Red Trail

by John Shirley

  The drovers stripped to their drawers so they could dry their clothes, spreading the laundry over shrubs and wagon wheels and saddles, a display of motley colors against the dull red and green backdrop of the canyon. As he waited for his clothes to dry, Ray brought out a mouth harp, and Dollager pulled a fiddle from his trunk, and they improvised together, a curious but strangely fitting mesh of Celtic tunes and cowboy songs.

  “We’ll move the herd on to the river now,” Mase announced after the noon meal, “and we’ll just see what we have to do to get across it. . . .”

  He had a powerful hunch it would not be easy.

  * * *

  * * *

  Taking up his post with the ten gauge at his usual seat in the Jack of Hearts, Hiram Durst was not pleased to see Joe Fletcher coming toward him.

  “Hiram, how’s business?” Fletcher asked.

  “Haven’t got any. That’s how I like it.”

  Fletcher grinned. “Just getting paid to sit there?”

  “That’s right,” Hiram said, meeting Fletcher’s eyes. “Just getting paid to sit here.”

  “I don’t expect he pays you much for that.”

  “Not so much. Enough to pay for my room and board and a few drinks.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Maybe after my watch is over. What can I do for you, Joe?”

  “Seems like you might want to make some more money. I need another man to help me out on a job. Just work for a day or two. I understand Binder is planning to shut down for a couple days.”

  “Later in the week. He’s running out of liquor. They’re slow to bring it down from Morrisville. And nobody’s even got a good still going. That’s where you should make your money, Joe. Moonshine. Cut the sheriff in and you’ve got a gold mine.”

  “Not a bad idea. Right now I’m looking at cattle. There’s some coming up Red Trail canyon. I intend to take a share. I figure he’s crossing my land.”

  “What outfit is crazy enough to come that way?”

  “Oh, I don’t know who they are,” Fletcher said, looking away.

  Hiram was pretty sure Joe was lying. He knew. Strange thing to lie about. Hiram wondered why Fletcher bothered. “So you have land down south of town?”

  “Depends on how a man views it. That land’s mine if I claim it.”

  “I reckon there’s a whole tribe of Indians that’d disagree with you on that matter. We’re in the Indian Nations here, Fletcher.”

  “Indians got no say in it.”

  “You plan to take a toll?”

  “I plan to take twenty-five percent of their herd. I’ll need men to help me stand up to them—and to herd the cattle to the holding pen north of town. I’ll find a buyer in Morrisville.”

  “‘Stand up to them’—now, I wonder what you mean by that.”

  Fletcher glanced around, then leaned closer to Hiram and whispered, “There’s a place where the canyon narrows, not so far south of here. Devil’s Head it’s called. They’ve got to bring those cows through right there. There are rocks either side for cover. They’ll have no choice but to give in and pay the cows over. We’ll be under good cover. I’m not expecting to lose a man.”

  Hiram snorted. “I understand you already lost a man a piece back. Sawney, it was. Most likely it was from tangling with that same outfit. I knew him. I did not care for that man’s company, but it seems to me his getting shot just proves there’s fight in this cattle outfit. Doesn’t sound like folks who’re going to hand over any part of their herd.”

  Fletcher straightened up, his jaw working in subdued anger. “It’ll work this time. You want the job, or don’t you? I’ll pay you top dollar.”

  Hiram wasn’t tempted. “Nope. Not a chance. You’d best move on now, Fletcher. You’re obstructing my view. My whole job is watching the place. I’d best get to it.”

  Fletcher’s face reddened, and he opened his mouth to say something—and then shut it and strode off to the bar.

  Hiram had the feeling there was a good deal more in this matter that Fletcher hadn’t told him. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to know what it was.

  * * *

  * * *

  The drive had made camp at the river the previous evening and found the current roaring along, surging madly from the recent storm. It wasn’t possible to swim a herd across.

  Now, in the early morning, Mase, Pug, and Dollager were standing near the bank of the narrow, roaring river, regarding it dolefully. It came into the canyon from a ravine that slanted across the trail, the water roaring through northeast to southwest. Mist from the powerfully rushing white water rose like white smoke.

