by John Shirley
Harry Duff had come over to the ranch the day before to inspect the remuda horses and to make their acquaintance. Now he was among them, checking their legs and backs one last time, patting them and clucking to them and removing their hobbles so he could prepare them to be driven alongside the herd. He had done so for short drives of seventy-five miles on two occasions, and Mase worried he wasn’t going to be experienced enough to handle these horses on a long drive. But there was no time now to find a better horse wrangler.
“You think you can move all this horseflesh up with the herd, Duff?” Mase asked.
“Yes, sir! Just you watch me!”
Mase looked around, seeing the cowboys sitting on their saddles near the milling herd of longhorns; the cattle were a bit stirred up, having been driven close together beside the gate, closer than they were used to; they milled and bawled and clacked their horns. Curly Chavez was there on his mule, keeping watch. He was a stocky man with a round face, a mass of curly black hair speckled with gray, and a small mustache. He had cut out Ol’ Buck from the herd and kept the enormous steer up at the gate. Ol’ Buck had led two other herds for short distances, had indeed led many of the cattle here from the Brazos—for every herd had a leader. Hence, he was not fated to be a meat animal. Mase was hoping Buck would be able to lead the herd all the way to Wichita with the help of the drovers.
The cattle looked good. “Fat and sassy” from two months of rich grazing, as his father would have said. They’d been brought here by himself, Jim, Katie, and Curly the day before, to give them grazing in the general direction of the drive, and now they seemed eager to move on.
Katie called out, “Biscuits ’n’ coffee!” And shortly the men were gathered around the fire. Jim was given a cup of coffee heavy on the milk his mother had brought along for the purpose, and like the men, he ate the bacon Katie had cooked the night before, between two biscuits.
Dollager filled their cups and stoked the fire under the portable grate. Mase looked around and noticed that Pike had not shown up. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised. Was he reporting back to Harning now? Well, he’d see that Pike gave him that double eagle back one day.
The dawn was breaking when Mase called out, “All right, men, listen up!”
He cleared his throat and boomed out, “Boys, we can’t fly like the crow so we can’t get to Wichita in a straight line! It’ll be around six hundred miles of crooked trail from here. We’ll try to go fifteen miles every damn day, but many days it’ll be somewhere between eight and twelve. We’ll have to stop sometimes for grazing and watering and a half dozen other causes, and maybe the terrain just won’t let us go as fast as we want to. This is going to be a pretty long drive. It’s going to take time, but I’m hoping we’ll all be getting paid in Wichita come early June! We’re shorthanded, but we’ll take on more hands up the trail. I’ve got a friend on the lookout for me at Red River station. Even with more help, we’ve got two thousand three hundred and forty cattle to move—not as big as a lot of outfits but big enough. So that’s more than enough work for every man. We’re going to run into some rough weather, like as not! But being as it’s a wet spring, we might eat less dust than we’d have to later in the year. On the other side of it—we’ll hit mud! We’ll have cattle getting stuck, and horses have got to be watched for seedy toe from all that damp. We’re going to have to swim the herd across a couple of rivers. We could run into Comanches and Comancheros! We’re going to have some long hours and not enough sleep! Well, complaining does not go here—but if you’ve broken a bone or you get a high fever, sing out! Apart from that, stick to the job no matter what! And listen here—Pug there is your foreman! You do what he tells you! Now, a few other things—there’s no liquor in the camp. Nor in the saddle. If you’ve got some, leave it here. You can have a gun in the saddle in case you run into trouble, but in camp you leave your weapons with the coosie. And gambling of an evening—you can use twigs, you can use matches, anything but money. We’ll have no fights on this drive! If you’ve got a problem with a man, tell Pug or me, as long as it ain’t minor. Now—is everybody agreed?”
They all shouted assent, some with a Yes, sir! and some with a Yo! Jim gave a loud shrill Yahoo! and the men laughed, but there was fondness in their voices.
