Trail Dust

by Clarence E. Mulford

  “We’re gettin’ low on Arbuckle, too,” said the cook, whose love for coffee was almost proverbial, and straightway lapsed into a near coma caused by intense thought. Suddenly he looked up. “Th’ wagon?” he asked, in surprise. “Take a couple of weeks in th’ wagon. A pack hoss would be better.”

  Hopalong shook his head, and his smile grew.

  “We won’t be gone very long. We’ll take th’ wagon.”

  The cook’s expression bespoke a great curiosity.

  “Whereat we goin’ to git all this stuff?”

  “Waggoner’s store,” answered the trail boss, glancing quickly at Red Connors.

  Red stiffened and stared across the fire at his grinning friend.

  “An’ I never thought of it a–tall!” he exclaimed.

  “By Gawd, that’s right! We crossed Sulphur Crick this mornin’ an’ Gypsum this afternoon: that’s right!” Blood surged into his lean, tanned face, and the firelight glinted redly from his high cheekbones. He turned and faced the cook. “Tomorrow mornin’, cook, I’ll show you where Pete thrun a growed man plumb through a two–inch plank door, an’ where Johnny shot a feller right smack through a water barrel.”

  “Tomorrow mornin’ you’ll help Lanky bunch th’ herd an’ step it right along,” said the trail boss shortly. He was thinking fast. He had turned a little so he could look out toward the bed ground, where the cattle were peacefully resting, and where he hoped they would continue to rest peacefully until dawn got them up. There were no bummers in the herd, and if they lay down again after their midnight stretch all would be well.

  “Ain’t I goin’ in with you?” quickly demanded Red, with a show of spirit.

  “You’ll bunch th’ herd an’ step it right along,” repeated Hopalong. “An’ th’ boys will all stay with ’em, only they’ll ride well back in th’ brush. All except Billy, behind th’ drag. He’ll be enough to keep ’em movin’ rapid. There’s a bunch of thick brush, in some mean, broken country, about two hours up th’ trail. Before you get to that, you swing th’ herd to th’ left, out into th’ open, an’ you keep it in th’ open till after you get past th’ next crick. There ain’t goin’ to be no doors busted down this trip, not with a thousan’ head on our hands. Besides, we’ve had one stampede already. One’s enough. Time to relieve Johnny an’ Pete?”

  “We can let th’ herd spread out near th’ bed ground,” suggested Red, who owned a persistence annoying at times. This was one of those times. “They can look out for themselves for a little while. If you an’ cook are goin’ in to Waggoner’s, then th’ whole mess an’ boilin’ of us are goin’ with you.”

  “I just told you who was goin’ in there,” retorted Hopalong. “You heard me, didn’t you?”

  “Shore, I heard you!” snapped Red. “An’ you heard me!”

  “I been hearin’ you ’most all my life,” retorted Hopalong. “She goes as I dealt it,” he stated, blood surging into his dark face. “I’ll git along all right.”

  “You? Hell, I ain’t thinkin’ about you! Th’ whole Southwest is plumb cluttered up with trail bosses; but, lemme tell you, a good cook is kinda scarce. We can git along without a boss, but we got to have a cook an’ chuck wagon!”

  “Gettin’ high–toned an’ all swelled up, ain’t you?” jeered Hopalong. “Many’s th’ time you’ve got along without no cook, an’ with a pack hoss instead of a wagon. Me an’ th’ cook are goin’ in by ourselves.”

  “You know damn well what kinda honkytonk Waggoner’s is!” rejoined Red.

  “Waggoner ain’t so bad—it was th’ crowd that used to gang up in there,” retorted the trail boss. “Since we had that ruckus that time, I’ll bet you Waggoner’s a whole lot sweeter.”

  “Just th’ same, he’ll be layin’ for you!”

  Hoplong smiled, the flickering firelight playing over his face.

  “Well, then we’ll be even up on that,” he said. “Push th’ cattle right along, Red. We’ve got ’em this far, an’ they’ve got to go through.”

  “All right,” grunted Red, with reluctance; “but if you two hoss thieves ain’t back in camp by dark, Mister Waggoner shore is goin’ to look like that water barrel of his’n, come mornin’.” Despite himself, his frown shifted into a grin as he remembered that water barrel, with a dead man behind it, and two little streams of rainwater squirting gently to the ground.

