd, leaving Flagg, Mac, and Rattler in the dust. Flagg motioned for them to ride on either side so he could talk to them.

  “Keep an eye out for our brand and others, too. I get the feeling Jimson Weed up there’s something of a rustler. The law would like to know how many different ranches he’s herding cattle for legally—and which he’s not.”

  “Gettin’ our longhorns back ought to be enough, boss. Weed looks like trouble.” Rattler kept moving his slicker back so his gun was easily drawn. He finally shucked off the oiled cloth and rolled it as he rode. This freed his holster.

  Mac thought that was a good idea and duplicated the process, only with less skill. He almost dropped his slicker but finally tucked it under a rawhide string on his saddlebags. By the time they reached the Lazy B camp, Flagg was ready for action, too.

  “Do you think they’ll try to drygulch us?” Mac looked around the camp. The men stirring all looked like hardcases. He’d as soon expect to see their pictures on wanted posters as them herding cattle south of Abilene.

  “When you see other brands, don’t react,” Flagg cautioned. “These men didn’t start with a rancher’s herd. They stole these cattle, picking off strays from other herds on the drive north.”

  Mac looked at Flagg. The trail boss ground his teeth together. His hand shook just a mite as he held the reins. The idea of a roving band of rustlers didn’t set well with him, not at all.

  “Is there any need to go too deep into their herd, boss? If our cattle joined up, they’d be on this side.” Rattler didn’t flinch as the Lazy B cowboys stared at him like he was going to be a buzzard’s dinner.

  “Play the cards as they’re dealt. We don’t want trouble.” Flagg rode toward the herd, then stopped. “Watch your backs. Weed didn’t send any of his men to fetch the Lazy B cattle in our herd.”

  Mac rubbed his hand across his coat to dry the perspiration. While there could be any number of reasons, the one that burned brightest in his head was Weed gunning them down, getting more Rolling J riders over and killing them. They’d have numerical superiority over the remaining drovers. Stealing the entire herd would be easy enough if they outnumbered the remaining Rolling J riders by two to one.

  “Do you suppose Northrup has anything to do with them?” Mac looked around. “He promised to steal our herd.”

  “Don’t worry none about Deke Northrup. He’s halfway to Canada by now. I know his kind. He talks big, but when push comes to shove, he’s nowhere to be found.” Flagg shifted around and squinted to get a better look at the cattle. “There’s a pair of ours. Rattler, tend to them while Mac and I hunt some more.”

  Rattler spat out a curse, but he did as he was ordered. In a short time, Mac had located eight more Rolling J cows and had driven them back to where Rattler waited impatiently. Their tiny herd grew in size when Flagg drove back a dozen.

  “You see any of those boys ride over to our herd?” Flagg wheeled his horse around as he spoke to Rattler in a low voice.

  “Boss, those lazy louts never moved off their butts. There’s the same number here as when we rode in.”

  “I was afraid of that. They’ll ambush us, given the chance. Keep your gun ready. You do the same, Mac.”

  Mac slipped the leather thong off his S&W’s hammer. The chance of it bouncing out as he rode increased, but he warily kept one hand near the butt now. If more than one of the Lazy B riders threw down on him, he would drill at least one of them and maybe more. He was glad now that Flagg had insisted on him practicing not only his draw but his marksmanship. Getting clear of the holster first didn’t matter if he couldn’t hit anything.

  Mac imagined the other cowboys as being tin cans and whiskey bottles sitting on a fallen log. One by one, he fanned off rounds in his mind and hit each one squarely.

  “Mac! Pay attention. Weed is making his way through the herd. I don’t know what he’s doing, but it doesn’t look right.”

  Mac forgot his fantasy of gunning down a half dozen of the others and tried to make out what Weed was up to. Turning and cutting, he moved a bunch of cattle away, toward the far western side of the herd as if hiding it.

  “He heard you say to check only this side of the cattle for ours,” Mac said. “Let’s see if I’m right.” He snapped the reins and got his horse into a trot, only to find himself swallowed up by milling cattle. Trying to rush through the herd had been the wrong thing to do. The cattle reacted.

