Red Trail

by John Shirley

  Harning nodded to himself. The man he had hired was still in place. With any luck, Mason Durst would never come back from the Red Trail alive.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was dusk on the nameless river. Mase watched pensively as East Wind rode the horse across the plunging stream, wearing only his breechcloth. East Wind was the lightest of the drovers, so the horse could use most of its strength for swimming. The water was a little higher and faster now after last night’s storm, though the current was a little weakened here by the cottonwood they’d felled. They’d had to start the horse a piece upstream close to the cottonwood log so as it was washed down, there was room to move diagonally toward that stony extension of the riverbank. If East Wind missed it, he and the horse could both be killed in the white water farther downstream.

  The horse was near the landing place—but slipping downstream. East Wind leaned over and called something to the horse, kicking at its ribs with his bare feet—and the horse redoubled its thrashing efforts. It reached the bank and scrambled up.

  “Maybe one’s enough,” Pug said, walking up to the riverbank to stand beside Mase.

  But East Wind insisted he could get another horse across, and Mase let him do it. This time he got there even faster.

  Mase sent Duff across the cottonwood log first, and he pulled the long length of towrope over. They already had the ash tree timbers lined up on the southern bank, ready to be pulled across. Big posts had been sunk in the bank at the south and north sides of the river to hold the fallen trees in place.

  Vinder, Dorge, Vasquez, and Mase crossed the river on the planed cottonwood—slowly and carefully, for it was slick with the water that slopped over it—and helped rig up the horses to pull the ash across. Directed by East Wind, the horses pulled the rope attached to the ash, and the men added their own strength to the tow. The post on the south side held it in place as they slowly dragged it across the water, fighting the current and the sheer weight of the enormous length of lumber. But at last it was in place, snugged between the sunken posts on both sides and pressed against the cottonwood. Now the other half of the split ash would have to go. . . .

  They got both split logs in place just as it was growing quite dark, and Mase called a halt for supper. Tomorrow, he figured, they’d nail down the cross boards connecting the planed logs and fill in chinks with clay and pieces of bark.

  Mase mounted up and went to check on the herd. He found that Rufus was there already, driving bunch quitters back in place. “Rufus, what are you doing out here? Dollager say you could go to work?”

  “Yes, sir, boss,” said Rufus, riding up beside him. “He checked my arm. There’s no kinda gangrene or nothin’. I got no fever. I can work.”

  Mase nodded. “You’ll make a good hand yet. How’s that wolf hide coming?”

  “Well, sir, it was something to see—that East Wind busted in the wolf’s skull, scooped out its brains, and spread ’em over the side that ain’t got the fur on it. He says that’s for curing it. He rubs it in there with some plant he pulled up by the river.” Rufus shook his head. “Wolf brains for curing! Anyhow, he’s got it stretched out real tight over some branches for drying.”

  “What’re you going to do with it?”

  “If it don’t stink too bad, that fur is going to be my pillow for the drive. Then I’m going to build me a cabin somewhere and nail it up over the fireplace. When I come to courtin’, I’ll bring the lady in for a visit and show that to her. Tell her the whole story. I reckon that’ll impress her.”

  Mase smiled. “Come on, let’s take a turn around the herd. Keep a close look out in case those other wolves come on back. . . .”

  They trotted their mounts off together. “How’s the bridge coming, boss?” Rufus asked.

  “We got the logs over. We’ll do the cross boards tomorrow, cinch it all up good, and start the herd across. It’ll take a considerable time, but we’ll get them over, maybe three abreast.”

  But Mase was more worried than he let on. Would the bridge hold up to the current and thousands of cattle crossing it? Suppose the bridge collapsed? They’d lose beeves down the river, and there weren’t enough trees around here for another bridge. They’d have to wait out the river. Supplies were low, and his cattle buyer was waiting.

  And he wanted badly to return to Katie and Jim. He needed to see with his own eyes that they were all right. . . .

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The river was running high and hard that morning, splashing at the bridge, some of the water swishing thinly over it.

