Trail Dust

by Clarence E. Mulford

  Hopalong shook his head ruefully, for if there was one thing he loved it was straight draw poker with a good crowd.

  “I’m right sorry to miss it,” he said, grinning. “Only chance I’ll have to play, mebby. I don’t figger to hang around this town very long after I’ve got shut of th’ herd.”

  “Hell, man! You aren’t planning to go back the same day you deliver!”

  “Well, mebby not,” admitted Hopalong, well knowing what a riot such a decision would cause in his little cow camp. “Reckon th’ boys deserve to have a fling; but I’d shore feel safer if they were back on th’ trail ag’in bound for home.” He smiled ruefully. “An’ me with ’em,” he added, “with all that real money in my pockets.”

  “Shucks,” grunted the buyer. “I guess you can take care of it.”

  Hopalong’s face hardened, and a look came into the pale blue eyes that was not pleasant to see.

  “I shore aim to try damn hard.”

  “Oh, yes!” hastily said the buyer. “You understand, of course, that you are to load the cattle on the cars?”

  “Shore,” answered Hopalong with a smile. “We’d do that anyhow.” He laughed gently. “Just to make shore we’d got rid of ’em!”

  “Have any trouble on the way up?” asked Babson.

  “Oh, two–bits’ worth, here an’ there,” answered the trail boss; “but we kept comin’ right along. Well, I’ll say so–long now an’ make dust. You’ll see me day after tomorrow.”

  “Have a drink before you go?”

  “No, reckon not. Much obliged, just th’ same. See you later.”

  Inside the hotel office the bearded man yawned, turned, and held out the magazine toward the clerk.

  “Read that,” he said, with a frown. “An’ gimme another cigar. They’re still writin’ us up, back East, as bein’ wild an’ woolly. This here feller writes about Abilene. Hell, Abilene’s been dead for three years. What th’ hell does them Easterners know about us?”

  “Not a whole lot, but th’ fools don’t know it,” replied the clerk, glancing at the open page. “But they’re mebby right about Abilene, at that,” he admitted with true small–town prejudice.

  “Abilene? Gawd, yes!” fervently exclaimed the bearded man; “but take this town, now: it’s so law–abidin’ it makes a feller feel too damn virtuous. Why, we ain’t had a killin’ since—well, since last night, anyhow, far’s I know.” He ran his fingers through his beard. “You take th’ buffalo days, now: them was real days!”

  “Reckon so!” exclaimed the clerk. “When th’ wind was right, you could smell them hides on th’ freight platform clean acrost th’ town!”

  A shadow darkened the doorway, and a cleanshaven man, dressed in the gambler’s conventional frock coat, stepped into the room.

  “Hello, Bolton,” said the clerk with oily amiability.

  “Hello, Marshal,” said the bearded man.

  The town marshal looked levelly at the last speaker.

  “Spud Murphy’s lost his hoss,” he said almost accusingly. “You ain’t seen it, have you?”

  “Me? Gawd, no!” hastily exclaimed the bearded man.

  The marshal slowly shifted his gaze to the face of the clerk.

  “Who’s in th’ back room?”

  The clerk hastily told him.

  The marshal grunted something, turned on his heel, and moved toward the front door. He almost bumped into the cattle buyer.

  “Excuse me, Bolton.”

  “My fault,” grunted the marshal. He grinned. “If you got a saddle hoss, you better take it to bed with you. There’s been eight stole since last night.”

  “Well, that’s an improvement!” laughed the buyer. “That’s two better than the night before.”

  “Reckon that’s because hosses are gettin’ scarce,” chuckled the marshal, and then stiffened as three quick shots sounded outside. He flung open his coat and stepped swiftly through the door.

  “Town’s comin’ to life a little earlier than usual,” observed the clerk.

  “But what th’ hell did Bolton look at me for when he asked about Murphy’s hoss?” demanded the bearded man with a trace of indignation.

  “You voted for Steve Jordan, didn’t you?” asked the clerk.

  XXVII

  The herd poured down the long slope leading to the river, crossed the famous ford, and streamed across the flat pasture on the other side. Hopalong was sitting his motionless horse squarely on the railroad track, watching in both directions: he hoped no train would come clanking and roaring past while the herd was in sight of the right of way. Remembering how the roan had acted in town two days before, he much preferred that these range animals should not be faced with such a test.