  “That’s a helluva thing,” said Mase. The river was running so fast and hard, he had to raise his voice to be heard over it. “That river’s not here half the year—hasn’t even got a name, and it’s stopped us cold.”

  “Maybe we should name it the Helluva River,” said Pug, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Perhaps more aptly the River Styx,” Dollager said dryly. “You might have to be deceased to cross it.”

  Jacob, Lorenzo, and Ray joined them as Mase said, “I guess we’ll have to wait it out. Might take a week to get quiet enough to get the herd over.”

  “Seems to me, Mase,” Ray said, “there could be a fresh storm. We could wait a week, and then it might just go to high and fast again.”

  “My father,” said Lorenzo, “he like to build bridges. Sometimes even when there is no value in the bridge for him! He build for everyone.”

  “An admirable man,” said Dollager.

  “Yes, senor coosie, is true. Now, I build three bridges with my father. Sometimes, it’s just the beginning of a bridge, but enough to cross. And you see? There are trees along the bank! We could build a bridge!”

  Mase turned to survey the southern bank of the river. “There are some. I see tupelo and ash and cottonwood. Not a lot of them but maybe enough.”

  “How would you get the wood across that river?” Pug asked. “Why, it’d be washed away.”

  “Oh, there are ways, Senor Liberty,” Lorenzo insisted. “I show you if you have the tools.”

  “We’ve got three kinds of saw with us,” Mase said. “It’s all in the chuck wagon. Got a big two-man saw, ripsaws, and a log saw. We’ve got a broad ax and two other axes; we’ve got mallets and chisels. We’ve got hand planes, hammers and nails, and extra rope. We have the tools, Lorenzo.”

  “I’m a fair hand with that work myself, Mr. Durst,” Jacob said. “Just pick out a tree, and I’ll get ’er felled.”

  “Already picked it out,” Mase said, pointing. “The closest tree, right by the ford. That cottonwood’s the biggest one on the river. And right where the stream narrows. Right there the river’s about forty-five feet wide. We cut it proper, it’ll fall across, and we can use it as a start. Pug, let’s get out the tools and all the rope we have. . . .”

  * * *

  * * *

  There are men on the property, senora,” said Curly, coming into the barn.

  Katie put the horse brush aside and said, “What sort of men?”

  “They have, how you say, the telescopio for measuring. And the sheriff is with them.”

  “Is he!” She went to the tackle board, grabbed her saddle, carried it back, and slung it on the mare. “Where are they?”

  “Near the gate—you can see them if you go outside, senora.” He went to his horse, already saddled, and led it outside.

  The two of them were soon cantering up to the three men standing inside the southern fence. There was a buggy waiting on the other side of the fence, its horse scuffing at the ground near the sheriff’s mount. It was a hot, sunny day, and as she squinted at the scene, Katie was sorry she hadn’t put on a hat to keep the sun out of her eyes.

  The two young surveyors looked up as the arme
d riders arrived. The surveyors had a clerical look to them, one in shirtsleeves and a cap with a green-shade bill, the other in a gray suit and small spectacles on his nose. They stood beside their tripod with its small leveling instrument.

  Beslow, in shirtsleeves and a gray Stetson, stood nearby with his hands on his gun belt, trying his best to look both casual and in authority but seeming embarrassed. His badge flashed in the sunlight.

  “George, you weren’t even going to do me the courtesy of pretending to ask for permission?” Katie asked coldly.

  Sheriff Beslow winced. “Didn’t see any need to trouble you. We’ve got all the paperwork permitting the survey. Got it in my saddlebags. Judge signed it.”

  “I’m guessing that’d be Judge Murray.”

  “It is.”

  “We’ll be quick as we can, ma’am,” said the man in the green-shaded cap. “But it’ll take a couple days to get it done. Maybe three.”

  “Whether it should be done at all is my question,” Katie said.

  “I told you they’ve got the right to be here,” said Beslow.