“Now, Jim and Katie are giving us a hand this morning, so you boys are going to have it easy as far as Butner Creek—let’s saddle up!”
The first leg was indeed fairly smooth. Ol’ Buck was trotting along in fine form, leading the herd. Dollager drove the chuck wagon to the left and a little ahead of the herd, and he seemed to have a steady hand with the oxen. Ray Jost and Pug Liberty rode both point and swing on the left, shifting from position to position as needed.
Not needing to ride ahead as yet, since he knew this patch so well, Mase rode point and swing on the right, aided by Katie and Jim, who—Mase noted with approval—was holding his own. Jacob rode drag, staying on top of the job, and sometimes Duff dropped back from herding the remuda to help with drag when dilatory cattle, trying to stop and graze, offered too much resistance for one man. The boy had good cow sense.
Lorenzo rode right point, and Curly rode right flank and wherever he was needed to keep the herd reasonably close together and moving ahead.
They stopped at half past noon for a quick meal of salt beef and corn cakes—the corn cakes provided by Katie—taking fifteen minutes to eat, as Duff and Jacob rode slowly around the herd, keeping it contained. The well-trained remuda horses took their ease cropping grass nearby, none of them offering to run off.
The men who’d eaten saddled up without being told, as Duff and Jacob returned for a quick meal. They, too, were soon saddled, and the herd was on its way again.
Mase smiled, hearing Jim mutter that his rump was getting sore, but apart from that, the lad did not complain, even when he was sagging in the saddle toward evening.
When they approached the ford at Butner Creek, Mase sent Katie and Jim up ahead with the chuck wagon to cross the creek in advance and make camp on the far side. This first workday was a fairly short one, because of the presence of Katie and Jim, and because the cattle were still getting used to the routine of the drive.
Jim and Katie slept beside Mase that night. After breakfast, he walked them to their mounts, which were saddled and ready, held by the smiling Pug Liberty. Curly was already mounted on his mule.
Katie put her hand on her husband’s face and looked him in the eye. “You’d better come back to me, Mason Durst.”
“I will, darlin’.”
“You watch where you go all the way there and back!”
“I surely will!”
She turned to Pug and jabbed a forefinger at him. “And you watch his back trail, Pug!”
Pug took off his hat and nodded somberly. “My solemn word on it, ma’am.”
Mase took his wife in his arms and kissed her. Then he turned to Jim, looked into the boy’s eyes, and spoke gravely. “I’m going to tell you something, Jim, and I ain’t foolin’. I expect you to watch over your ma and the ranch! You and Curly are the men of Durst Ranch till I get back! I mean that, Jim! That means you do every one of your chores and anything else that needs to be done, and you give her no trouble!”
Jim’s eyes widened. He swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“And listen here—Curly is not your damn babysitter! You help him with whatever he needs help with!”
“I . . . I’ll do it, Pa.”
Mase nodded one time and stuck out his hand. They shook like two men agreeing on a deal. Jim’s hand felt so small in his. And he’d be leaving the boy for perhaps two months. Could be more.
Mase cleared his throat, which seemed strangely obstructed. He reached out, picked up his son, and set him in the saddle of the pony.
Then he turned to Curly. “Can I count on you, Curly? All the way down the line?”
Curly simply nodded. “Of course, Senor Durs
t. Always.”
Mase reached up and shook Curly’s hand. “Gracias.”
Katie opened her saddlebags and took out a cylindrical brown package. She handed it to Mase.
“This for me?”
“Well, open it up.”
He unwrapped it—and found a brass telescope. “Why, look at that!”
“They say it’s the kind the ships’ captains use.”
“That what the drummer tell you, did he?” Mase extended it, put it to his eye, and looked out over the plains. “By jingo, it works good!” He grinned at Katie. “Thank you, darlin’!”
“You just see you use it. Keep an eye for what’s coming at you out there.”
Mase bent over and kissed her on the cheek—tasting salty tears. Katie pushed him gently away and turned to Bonnie, her mare.
