by Len Levinson
He climbed out of the saddle, then helped her to the ground. She looked in the direction of the distant roar, and returned to her worry about the herd. “I hope we have something left in the morning,” she said.
“Injuns can’t kill ’em all.”
“Indians make life hell for everybody out here.”
“We make life hell for them too.”
He looked at her upturned nose, just like Marie’s. “A herd of cattle nearly trampled you to death. Sleep with one eye open.”
“How do you sleep with one eye open?”
“You’ll have to learn, because if you don’t, you’re liable to wake up one morning in an Indian encampment, and you’ll have a new husband. He might beat you once in a while, but it’s better than being scalped.”
Before she realized what she was saying, the words were out of her mouth. “Maybe you should sleep near me, to wake me in case of trouble.”
“Sleep with all of us. We’ll take care of you, and I’m sure nobody’ll bother you.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have your confidence in that pack of cutthroats, thieves, and drunkards.”
“Most of them would gladly die for you. They proved it at the ranch, didn’t they?”
“Sometimes I think they saved me so they can torment me.”
“They want you to join in the fun with them.”
“The fun of raping me? Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not something I look forward to.”
They waited in silence for several minutes, as Cassandra calculated her losses, and Stone gazed at the stars. He saw the Big Dipper, the North Star, and then looked at his favorite constellation, Orion the Warrior, belted with stars, carrying a sword of stars. To Stone he symbolized every soldier who’d ever gone down fighting, plus the ones who’d survived and become lost, wandering freebooters like himself.
“We’d better start looking for the others,” he said.
“I’ll ride in back this time.”
Stone lifted and placed her on the rear of the saddle. Then he climbed in front, and there was nowhere for her to put her hands except around his waist. There was no flab on him; he was solid as a mountain. He drew one of his Colts, and examined the mesquite. From far off he could hear the herd still moving across the prairie.
“You know how to shoot a gun?” he asked.
“Of course I know how to shoot a gun. I’m not as useless as everybody thinks.”
“Pull out my other gun, and get ready to shoot.”
She yanked the Colt out of his left holster, transferred it to her right hand, held it tightly, and pulled back the hammer.
“Don’t shoot me by mistake,” he said.
He was treating her like a fool again, and she wondered what she had to do to make the men respect her. “I have very good vision,” she replied dryly. “You can rest assured I won’t shoot you.”
“People get flustered and shoot the wrong person.”
“I don’t get flustered.”
Something huge lay on the grass ahead of them, and as they drew closer, Cassandra saw a steer with arrows sticking out of its body. Ten yards later they saw another. Stone and Cassandra followed the path of the stampede, while dead cattle sprawled endlessly before them, each a financial setback for Cassandra. More dead cattle loomed ahead, and her spirits sank lower. The herd was gone. I’m flustered, she thought. I’m flustered as hell.
Tomahawk stopped and pricked up his ears.
“What’s the matter?” Stone asked.
Tomahawk peered straight ahead. Danger.
Stone pulled Tomahawk’s head to the side, and they moved behind some cottonwoods. Stone and Cassandra parted the branches and leaves and peered at Indians returning with Cassandra’s buckboard. Unmounted warriors dashed among the carcasses, skinning them with deft, sure strokes of their sharp knives. They tore great sheets of skin off the dead animals and stacked the hides on the buckboard that rolled among them. Chanting their victory song, the Indians plundered the stampede ground, moonlight flashing on their cruel blades.
Chapter Three
Stone and Cassandra caught up to Truscott and the other cowboys shortly after dawn, and received the bad news.
One vaquero and one cowboy had been killed in the stampede. They lay stretched on the ground, battered by catties’ hooves, and not far away, the other cowboys sat with grim expressions and pallid faces, smoking cigarettes. Beyond them, on a flat mesa, approximately one half of the original herd grazed peacefully.