  “We’ll be in camp in time for cook to get supper for you all,” promised the trail boss, himself grinning. “Time for you to relieve Johnny an’ Pete, ain’t it? You know how much you have to say when yore relief is late.”

  Again Red glanced at the alarm clock hanging on the side of the wagon, grunted something, and slowly uncrossed his legs. As he stood up, Lanky also got to his feet. The latter had remained silent, along with the others, preferring to enjoy the little squabble without taking part in it. Skinny and Billy, already rolled up in their blankets, now drifted off to sleep. Everybody knew what would happen over at Waggoner’s if the trail boss and cook failed to show up before dark. Red and Lanky tightened their belts, glanced up at the star–riddled sky, and moved slowly toward the picketed night horses over beyond the tongue of the wagon. Leather suddenly squeaked, hoofs sounded loudly and swiftly died out.

  The cook, watching the indistinct movements beyond the wagon tongue until the two riders were swallowed up in the night, turned a curious face toward his boss.

  “What happened at Waggoner’s?” he hopefully asked. He had heard of Waggoner’s trail station, but this was the first time he ever had been near it.

  Hopalong stirred, came back to the present, tossed a weed stem on the glowing coals and watched it flare up and shrivel.

  “Tell you that some time when I don’t need my sleep,” he grunted, reaching out a hand for the little roll of blankets behind him. He took off his hat, pulled off his boots, unbuckled his crossed belts, and then flipped the blanket roll. Another flip opened them up into a trailer’s bed, minus such fancy fixings as a mattress, and in another moment Hopalong was in and between them. He sighed, shifted a little, and relaxed. By the time Johnny and Pete, still grumbling over the lateness of their relief, rode in from the bedded herd and picketed their horses, the trail boss was gently sleeping.

  The two men stopped at the water barrel, both making faces as the gypsum made itself known. They each rolled a good–night cigarette and lit it. The cook glanced up from arranging his own blankets and nodded. He pampered himself with a hay–stuffed mattress. In a few minutes shadowy, blanket–swathed figures, feet to the warm glow of the fire, radiated like spokes of a wheel, and the silence of the night was disturbed only by the loud ticking of the noisy nickel alarm clock, pounding away with a generous sounding board behind it. Out in the blackness of the night time dragged slowly past, and then the herd, getting to its feet for a stretch and to change position, blew, grunted, and slowly lay down again. The two guardian riders let their singing drop almost to a hum and kept on with their slow circling.

  IX

  Tom Waggoner was a relic of the buffalo–hunting days, days not so far in the past. His part had not been hunting, or even skinning; but he had made a modest stake. His equipment had been a two–horse team, a strong, light wagon, a barrel of trade whisky, and an assortment of tin cups. He would leave town with a full barrel and head out over the prairie for the buffalo hunters’ camps and rendezvous, peddling whisky. There was danger in his business, for whisky starts fights; and fights in buffalo hunters’ camps were not parlor affairs. There also had been the steadily growing hostility of the Indian tribes as their food supply was slaughtered off and the remainder driven ever southward and out of their territory. Tom Waggoner had survived because he was as hard, as tough, and as vicious as the men among whom he moved.

  The buffalo–hunting business did not last long, but another activity grew up as the buffalo were killed off. The growth of the latter depended upon the death of the former: driving cattle over country covered with buffalo was just not done. The first l
onghorn herds through this section of the country followed, by choice, a difficult trail, but one reasonably devoid of buffalo; the incidental hardships of the poor trail were to be preferred to a better trail through roving buffalo herds.

  Waggoner was a whisky peddler, but soon the peddling was done. He adapted himself to the changing conditions without giving up the whisky business, and he did it by digging and building a sod hut within a mile of the cattle trail and west of it. The building had one room, which served as bar, kitchen, and bedroom. There was a small stock of trail necessities, but he placed his chief dependence on his old line of goods.