  Flagg kept his horse at a slow, steady walk. The cattle parted as he came, towering over them. Swinging left and right in the saddle, Flagg guided his horse among the shiny horns faster than Mac would have thought possible. Seeing how well this tactic worked, he slowed his headlong rush and worked over to Flagg’s wake. Even following the trail boss this way proved difficult. As quickly as the steers parted for Flagg, they closed back in and blocked Mac. Cursing under his breath, he made as much progress as he could but fell back minute by minute.

  He heard Flagg call out to Weed, “That’s mighty nice of you to cut out our cattle for us. All these have Rolling J brands.”

  Weed’s reply was muffled. Mac saw Flagg ride closer, then he and Weed grappled and fell from their horses. This caused a reaction in the nearby steers. They moved away to form a small clearing in the center of the herd. They also crowded back toward Mac, further blocking his path while the two men wrestled.

  Mac stood in the stirrups but only saw an occasional arm or leg rising and falling. Weed and Flagg fought, but who was winning remained hidden by tons of beef. Seething at the slowness of his progress, he moved toward the small area where Weed finally swung and decked Flagg. The Lazy B rider got to his feet and stumbled back. Mac whipped out his revolver and started to shoot when he saw Weed going for his gun. The distance was too great for him, but it didn’t matter. A longhorn bumped into Weed and knocked him to his knees.

  This gave Flagg a chance to get to his feet. Mac worked closer and yelled, “I’ll be there in a second. Hold on!”

  He came within a couple yards of the two men.

  “You were trying to steal Rolling J cattle,” Flagg said. He had squared off. His hand rested on the leather holster slung at his side. His fingers tapped once, twice, then became perfectly still as he bent forward slightly, ready to draw.

  “Your herd is mine.” Weed’s hand flashed for his gun.

  He was fast. Flagg was faster. He cleared leather and fired, the round catching Weed high in the right shoulder and spinning him around. From his vantage mounted and looking down, Mac saw what Flagg couldn’t.

  “Shoot him again. He—”

  That was as far as Mac got before Weed ripped off another shot. Flagg stood upright. He raised his gun for another shot, then sank down as if the bones in his legs had turned to mush. Mac raised his pistol and aimed the best he could on a nervous horse buffeted around by longhorns. Flagg had taught him to aim properly. He squeezed the trigger, felt the kick of the Model 3 in his hand. Then the world went berserk around him.

  The cattle snorted in fear and stirred. He broke through the final ring of longhorns and dropped to the ground, kneeling beside Flagg. The trail boss looked up. His eyes were clear, but his lips were drawn back in pain.

  “Damned son of a bitch shot me in the gut. Mac, don’t ever let anybody tell you getting shot doesn’t hurt. Hellfire. That’s what it feels like.
”

  “Don’t move. I’ll get you out of here.” Mac almost laughed at the irony. Flagg lay wounded on the ground, and the first cow he saw as he looked around carried a Rolling J brand. He got his arms around Flagg’s back and heaved him to his feet. For an instant, Flagg stood under his own power. Then his legs quit on him again, almost carrying Mac to the ground. Heaving, Mac got him up and onto his horse.

  Only then did he go hunting for Jimson Weed. He pushed past frightened steers and found a patch of sticky mud where a considerable amount of blood had been shed. Gun waving around, he sought the man who had gunned down Flagg. Past a dozen heifers clustered together, he saw Weed’s hat bobbing up and down. He took aim and fired.

  “No, Mac, don’t. Don’t.” Flagg’s weak warning came too late.

  He had clean missed Weed, but the report pushed the herd into a full frightened run. Whirling around, he found his path back to his horse and Patrick Flagg blocked by several steers. He scrambled onto the nearest longhorn, found purchase with his boot against a horn, kicked and launched himself through the air. He skipped over a second cow and landed hard, belly down over the rump of his horse. The animal reared, tossing him off.