  “Maybe they have the legal right. But that doesn’t make it fair,” she said firmly. “It’s all done at the behest of a man who wants to steal this land. And you know it, George. Harning’s setting up his legal challenge. It’s smoke he’s using to cover up his real move.”

  “You’ll have your day in court,” Beslow said, sighing.

  “I’ll need to see those papers now.”

  The sheriff let out a grunt of irritation. Shaking his head, he stalked through the open gate and went to the quarter horse tied to the fence. He fished around in a saddlebag and came out with the papers and walked them back over, handing them to her with a flourish.

  Katie shaded her eyes and looked over the court order. There was Tom Harning’s signature as complainant, and there was Judge Murray’s signature at the bottom of the order. She read through the two-page document, comprehending most of it, tried to find something she could use to challenge it, but came up empty.

  “Is this copy for me?”

  “Didn’t make one for you.”

  “I’ll bet you’re supposed to.”

  “Well . . .” Beslow took the papers back from her. “This’ll have to do for now.”

  “Why couldn’t those men have shown me the papers on their own?”

  “Their firm asked for protection, and the judge granted it. Being as how you fired your weapon at Harning’s men over the fence business.”

  “I told you no one fired at them. Only at the ground.”

  “And your man there threatened the Circle H hands when they came visiting here.”

  Katie shook her head. “They weren’t visiting, George. They were trying to scare me into leaving.”

  He looked at the ground, compressing his lips. “I wasn’t there.”

  “I am a witness,” said Curly. “It is as the senora says.”

  Beslow scowled at Curly. “Nobody’s asking you about it, Mex.”

  “You ever hear of Clement Adams, George?” Katie asked.

  He shifted his weight and let out a long breath. “I have.”

  “He was with Andy Pike. He’s no ranch hand, Sheriff.”

  “Adams is no wanted man either.”

  “I expect he’s right careful how he murders a man.”

  “Now that’s a wild allegation you should not be making, Mrs. Durst.”

  “You should be ashamed, tolerating that man in this county, Sheriff.” Katie turned to the two strangers. They looked sheepish and pretended to be focused on their surveying. “You boys were hired for a job, and you’re doing it. I’ve got no fight with you. You can get water from my pump if you need it, for you and your horse, and you can freely drive your buggy on our land.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said the man in the spectacles.

  “Come on, Curly,” Katie said. She turned her horse, and without another word, they rode back to the ranch house.

  * * *

  * * *

  The tree trunk began to crackle, to tilt toward its back cut. Lorenzo and Jacob yanked out the two-man saw and stepped well back as the cottonwood toppled over.

  Its upper bole struck with a crunch exactly where Mase wanted it to fall, branches snapping with popping sounds as it slammed down on the farther bank. Its lower branches splashed into the rushing water, but most of the tree trunk was clear, propped up by the rocky clay of the banks. As he’d hoped, the broken-off snags of branches had stabbed into the clay, which would help hold the log in place. Getting the contiguous logs across would be tougher.

  “Good job, boys,” he said, nodding as Pug and Rufus walked up to gaze approvingly at the fallen tree. “I’ll get a rope across, and we can use that as a guide rope to keep from falling off while we move out there. . . .”

  “You’re going to walk out over that tree trunk your own self?” Pug asked, frowning. “The upper end of that tree is slim. Needs to be reinforced. Big man like you might crack that thin part. Then you’re going to fall and get swept down that river.”

  Mase shrugged. “I’ll have a rope around my middle.”

  “You’ll still damage the bridge! And if you get swept off in that current, pulling you back won’t be so easy.”

  “Let me go!” Rufus said, his eyes sparkling at the thought. “I don’t hardly weigh nothin’!”

  Pug looked at Rufus appraisingly. “By gosh you are the slenderest fellow here. But no, there’s East Wind. He weighs even less than you.”

  To Rufus’s disappointment, East Wind it was. A rope fastened around his waist, he began working his way nimbly across the river along the slippery, mist-wet trunk of the fallen tree. Mase paid out the rope, hand over hand, as East Wind slipped past the now vertical branches. He stopped from time to time to unhook the rope from a snag, trying to keep it straight over the trunk.