  His was the only shelter, the only habitation for miles around. It was located on the top of the north bank of a small ravine, in the bottom of which was a small but unfailing spring of fairly good water. Farther down the ravine he had thrown up a small dam and thereby made himself a pond, which he surrounded by a rough but strong fence. Trail herd cattle could drink here at one cent a head; and there were periods of varying duration each summer when the pond was a distinct asset.

  Naturally enough, Waggoner’s became the gathering place for all kinds of men, many of whom had no visible means of support, no visible trade; but who usually had money in their pockets. Cattle were steadily on the move from spring well into the fall, keeping the dust stirred up like a yellow fog. Waggoner’s business thrived, and he steadily built up a reserve, which he banked far from his place of business.

  The last of the buffalo were killed off or driven onto the Staked Plains or into the wild, rough country around them. A better cattle trail was discovered farther west, one with better and more plentiful water, and with better grazing and less thickets. The course of the herds changed, and followed the new way; but Waggoner, apparently rooted to the bank of the little ravine, did not follow. The new trail was west of him, and a considerable distance away. Earning a living was not so vital a question for him now: he had earned it and laid it away; but the trade he was in had become a part of him, and he kept it going for want of something better to do.

  He was a person of some importance. His stand was a rallying, a gathering point for the men who had become his friends and cronies. The little dam had long since crumbled away, the fence had been used for firewood; but Tom Waggoner’s stand of buildings had grown. There was now a ramshackle stable, built against the threat of the swift and punishing assault of occasional northers; there was a frame building with a long walnut bar, a cannon stove, round tables, a score of heavy chairs, and a provision counter with shelves behind it. A flyspecked chromo of Robert E. Lee hung askew behind one end of the bar; one of Jeb Stuart, behind the other end. A long tie rail ran past the front and along one side of the building. The sod hut was now a bedroom exclusively, stocked like an arsenal, its low walls strengthened by a thickness of adobe. On that great expanse Waggoner’s was but a speck; but it was not unknown up and down the long frontier. And wherever it was known, it was spoken of as being as tough a hangout as any of its kind. Its habitués were ex–buffalo hunters and skinners, army deserters, horse and cattle thieves, and others “wanted” in various parts of the country.

  * * * * *

  The cook drove the wagon, but his boss preferred a horse and rode even with the wagon seat. They passed over the top of a gentle swell and at once the trail was lost to sight. They headed directly into the rising sun, its rays slanting in under the brims of their big hats. Being so early in the morning, it was still cool—even chilly—and the mirage was not yet in evidence. In the dry, clear air, vision seemed to be almost telescopic. The tar bucket, filled with axle lubricant swinging underneath the running gear, jerked at its chain at the end of each swing. The wheels slid back and forth on their thimbles, making a sharp, clacking noise; and occasionally the kingbolt clicked as the strain abruptly changed on a downward slope. The nigh horse clamped his tail over the reins and made the driver swear.

  The cook’s curiosity was simmering. He was riding straight toward a tough joint where his companions of the trail had fought a battle with its habitués. His foot lifted to the brake handle and eased the wagon down a steep pitch, and as the tugs tightened with the pull up the other slope he glanced at his silent boss. In his mind he was picturing a crashing plank door and seeing little twin jets of rainwater gently squirting from the opposite sides of a water barrel, one of them to spread a crimson stain over the ground. The trail boss was placid, but submerged in thought. The cook cleared his throat inquiringly, but the sound was ignored. After a moment he spoke, loudly.

  “What started th’ fight at Waggoner’s, that time?” he asked, his eyes on the horseman. The reins sagged, and the nigh horse promptly clamped them down.

  “Water–hole charges for drinkin’ our cattle,” growled Hopalong and went back to the business of thinking. Matters of strategy were in his mind. It was always well to think out the lay of the land beforehand. He was searching his memory for details.

  “Water–hole fees are regular,” asserted the cook, frowning because of deep thought.

  “Cent a head: yeah,” grunted Hopalong and again submerged.

  The cook scratched his head and cogitated. That was right and customary. Again he glanced at his silent and preoccupied companion in the saddle.

  “Nobody had no cause to fight about that,” he stated dogmatically.

  “No,” grunted the trail boss.

  Silence ensued.

  The cook squirmed and tried again. There was some mystery here; he had always found his companion to be fair–minded.

