by Lyle Brandt
All calm and quiet as it should be—for the moment, anyway.
Tippit had no reason to brood on trouble waiting in the wings, but there it was, as in years past. He started worrying as soon as the Bar X was out of sight, and never really stopped until the steers were crammed into their pens, awaiting transformation into steaks, roasts, brisket, ribs, and all the rest of it.
Tippit’s whole life was based on death, but that was true of everything in nature, from the wild’s great predators to scuttling insects. Nothing changed as populations shifted from the countryside to cities, faced with crime across the board, many living in poverty, pursuing thankless jobs that wore them down in factories and offices.
No one cashed out of life alive, but with a bit of luck and perseverance, they could still enjoy some bits and pieces of the game.
And wake at dawn to start it all over again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Monday, June 2
Piney Rollins had pork chops and beans on the fire for supper, the mixture of aromas stirring appetites in camp. Art Catlin needed no reminder of his growling appetite, but lined up with the rest, tin plate in hand, to claim his share.
It takes a serious distraction to divert cowhands from sizzling meat, and that was what confronted Catlin now, ears perking at a lookout’s call of “Rider coming in!”
All eyes turned toward the stranger on his dun mount, drawing closer slowly, cautiously, backlit by sundown in the west. More than a few hands drifted into touch with holstered six-guns, measuring the distance as the man they’d never seen before approached.
The rider’s left hand held his horse’s reins. His right was raised to shoulder height with fingers splayed, revealing no intent to draw his holstered pistol.
Make that two pistols, Art realized, a matching set of Colts, backed up by what appeared to be a Winchester secured inside a saddle boot. Nothing to make the Bar X hands draw down on him.
At least, not yet.
Bliss Mossman left his place in line to meet the rider, Sterling Tippit following a yard or so behind him, offset to his right in case the stranger tried something and they both required quick access to their sidearms. They stood waiting while the horseman reined in, leaned over his saddle horn, and introduced himself.
Art couldn’t make out what was being said from twenty yards away, the back-and-forth of it, but he saw nothing to excite alarm offhand. Piney had started dishing out more food, urging the hands to move along while they were eyeballing the stranger and remarking on his unexpected visitation to the camp.
“Some drifter,” Nehemiah Wolford said.
“Maybe looking for work,” Bryce Zimmerman opined.
“Could use another hand,” Zeb Steinmeier allowed. “Lighten the load some.”
“Wouldn’t hurt,” Linton McCormick granted.
“Maybe not,” Job Hooper said. Adding, “If we could trust him.”
“People out of work all over,” Danny Underwood reminded Job.
“And outlaws hunting, too,” Jerome Guenther advised, putting his two cents in.
“The boss won’t take him on if he has any doubts,” said Mike Limbaugh, taking the plate Tim Berryman had loaded up with food, putting Art Catlin next in line for service.
Once Berryman had piled his plate, Art went to find a seat beside the campfire, still watching the stranger chat with Mossman and Tippit. By the time Catlin sat down, the rider had dismounted and was shaking hands with both men, Tippit leading him away toward the remuda with his dun trailing.
Apparently, the men in charge were satisfied with what they’d heard so far. Art didn’t doubt their judgment necessarily, knowing they’d put the Bar X and its livestock first, sidestepping any risk they could identify and thus avoid, but he would wait to hear what they’d decided—if the new arrival had been cleared to spend one night in camp or was about to join the team—and then make up his own mind when he’d had a chance to meet the man.
There would be time enough to learn his habits on the trail, assuming he’d signed on.
And if he hadn’t, Art supposed it wouldn’t matter anyhow.
* * *
* * *
Bliss Mossman’s appetite was gnawing at him, but he thought he’d taken time enough to give the stranger a once-over, feel him out a bit, and offer him a job for their remaining days out on the trail to Independence.
There had been no readily apparent warning signs to put him off the rider at a glance or after speaking with him long enough to glean the information that the new arrival wanted to reveal. Whatever lay behind that affable façade, Mossman supposed he would discover it in time, and he would not relax his guard entirely until they had reached trail’s end.
The horseman gave his name as Jay Fielding, though Mossman had no means of proving that. In his experience, outlaws were not the only travelers who hid behind false names. Others that came to mind were men with broken marriages behind them, certain grieving widowers, and those with hungry creditors pursuing them. He didn’t care so much about the stranger’s given name, as long as Fielding or whoever played it straight at work, carried his weight, and stirred up no dissension in the Bar X ranks.
In that case, as explained to him already, he would have to leave the crew and forfeit any pay earned in the meantime for his violation of the standing rules.
Fielding claimed that he hailed from Iowa, someplace called Ackley that Mossman hadn’t heard of previously. He was thirty-two years old and looked it, seeming healthy overall, and said he was experienced with ranching, though he’d never ridden on a cattle drive before. Beyond that, he was well armed and had once possessed enough cash to equip himself in style. Colt Peacemakers sold new for seventeen dollars apiece, and his Winchester ’73 would have cost him another twenty.