  Over the track without pause and on again, the herd angled off toward the northeast, east to gain mileage toward town and north to take them out of sight of the track. Through herds pointed slightly to the west, bound for the Sawlog and the great trail along it; but Bulltown and its pens lay to the right. As soon as the drag had crossed the rails the trail boss swung his horse around and passed the herd, joining Red at right point.

  “You figger we’ll get shut of ’em today?” asked Red with restrained eagerness, the excitement of the town already stimulating him. After three months of take–it–as–it–comes along the trail, the town would look good.

  “It all depends on a few things,” answered the trail boss, himself feeling a mild excitement; but it was not because of Bulltown and its varied attractions, but rather because of a big job almost finished.

  “Yeah?” demanded Red with ill–concealed suspicion. “I reckon you figger to hold us all in camp for three, four days, huh?”

  “No,” growled his companion. “Babson’s got to count this herd an’ look it over; he’s got to have his cars at th’ loadin’ chutes. There’s other things, too.”

  “Thought you said th’ cars was there?” demanded Red quickly.

  “I said cars was there: he himself didn’t know that they was his. Babson’s company ain’t th’ only outfit buyin’ beef!”

  “Reckon not,” growled Red and went back on the offensive. “Well, what are th’ other things, then?”

  “After he’s accepted them they’ll have to be drove into th’ big pen, an’ then into th’ little loadin’ pens, an’ not more’n twenty to a pen. Th’ big pen’ll hold ’em all; but they ain’t enough little pens to take ’em all at one bite. You know that! You was there last year. Even at th’ best we’ll be all day, an’ mebby part of th’ next day gettin’ ’em into th’ cars. You been growlin’, right along, this trip: but before th’ last critter is loaded on that train you’ll mebby have some real reason to growl!”

  “Any growlin’ I done I shore learned from you!”

  “An’ that goes for about everythin’ you know, too!” snapped Hopalong.

  “Then I wouldn’t have to know very much, would I?” retorted Red.

  “Don’t you get all lathered up: you don’t know very much!”

  “I shoulda picked out a smarter boss, huh?”

  “If you had, he’d–a fired you damn quick.”

  “That so?” demanded Red.

  “You know damn well it is.”

  “Huh!”

  On across the high, rolling prairies, over a thin coverlet of grass like no grass found off the prairies; grass curled down and scanty, but with an amazing nutrition; grass which had fed countless millions of buffalo for countless years; grass which, with their passing, would also pass. A man keenly observant of the ways of nature would have said, even then, that the grass was already passing. The freighters of an era whose dust had scarcely settled had said the same. Interfere with a natural balance, and no one can say where the repercussions will end.

  They checked the herd in a gentle prairie depression between two rolling slopes. Cook stopped the wagon on the northern side of the south slope; stopped the wagon, unharnessed the horses, tossed his saddle from the wagon box, and in a few moments was all dressed
for town: he had slicked his hair and greased his boots. Now he threw the saddle on the back of the nigh work horse and was cinching up. He would ride out to the cavvy, get himself a real horse, and be on his joyful way. The loose end of the cinch strap tucked in place, he for some reason of his own led the saddled animal away from camp, keeping the wagon between it and the herd. Once over the crest of the rise, he mounted and rode toward Skinny and the cavvy, careful to keep below the skyline of the ridge.

  Skinny saw the grinning cook riding toward him from the other side of the horse herd, and the wrangler scratched his head at this mystery: why should the cook come so roundabout? Why should he come to the cavvy at all? Skinny grinned, believing that he knew the answer.

  “’Lo, Skinny,” said the cook, with repressed excitement and unusual friendliness.

  “’Lo, cook. What you want?”

  “Two things: a good hoss an’ th’ lend of some money.”

  “Well, take yore pick of th’ hosses,” said the wrangler, generously waving his hand at the cavvy. “There’s Hoppy’s bay, now: he’d only whale hell out of you if you took that. There’s Red’s pet roan, an’ a damn good hidin’ goes with that. That big sway–back is in Pete’s string, an’ you know all about Pete. Take yore pick, cook: but pick damn careful!”