Truscott sat with his arms hugging his knees, staring vacantly at the cattle. Cassandra wanted to tell him to put the cowboys to work finding lost cattle, but thought she’d better not meddle in his business. She sat on the ground among them and performed calculations on her notepad. If she ended up in Abilene with fifteen hundred head of cattle, she’d be able to pay off her creditors and cowboys, and then she’d be on her own with only a few hundred dollars profit, if she were lucky.
Stone sat near her and rolled a cigarette. Nobody said anything. A breeze rustled the prairie grass, and buzzards swarmed in the distance, devouring dead cattle.
Truscott took off his hat and ran his fingers through his sandy graying hair. “Wa’al, the longer we stay here, the harder it’ll be to round up strays. We better git started.”
They heard the voice of Joe Little Bear. “Maybe you should’ve offered ’em more’n one sick cow, Ramrod.”
Truscott turned toward him and scowled. “I don’t remember askin’ fer yer opinion, injun. They would’ve attacked anyways, because that’s the way injuns are.”
Joe Little Bear said no more, but Cassandra’s curiosity was provoked. “What’s this about giving them a sick cow?”
Nobody said a word. Cassandra waited patiently for an answer, but silence descended like a black cloud over the cowboys. They treated her as if she didn’t exist, and she was getting sick of it. She rose to her feet. “I just asked a question!” she said, and turned to Truscott. “What about that sick cow, Ramrod?”
Truscott reluctantly explained the bargaining session in a deadpan voice, then spat at the ground.
“Now let me get this straight,” she said. “Are you telling me if you gave them a few decent steers, this might not’ve happened?”
“That’s not what I’m sayin’, ma’am. It’s what you’re sayin’. The stampede would’ve happened no matter what we done, but the worst thing is show weakness to an injun.”
“Next time we hold negotiations with Indians, I should be there.”
Truscott blew his nose with his thumb and finger. “If that’s the way you think, you can start a-lookin’ fer another ramrod.”
Truscott walked toward his horse, and Cassandra followed him, realizing she’d punctured his absurd masculine vanity. She couldn’t let him get away, even if he’d made an error of judgment. She trailed after him as he headed toward his horse, and she wracked her brain for something to say. But she couldn’t beg, because that would make everything worse, and then it occurred to her that his vanity was his weakest spot. She put a taunting note into her voice as she said derisively, “I thought I heard you say once, when you take a man’s money, you ride for the brand.”
“You ain’t no man.”
“The money spends the same no matter who gives it to you.”
Truscott reached his horse, placed his foot in the stirrup, and turned to Cassandra. “What money?” he asked sarcastically.
“The money you’ll get when you reach Abilene.”
“We ain’t goin’ to Abilene, unless you butt out of my business.”
“If any important decisions have to be made concerning my herd, I want to be in on them.”
Truscott removed his foot from the stirrup and stared at her. “I don’t take orders from women.”
“You signed on this cattle drive.”
“We’d be okay, if the boss lady stayed out of our road.”
Again they heard the deep voice of Joe Little Bear. “Boss lady is right. You give sick old cow—what yo
u expect? It was slap in face to old chief in front of warriors.”
“What the hell do you know about it?” Truscott spun toward Joe Little Bear. “Maybe you’re in cahoots with ’em.”
Joe Little Bear stepped forward, a blank expression on his face. Truscott moved away from his horse and spread his legs, his hand hovering over his Remington. Cassandra stepped between them.
“Out of the way!” Truscott hollered.
Cassandra was getting mad. First the Indians, then the stampede, and now this. “We’ve got work to do!” she yelled. “I hired professional cowmen!”
“The ramrod say he’s sorry, or I kill him,” Joe Little Bear replied.
“Like hell you will!” Cassandra said. “Your job is to round up lost cattle! Now get on your horse and go after them!
In fifteen-hundred moons, Joe Little Bear had never heard a squaw tell a warrior to get on his horse. Puzzled, he grumbled something, turned away, and headed in a sulk toward his horse. Cassandra faced Truscott angrily. “What’re you waiting for, Ramrod—a written invitation?”
Truscott climbed into his saddle, held the reins in one hand, and issued orders to the men, his voice deadly calm. This matter wasn’t closed.