  Mac lay on the ground. All he saw surrounding him were hooves backed by thousands of pounds of fear. He curled up, got his feet under him, and climbed to his feet. His horse reared. Flagg tried to stay in the saddle and control it. As the front hooves landed hard on the ground, Mac threw his arms around its neck and pulled hard, bringing the horse to its knees. This let him mount with Flagg behind him.

  The horse got back to its feet, giving Mac a horrifying view all around of a herd building up steam for a full-out stampede.

  “That way.” Flagg rested his arm on Mac’s shoulder to point out a thin spot in the sea of cattle.

  The horse understood, even if Mac was slow to see the opportunity for escape. They raced through the increasingly thin herd until they burst out behind the stampede. Mac brought the horse around and stared at the destruction moving away from them. Hooves pounded at the muddy ground so hard it felt like an earthquake. He almost galloped after the herd, thinking only to get in front and turn the lead steers.

  Then he felt wetness on his back. Flagg still clung weakly to him, but the blood leaking from his belly wound soaked into Mac’s coat, vest and shirt.

  “Hang on,” he said. “I’ll get you back to the chuckwagon and get you fixed up before you know it. Then we can go after the Rolling J cattle mixed in with the Lazy B stock.”

  “Ride, stop stam . . .” Flagg’s voice trailed off.

  Mac worried he had died, but the man straightened himself and shifted his grip so he hung onto Mac’s gun belt. Fingers slipped underneath gave a more solid way of staying atop the horse.

  Ride fast? Ride slow? Mac worried which was better for the wounded man. He decided getting to the wagon and what supplies he had there mattered more than the jolting gait of the horse as it galloped. By the time he found the chuckwagon parked beside a stream, the sun had poked all the way above the horizon.

  “I’ll have good light to bandage you up,” he told Flagg.

  “I’m gonna miss your biscuits. Damn, boy, you do them good.”

  “You won’t miss them. I’ll whip up a batch for breakfast. And for tonight, too. You can have those biscuits at both meals. And anytime until we get to Abilene.”

  “Good. I like that.” Flagg started to slide off the saddle. Mac grabbed his arm and lowered him the best he could. It almost sent him falling to the ground, but he kept his balance and also prevented Flagg from taking a tumble.

  Arm around the trail boss, he walked to the chuckwagon and heaved. Flagg helped and flopped into the bed, resting on a pile of burlap sacks. He rolled over onto his side and rested his head on a curled arm.

  “That’s not much of a pillow. Here.” Mac slid a sack of beans under the injured man’s head. Flagg lay flat on his back, staring up at the clouds moving sluggishly across the sky.

  “Might rain again. Hope no twister. Hail. Can’t stand more hail.”

  “Take a sip of this. It’s medicinal.” Mac helped his patient swallow a little whiskey. When Flagg kept it down, he gave him some more.

  “Never wanted to drink on the trail. Bad.”

  “This is medicine, not booze.” As Mac talked, he used his knife to cut away the blood-soaked vest and shirt above Flagg’s wound. “I’m no doctor, but it doesn’t look too bad.”

  “Is the bullet still in me? Got a pain in my back.”

  Mac rolled Flagg onto his side and cut away more vest and shirt. The exit wound was three times the size of the entry.

  “You are one lucky galoot. I don’t have to go digging around inside you to find the bullet. It went smack-dab through.”

  “Go back. Find it,” Flagg said. He grinned. “Want a souvenir.”

  “The scars on your tired old body will have to do. By now the cattle have tromped the lead into the ground.” He grumbled a bit and said loud enough for Flagg to hear, “I hope they stomped Weed into the ground, too.”

  “Trampled weeds. All kinds.” Flagg tried to laugh but winced in pain.

  “More medicine, then this.” Mac poured the alcohol onto the wound. Flagg arched his back and cried out. As he came off the sacks, Mac poured more onto the bigger wound in his back. Flagg passed out from the pain.

  Mac had some medical supplies. He unwrapped bandages and wound them around Flagg tightly enough to prevent more bleeding. He was trying to make the man comfortable when Rattler rode up.