Whether he was any good with them or simply packed the guns for show would only be revealed if trouble overtook them on the trail.
Beyond that, Fielding vowed he wasn’t wanted by the law, and Mossman could not contradict him in the absence of a valid “Wanted” flyer. At a glance, he didn’t have the jailhouse pallor many ex-convicts displayed, nor did a first impression of him mark Fielding as someone who’d spent any length of time locked down or digging ditches with a road gang’s shackles on.
After assessing him, getting a nod from Sterling Tippit on the side, Mossman had offered Fielding fifteen bucks and found to work their last few days on the approach to Independence. Fielding had agreed to sign a standard Bar X contract after supper and to take a turn at riding herd over the stock that very night.
So far, so good. And if it Mossman’s first impression of the man was faulty, it would be no problem firing him.
Even with three guns, what could one man do against sixteen?
Not much.
That was another benefit of being boss. Bliss Mossman trusted his ability at judging other men, but if he got it wrong from time to time, as any mortal might, employees were disposable. Fielding could hit the lonely road again and see what lay in store for him tomorrow or the next day, with no harm done to the Bart X herd.
* * *
* * *
Selling himself to Bliss Mossman, the trail boss, had been easier than Jed Findlay was expecting. He’d made up the “Fielding” alias, using his own initials as a hedge against forgetfulness, and told the truth on other points—his birth in Iowa (shaving a year off of his age), and his experience with ranching, although that had ended when he left home at sixteen. He’d left out sundry brushes with the law across four states, knowing that Mossman couldn’t check his record for arrests or jailbreaks, and would hardly come across one of his Indiana “Wanted” posters while the herd was traveling.
Granted, he might catch wind of something if he started asking questions in Missouri, but by that time, it would be too late.
The Bar X foreman, Sterling Tippit, led Findlay to th
e remuda, where his dun had food and water, leaving Jed to go off and find his own supper before they met again for night watch duty. That was fine with Findlay, giving him a better close-up look at the security precautions Mossman had in place to fend off raiders after dark.
Not that a plan would do him any good.
Findlay’s design, now that he’d managed to insert himself among the trail drive’s other hands, was to remain in place until they’d closed the gap to Longwood, whereupon he’d signal watchers waiting for the herd’s approach and set their end game into play.
The signal that he had in mind, facilitated by his presence in the bosom of the camp, would also pay a dividend in chaos that would hamper Mossman’s plan for self-defense. With eight or ten good gunmen riding for the town, Jed believed that victory should be within their grasp.
And win or lose, once that played out, he would be moving on.
The lords of Longwood were becoming more ambitious than was good for them. Success encouraged arrogance, and arrogance, more times than not, resulted in a sudden fall from grace. Before their house of cards came crashing down on Harding, Butler, and the rest, Jed planned to collect his pay and put long miles between himself and whatever came next.
The key to gambling successfully, regardless of the stakes involved, was knowing when to quit. Failure to heed that golden rule could land him in a prison cell or even take him to the gallows.
But if that happened, he damned sure wasn’t going down alone.
Findlay knew who’d given orders for the banditry that kept Longwood afloat, and who had carried out those criminal instructions. He could dictate chapter and verse as to guilt, and in several cases, he literally knew where the bodies were buried.
To ensure his silence, Harding and the rest could either pay him off or try to kill him. If they went in that direction, Findlay would make sure that they regretted it—that is, the ones who managed to survive.
Fighting a whole town that existed solely for corruption would not be an easy task, but neither did he view it as impossible. Alone, he’d put more men to sleep than any other two or three hired guns on Longwood’s payroll, and he’d made no secret of that fact.
Whoever tried to take him out should come prepared for the fight of his life, prepared to go all in and trust his future to a turn of the last card.
* * *
* * *
Sterling Tippit wasn’t absolutely sold on their new hired hand, but he’d seen nothing to contradict his boss’s first impression of Jay Fielding. In the circumstances, it was better not to make a fuss and start off on the wrong foot with a man who might be with them all the way to Independence.
And if not, should Fielding do something that got him fired by Mr. Mossman, then the problem solved itself.
Assuming there was any problem to be solved.
A week, maybe ten days if all went well, and Fielding either would have proved his worth or washed out with his walking papers. If he made the cut, then Mr. Mossman might decide to offer him a permanent position at the Bar X, which Fielding could accept or tell the boss, “No, thanks.”
By that time, Tippit would have better cause for judging him than just a vague feeling something, somehow, wasn’t ringing true.
And how could he prove that until the guy fell short somehow or proved he wasn’t to be trusted.
Minor pilferage was rare on cattle drives, the pool of suspects limited to start with, no man ever truly on his own unless he had to answer one of nature’s calls—and even then, with no females around, there was a minimum of privacy.
In all his time with the Bar X—and at the Slim Chance spread before that, outside Tucson in the Arizona Territory—he had only seen two thieves at work. One had been caught rifling another cowboy’s saddlebags and caught a beating for his trouble, prior to being fired. The other, four years back, had robbed some of his coworkers and slipped away by night, fleeing to God knew where. By now, Tippit supposed he might have gone straight—or, more likely, been picked off by someone who had caught him in the act.