  “Show me one of Billy’s,” said the cook, his anxious eyes on the distant herd. “Hurry up, Skinny: I ain’t got all day!”

  “You figger you can lick Billy, huh?” asked the wrangler with a grin. “I figger different. Bet you two to one you can’t.”

  “Hurry up: show me one of his; an’ lend me five, ten dollars,” urged the cook, squirming in the saddle.

  “I’ve already showed you two, three good hosses, an I ain’t showin’ you no more,” replied Skinny, ironing out his grin. “An’ I can’t lend you no money because I ain’t got nothin’ smaller than a two–bit piece.”

  “Huh?” asked the nervous cook, surprised. He turned this remarkable statement over in his mind, and he did not like the sound of it.

  “You heard me,” retorted Skinny.

  “Why, you —— —— fool! What good is two bits?”

  “Listen, cook,” said Skinny earnestly and in a low voice. “I’m another man of this outfit that you can’t lick. Two bits is just twenty–five cents more than I would lend you if I had a hull barrel of gold; an’ you make any more mouthy passes about me bein’ a—— —— fool, or any other kind, an’ you won’t have no interest a–tall in no hoss a–tall! If you want money, get it off of Hoppy: you got three months’ wages comin’ to you, like all th’ rest of us. Who’s goin’ to do our cookin’ for us while yo’re on yore bender? An’ who th’ hell ever told you that a trail cook could go to town before a rider?”

  “Aw, I’m comin’ right back! Lend me th’ two bits.”

  “I never offered you no two bits, an’ yo’re not comin’ right back because yo’re not goin’. You go back to that wagon, strip off that saddle, an’ start makin’ up some biscuits: biscuits, an’ not no bread! You hear me?”

  “Th’ hell I ain’t goin’ to town!”

  “That’s shore th’ hell of it, because you ain’t. Now, I ain’t got no money; but I’ve got a good saddle, a fair belt, an’ a good gun; a pocketknife, half a sack of tobacco, some rawhide strings, an’ two extry shirts: I’ll bet you th’ hull caboodle of ’em ag’in a month’s pay that you don’t go to town first.”

  “Aw, Skinny, we was allus good friends!”

  “Well, yo’re shore gettin’ fixed up to bust up th’ friendship, then. G’wan back to th’ wagon—before Hoppy ketches you sneakin’ off!”

  “Aw, for two pins I’d——”

  “Listen!” interrupted Skinny in a voice which was no longer low or pleasant. “If you had two pins you’d be a rich man; an’ if you did, I’d make you eat ’em! You go back to that wagon an’ stay there!” He looked around and back again, and a grim smile slid across his face. “Take a good look: we’re havin’ a visitor!”

  The cook looked and saw the trail boss heading for the cavvy on the roan. The animal’s fanning legs made a fog of dust behind it. In a few moments the boss pulled up beside the two men, his level gaze on the startled cook.

  “You’ll go to town when I tell you to, an’ not before,” he said coldly.

  “Hell, I ain’t goin’ to town!” protested the cook truthfully.

  “No?” inquired the trail boss, looking slowly and meaningly at the saddle under the cook and at the freshly greased boots.

  “Naw,” replied the cook. “I was just fixin’ up to go with Skinny when he went. I ain’t goin’ to town now, am I, Skinny?”

  “Shore you ain’t,” answered Skinny, quite certain that his answer was true, “an’ when you do go, you can go with me; but we won’t neither one of us go till we get paid off. Wouldn’t hardly be any use to, if we didn’t have no money.”

  “Naw,” said the cook, with a forced laugh. “All right, Skinny: I’ll feed you–all on biscuits till you can’t eat no more.” He looked at Hopalong. “Goin’ back to camp?”

  The trail boss glanced from the cook to Skinny and then back to the cook.

  “No,” he answered shortly.

  “All right,” said the cook, turning his horse. He looked at Skinny. “Remember now: you promised.”

  “Huh!” said Skinny. “I shore will remember.”

  Hopalong watched the cook ride away, whistling as he went, and then turned to the wrangler.

  “What th’ hell was he doin’ out here?” he demanded suspiciously.