One group hunted cattle, another held the herd, a third recovered their belongings, and a fourth buried the dead. Cassandra stayed behind with the burial party.
They only had one shovel, and it was bent grotesquely. Cassandra sat nearby, sucking a pebble to alleviate thirst, but no matter how hard she sucked, her mouth remained parched. There had to be water out there someplace. Other herds had made it to Abilene, and so would hers.
Moose Roykins, the Canadian lumberjack, approached her nervously. He was heavy set, thick around the middle, and his pants rode low on his hips, the crotch nearly down to his knees. “We was wonderin’ if you wanted to say a prayer before we dropped the boys in the hole.”
Cassandra walked to the grave. Her Bible had been trampled into the dust along with everything else she owned. Stopping at the edge of the deep yawning hole, she clasped her hands together and bowed her head. The cowboys removed their hats and stood solemnly. The corpses on the ground looked up with dead eyes at the sun they’d see no more.
“Lord,” Cassandra said, “please accept the souls of these two brave men into Your loving care.” What else was there to say? “Forgive their sins and remember their kindness. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Praise be the Lord.”
She stepped back, and cowboys threw the dead bodies into the common grave, where they’d be pardners forever. Cassandra walked away, hearing the shovel behind her. The sun rose in the azure sky, and puffy white clouds drifted from the north. The cowboys filled the grave with dirt and packed a mound of rocks over it, to keep predators away. Moose Roykins hammered a crude cottonwood cross tied with rawhide into the ground. The cowboys walked toward their horses, and Cassandra climbed onto her palomino. She followed the cowboys back to the herd, and when they were halfway to their destination, she turned and looked at the cross sitting forlornly atop the grave.
The cross would disappear and grass cover the grave. Settlers or other cowboys would pass this way and have no inkling of what had occurred. Two young men trampled to death, and the prairie rolled forever.
~*~
It took two days to gather the herd, and when the cowboys were finished, Truscott rode through and made a rough count. Meanwhile, Cassandra sprawled beneath a cottonwood tree, her mouth dry and a sore on her upper lip. Two of her cowboys had found a stream a few miles to the north, and she visualized nice cool water to drink, and a real bath, as Truscott approached.
“Only lost ’bout a hundred and fifty,” Truscott said. “Not as bad as I thought.”
She performed the calculation in her mind. One hundred fifty head of cattle were worth thirty-three hundred dollars in Abilene. “It’s bad enough, Ramrod.”
“Maybe we can find somebody else’s strays on our way north and make up the difference.”
“This is the Triangle Spur, not a gang of cattle rustlers.”
“Everybody does it.”
“We’re not everybody.”
She saw his jaw muscles working and knew he was getting mad, but she couldn’t let him ride roughshod over her. “Mr. Truscott, I’m tired of hanging around, doing nothing. Isn’t there some way I can help?”
A craggy smile appeared on Truscott’s face. “Why don’t you ask the cook?”
“He doesn’t need any help, but you do. You lost two of your men. Maybe I can help fill in.”
Truscott turned away and held his sunburned hand over his face as his body was wracked with laughter. Cassandra went red to the roots of her hair, and ground her teeth together in frustration. Truscott symbolized everything she hated about men, their constant cruelty and mocking condescension.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, struggling to regain control of himself. “Couldn’t he’p it. Ain’t been gittin’ much sleep.”
“Give me a job, Ramrod. If I can’t do it, I’ll shut my mouth and never bother you again.”
“Well,” Truscott said, “when a new man without ’sperience is hired, he rides the drag. Report to John Stone. He’ll break you in, and we’ll see if you can handle it.”
Truscott walked to his horse, and Cassandra took off her battered cowboy hat, wiped her forehead with the back of her arm, then returned the hat to her head. Filthy and sweaty, she climbed into the saddle and pulled the reins to the side. She could see the herd in the distance, a long black snake winding across the plain, and at its rear was a huge cloud of dust, the drag.
“Let’s go to work, Petunia,” she said to her palomino mare as she rode toward the murky, billowing dust ball that followed the herd like the plague.