  The last of the stabilizing ropes and cross boards were in place. It was time to move some cattle across. In this case, the chuck wagon would go last. They’d had to move it fifty yards down the south riverbank to make more room for the herd crowded up to the riverbank.

  They’d all been up at dawn, and now it was midmorning. Most of the drovers were in the saddle, keeping the cattle close to the river. Almost holding his breath, Mase watched Lorenzo Vasquez driving Ol’ Buck toward the bridge. The big lead steer trotted forward—and stopped right at the edge of the riverbank. His eyes rolled as he took in the roaring river, the water splashing over the bridge. Then he turned around and butted back into the mass of the herd.

  Mase let go of some cusswords and turned to Pug. “Let’s move the other cattle toward it. One of ’em is sure to cross and get the herd started over. . . .”

  The cowboys called out to the cattle, lashed them with rope ends, drove them toward the bridge—where they stopped just where Ol’ Buck had stopped. They contemplated the loudly rushing water and turned back.

  “Son of a—!” Mase burst out.

  Dollager strolled up to him then. “Trouble with Ol’ Buck crossing, Mr. Durst?”

  “Seems to have decided to go back to Texas.”

  “I can hardly blame him. Well, sir, will you let me have a try with him?”

  “You? On a horse?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Durst. Observe, sir.”

  Dollager strode over to Ol’ Buck, patted him on the snout, then reached into an apron pocket and pulled out a handful of sweetened biscuits. He broke off part of a biscuit and held it out. The bull ate it with gusto. He offered the animal another—but this time Dollager took a step back. Ol’ Buck followed, taking another morsel. Dollager brought out another biscuit and began to walk backward toward the bridge, waving the sweet biscuits, the great beast tromping along after him. Dollager turned, took four long steps onto the bridge, and offered up the biscuits.

  Ol’ Buck stared at it. Then looked at the rushing water. Then again at the biscuits.

  Dollager came a little closer and held the biscuit just out of the beast’s reach but within sniffing range. The lead steer snorted and stepped onto the bridge. Dollager kept backing up, occasionally feeding Buck a morsel to keep him going. Soon the other cattle began to follow, a few at a time, and the men commenced to cheer.

  * * *

  * * *

  The gunfire sounded like it was coming from the northwest corner of the ranch. That was how Katie reckoned it as she finished saddling her horse. That would put it near the place the fence had been broken down.

  “Senora Durst—do not go out there!” Curly protested, backing his horse from its stall. “I will go alone and see!”

  Katie shook her head, led Bonnie out into the barnyard, and climbed into the saddle. When Curly brought his horse out, she said, “You come along, Curly, and keep your rifle handy. I won’t get too close to whoever’s doing the shooting. But by God if they’re killing my stock . . .”

  She was glad Jim wasn’t home. Marty and Gwendoline Smole had swung by the ranch on their way to town for supplies to see if all was well. They had offered to take Jim into town with them. They were a childless couple and enjoyed the company of children. He had jumped at the chance.

  More shots cracked,
the sound echoing to them thinly across the range.

  Curly mounted his horse, and they rode off quickly in the direction of the gunfire. Durst Ranch cows with young calves grazed out this way, and two horses, as well. When they got most of the way to the fence line, the cows and their young ones came at a half run to Katie and Curly; they were running from the noise of the gunfire. The stock ran past toward their pens by the barn.

  Katie saw the rising gun smoke first, then the gleam of sun off rifle barrels. As they rode nearer, she made out Clement Adams and Andy Pike firing at the Durst Ranch’s brand-new fence posts.

  The rifles cracked, one and then the other, splintering the posts.

  “Senora, this way!” Curly said, riding well out of the line of fire. She followed, and they reined in at the fence below the target shooters. The two men were standing about forty feet from the fence, on Harning property, splintering the tops of a post with their alternating fire. Their horses were tied to a mesquite shrub behind them.

  Growling to herself, Katie rode up the fence line, stopping close enough to call out to them. “Andy Pike! Hold your fire! You could hit my stock, firing that way!”