  “How come there was a fight, then?”

  “Water fees: ten cents a head,” growled the trail boss, somewhat irritably, and resumed his thinking.

  “Great —— ——!” said the cook, his mouth opening. “Ten cents a head!”

  This marvel occupied him for perhaps a minute as he turned it over and over in his mind. Color surged into his face. Ten cents a head: just like holding a man up and taking his money. It was worse than that, even. Why, even an idiot knew that a cent a head was the regular price. Phew! Again he glanced at his companion and then at the rear end of the nigh horse. A sudden jerk freed the reins from the tail which held them clamped down, and caused both horses to turn swiftly to the left. He got them straightened out and said unkind things to the nigh horse.

  “Did you pay ’em?” asked the driver, holding the reins high, out of the reach of that damned, persistent tail.

  “Yeah: with lead,” grunted the trail boss. “Yo’re as persistent as a fly before a rain!” he growled, glaring at the cook, and forthwith sank back into the depths of his thinking. The picture was clear now.

  Hopalong was getting the buildings arranged in his mind as they had been at the time of his last visit. The stables joined onto the wagon shed, and the wagon shed joined onto the main building at the rear, and on the south side. Joined to the wagon shed were the stables, and against them on the south was a closed shed for holding firewood, harness, and junk. This also butted against the rear, north corner of the sod dugout, whose door opened against it. The wagon shed was open to the east. A man could pass through the whole range of buildings without being visible to anyone on the trail side, the front. He could leave the store and saloon and gain the shelter of the dugout fort without showing himself to anyone who might ride up from the direction of the new cattle trail. From the east he could be seen, perhaps, passing through the open wagon shed. Hopalong unconsciously nodded: it was a right good layout and well worth the thought which had been bestowed upon its construction. Then a new thought struck him obliquely: why hadn’t Waggoner moved when the trail shifted, so as to be handy to it for the selling of supplies and drink to the trail outfits?

  “How come Pete thrun that feller through a plank door?” asked the cook, glancing quickly at his boss.

  “Pete was in a hurry, in a damn tough place, an’ th’ door was closed,” explained the trail boss and again mentally submerged.

  Again the cook savagely jerked the reins from under the nigh horse’
s tail and damned the animal in no uncertain language; but he was careless a moment later and let the reins sag; and again the nigh horse clamped down on them, and again was heartily damned.

  The air close against the earth now began to simmer and dance. A blur outlined distant objects, and they quivered and became distorted. The hatbrims now adequately served their destined purpose against the direct rays of the sun, and the heat steadily increased. The tar bucket jerked against its chain, the nigh horse again caught the driver unawares, and the wheels slid back and forth on the thimbles. Behind them lay a faint line of dust, but the stirring wind kept it there. A flint–covered flat was covered, another long slope mastered, and then the wagon stopped for a breather which was not needed. A line of indistinct warts sat perched on the edge of a ravine, bleached silvery gray by many suns. Tom Waggoner’s trail station was now in sight. The two men regarded it thoughtfully.

  Down on Red River it was Doan’s; up here, Waggoner’s. They were similar only in the fact that they both served travelers. Doan’s was law–abiding, a mail point, and gave no invitations to outlaws. Doan’s was reputable and a godsend to trail outfits.

  Hopalong sat quietly in the saddle, considering a point which had been well debated. Should he ride in with the wagon, from the front, and perhaps put himself at the mercy of some hidden watcher; or should he turn aside, ride in a circle, and come up from the rear, toward the open side of the wagon shed? Time had passed since his last visit, and time blurred a man’s memory; but it was to be doubted if Waggoner ever would forget anything connected with that fight.

  He looked at the cook.

  “Head straight for th’ door,” he said. “They’ve never seen you before. Jog along an’ take it easy. Comin’ from th’ trail like you are, in a chuck wagon, they’ll know what you want as soon as they see you. There ain’t nothin’ to make ’em suspicious. I’m driftin’ south, keepin’ off ridge tops. I’ll get there just about th’ time you do. If everythin’ goes sweet they won’t know that I’m around, mebby. Let th’ liquor alone, don’t waste no time, an’ pull out for th’ trail as soon as you can.”