Last of the Breed

by Les Savage, Jr.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  The beefy man grinned and touched his hat, then turned his black into the haze of dust. The cutter glanced closely at the two punchers by the gate and something seemed to pass between them. Then the man spurred his horse back to the main herd. Brian followed, watching Peters circle the herd. Under the circumstances it was almost impossible to read the brands of any cattle save those on the outer fringes, and it was the earmarks a man looked for. Brian could see nothing but the Double Bit’s famous swallow-fork on any of the ears. Finally Peters left the main herd and dropped into the coulee where the cutbacks were held. This smaller bunch of newly branded calves and their mothers was being guarded by a single circle rider—a tall, snuff-brown man named Hollister.

  Brian checked his horse idly at the lip of the coulee, watching Peters skirt the fringes again. Then the man turned his horse abruptly into the cattle, shouldering through the bawling mass of beef until he came to a big dun cow. He put his horse against her and started to cut her out of the main bunch. Hollister came in after Peters, yelling at him. Brian was too far away to hear what was said, or to see clearly what happened.

  Latigo came back from his chore, trotting out of the dust and checking his horse beside Brian with a vicious tug on the reins. “What’s Peters doing down there?” he asked.

  “I let him go,” Brian said. “There wasn’t any point in sending him back without a look.”

  Latigo’s gaunt head swung toward him. For a moment Brian thought the man would explode. Then Latigo settled back into the saddle, hands white-knuckled on his reins. His lips were pale, barely moving as he spoke.

  “Five years ago Tiger made a deal with the Salt River bunch that they weren’t to send any straymen north of the river.”

  “You didn’t tell me,” Brian said.

  “I thought you knew something,” Latigo told him disgustedly. “The Salt River Gorge forms a natural barrier. In five years our combers have only picked up three of Peters’s steers. There’s no need for him to come up here.”

  “But he said he followed strays.”

  Latigo shook his head angrily. “With Tiger gone, they’re just seein’ how far they can push you. He’ll claim every maverick in our herds, and not a one of ‘em his. Damn it, Brian!”

  He wheeled his horse and started to put it down into the coulee. Peters and the circle rider were still arguing in the middle of the herd. Hollister was trying to keep Peters from cutting the cow out but the Salt River man would not be stopped. As he tried to maneuver the animal past Hollister, the man yanked his Winchester from his boot and put it across the saddle bows.

  Peters glared at the gun a long time. Hollister jerked his head for the man to move and Peters started out of the herd. As he passed Hollister a shift in the herd jostled into them. Hollister tried to catch himself and it swung his Winchester aside. Peters made a grab for the gun. Hollister tried to swing it back, finger on the trigger, and the jar of hitting Peters’s hand made it go off.

  The detonation made a shocking sound. It sent a surge of panic through the cutbacks, like ripples spreading from a rock dropped into a pool. Those nearest the men began bucking and kicking and lunging to get away. It ran through the outer ranks in a chain reaction and those on the fringes began to bolt down the coulee.

  On the flank of the herd, Latigo put spurs to his horse and raced to turn the beef already running. He signaled to Brian. “Git down here and make a mill. If they stampede they’ll go right into the main herd.”

  His strident voice was barely audible over the growing thunder of running animals. Hollister and Peters were fighting over the gun in the middle of it all and their struggles only increased the panic. The whole herd was right on the edge of stampede and they would be gone in another moment.

  Brian put his Steeldust down the sandy bank on its rump and raced after Latigo, driving the bunch quitters back as they broke from the mass of the herd and tried to climb the bank. The two men in the center were being buffeted back and forth by the panicked animals all about them and had finally realized their peril.

  Wirt Peters released the Winchester and drove his horse through the bawling cows toward the outside. Latigo had reached the running steers near the mouth of the coulee now and was trying to turn them back. But the body of the herd was moving into a run after him. Once they left the coulee nothing but a few hundred yards of open flats stood between them and the main herd. Three hundred cutbacks charging head-on into the thousands of cattle spread out across the flats would start a stampede the whole Double Bit crew couldn’t stop.