  “By all that’s holy, how’d Flagg get shot?” He came over and examined Mac’s bandaging and nodded in approval. Rattler picked up the bottle, obviously thirsting for a taste. Looking at Flagg made him put the cork back in. “He needs it more.”

  “What about the stampede? I don’t hear the uproar out there anymore.”

  “I tell you, Mac, them cows won’t have an ounce of fat on ’em when we get to Abilene if they keep tryin’ to run off like that. We turned them at the creek, not a mile away.”

  “What about the Lazy B rider? The one I suspect is their trail boss? Weed’s his name.”

  “Is he the one what shot Flagg?” Rattler gripped his six-shooter.

  “He’ll pay for gunning him down,” Mac said. “I swear it. What about our herds?”

  “The two are all mixed up like that salt in the flour. It’ll take a day or longer to cut ours out.” Rattler hesitated, then asked, “With Flagg down and out like this, who’s our trail boss?”

  “You, I reckon. You’re experienced and—” Mac lost his balance when Flagg reached up and took his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. The man’s eyes fluttered open, but he looked squarely at Rattler.

  “Mac. Mac’s . . . trail boss. I say so.” Flagg closed his eyes and passed out. His breathing became shallow and uneven, but he was still breathing.

  “I can’t,” Mac said. “I’m a cook.”

  “You didn’t know nothing about cooking ’fore you signed on. At least now you know all about riding herd and scouting. From his condition, I’d say you’re pretty good at doctoring, too.”

  “I can’t do all this. I have to cook. I have to scout. I—”

  “Hey, fellows!” shouted Rattler, waving to the cowboys coming in from turning the stampede. “Mac here’s the acting trail boss while Flagg is laid up.”

  “Good,” said the nearest rider. “That’s real good. Now where’s breakfast? A trail boss never lets his men go hungry.”

  Dewey Mackenzie tried to argue, but no one listened to him.

  CHAPTER 27

  “He’s out of his mind. He’s been gut-shot!” Mac threw his hands up in the air, frustrated that the Rolling J cowboys wouldn’t listen to him. “He’s passed out.”

  “I heard Flagg as clear as day sayin’ that you’re trail boss whilst he’s recoverin’.” Rattler looked around at the other hands, who were eating the breakfast Mac had prepared hastily. “Some of you boys heard him, too, while you were ridin�
�� up. Ain’t that so?”

  “That is the gospel truth,” one cowboy said. Others joined in until Mac knew he faced rebellion if he didn’t assume command of the trail drive.

  “I’m doing half a dozen jobs already,” he said, more to himself than any of the men. “Why not trail boss, too?”

  “As long as you don’t let Rattler fix the coffee, I’m good with doing what you say, Mac.”

  This proved to be the general consensus, over Rattler’s protests that he was able to boil a decent pot of coffee. The men gathered round and stood silently. It took Mac a second to realize they were waiting for his orders.

  He looked at Flagg but got no help there. The trail boss slept peacefully now. His breathing still sounded like a smithy’s bellows, and his face was pale, but that could be blood loss and shock. There wasn’t a whole lot more Mac could do for him. But the herd? It had to be tended right away.

  “Get back out there and cut out the Lazy B cows. Then I’ll go and talk to them about getting our cattle back.”

  “Why not call it even? We got more of their scrawny runts than they do of our prime beef,” Rattler opined. “More in our herd, better in theirs.” He scratched his head. “That don’t sound right. You say we get ours back, then we do, Mac. Let’s go, fellas.”

  Mac finished cleaning up after their breakfast, poured some water into Flagg’s mouth. Flagg choked at first, then got the hang of swallowing while he was still passed out. Mac took that as a good sign the trail boss would make it. He finished packing, made sure Flagg was comfortable on a bedroll and some burlap sacks, then hitched the team and started out, hunting for a trail to follow. The ground was all torn up from the storm and the many stampedes of two entire herds.

  He cut across and headed for the spot where the Lazy B cowboys had camped. It was time to settle accounts with them. Before he got halfway, he reached back, retrieved his gun belt, and strapped it on. It felt right dangling at his hip. And this time he wasn’t going to hesitate to use the S&W, should it come to that.