  “Don’t ask me no questions an’ I won’t tell you no lies. You goin’ to town?”

  “Yes. I want to get this herd off my hands. Then we can all go.”

  “I’m shore ready for that,” laughed Skinny. He had a sudden thought and he voiced it: “When you pay me off, hold back half of it: I ain’t goin’ back home busted flat, like I did last year. Man, how th’ money just pops outa yore pockets in that town!”

  Hopalong laughed, nodded, and started toward town.

  The string of empty cattle cars was still on the siding, and they were the ones Hopalong had seen two days before: he knew that because he remembered that the last two figures of the number painted on the end car were a two and a zero—and the number twenty always brought Bar 20 to his mind. The same clerk was behind the desk, and he nodded as he recognized the newcomer.

  “Mr. Babson ain’t up yet,” he said.

  “Hell!” said Hopalong. “It’s halfway to noon!”

  “Halfway to noon,” repeated the clerk and grinned. “That’s a new one on me.” Just then the ticking clock struck eight.

  “It’s light at four,” explained Hopalong, also grinning. “Don’t suppose you’d dast knock on his door?”

  The clerk glanced into the barroom, where a whisking broom was busy shifting dust from one place to another.

  “Mike!” he called, and the whisking stopped. “Call Number Nine,” ordered the clerk as a frowsy head showed in the barroom doorway, and again turned to the trail boss. “He left a call for eight o’clock. Said he was expectin’ you.”

  “Good!” grunted Hopalong and picked up a magazine. He was deep into the sins of Abilene when Babson came in on his way to the dining room.

  “Morning, Cassidy. Had your breakfast?”

  Hopalong laughed.

  “All right, all right!” said Babson. “Be with you as soon as I’ve had mine. Won’t be long.”

  “There ain’t no great hurry,” replied the trail boss.

  Babson wheeled and disappeared, and Hopalong again picked up the magazine, found his place, and went on reading. A slight disturbance outside made him raise his head quickly, and he saw that a man was tying a saddled horse to the rail alongside the roan.

  “Mr. Babson’s horse,” volunteered the clerk. “That’s quite a piece in there about Abilene, ain’t it?”

  “Reckon so,” grunted Hopalong, tossing the magazine aside. “Gimme a handful of cigars for my b
oys before I forget it.”

  Babson reappeared, his hat on his head and a quill toothpick in his mouth, and a few moments later was riding down the street at the side of the trail boss, bound for the herd.

  “Them yore cars?” asked Hopalong a little anxiously.

  “Yes. I’ll be getting a bill for the use of that siding. Hope to move them off it before long.”

  “Good! They’ll be loaded before dark, I reckon. You got yore train outfit all ready to go?”

  “Yes,” answered Babson.

  The herd was in trail formation when the two riders reached it, and, at a signal from the trail boss, was put into motion. Babson sat in the saddle facing him, with a respectable distance between them; and the cattle were fed through this gap. Babson used his fingers, turning one down at every even hundred. He counted cattle with practised ease, and he did more than that: he appraised every animal as he counted it, which more often than not required a trained and agile mind. As the last animal passed through the little gap, Babson looked over at the trail boss and announced his figures.

  “That’s what I make ’em,” said Hopalong. “I s’pose you’ll want to look ’em over good.”

  “I’ve done that. They’re all right, Cassidy. They’re even better than I expected. Nice herd. You coming back to town with me?”

  “No,” answered Hopalong, shaking his head. “You’ll see me when th’ last steer is on th’ cars, an’ th’ cars are ready to go.” He looked at the herd, which had not stopped, but had kept on going as straight for town as it could move. He smiled knowingly: every man in the outfit knew that the cattle would be accepted, and was pushing on toward the end of the drive. His gaze shifted to the grazing cavvy and then around to Babson as the buyer chuckled.

  “Cassidy,” said the buyer, “I like you. That’s why I took the trouble to find a buyer for your horse herd. I believe I got you a better price than you could have gotten. All you fellows are anxious to sell and go home. I had lots of time, and perhaps I stretched the truth. If you want to sell them, drop in and see Frank Coggswell, east of the station. Tell him they’re mine.”