  Brian’s racing horse took him up behind Latigo and the ramrod shouted at him and waved directions with his arm. “Turn ‘em left. Get ‘em milling. It’s our only chance.” Latigo saw Wirt Peters breaking free from the running bunch and shouted at him. “Up here, damn you. Mill ‘em. Up here.”

  Latigo had his hat off, popping it against his leg. The frightening sound made the lead steers shy away from him, veering left. Peters joined them, yelling and popping his hat too. The pressure of all three horsemen got the head of the running herd turned back on itself. Some of them plunged headlong into the sandy bank and went down, trampled by those behind; others managed to get turned around, evading the shouting, shoving riders, and began to run back the way they had come. The main body of the herd, forced by the riders, blindly followed their leaders, and the mill was started.

  It was then that Brian saw Hollister again. The man had managed to get near the outer fringe of running steers. But the leaders turning back had charged right into him. His horse fought for a moment but the constant buffeting of animals from both directions took it off balance.

  In a single instant the horse went down and Hollister sank beneath the sea of dark, plunging bodies like a drowning man.

  Without thought, Brian wheeled his Steeldust and drove it into the mass of cattle toward the spot where the man had gone down. Wirt Peters was but a hundred feet behind him, fighting to keep the beef in the mill, and the man shouted frantically at him, “Brian, don’t do it, they’ll suck you under like a bog!”

  But Brian was already in the vortex. The cows were still running insanely, trying to break free of the mill on the outside and climb the bank. Their frenzied bawling deafened Brian and the sand boiled up in choking clouds. He couldn’t help shouting in pain as their sweating bodies slammed with numbing impact against his legs.

  He could feel the Steeldust dancing beneath him, trying to keep its feet as thousands of pounds of beef buffeted into it from every side. Ahead of him Brian saw a calf stumble and go down, trampled in an instant.

  A half-wild cow hooked at Brian and he had to jerk aside to keep from being impaled. Another cow crashed against him on the other side, almost dragging him from the saddle. The Steeldust was wild with panic, squealing and frothing at the mouth, fighting the bit like a green bronc.

  Finally Brian caught a glimpse of Hollister ahead. The man’s horse had fallen on him and it was the only thing that had saved him. The cows were eddying around the body of the horse and as yet hadn’t trampled him. Brian fought his Steeldust in close, shouting down at the man.

  “Hollister, can you hear me? Hollister!”

  The man opened fogged eyes, turning his head up. His feeble call was barely audible above the other bedlam. “I can’t make it. I’m pinned under. My legs is broke for sure.”

  Brian sidled his horse right above the man, kicking a stirrup out. “Grab hold. We’ll haul you out.”

  Hollister made a lunge for the stirrup and caught hold, hooking an arm through clear to the elbow. Brian spurred the horse and it lunged aside. Hollister let out a scream of agony as his broken legs were pulled free.

  Brian bent over, meaning to pull the man up. A big dun cow crashed against him, pinning him to the horse. For a moment he thought he would be dragged from the saddle. Then the cow shifted away and he regained his seat with
a desperate lunge.

  “Don’t try it again or we’ll both be pulled down,” Hollister gasped. “Just let the horse git us out.”

  Brian knew that was the only way now. The Steeldust was a cowpony, born and bred. Frantic as it was, it could not forget its training. As long as Brian was in the saddle to guide it, they had a chance. Like a top cutter the horse fought its way through the milling mass of steers, wheeling into openings, making holes if there were none, shouldering aside steers and veering away from traps, dragging Hollister all the way.

  A spotted calf trampled Hollister’s feet, bringing another yell of pain. Brian leaned out of the saddle, screaming at a following cow. It veered around Hollister, just missing his legs. Finally they were at the fringe of the herd. Brian put spurs to the Steeldust and it lunged up the crumbling, sandy bank of the coulee, pulling the crippled man along.