  Mase was breathless as he watched, afraid the Indian boy would slip and fall to be dragged by the current under the trunk, where the rope could end up tangling him and keeping him underwater.

  East Wind eked his way carefully across and stepped onto the bank, the drovers cheering.

  East Wind immediately commenced tying the rope to the exposed roots of a blackened lightning-charred stump of a tree atop the riverbank. Rufus was sent next, a rope around his waist, too, using the first rope as a safety line. Next went Lorenzo and Duff, carrying tools to start cutting the branches out of the way.

  Three of the other cowboys were taking turns cutting down an ash tree that would provide part of the wood for the finished bridge. They’d cut it down, remove the branches, and use the oxen to drag it close to the nearer end of the fallen cottonwood. Then they’d use chisels to split it down the middle, creating two flat surfaces on the split side.

  Mase turned to look at the oxen cropping weeds by the camp. They seemed strong enough to pull a fallen tree. He saw Dollager giving Ol’ Buck something to eat—the cook had made a pet out of the lead steer, talking to the beast as he gave it dried apples and hardtack with molasses. It was past time for the noon meal. Mase walked over to Dollager. “Coosie,” he said, “you’re feeding that steer before these hungry lumberjacks over here!”

  “It’s all ready to eat, Mr. Durst!” Dollager said, patting Ol’ Buck. “It’s in the pot there. Just call the men over, and I’ll serve it up.”

  “Soon’s that ash tree comes down.”

  “Planning to sink some posts on the banks to hold the bridge, sir?”

  “We are. Once we make the posts.”

  “I’m rather good with a shovel and a sledgehammer, sir. I’ve got the tonnage to put into it. I can help drive them in.”

  Mase smiled. “You’ll get your chance to prove it, Mick.”

  “Very good, sir.” Dollager walked over to the pot—and Ol’ Buck followed ponderously behind him, lik
e a dog after its master. Mase couldn’t help but laugh.

  Duff came suddenly galloping up from the herd. “Mr. Durst!”

  “Well? What’s all this hurry about?”

  “I spotted some men on the cliffs! Two of them, over to the east! They’re watching us for sure!”

  “Point ’em out!”

  “Easier if you get on your horse and ride closer to the herd, boss!”

  Mase went to his horse, which was tied to a wheel of the chuck wagon, and mounted. He followed Duff back to the herd. The cowboy pointed. “You see? Up by that notch!”

  Mase dug in a saddlebag and pulled out the spyglass Katie had given him. He settled his horse and looked through the little telescope. At first he saw nothing. But slowly sweeping back and forth, he caught a glint of sun off metal. He homed in on it, focused, and within the wavering circle saw two men in hats, one with a rifle in his hands. The rifle wasn’t pointed toward the drovers—not yet. He couldn’t see their faces clearly, but he had little doubt that the one on the left was Joe Fletcher.

  Mase toyed with the idea of opening fire on them. He doubted he could hit them from here, but it would be good to warn them off. Still, there was a small chance they weren’t who he thought they were. Suppose he hit one—and it was just a random saddle bum or even a traveling lawman? Before he could make up his mind, they seemed to realize he had spotted them—they drew back from the rocks and out of sight.

  But he knew they were close by. They would be watching, waiting, for the right moment to make their move.

  “Duff,” he said, “I’m going to tell you what I am going to tell everyone else. We’re changing a rule. From now on we wear our gun belts all the time, and we keep ’em close to our bedrolls at night. Keep ’em loaded and be ready to use ’em. . . .”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The drovers worked by lantern light till an hour past midnight, and everyone was aching with exhaustion before Mase called a halt. “I’ll ride herd for now,” he told Pug. “Tell the men to bed down.” His hands were blistered from using an ax and saw, stripping branches from the fallen ash tree, then taking his turn with a sledgehammer and driving chisels to split the trunk down the middle. Yet most of the hardest work had been done by other men while he and Lorenzo supervised.