  Curly rode up beside her. “They know, senora. They do not care.”

  The shooters stopped, blue smoke drooling from the muzzles of their rifles. Pike turned his head to regard her, squinting against the sun, grinning crookedly. “Why, ma’am, we’re just doing some friendly target shootin’! I got two dollars bet on it!”

  “You miss half the time,” said Adams. “I’ve already won that money. Maybe we should shoot us some stock. Take it back to the cook for supper!”

  Katie drew the rifle from her saddle holster and rode closer. “You’ll have to shoot me first, Adams!”

  “Why, ma’am, there’s no sense in that! But you have to understand, those animals are trespassing on Harning land!”

  “You know damn well that’s a lie!” Katie said. “You should also know by now you can’t back me down!”

  “Maybe it’s time we see about that!” Adams said, turning to face them.

  Curly muttered something in Spanish and slid off his horse, rifle in hand. He set it atop the nearest fence post and aimed it at Adams. “Es suficiente!” he shouted. “No more! I am a good shot, Senor Adams! If I go to jail—then I go! But first I kill you! Or you ride away!”

  Katie’s heart was pounding. But she climbed down off her horse and took up a position beside him, her rifle tucked against her shoulder. “Same goes with me! Es suficiente!”

  Adams smiled and began to raise his rifle—but Pike reached out and pushed the barrel down.

  “Hold it, Clement!” Pike raised his hat to Katie. “I reckon I’ve lost the shooting match. We’ll see you folks soon enough!”

  He turned and walked back toward his horse. Adams hesitated, then shrugged and turned to follow him. The two men mounted and rode off.

  Katie rode over to look at the chewed-up tops of the fence posts. “They’re getting mighty playful,” she muttered as Curly joined her.

  “It is soon to be no more a game, senora,” he said sadly.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was a warm afternoon, fifty-two days into the drive to Wichita.

  The trail was narrowing again as the drovers moved the herd to within a day’s drive of Leadton. There was more rubble here, Mase saw as he rode ahead of the herd, and far less graze. Already their water barrels, filled at the river, were down to the dregs. They’d come across a few muddy puddles left by the rainstorms, but little else. After so long without a drink, the cattle were thirsty, bawling hoarsely, their tongues rasping out. For a week they’d come across no springs, no creeks, no water holes. The map marked a watering hole out east of Leadton, and graze, too. But that was beyond the pass that led out of the canyon. Mase needed to get the steers out of the canyon and to that water and grass. The remuda horses were thirsty, too. They shared in the drovers’ water, but they weren’t getting enough.

  The rains had long since ceased, and the ground had dried and it was dusty here now. The men in the drag of the herd were wearing their bandannas up and wiping dust from their eyes.

  Mase rode on, hoping to see the pass marked on his map that led out of the canyon. He rode another two miles through scrubland and dust, past occasional muddy spots with no water in them to drink.

  As he went, the cracked red sandstone walls of the canyon narrowed more and more. Another quarter mile and the cliffs converged at two pillars of stone standing close together. Then Mase saw the landmark. The rough pillars, looking like stacks of heavily eroded blocks, were of uneven size. The taller one on the right was topped by the landmark. Crane had scrawled “Devil’s Head Pass” by a crude drawing of a rock formation shaped like a head with two horns. There it was: a giant horned head of red stone—a misshapen head without a face. One of the horns was broken off, but it was in the right place at the northeastern side of the canyon pass. This was the canyon’s end, leading into the open country on the southeast side of Leadton.

  He drew out his spyglass and scanned the land visible beyond the natural columns. There was a tumble of boulders to either side of the rocky corridor’s northern end, then open ground leading to low hills. The hills were covered with grass and cut by a clear trail north.

  Mase lowered the spyglass, smiling with relief, and turned back toward the camp. Crane’s woefully incomplete, bad scrawl of a map had proven itself.

  He rode quickly back to Pug and said, “The pass is a few miles ahead! Let’s get ’em through!”