  At the top Hollister let his arm slide from the stirrup and lay flat on the ground. His face was buried in the dirt and his fingers were clawed into the ground with the pain of his legs. Circle riders had come from the main herd and the branding fires now, to hold the cutbacks in their mill.

  With the danger of stampede over, Latigo drove his lathered Choppo horse up the bank to where Brian knelt beside Hollister.

  “Get a wagon up here,” Brian said. “He’s hurt pretty bad.”

  Latigo relayed the order in a bawling voice and one of the circle riders galloped off toward camp. Latigo got off his horse. His clothes were ripped in a dozen places and one leg was smeared with blood. Dust caked him head to foot, turned to a paste by the sweat on his face. His heavy-lidded eyes were bloodshot with a seething rage as he looked at Hollister, then back at Wirt Peters, pushing his winded horse up the bank.

  The beefy Salt River man swung down. He took off his hat, crumpling the brim in his hand, and wiped the sweat and grime from his face with a sleeve. “I didn’t mean anything like that,” he said. “I was sure that cow belonged to me—”

  “So you start a stampede,” Latigo said. His voice was trembling. His whole lanky body was trembling.

  “I didn’t mean anything like that,” Peters said. He motioned helplessly at Hollister with his hat. “Isn’t there something I can do?”

  “Jist get out of here,” said Latigo.

  The man moistened his lips. “Now, wait—”

  “Peters!” Latigo said.

  The venom in his voice stopped Peters. Slowly the big man turned and swung aboard his horse. The calf wagon came rattling across the coulee, hauled by a pair of half-broke broncs, and plunged up the bank to halt beside Hollister. A pair of punchers dropped out and helped Brian and Latigo lift the crippled man into the blankets spread on the bed.

  “Split up some cottonwood for slats and tie ‘em on them legs,” Latigo told the men. “Then take him right into town.”

  Latigo watched the wagon pull away. Then he turned to Brian. He was no longer trembling but the rage was in his eyes.

  “I know it’s too late to apologize,” Brian said. “But I had no idea—”

  “Didn’t you think I had a good reason for not letting Peters in?” Latigo said. “Every time those Salt Rivers sent a strayman in we had trouble. This is just one example. It’s why Tiger made the deal with ‘em. I can’t have you crossing me up all the time like this. Tiger thought I was good enough to run my own show. If you don’t, I’ll be glad to check out. But it’s got to be one way or the other. Either I’m boss out here or I’m not. If I’m not, the rodeo is all yours.”

  Brian felt anger and pride stiffening him like a ramrod. But he knew he’d be a fool to let it sway him. He had to admit Latigo was right, and he knew how good Latigo was at his job. He would be a fool to lose such a man. It hurt like hell to swallow his pride, to humble himself before this man. But if he was ever going to grow up, this was a chance to start.

  “All right, Latigo,” he said. “It’s your job.”

  CHAPTER 5

  After that Brian had to choose between the defeat of leaving roundup or the misery of staying. He knew what he would face, in the men, by remaining. Yet the stubbornness in him and the pride made him stick.

  Every minute was painful. He had no part in the work, the men found little cause to speak with him, and Latigo made no attempt to help him. For the most part Brian stayed moodily around camp, drinking coffee and smoking, or sat his horse with Robles, watching the cutting and roping and branding.

  The evening meal was worse. The men were as embarrassed as he was. By his mistake that afternoon he had wiped out whatever ground he had to meet them on. His presence at the campfire made for a stiff and gloomy meal. What the punchers thought of him was apparent. They held him responsible for Hollister being crippled, for the whole mess that afternoon. And the fact that he had risked his life to save Hollister wasn’t enough. Brian had known most of these men, casually, all his life. Yet he felt like a stranger at their campfire.

  He slept little that night and was the first man up at dawn. After breakfast the men left hurriedly, as if relieved to be out of his presence. Again he was relegated to the role of observer. Having agreed not to interfere with Latigo’s authority, he could give no orders, and there seemed no natural reason for contact with the men. He thought desperately of getting in and working with them. But he knew little of roping or cutting, would only make a further fool of himself, and any such thing would be a pathetically obvious attempt to curry favor with them.