“June, then, Mase?” she asked, climbing on her horse.
He smiled and nodded to her. “June, darlin’.”
“You’ll drop us a line when you can?”
“I will, Katie. In Denison and wherever else I can find the post.”
She bit her lip, nodded, and turned away. “Come on, Jim.”
With that, Katie and Jim trotted their mounts off. Curly touched his hat and called, “Vaya con dios, Senor Durst!” Then he cantered off after Katie and Jim.
Mase watched them ride off, proud of Jim and already missing him and Katie. He used the telescope to watch them more closely for a time, till they became hard to see clearly.
Then Mase Durst turned to the camp and shouted, “Saddle up! We’re ho for Wichita!”
CHAPTER THREE
Another morning waking without Mase.
Katie sat up, sighing. He’d been gone only a week, but she ached for him in the mornings. It was hard going to sleep without him there—the bed seemed far too big with just her in it—and maybe harder on her feelings when she woke up without him. They’d often dallied in bed a little while—moments of tenderness, even lovemaking, early in the morning when the boy was deeply asleep. Just waking to find Mase there had been deeply reassuring to her. He’d gone off on long trips before, hiring out on drives to learn the trails and make some extra cash, but this time the Red Trail cast a shadow over their separation. The risks seemed foolhardy to her. Sometimes she seethed in quiet anger at him for refusing to wait.
But now the rooster was crowing, and those morose thoughts fled, driven away by duty. Katie was soon up, dressed, and heading to the barn to milk the cow and feed the chickens. This done, she lit the stove and prepared porridge and bacon for her and Jim, and coffee for herself. She schooled him at home, for there was no schoolhouse close enough, and they would have an hour of reading and figures before they undertook the day’s chores. It was lonely for him here without his father. But she made sure that when they went into town, Jim had time to mix with the other children, and she sometimes took him to a church picnic. He was friends with Curly’s son, too, though Hector Chavez was almost three years older than Jim. Hector, already something of a vaquero, was patient with Jim and treated him like an equal.
“Jim! Get your lazy bones out of bed!” she called, ladling out the porridge.
They had just finished eating when there came a distinct light knock on the door she knew to be Curly.
“Morning, Curly,” she said, opening the door. “Bless me—” She peered past him at the road to the ranch house. “Are those riders coming here?”
“Yes, senora, that’s why I come to the door. It looks to be Tom Harning. And one of his men—Andy Pike, that one.”
Frowning, Katie went out on the porch to wait for the rancher. Harning and his hand trotted their horses up. “Morning, Katie,” Harning said though she did not think of them as being on first-name terms.
“Mr. Harning.” Because it was the way of the frontier, she said, “Will you men come and have some coffee?” She hoped he’d refuse.
“I believe I will,” Harning said. “Pike, you wait here. Keep an eye out.”
“Yes, sir.”
She noted that Pike had a six-gun on his hip. Ranch hands didn’t often wear them when just visiting another spread. Well, Curly would keep an eye on him.
Harning dismounted and stalked past her into the house.
“Jim!” she called. “Go and grain the mule!”
Jim stood up from the kitchen table, but hesitated, staring at Harning. “Maybe I should stay in here with you, Ma.”
“That will not be necessary, young man,” she said, hastily clearing the dishes. “Run along now. Maybe you and Hector can check on the horses. Go on.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said reluctantly, leaving the room.
Harning ignored him and sat down, awaiting his coffee.
Katie went to the china cabinet. “Will you take some cream with that, Mr. Harning? Fresh this morning.”
“I believe I will.”
She set a china cup before Harning, poured his coffee from the tin pot and cream from the pitcher, then sat down across from him.
“How is Gertrude?” she asked.
“Gertrude?” He blinked as if the question surprised him. “She’s well enough.”
Katie waited for him to elaborate, as most husbands would have, but he merely sipped his coffee.