Good riddance, either way.
Tippit got back to the chuck wagon for his supper and found Fielding waiting in the lineup, jabbering in Spanish with Luis Chávez and Jaime Reyes. They seemed to be getting on all right, and Sterling put his niggling doubts aside for now.
Fielding’s arrival would permit adjustment of the night watch schedule, more or less restoring the time off from losing sleep each hand enjoyed. It still wasn’t precisely as they’d started out from Santa Fe, since Merritt Dietz was killed, but Fielding could take up the slack for Julius Pryor’s taking off without a by-your-leave. More to the point, he seemed happy to help—or did a decent imitation of it, anyway.
And Tippit didn’t care if he was really overjoyed to pull the extra duty, or if that was just an act, playing obsequious to land a job, so long as he fulfilled his obligation and was not discovered sleeping on the job.
And if that happened, Tippit wouldn’t need his boss’s vote to cut the new man loose.
* * *
* * *
Art Catlin’s uneventful turn on night watch ran its course at ten o’clock. The new man came to spell him, smiling in the dark as he approached.
“I didn’t meet you earlier,” the stranger said, and leaned across his saddle to shake hands. “Jay Fielding,”
Catlin shook with him and introduced himself, feeling no need for any questions that were bound to come off sounding rude and pushy. One thing he had learned during his years of traveling the West in search of fugitives: most people made the move to change their luck, the lives “back home” that left them unfulfilled, sometimes even their names. And Art believed in granting most of them a second chance.
Except for those who simply used the great wide-open as a cover for ongoing crimes.
“Got any tips for riding herd on longhorns overnight?” Fielding inquired.
“I’m fairly new to it, myself,” Catlin replied. “Best thing I can suggest is that you stay awake and count on something unexpected happening. It’s hard to be surprised that way; you can be relieved if nothing comes along.”
“Alrighty, then.”
Art left him to it, spotted Underwood and Guenther taking over for Gallardo and Wolford. As Catlin joined the others riding back to camp Wolford asked him, “How does the new man seem to you?”
“Just met him,” Art replied. “I wouldn’t claim to know him yet.”
“He seems all right to me,” Gallardo offered, without being asked.
“Don’t know for sure,” Wolford replied. “It’s like I seen him somewhere, back a year or two, but can’t remember when or where it was.”
Francisco prodded Nehemiah. “Was he up to something?”
“That’s the hell of it,” said Wolford. “I can’t pin it down so far.”
Approaching the remuda, Catlin said, “Best thing I can suggest, sing out to Tippit or the boss if you remember what it was, the circumstances. Failing that, it’s likely best to let it go.”
“Maybe,” said Wolford, plainly not convinced. “I’m gonna keep my eyes skinned, just in case.”
“Never a bad idea,” Catlin allowed, dismounting and preparing to unsaddle his strawberry roan. He missed his bedroll, never doubting that he’d fall asleep without a hitch tonight.
But Art was wrong. Instead of dropping off first thing, he spent the better part of half an hour trying to accommodate the ground beneath him. It was no more hard or lumpy than the soil he’d slept on nightly since the drive rode out of Santa Fe eight weeks before—softer than some places, in fact. Still, Catlin couldn’t switch his mind off, going back over the things he’d seen and heard that day.
It always circled back around to Fielding, new man on the team.
So, what if Wolford had seen him before? The circumstances being hazy indicated that the incident—if it occurred a
t all and wasn’t just a conjured fantasy—must have been trivial, forgettable. The odds of Nehemiah blanking out a crime, a brawl, or anything like that were slim to none.
Forget about it, Catlin told himself.
And just about the time midnight arrived, he did exactly that.
* * *
* * *
Jed Findlay did his best to question Danny Underwood without appearing to, keeping it casual, asking the kinds of things a new man coming late to join the drive would naturally want to know.
“Is this your first time out with Mr. Mossman?” he inquired.
“Me? Nope,” said Underwood. “It’s my third year with the Bar X.”
“Out of New Mexico, I think somebody told me?”
“Right. A couple miles from Santa Fe.”
“I just met him,” Findlay offered, “but he seems okay to work for.”
“I’ve got no complaints,” Danny replied. “He runs a tight ship; now, don’t get me wrong, but he won’t blame the hands for something ain’t their fault.”
“A fair man, then.”
“I’d have to say so. Like this one time . . .”
Danny launched into a convoluted story of two cowboys on the Bar X spread who’d started feuding over something trivial—the details didn’t interest Jed—until their boss stepped in and settled things between them without any fisticuffs or worse. The whole time Underwood was talking, Findlay sized him up and heard the third night watchman, Jerry Guenther, quieting the steers with snatches of a song that sounded like a hymn, “Tell Me the Old, Old Story.”
Did that mean he was a praying man, or was his chosen song the only one he knew offhand?