  The whole operation was obviously being handled so efficiently that Brian had no valid reason for staying on. Thus, during the second day, unable to face the ostracism, frustrated by a defeat he could hardly define, Brian returned to the Double Bit with Robles.

  The Indian left him at the corrals and miserably Brian walked in and fixed himself a drink. After an hour Pinto hobbled in from the kitchen to tell him dinner was ready.

  The old cook rubbed his twisted leg.

  “Winter in the air when she begins to ache like this.” He grimaced. “Robles told me ‘bout Hollister’s legs. Hope he don’t end up like me.”

  Brian scowled into his drink. “I was a fool, Pinto.”

  “We all make mistakes,” Pinto said. “You had to learn the hard way. Latigo’s a good man, Brian. A smart boss gets a good man, he don’t interfere much.”

  “Then what’s there for me to do?” Brian said. “I wanted to be a part of it, Pinto, to get my teeth in something.”

  “It’ll take time, Brian. You can’t just go out and take over in a day. What Tiger had with ‘em went back a long way.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Brian said.

  “Why don’t you go in and see George Wolffe? He wanted you to go over the books. That’s somethin’ you can git your teeth in.”

  Brian nodded. George had pounded him for years to learn the business end of running the ranch. Perhaps he would meet with more success there.

  The next morning he rode into Apache Wells early. As he dropped down off the Rim he could see the heliograph twinkle from the windows of the town ten miles off. It made him think of Tiger and remember how they had always bet on which one would see it first.

  There was not much traffic on Cochise Street. He passed a wagon going out, piled high with hay. Standing before the curlicued façade of the Mercantile was a shabby spring buggy. Pa Gillette had just climbed down. He was one of the dry farmers from south of the Salt, a gaunt and gnarled man whose face was seamed and furrowed like a haphazardly plowed field. He wore blue jeans held up by a single gallus, so ingrained with filth they looked black. In the buggy was his daughter, Estelle. She was a richly formed girl in simple blue calico, her hazel eyes flecked with little lights as tawny as her honey-colored hair. There was something intensely wholesome about the whole picture—always making Brian think of summer corn and fresh-baked bread and the cleansing scent of a spring wind. Brian never failed to make his bid whenever he saw her, but she
was seldom in town, and it was his rueful complaint that she was one of the few girls who had failed to succumb to his charms.

  He checked his horse beside the buggy and removed his hat, greeting them both. Then he spoke directly to Estelle. “Been longer than usual this time. You turning into a hermit?”

  Her full lips formed a reserved smile. It was this composure that had always checked the flippancy with which he treated most women. “A lot of work on the farm this year,” she said.

  His blue eyes twinkled. “All work and no play—”

  Her smile did not grow. “Better dull than lazy.”

  He bowed his head in defeat. “A victory for the righteous.”

  Pa Gillette was not particularly pleased with the exchange. He had always been one of those who did not bother to hide their disapproval of Brian. But now he seemed to have something on his mind. He took off his hat and scratched gnarled fingers through his gray hair, roached short like a mule’s mane. Then he looked at Brian.

  “I been meaning to come out your way. I wanted to know if Tiger’s promise still held good.”

  “What promise, Mr. Gillette?”

  “About six months ago I got me forty acres of bottom-land from the bank. It was a deal I’d been tryin’ to swing for years and the only way I could do it was on a short-term loan. Tiger holds a regular mortgage on my other land but he said I could let the payments lapse till I paid off this new forty. Now Wolffe wants to go back on the promise.”

  “If you had Tiger’s word you have mine,” Brian said.

  He expected it to dissolve some of the patent hostility in Pa Gillette’s face. But the man only scowled deeply and asked, “How can I be sure?”

  “What more do you want?”

  The man spat disgustedly. “I dunno. How good’s your word? You beat the hell out of Cameron in that saloon brawl. You won’t let Wirt Peters look for his own strays.”