“What brings you out this way?” she asked as equably as she could. “On your way into town?”
“I am at that. But I wanted to see you, too.” He smiled at her. It was like a smile carved on a wooden statue.
“About what, Mr. Harning?”
“How about you call me Tom?”
She wanted to demur. But she thought it best to avoid friction. “If you like. Tom.”
Another wooden smile, and then he put down his cup and leaned a little toward her. “Katie, it’s my understanding Mase is going to be gone for a good long while.”
“He’s taking a herd to Wichita,” she said. “It takes time.”
“How many head?”
“About twenty-four hundred.”
“Neither big nor small, that herd. But still a sore trial for any man—and now, with the Indian troubles, and trails washed out, and the Army holding up the Chisolm and the Western Trail . . .” He shook his head sadly. “And the spring rains, too! Up in the Oklahoma hills, he could hit snow.” He regarded her with cold, narrowed eyes. “How’s he going to get through Oklahoma Territory so early in the year?”
Instinctively, Katie decided not to give Harning any more information than she had to. “Oh, he’s got a good route. I expect he’ll take the Shawnee Trail far as he can. Apart from that”—she shrugged—“I leave it to Mase. He’ll figure something.”
“Suppose something should happen to him? Here you’d be, all alone!”
“Not alone. I trust Mr. Chavez and his son. And I can take care of myself.”
“No doubt.” He sipped a little more coffee. “But, Katie, you should know that if anything happens to Mase—and may God forbid it!—you can come to me. I will give you a good price for this ranch. It’s like to fall to me anyhow, if the court sees it my way. In fact, was you to—”
Trying to contain her anger, she quickly stood up. “Mr. Harning—Tom—I would not sell you this ranch if it burned down and was overrun by locusts. Nor will my husband fail to return. He’s as strong and wise a man as any in Texas!”
“I did not mean to suggest—”
“Now—if you will excuse me, we still have chores to attend to.” Her tongue felt thick, and she had to work at keeping the tremble from her voice. “My son is still young enough he needs me to hand when he sees to the stock. Do take your time and enjoy your coffee.”
She turned and strode from the room—just catching a glimpse of the amazement on his face.
* * *
* * *
Seven days into the drive.
The herd was following th
e Brazos north, and Mase, acting as trail boss, was upriver from the drive, on a windy but sunny morning, scouting for the ford to see how much the rains had swollen the river there. Upstream they’d come to a wide, shallow reach, a ford when the water was low. Shouldn’t be too deep even now. Once across, they’d be well and truly on the Shawnee Trail.
He reached the ford and saw that the Brazos was swollen, but the herd wouldn’t need much swimming to get across. The chuck wagon would take the ferry if it was running. Otherwise, he might have to add some horsepower to the oxen to get it across the high river without incident. If the current was too deep and fast to ford, they could continue northwest till they passed the headwaters of the river, but that would take them at least two days out of their way.
No. They would cross here.
Mase turned his horse and rode at a canter back toward the herd. Three and a half miles and he reached the chuck wagon. He raised a sign for Dollager to pull up, and the cook shouted at the oxen to halt, tugged on the reins, and pulled the brake lever.
“How looks the trail, Mr. Durst?” Dollager asked. He was dressed now in tweeds and tall boots, which he had said were used by British men on “walking tours,” and he had a deerstalker cap shading his eyes.
“The water’s high for the Brazos, which runs kind of shallow, but it’s not bad at the ford.” With a straight face he added, “With a little luck the wagon won’t overturn and drown you.”
“How you Southern Yanks love to practice your sense of humor on me!” Dollager said, shaking his head. “And it’s a comic turn that’s dark as a moonless night!”
Mase grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He had been joshing—but he also had wanted to see if Dollager scared easily. “If the ferry’s running, you’ll cross on her. It’s big enough for the wagon and the team.”
“A ferry! That sounds lovely. I’ve been dreading a water crossing. But will the herd get across all right?”