  Pug rode back, issuing orders, and the drovers increased their push on the herd, sending it stumbling faster on toward the shadow of the Devil’s Head. The dust rose around the herd, cowboys coughed out their calls to urge the cattle on, and they moved slowly northward.

  The day was wearing on, shadows stretching out, when they reached Devil’s Head Pass.

  Lorenzo was driving Ol’ Buck up toward the opening between the stone columns—when a shot rang out.

  “Hold up!” Mase shouted. He could see thin blue smoke rising from a tumble of boulders at the base of the right column.

  Lorenzo halted in uncertainty. “Get under cover!” Mase shouted. Lorenzo rode back to the cover of the chuck wagon, followed by Ol’ Buck.

  Mase rode left, heading for the rocks under the western pillar, looking for cover himself. He waited for another gunshot, but heard nothing. Must’ve been a warning shot, he guessed.

  Mase reached the pile of rocks. Grabbing his rifle, he dismounted in the shadow of a boulder—when a familiar voice shouted to him, the words sounding eerie through the narrow stone pass between the pillars.

  “Durst!” It was Fletcher’s voice. “That was a warning shot! You’ve come to my land! You will pay a toll of half your herd to pass through!”

  “Only half, Fletcher?” Mase called. “Why not seventy-five percent? Dream big!”

  He heard Lorenzo and Dollager laughing from the chuck wagon at that.

  “It’s my land, Durst!”

  “It’s Indian land!” Mase shouted back. “You’re a damned liar, and you’re getting not one cow and not one penny!”

  “I’ve got a lot of men here with me, Durst!” came the shout from Fletcher. “You can pay up, or you can go back the way you came! We control this pass, and there’s no other way through!”

  Mase heard hoofbeats and turned to see East Wind riding up.

  “Pug sent me to ask what you want to do.”

  Mase turned and shouted, “We’re gonna talk it over, Fletcher! Hold your fire!”

  Then Mase said softly, “East Wind, you go back and tell Pug we’re going to run the cattle through when I give the signal. And every man is to fire over the cattle through that pass! They don’t need a target! The gunshots will drive the cattle hard and drive the rustlers to cover!”

  “Wha
t signal, boss?” East Wind asked.

  “I’ll fire my rifle twice—the second shot is the signal. I’m going up on this rock pile here and see if I can get a shot at these varmints.”

  East Wind nodded and galloped back toward the herd.

  Mase went to his horse, got his spyglass, and used it to scan the tops of the stone ridges and the columns. He saw no one there. He figured the rustlers were in the rock piles on the other side of the pass. He suspected Fletcher was lying about having a lot of men with him. He put the spyglass in his pocket and looked up at the big mound of rocks. The rough-edged red rocks were mostly bushel size, with a scattering of some half the size of a stagecoach. He started climbing.

  He stuck to the smaller rocks, working his way up with one hand and the butt of the rifle, trying not to make any noise, wincing when his boot loosed a little gravel. He was about forty feet up when Fletcher called out, “Durst! If you don’t quit stalling, we’re going to dynamite this pass! It’s no good to us! We got nothing to lose!”

  Mase figured the dynamite was a bluff, too. He didn’t want to reply and let Fletcher know he’d changed positions. He just kept going, climbing a few feet more, then started moving horizontally, creeping over ledges of fallen rock to a big boulder shaped like a haystack. There were smaller rocks running up one side of the boulder. Sweating now, his hand burning from the sharp rock edges, he started up the smaller rocks, praying they wouldn’t come loose and take him down with them.

  “Durst! Are you listening to me? I’ll give you five minutes! I’ve got a good railroad watch right here!”

  Mase reached the top of the smaller rocks and from there crawled on his belly across the top of the boulder. He inched forward—and saw three men on the east side of the pass about a hundred fifty feet from him. They were positioned in the rocks, staring toward the herd. Fletcher was there—judging by the hat—a little to the east of the others, mostly hidden behind a big rock. But Mase had a good shot at the other two.