~*~
John Stone rode through the midst of it, his black bandanna tied around his nose and mouth. He was on Buckshot, an old cow horse who’d seen better days. Buckshot didn’t like the drag either, and Stone had to hold him steady, otherwise he’d drift to one side in an effort to get away.
To ride the drag all the way to Abilene seemed his destiny. He was a green cowboy, like a recruit in the Army, and had to work his way up to flanker or point man. He didn’t want to eat dust for the rest of his life.
The same cattle were on the drag every day. The longhorns might mix while grazing or sleeping, but the herd had a distinct hierarchy and every cow and steer knew its place. In front were young strong ones, while the blind, lame, and lazy were on the drag.
A cow with a heel problem slowed and fell behind the pace. Stone spurred Buckshot, which galloped toward the cow. Stone slapped the cow on the rump with his lasso. “Move it out, cow.”
The cow groped forward, a string of saliva stretching from her lower lip. The drag was slower than the rest of the herd, which meant cowboys on the drag finished work last.
Stone heard approaching hoofbeats—Cassandra atop her palomino mare, her red bandanna over her face, a patina of dust on her clothing. She pulled Petunia alongside Buckshot, and mumbled through her bandanna. “From now on I’m riding the drag. Do you think you could sell me one of your guns?”
He unstrapped one of his gunbelts. “Don’t shoot yourself by mistake.”
There it was again, that nasty male condescension. She felt like hitting him over the head with his gun, but strapped it on and tied the rawhide strands at the bottom to her leg. “Truscott said you’d break me in. Tell me what to do.”
“What about twenty dollars for the gun?”
“I’ll pay you in Abilene. Now tell me what we do on the drag.”
“We stop cattle from running away, and there goes one now. You might as well handle it.”
She looked at the steer and wrinkled her nose. “How?”
“Ride up to him and tell him to get his ass moving. Personally, I think you ought to ride in front with the ramrod, and take in the scenery.”
“Stone,” she said, “I’m able to do my share.”
She pulled Petunia away from S
tone and rode toward the steer. It was covered with sores and flies, but was worth twenty-two dollars in Abilene. “Get moving!” she shouted.
The steer looked at her and didn’t budge.
“Come on, now! I’m not fooling with you, dammit!”
“Hit him with your lasso!” Stone said.
She held her lasso in her right hand and maneuvered Petunia behind the steer. “Move!” she hollered, and whacked the steer’s buttocks.
“Give ’im another!” Stone said.
Cassandra yelled at the steer and smacked him hard. To her amazement, the steer grunted and turned toward the herd. Her lasso whistled through the air and landed on the steer’s hindquarters again, and he picked up his pace. Cassandra looked at Stone, and he saluted.
The steer caught up with the herd and loped along with his snout near the ground. Cassandra adjusted her red bandanna, pulled her hat low over her eyes, and rode the drag to Abilene.
~*~
At the stream that night, Stone saw near the chuck wagon a pile of barely recognizable personal belongings recovered after the stampede. Cowboys and vaqueros, on their hands and knees, picked through it, searching for lost items.
Old burnished brass gleamed in the middle of the mess, and Stone leaned over, picking up his squashed and scarred saddlebags. They were made of tough cowhide, and he carried them to a solitary spot, then kneeled and opened a flap.
His spare clothing was pulverized. Shredded tobacco was everywhere. His fingers touched something hard, and he pulled out his photograph of Marie.
The frame was bent in three places, but the photograph had survived. He straightened the frame carefully over a rock, then held Marie up to the moonlight. Why was it, after five long years, he couldn’t forget her? How could her memory dig into his brain so deeply?
Stone heard Cassandra’s voice on the other side of the campsite. “I’m going to take a bath in the stream thataway,” she said, pointing. “You cowboys stay away, hear?”
Truscott spat a wad of tobacco juice on the ground. “You’d better take a guard. Might be injuns out there.”
Slipchuck jumped to his feet. “I’ll go!”
